St.
Mom’s Box of Secrets
© Constance Clay
Jack laid a
foil-covered box at Meghan’s feet, his large hands positioning it with care.
Sunlight caught the box’s rainbow-colored paisleys, making them dance on their
glittering blue background like exotic fish sporting in the sea. “Here’s . . .
one more thing,” he murmured.
“To burn?” Meghan asked, though the
man set the thing inches from his burn barrel.
Jack
raked his fingers through the thick curls of his beard. He probably hadn’t
shaved once in the six months since losing his wife. “Yes, please burn it,” he
said, so low Meghan barely heard him. “Burn every bit of it. Today. Right now,
in fact,” the big man stressed. “Here’s a lighter.”
In all the years they’d
been neighbors, Meghan had never heard Jack say so much at once. She held out
her hand for his clear, plastic lighter but he laid it on the box and fled,
leaving her to wonder if the tremor in his voice and tears in his gray-green eyes
had been figments of her imagination, like the dancing fish.
She
bent for his lighter and put it into her pocket. A pyromaniac at heart, Meghan
liked fires but preferred matches to start them. Enough remained from the book Jack
had handed her earlier to torch his box. She threw the shiny thing into the
barrel, then struck a match.
“Miss
Hanson!”
Meghan
turned as the eldest Forester girl came running.
“Dad’s starting to mow,
and he’s destroying . . . Mom’s perennials! Would you mow instead? I can take
over the burning.”
Meghan couldn’t mistake
the tears in the teen’s eyes, so like her father’s, right down to the loss in
their sea-colored depths. “I’ll be right there,” Meghan said, trying to sound
comforting. “I’ve only got one box left to burn, and—ow!” Meghan dropped the
match she’d forgotten she held. Even she wasn’t usually this forgetful.
The
teen stamped out the flame. “Sorry.”
Meghan
rubbed her burnt fingers. “My fault for multitasking. Now where’s your father?”
“Behind
the cabin. I’ll tell him you’re coming. That’ll probably make him stop.
Thanks!” The blonde girl flashed a smile and ran off before Meghan could
answer.
Sure enough, the
mower’s engine died. Usually the mention of a man’s approach sent Meghan
packing, not the other way around, but once she performed her neighborly duty, she
and Jack never had to see each other again. The sooner the better for them
both, apparently. Since he no longer posed a threat to LaVonne’s perennials, Meghan
decided to finish one job before beginning another. Her thumb and forefinger
still hurt, but she struck another match.
“Miss
Hanson!” The girl called from the corner of the cabin. “Are you coming?”
“Yes!”
Meghan waved to show she’d heard. “I’ll be there in a minute! I just want to—ow!”
She dropped the match into the barrel, hoping it would ignite the box in its
fall. It didn’t. She threw the empty book into the burn barrel. Already twice
shy, Meghan had never been twice burned before, at least not literally. “I’m
coming!” She broke into a sprint.
Jack
was long gone when Meghan arrived to hop on the mower, and one task led to
another. It was nearly dinnertime when she decided to call it a day and run
across the road to her own home. Then she remembered Jack’s box and raced back
to the barrel. Her mission wasn’t yet accomplished, but if nothing else, the
day had been the start of summer training for her mini-triathlons.
Whipping wind blew out
the see-through lighter in Meghan’s hands just as she touched it to Jack’s shimmering
box. When he’d first eased it near his burn barrel, the wind had been quiet,
like him—until then. Now the wind moaned and grumbling gray clouds overhead threatened
rain. Meghan shoved Jack’s box of many colors deeper into the barrel to shelter
it, accidentally splitting the cover and revealing edges of handwritten paper.
Perfect tinder. She cupped her hands and ushered a new flame toward the brittle
yellow pages.
“Mommy!”
Meghan
hit her funny bone against the rusty barrel, dropping the lighter into the
ashes. At her feet stood a blue-eyed toddler whose only protection from the
elements was a pink sleeper and a pair of red rubber boots.
The child stretched on
tiptoe, trying to summon enough height to look into the barrel. Thanks to
Meghan’s neglect, the metal couldn’t burn anyone yet.
“Out
here alone, Sweetie?” Meghan cupped her elbow then took the child’s hand.
Shielding her own brown eyes from the first raindrops, she scanned the horizon
for the toddler’s sisters or father. The little girl had no mother to watch
over her now, and although the barrel didn’t pose an immediate danger, the
county road lay just beyond and the ditch brimmed with thaw runoff. “Let’s get
you inside.”
“Dat
Mommy Bye-boh!” The child wrenched her little hand free. “Mommy Bye-boh!” She banged
her fists against the barrel and began to cry.
Meghan scooped her up. “It’ll
be all right—”
“Mommy!” The toddler
seemed beyond hearing. With all her miniature might, the girl strained toward
the barrel, bellowing, “Mommy! Mommy Bye-boh ineh!”
Did she mean the box?
What was it about that thing? The purple, red and gold paisleys had escaped charring countless times that
afternoon, saved by one distraction after another. Still holding the child,
Meghan leaned over to give Jack’s unusual box a second look.
The clouds burst at the
same moment. Tucking the girl against her, Meghan galloped with her small burden
to the imposing Forester cabin.
The toddler scampered
away as Meghan nudged the front door shut behind them with her good elbow.
Following the child, she slipped off her tennies and felt herself shrink beneath
the mammoth log beams in the vaulted ceiling high overhead. Big round-top windows
made up more than half the entire east wall and continued north, granting a
wide view of sky and landscape.
Meghan half walked,
half slid toward the family room, reveling in the warm colors of the glossy
amber log walls and floor, the potted green plants and natural light spilling
from above. The whole bottom level always reminded her of a cathedral, but the
family room in particular struck her as the perfect place for a wedding. The
room felt welcoming—airy and inviting, like being outside, only better now that
the day had turned so cold and dark—except that no mistress of the house came
to greet her . . . and hadn’t since early December.
“Hello?” Where had the
toddler vanished? And where were Jack and his two older girls? Meghan hadn’t
noticed anyone leave since she’d volunteered to help the Foresters with spring
cleaning. She supposed the building contractor could’ve gone unnoticed to a job
site, but even in his grief he wouldn’t take his older girls and forget about his
youngest. Would he?
“Hi,
Miss Hanson.” The eldest Forester offspring turned the corner of the wraparound
family room, towing her little sister. Both girls were tall for their ages, but
even the older one fell a few inches short of Meghan’s height. If Meghan hadn’t
known better, she would’ve taken the teen for the toddler’s mother. They looked
like different versions of the same person. “Did you find Bethie for us?”
Bethie . . . Bethany, Meghan
remembered. What was the older girl’s name? Marie? Or Taylor? “Feel free to call
me ‘Meghan’—‘Miss Hanson’ is mainly for my students. I was just heading home
for a movie and some munchies when Bethany appeared at the burn barrel.”
“You know you can’t go outside alone, Bethie.”
The teen tucked a lock of her shoulder-length hair behind her ear as she bent
to her sister’s level. “What are we going to do with you?”
Taylor or Marie? Meghan
deliberated, rubbing her tingling elbow as hundreds of appellations rotated in her
mental rolodex. Somewhere in those records from five years of teaching and
twenty-six of living was this teen’s name, too.
“Thanks for bringing her back, Miss Hanson, and
for all the work you’ve done.” The green-eyed girl straightened, taking Bethany
in her arms. “I’d given up on spring cleaning this year—outside, anyway.”
Meghan
had almost decided on calling the older girl Taylor, though anticipating
failure. Too many people in the small Minnesotan town she had adopted, and
especially her third-graders, expected her to know their first and last names
without fail. Her California accent morphed more and more into the Midwestern
tones of a local, but sometimes she still came off as foreign or even dense—possibly
a time or two to Jack that very day, in fact. “Glad to help out, T—t—”
“Taylor,” the girl
supplied, smiling.
“Taylor.” Meghan grinned
back, pleased with remembering both girls’ names even if she hadn’t said them
until Taylor did. Meghan swatted rain from her sweats and the short, weather-battered
black layers of her hair. After all the wind, rain and work, she probably
looked like a wreck—and smelled worse. Hopefully the middle sister was gone,
along with her father.
“It’s sure nasty out now,”
Taylor said. “And Bethie might’ve wandered who knows how long, if you hadn’t
found her.” The teen kissed her sister’s damp, white head. “She was helping me
cook and disappeared. I thought she went to play in her room, but I couldn’t
find her.”
Just past the entry, Meghan
saw the kitchen, in perfect order. Pine cupboards and a spotless butcher block
counter ran the length of the room. Near the stove lay symmetric heaps of
green, red and yellow ingredients. She could guess how Taylor had lost track of
Beth. Except for nursery duty at church, Meghan lacked experience with
preschoolers, but she knew they required constant supervision—or the Foresters
might have to deal with another sudden loss.
“I could help watch
Bethie this summer—” Meghan began as the sound of footsteps and a male voice interrupted,
approaching unseen past the corner of the family room.
The man of the house appeared,
as massive and silent as his friendly wife had been petite. “You’re still here,
Meghan?” The castle’s giant spoke in muffled monotone through his blond beard. He
looked at Meghan, then his daughters, then around the room. “You’ve put in a
lot of time. Thanks again for all the help.” He glanced at her again, pulling at
the rounded neck of a white cotton tee that seemed a bit too snug.
She looked away, too. “I
should’ve been over months ago.” As soon as Jack’s gaze swept past her once
more, Meghan scanned her own tee. Bits of grass and smudges attested to the yard
work she’d done that day. She zipped her light gray vest all the way up.
“Don’t know how we’d have
made it through spring cleaning without you,” Jack continued on his next visual
pass. “That was always an important ritual around here. . . .” His brawny arm
dropped to his side, then he rallied. “Could you come to the den a minute?” He didn’t
wait for her answer but lumbered like someone far older than his
thirty-something years toward an arched door at the far end of the family room.
Meghan trailed behind. Jack’s
public praise had been nice, but would he reprove her in private? He’d hardly
said a word besides his instructions regarding the box. How she’d messed up on
the one thing he cared about was beyond her. The interruptions hadn’t been her
fault, though. Every paisley on the elusive blue box would be ashes by now if
not for his own children.
Dragging her socks, Meghan
turned the corner and passed Jack’s other daughter, younger than Taylor by a
few years. The tween swept the hardwood floor with vigorous, ineffective
strokes that bobbed her brunette curls. Meghan took a chance. “Hi, Marie.”
The girl looked up with
sad, dark eyes, then rewarded Meghan by returning her smile.
“That’s good enough,
Marie. Thanks,” Jack said over his meaty shoulder. “Now how about you and
Taylor catching up on school so you’ve got some free time this summer?”
“Okay.” Marie leaned on
her broom, observing as Jack held the den door open.
The satisfaction Meghan
felt at nailing three for three names evaporated. Was Jack kidding? Years of
construction work had pumped him in all the right places. He nearly blocked the
doorway, even standing sideways. She waited for him to realize his mistake
until the pause became more awkward than the situation.
“Excuse me,” she said
as a gentle hint which Jack didn’t get. She stalled a moment more, then sized
up both of them and decided the best strategy would be to slide sideways, too. Steeling
her thin frame, Meghan started squeezing past, praying she wouldn’t get a fit
of clumsiness halfway through. Though Jack studied the den floor, she could
feel his daughter watching as she came within a hair’s width of his muscular
arms. They crossed tensely over his chest, the door held open with his broad
back.
Meghan took a steadying
breath and shuffled forward. If she ever fell into those arms, she sensed there’d
be no easy way out.
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