The Box 2

The Box
When I was a senior in college, I came home for Christmas vacation and
anticipated a fun-filled fortnight with my two brothers. We were so excited to be
together, we volunteered to watch the store so that my mother and father could
take their first day off in years. The day before my parents went to Boston, my
father took me quietly aside to the little den behind the store. The room was so
small that it held only a piano and a hide-a-bed couch. In fact, when you pulled
the bed out, it filled the room and you could sit on the foot of it and play the
piano. Father reached behind the old upright and pulled out a cigar box. He
opened it and showed me a little pile of newspaper articles. I had read so many
Nancy Drew detective stories that I was excited and wide-eyed over the hidden
box of clippings. "What are they?" I asked. Father replied seriously, "These are
articles I've written and some letters to the editor that have been published." As I
began to read, I saw at the bottom of each neatly clipped article the name Walter
Chapman, Esq. "Why didn't you tell me you'd done this?" I asked. "Because I
didn't want your mother to know. She has always told me that since I didn't have
much education, I shouldn't try to write. I wanted to run for some political office
also, but she told me I shouldn't try. I guess she was afraid she'd be embarrassed
if I lost. I just wanted to try for the fun of it. I figured I could write without her
knowing it, and so I did. When each item would be printed, I'd cut it out and hide
it in this box. I knew someday I'd show the box to someone, and it's you." He
watched me as I read over a few of the articles and when I looked up, his big blue
eyes were moist. "I guess I tried for something too big this last time," he added.
"Did you write something else?" "Yes, I sent some suggestions in to our
denominational magazine on how the national nominating committee could be
selected more fairly. It's been three months since I sent it in. I guess I tried for
something too big." This was such a new side to my fun-loving father that I didn't
quite know what to say, so I tried, "Maybe it'll still come." "Maybe, but don't hold
your breath." Father gave me a little smile and a wink and then closed the cigar
box and tucked it into the space behind the piano. The next morning our parents
left on the bus to the Haverhill Depot where they took a train to Boston. Jim, Ron
and I ran the store and I thought about the box. I'd never known my father liked
to write. I didn't tell my brothers; it was a secret between Father and me. The
Mystery of the Hidden Box. Early that evening I looked out the store window and
saw my mother get off the bus—alone. She crossed the Square and walked briskly
through the store. "Where's Dad?" we asked together. "Your father's dead," she
said without a tear. In disbelief we followed her to the kitchen where she told us
they had been walking through the Park Street Subway Station in the midst of
crowds of people when Father had fallen to the floor. A nurse bent over him,
looked up at Mother and said simply, "He's dead." Mother had stood by him
stunned, not knowing what to do as people tripped over him in their rush through
the subway. A priest said, 'I'll call the police," and disappeared. Mother straddled
Dad's body for about an hour. Finally an ambulance came and took them both to
the only morgue where Mother had to go through his pockets and remove his
watch. She'd come back on the train alone and then home on the local bus.
Mother told us the shocking tale without shedding a tear. Not showing emotion
had always been a matter of discipline and pride for her. We didn't cry either and
we took turns waiting on the customers. One steady patron asked, "Where's the
old man tonight?" "He's dead," I replied. "Oh, too bad," and he left. I'd not
thought of him as the old man, and I was mad at the question, but he was 70 and
Mother was only 60. He'd always been healthy and happy and he'd cared for frail
mother without complaining and now he was gone. No more whistling, no more
singing hymns while stocking shelves. The "old man" was gone. On the morning of
the funeral, I sat at the table in the store opening sympathy cards and pasting
them in a scrapbook when I noticed the church magazine in the pile. Normally I
would never have opened what I viewed as a dull religious publication, but just
maybe that sacred article might be there—and it was. I took the magazine to the
little den, shut the door, and burst into tears. I'd been brave, but seeing Dad's
bold recommendations to the national convention in print was more than I could
bear. I read and cried and then I read again. I pulled out the box from behind the
piano and under the clippings I found a two-page letter to my father from Henry
Cabot Lodge, Sr., thanking him for his campaign suggestions. I didn't tell anyone
about my box. It remained a secret.
Florence Littauer

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