The Red Door

Part One: Summer 1929, Chapter 2

The photo was of a young couple sitting atop a tree stump under a canopy of leaves. They sat close together, both with a hint of a smile at the corner of their mouths. The second photo was of the young man alone in the same fancy dress shirt and dotted ascot. He sat straight with his chin in the air, proud. The third and final photograph was of the young woman; her white blouse nearly the same color as her pale skin, and her hair set in dark waves crowning her head. She wore a soft smile on her face and a pin on her blouse; the same pin from the box. She looked happier than I thought I would ever be.

We returned the contents to the small silver box and closed it tight for safe keeping. It was just after noon, and Howard and I felt that our time in the woods had come to an end. Howard had brought a basket from home so we could carry all our treasures back. He fit everything in it except for the silver box, because I just didn’t want to let it go.

Howard carried the basket and dragged the shovel through the woods, while I had the silver box in one hand and the metal lunch pail in the other.

“Want to come over for lunch?” Howard said when he saw me eyeing the sun’s position in the sky.

“Sure,” I said, pausing in relief, “Thanks.”

The Flynn family owned a dairy farm where everyone in town went for their milk and eggs. It was only a ten minute walk from my house, straight down the winding gravel road. When we got to the yard and past the peeling white picket fence, Howard dropped the shovel in the grass.  As soon as we walked through the front door a delicious aroma filled my nose, something I was not used to at my own home.

Mrs. Flynn’s face lit up as we entered the kitchen.

“Just in time for lunch, you two,” she said, “How are you Mollie, dear?”

“Hi, Mrs. Flynn, I’m great,” I said, grinning from ear to ear with my silver box in hand.

“What have you got there?” she asked, smiling as if she was as excited as I was.

Howard set the basket on the dining room table.

“Howard, no toys on the table,” Mrs. Flynn ordered, distracting herself from the silver box I held.

“But mom, they’re not toys, “ He whined, “They’re treasures, like Mollie’s box.”

Mr. Flynn walked in the back door and Howard ran to him. He was a tall man, the tallest man I had ever seen. He had a thin face and dark hair that was always combed back and slightly off to the side, and an impressive moustache that covered his top lip. He was slender, but strong, and despite the dirt that covered his hands, his face was always clean and friendly. He picked Howard up effortlessly, and even though I knew Howard enjoyed when his dad did this, he squirmed away quickly to get back to our basket.

“Look Pa! Look what we found!” he said, pulling out everything from the basket.

“Is this what you two have been up to all summer?” his dad chuckled as he sat at his usual seat at the table.

“Yes, Sir,” Howard said, “It was like a treasure hunt, right Mollie?”

He turned to me and the box in my hand, I nodded and grinned. Howard held his hands out for the box.

“Look what Mollie found,” he said, interrupting his dad’s examination of our other findings in the basket.

“That’s very nice Mollie,” he said, “it’s very pretty, just like you.” I smiled and blushed.

Mrs. Flynn finally came over to have a closer look, and she was also attracted to the small silver box.

“This is lovely, Mollie, where did you two say you found it?” she asked, with a hint of suspicion in her tone.

“In the woods,” Howard and I said in unison.

“It was all buried. Mollie found these buttons first,” he said as he pulled a handful of buttons out of the basket, “and then we just kept digging, and we found this box just this morning.”

Mrs. Flynn picked it up and looked at it more closely. Black dirt still filled the crevices, and I am sure it helped verify our story. She opened the box and looked carefully at the photographs.

“I can’t say I recognize these folks. I’d say you found yourself a fine little treasure,” she said softly, setting the box back on the table in front of me. Part of me was glad that she didn’t recognize them, for it made them more personal to me. But part of me desperately wanted to know who they were, their names, and the stories of their lives.

That evening I made it home with no less than fifteen minutes to spare, and my mother seemed quite disappointed that she had a third mouth to feed. She was six months pregnant and I already felt sorry for the brother or sister I was going to have, and wondered if she would treat them the same as she treated me. Or maybe this time they would “get it right” like she said dozens of times.

After I ate my supper I hurried back to my room. I kept one silver button from our treasures, just so I could hold it in my hand to prove that I didn’t dream of their existence. I left the silver box at Howard’s for safe keeping, knowing that if I brought it home I’d never see it again. My mother would be in shortly to brush my hair, so I buried the single button in the bottom of my third dresser drawer.

I changed into my night dress and waited on the edge of my bed. My mother opened the door at ten minutes to eight, the exact same time she opened it every evening since I was old enough to need my hair brushed. The same beautiful brush she always used was low at her side in her right hand, the heavy silver frame polished to shine, and the stiff white bristles beginning to bend from use. As she sat down gently on the bed next to me I could see both of our reflections in the dresser mirror. She really was beautiful. Her hair was so pale it nearly disappeared into the white wall behind us, and the few curls that escaped fell perfectly along the side of her neck. She had a grace about her that was effortless and beautiful, and for a moment each night I thought maybe I could love her.

Nevertheless, I was prepared for the very moment the brush touched my scalp, and in the brief second before it did, I wondered if I would go to bed in tears again. When the bristles locked in my hair and my head was thrown back, I remembered to never assume anything otherwise.

She brushed my hair for ten minutes, though it always seemed to go on forever. She used as much force as she could manage, and the instant I moved as much as an inch, she hit the top of my head with the heavy silver frame. I’m not sure what was worse: the sound of the metal on my skull or the surge of pain that jolted down my neck, or maybe it was that she rarely said a word while she was sitting there next to me with her beautiful, unassuming weapon. If she did speak, it was always the same comment on how there were no other red-haired beings in our family and she swore I wasn’t her child. Every night I went to bed with a tear stained pillow, wishing it was true.