“We need to give our landlord two weeks notice, but we could move in anytime,” I said.
“Very good. It will be nice to have someone in the house for the holidays.”
Chapter II
T IS NOT MY intent to launch upon a lengthy or sanctimonious dissertation on the social significance and impact of the lowly box, well deserved as it may be. But as a box plays a significant role in our story, please allow me the indulgence of digression. From the inlaid jade-and-coral jewelry boxes of the Orient to the utilitarian salt boxes of the Pennsylvania Dutch, the allure of the box has transcended all cultural and geographical boundaries of the world. The cigar box, the snuff box, the cash box, jewelry boxes more ornate than the treasure they hold, the ice box, and the candle box. Trunks, long rectangular boxes covered with cowhide, stretched taut, and pounded with brass studs to a wooden frame. Oak boxes, sterling boxes; to the delight of the women, hat boxes and shoe boxes; and to the delight of all enslaved by a sweet tooth, candy boxes. The human life cycle no less than evolves around the box; from the open-topped box called a bassinet, to the pine box we call a coffin, the box is our past and, just as assuredly, our future. It should not surprise us then that the lowly box plays such a significant role in the first Christmas story. For Christmas began in a humble, hay-filled box of splintered wood. The Magi, wise men who had traveled far to see the infant king, laid treasure-filled boxes at the feet of that holy child. And in the end, when He had ransomed our sins with His blood, the Lord of Christmas was laid down in a box of stone. How fitting that each Christmas season brightly wrapped boxes skirt the pine boughs of Christmas trees around the world. And more fitting that I learned of Christmas through a Christmas Box.
We determined to settle into the home as soon as possible, so the following Saturday I borrowed a truck from work and my brother-in-law, Barry, the only relative living within two hundred miles, came to help us move. The two of us hauled things out to the truck, while Keri wrapped dishes in newspaper and packed them in boxes, and Jenna played contentedly in the front room, oblivious to the gradual disappearance of our belongings. We managed to load most of our things, which were not great in number, into the truck. The rest of the boxes were piled into our Plymouth—a large pink-and-chrome coupe with graceful curves, majestic tail fins, and a grill resembling the wide, toothy grin of a Cheshire cat. When we had finished clearing out the apartment the four of us squeezed into the cargo-laden vehicles and together drove off to our new residence in the Avenues. I parked the car out front and met Barry in the driveway.
“Just pull it around back,” I shouted, guiding the truck with hand gestures. He backed around to the rear of the house, pulled the parking brake, and hopped out.
“You’re moving into a mansion?” he asked enviously.
“Your blue-blooded sister found it,” I replied.
I released the tailgate while Barry untied the straps securing the canvas tarpaulin we had used to cover the load.
“Here, give me a hand with this wicker chest. We’ll take it straight up to the attic.” Barry grabbed hold of the handle at one end of the chest and we lifted it down from the truck’s bed.
“Only one person lives in this house?” he asked.
“Four now, counting the three of us,” I replied.
“With all this room why doesn’t her family just move in with her?”
“She doesn’t have any family. Her husband died and she doesn’t have any children.”
Barry surveyed the ornate Victorian facade. “There’s bound to be a lot of history in a place like this,” he said thoughtfully.
We made our way up the stairs, through the kitchen, down the hall, then up the attic steps. We set the chest down at the top of the landing to catch our breath.
“We’d better make some room up here before we bring the rest of the things up,” Barry suggested.
I agreed. “Let’s clear a space against that wall so we can keep our things all in one place.” We began the chore of rearranging the attic.
“I thought you said she didn’t have any children,” Barry said.
“She doesn’t,” I replied.
“Why is there a cradle up here then?” Barry stood near a dusty draped sheet revealing the form of a shrouded cradle.
“Maybe she’s storing it for someone,” I suggested.
I lifted a small stack of boxes and set them aside. “I haven’t seen one of these for a while,” I said, displaying my own discovery.
“What is it?”
“A tie press. It must have been her husband’s.”
Barry hoisted a large portrait of a man with a handlebar mustache posing stoically for the picture. The portrait was set in an elaborate gold-leafed frame.