"Hello, Grandma." Lucy knelt down in front of the fresh grave, unafraid the loosely packed dirt might stain her khaki slacks. Her shoulders drew closer to her body as she fought off the chill that ignored her bulky knit sweater.
Alone in the graveyard, Lucy took a deep breath, blinked away tears and sat back on folded legs. She clutched a crumpled lunch bag in her left hand. With her right, she leaned forward and brushed invisible dust from the front of the monument, allowing her fingertips to trace the engraved letters.
"Has it really been a month already?" Her hand hovered over the final date on the marble. She wondered what condition her grandma's body would be in now, but the remnants of an irrational childhood fear—that the dead can hear your thoughts—shook the notion from her head. Instead she turned her attention to the brown sack still clutched in her fist, her knuckles white with sadness and anxiety. She released her grip and felt the blood flow back into her fingers. Lucy placed the bag on the ground and fiddled with the top of it, rolling and straightening the paper, pinching creases into the folds.
"I've brought you something, Grandma." She opened the bag and looked inside.
In the waning light of day, shadows invaded the cemetery. A large pine, several rows over, cast its mark along the ground and reached for her. The shapes of nearby statues bled across the grass, distorting as they stretched. Taller markers grew longer still as their inky mirror images oozed past the plot lines. And inside the bag, the shadows swallowed all but the tiniest bit of light. That light glinted from its contents, rejecting the darkness around it.
Lucy sighed a held breath, reached into the bag, and pulled her hand back out with memories. And secrets.
"We found this while cleaning out your house." She addressed the headstone in front of her and paused, as if expecting a response. None came. She shoved the bag under her knee to keep it from floating off on a breeze and held the contents with both hands. Unsure if she should look at her hands or her grandparents' marker, she chose the ground between. "I thought you'd want it back"
Lucy's hands held a small tin box. About the size of a cigar box, age and use had battered the undecorated silver rectangle along the edges and corners. Its hinges still worked, though they were marked by corrosion and discolor. Well worn but still legible, the front was stamped 1909 on the lower right corner. The contents far outweighed the slender tin itself. Lucy's hands trembled and she placed the box on the ground where she'd been staring.
"We didn't mean to pry." She chewed at her lip, looking for the words that wouldn't be heard, but needed to be said. "We looked inside." Her voice faded, cracking with uncertainty as her mind raced back to Thursday afternoon with her brothers and sister.
After the funeral, the gathered family scattered, returning to their lives to deal with their grief in familiar settings. Lucy's aunts and uncles had all moved out of state over the years, and neither they nor their grown children could take the time necessary to go through Lucy's grandma's effects. They'd helped bury the dead but left before dealing with the material life left behind.
Lucy's parents weren't up to the task either, her mother drinking to ease the pain, and father sitting silently in front of the television—unsure what to say, or how to act. He'd never been very good at emotional situations, but he failed miserably in his attempts to soothe anyone during this crisis, especially his wife. The task went ignored while everyone waited for someone to volunteer to shove the reality of her grandma's death into a closet and lock it away. Eventually, Lucy's brother Ted suggested they do it. They could pack up Grandma's belongings and reminisce, reconnecting with each other—after all, they'd spent their childhoods in and out of that house every chance they got. So the task fell to Lucy and her siblings, but they didn't mind, and in a sense looked forward to one last time in their grandparents' house.
Ted was expecting nine and had initially gotten upset when none of them had brought spouses. After some debate, they all agreed it would have been nice to share some of the memories, but prolonging the good-byes to explain every emotion would make it harder. Ted's wife left to run errands and leave them to their task, promising to come back that evening to pick him up.
Just before noon they found the tin box hidden under the neatly folded pajamas in the bottom drawer of the ancient oak dresser. It was a treasure none of them had ever seen or heard Grandma talk about, and she loved to talk about everything. Every item in her house had a legacy, a story to tell, and Grandma's storytelling skills amazed even total strangers. The tin box was different. It didn't have a history. Until they'd discovered it hiding there among the white cotton, it hadn't existed to them.
A few of them wished it still didn't.
A hush fell over them as they stared at it, no one quite sure what it was. Ted finally snatched it from Gina's grasp and opened it. Several small cards from flower deliveries sprang out of the overstuffed box. They all had the same handwriting—Grandpa's.
"Awwww..." Gina proclaimed.
Ted rolled his eyes in jest and grinned at her, as he shut the box and stood. "Time for a break." He strutted from the room toward the kitchen.
The tiny house took only twenty paces from one end to the other, and every inch of that space was crammed with wall-to-wall pictures, dates immortalized in needlepoint, and the various presents children and grandchildren had bestowed upon the couple. Lucy watched herself grow up along the living room wall as she walked, from kindergarten to girl scouts to graduation. She entered the kitchen last. Her siblings had forgotten about the box, giggling over reminders of their childhoods in the cupboards, as they rummaged for food.
"Oh, look at cute little Robbie!" Gina waved the special order Christmas cup in front of her brother before offering it to him in mock reverence. "How old were you in this pic?"
"I don't know. Maybe eight." He tried to ignore her, but his eyes couldn't hide the grin. "Grab me a different cup. Ceramic. I can't use that for coffee."
"Should we clean out the kitchen while we're in here?" Jeff stood in front of the fridge, the door hanging open, and stared at the contents. "Cuz if possible, I'd like to not be the one that goes through Nana's leftovers." Laughter rolled around the room for a moment before Gina volunteered to take care of the perishables.
"Nana?" Lucy poured water into the back of the coffee pot.
"Yeah. When Tyler was born, Mary had five generations on both sides of her family and there were a lot of grandparents and great-grandparents to try and keep straight." He held his hands up and started ticking off relatives as he continued, "So Grandma became Nana, Mary's grandma on her mom's side got to keep 'great-grandma,' and on her father's German side we went with Oma and Opa for the great-grandparents. The grandparents just became Grandma Betty, Grandpa Don, etc." He grabbed a diet Coke from the fridge and shut the door.
"Damn, Jeff. A simple 'Tyler calls her that' would have been enough." Rob fumbled with his cigarettes.
Jeff curled his lip sarcastically at his younger brother as he pulled his lighter out and offered it to Rob, tossing his own cigarettes on the table. After lighting the tobacco in an over-exaggerated inhale that burned a quarter inch of the cigarette, Rob dropped the lighter next to his brother's Marlboros and the two of them sat down. Ted returned from the pantry with crackers and cheddar cheese spread. Gina had microwaved a frozen casserole from the funeral and put it and a pile of paper plates on the table.
"Any milk?" She nudged Jeff.
"Sure, expired about three weeks ago." They both winced and she opted for tap water in the plastic mug that featured young Rob.
Lucy retrieved the coffee pot and three cups, knowing Gina and Jeff wouldn't want any. Jeff had his cola and if asked would claim he had one bad habit and that was enough. Gina prided herself on being pure since college—no caffeine, tobacco, or alcohol. Lucy sat down and pushed the heavy crystalline ashtray across the gingham cloth toward the boys. She spotted the tin box in front of Ted and reached for it.
Ted opened his mouth to talk, but stopped himself. Lucy figured he thought he should get to do the honor, but ever since last Thanksgiving's family football game, he let his baby sister do what she wanted—so long as she didn't bring up that tackle and make him feel like an old man. He raised his hands in surrender and she grabbed the box, enthusiasm seeping through her giggle.
"Alright already." Rob crushed his cigarette and immediately lit another. "Let's see what's in there. And someone pass me the crackers."
The lid opened easily, though the contents looked like they hadn't been touched in a while. The first item, under the flower delivery cards they'd shoved back in earlier, was a thin, yellowed envelope. There were no markings on the outside, no indication of what was in it or whom it was meant for. She turned it over, fingernail at the ready. It wasn't sealed. With fingers shaking in excitement, she looked into her grandma's personal affairs. Inside was a heartfelt letter on plain lined paper, addressed to her and the other grandchildren, along with several hundred dollars in cash. Handwritten in her grandma's swooping, classic scrawl was a list of favorite memories—one for each of her grandchildren—and instructions to divide the money evenly among them. The group's giddiness at the discovery of hidden treasure was replaced with sadness, and an eager desire to see what else would be in the box—what other tales would be told from the grave.
Anxious for something to clear the tears, they all reached over to grab at what else might be inside. The reality of their grandmother's death sank in unilaterally, and they were hungry for more memories.
Immediately under the envelope were three love letters from their grandfather, dated during his time in the service, torn at the folded creases from what they guessed was their grandma's repeated viewing. Sifting through the contents layer by layer, they traveled back through their grandparents' lives as the five of them uncovered school reports, several dried flowers, tickets to the theater, and election pins—always the losing candidate, which just gave validity to their grandpa's constant political rants. Further down they came across two small beaded bracelets for a set of twins, David and William—uncles the five of them never knew they had, and lost. Lucy called for silence as she read two pages worth of their grandma's memories of her childhood. They thrilled in hearing about the barn dances and swimming lessons at the little man-made lake. Ted's mouth fell agape just trying to imagine their grandma as a seventeen-year-old going to her first dance. Gina seemed stuck on the weekly ride to town for groceries. Rob said nothing and continued to smoke, while Jeff sat staring at the picture of their grandparents in their first house in Wilmington—a tiny one-bedroom structure that wouldn't pass as a hunting shack by today's standards.
The last item changed the smiles and tears into furrowed brows and stunned silence. Tied with a faded red ribbon, several newspaper clippings had yellowed and become fragile over the years spent in the bottom of the box. Lucy carefully untied the ribbon and opened the folded paper at the top of the stack. The journalistic account of a local homicide greeted her.
The atmosphere around the table changed.
Their expressions were full of confusion. Without words, they all asked the same question. Why would their grandma have kept newspaper clippings of a brutal murder? They read it several times over, looking for a clue. It had happened in the late 1920's, when their grandma was barely nineteen. Lucy suggested grandma might have known the girl in the article. Jeff reminded them of the cards and letters from neighbors and friends, and wondered aloud if it could have been one of them. When they failed to solidify a plausible explanation, Lucy flipped the paper over, hoping the article on the other side made more sense. It was an ad for Camel cigarettes. Confused by the sudden change in memories they put the gruesome piece of history aside and Lucy opened the next item.
And was greeted with more of the same.
Victim number two was found only a block away from where the first body had been dumped the previous month. Again, none of the names were familiar and they presumed it had been the talk of the town, something that had affected their grandma profoundly and she'd kept these reminders. Lucy preferred to believe she'd simply forgotten they were down in the bottom of the tin box, rather than saved as some morbid keepsake. But the next four yellowed slips of paper showed more of the story, as it continued, and the five of them became quiet. Coffee went ignored and the heady liquid cooled, the aroma replaced by the smell of a forgotten cigarette burning down to the filter.
This was more than just a passing fascination. What appeared to be the entire case, as it was printed in the papers, was kept for some unknown reason—secured and sequestered within the box, washing their grandma's memory in a thin coat of questions. She loved Halloween, but not horror movies. She wasn't morbid and generally changed the subject when talk of brutality in the news entered the conversation. Lucy wondered if maybe this was why—and saw the same logic pass across the faces around her.
The last clipping mentioned that they'd finally come up with a witness, but the murders seemed to have stopped. The case remained open. The article included an artist's sketch under the fold. They barely glanced at it—wanting to move on. Beneath the article was the last item in the box. A picture of their grandfather as a young man.
The spitting image of the artist's sketch.
Hands froze. Items were dropped. No one looked at anyone else.
Lucy could hear the breathing of those around her, but could not imagine what was going through their heads. Her own mind reeled so quickly through the tin box's contents—trying to find rhyme or reason—that it finally ground to a full stop. Unable to answer the unspoken questions, her mind went blank. The beating in her chest seemed to grow louder than the humming of the old fridge, even as the motor kicked in. The staccato of Grandpa's old craft-project wall clock vanished beneath the pounding of her heart. Time stopped in the little kitchen. Seconds and minutes swirled in an eternal moment until someone sighed loudly and broke the unnatural silence.
Jeff pulled out one of his own cigarettes and reclaimed his lighter from the table in front of Rob. Gina went to the cupboard under the coffee pot, to the stash of alcohol grandma reserved for company, and returned with a full bottle of Absolut and a partially empty bottle of Wild Turkey. She placed them in the center of the table and left the room. Lucy heard the bathroom door close but it didn't muffle the sobs. Rob and Ted exchanged glances and then pretended they hadn't. Lucy clutched the image of her grandfather to her chest, protecting him from the truth that lay all around her on the table. They remained frozen like that until Gina finally returned, face washed clean but eyes puffed and bloodshot.
"Now what?" Ted stared at the box and asked the table to make a decision for him.
Rob and Jeff wouldn't look anyone in the eyes, Gina most likely couldn't see well even if she had made eye contact. Lucy finally answered, as she started to collect the items from the table.
"Nothing." She sniffled and started putting the news clippings back into the box. Her chest tightened and her breathing became shallow, as she fought the urge to scream denial. "We'll distribute the money like she asked. We'll show the letter and other memories to family." Silent nods of agreement were punctuated with shaking hands that pushed various items back across the table toward Lucy and the box.
"We won't tell mom. We won't tell anyone." She closed the lid on the tin box and folded her hands on top of it. The happier memories were piled haphazardly on the table, away from the box. Away from the poison it contained. "We'll put all this in an envelope and say it was found that way."
Perhaps it was because Lucy was the youngest. Perhaps it was because she'd been the only one home during her parents' fall from grace—when father started cheating and mother started drinking. Lucy had hardened somewhere inside during that time, realizing perfect families didn't live outside of fiction and television. Whatever the case, she felt strength that day to do the right thing—to protect her grandma, her family—and took care of the box none of the others wanted to acknowledge.
And she wished for a bit of that strength now.
"We handed out the money. Thank you for that, Grandma." She looked up again, blinked away the shame that threatened to pour from her eyes and focused on the other name etched into the tombstone. "Thank you, too, Grandpa." She reached for the grave but pulled her hand back. "For everything." Lucy stared straight ahead, reading the articles again in her mind as her fingers dug without direction into the dirt in front of her.
In total, six young women had lost their lives during the two years Lucy's grandparents had lived in that town. The first two were discovered separately, in alleys. They were college girls in the wrong part of town. The last four were accidentally unearthed when the woods behind the drug store were cleared for a parking lot. They were presumed to be prostitutes who had wandered into the small community from one of the larger towns nearby. They were never reported missing, and never claimed by family. They were originally buried together, the authorities believed they'd been stored somewhere else and dumped at one time. They eventually ended up in another mass plot for the indigent. An unmarked grave for the unremarkable.
Lucy's fingers hit a rock in the dirt and she stopped. Looking down at her hands, she saw she'd dug almost a foot down. Far enough. She placed the tin box in the hole and pushed the loose dirt back into the opening.
"Grandma never told anyone she knew it was you." She stared at her grandfather's name and felt the heat of tears build in her eyes. She patted the dirt down and swallowed hard. "We won't either."
Lucy pushed herself up from the ground and took a step back. Her hand went to her back pocket and she felt the stiff photo of her much younger grandfather sticking out, the corner curling just right and poking her flesh through the fabric of her pants.
"I kept this." Her chest tightened as she bent forward and touched the top of the stone, like patting a child's head. "I hope you don't mind."
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