The Christmas Box

  “I’m a recent college graduate with a degree in business. We moved to Salt Lake City to start a formal-wear rental business.”

  “Such as dinner jackets and tuxedos?” she asked.

  “That’s right,” I said.

  She took mental note of this and nodded approvingly.

  “And references.” She glanced up over her bifocals. “Have you references?”

  “Yes. You may contact these people,” said Keri, handing her a scrawled-out list of past landlords and employers. She meticulously studied the list, then laid it down on the end table, seemingly impressed with the preparation. She looked up and smiled.

  “Very well. If your references are satisfactory, I think we may make an arrangement. I think it is best that we initiate a forty-five-day trial period, at the end of which time we may ascertain if the situation is mutually favorable. Does that sound agreeable?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I replied.

  “You may call me Mary. My name is MaryAnne, but my friends call me Mary.”

  “Thank you, Mary.”

  “Now I’ve done all the talking. Have you any questions that I might answer?”

  “We’d like to see the apartment,” Keri said.

  “Of course. The quarters are upstairs in the east wing. Steve will lead you up. They are unlocked. I think you will find that they have been tastefully furnished.”

  “We do have some furniture of our own,” I said. “Is there some extra space where we could store it?”

  “The doorway to the attic is at the end of the upstairs hall. Your things will be very convenient there,” she replied.

  I helped myself to a cracker from the silver tray. “Was that your son who answered the door?” I asked.

  She took another sip of her tea. “No. I have no children. Steve is an old friend of mine from across the street. I hire him to help maintain the home.” She paused thoughtfully for another sip of tea and changed the subject. “When will you be prepared to move in?”

  “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.

  “Look,” he said, “their banker.” We laughed.

  “Hello, look at this,” I said, as I gently lifted what looked to be an heirloom. It was an ornate wooden box of burled walnut, intricately carved and highly polished. It was about ten inches wide, fourteen inches long, and a half foot deep, large enough for a sheet of stationery to lie flat inside. It had two large brass hinges crafted in the form of holly leaves. Two leather straps ran horizontally across the lid and buckled securely into silver clasps on each side. The lid had a skilled and detailed etching of the Nativity. Barry walked over for a closer look.

  “I’ve never seen anything like it,” I said.

  “What is it?” Barry asked.

  “A Christmas Box. For storing Christmas things in. Cards, baubles, things like that.” I shook it gently. There was no rattle.

  “How old do you think it is?” Barry asked.

  “Turn-of-the-century,” I speculated. “See the craftsmanship?”

  While he took a closer look, I cast my eyes around the room at the work remaining to be done.

  “We better get on with this,” I lamented. “I have a lot of work to catch up on tonight.”

  I set the box aside and we went back to organizing space for our things. It was dark outside by the time we fi
nished unloading the truck. Keri had long finished unpacking the kitchen boxes and dinner was waiting for us on the table when we came down.

  “Well, Sister, what do you think of your new home?” Barry asked.

  “I could get used to all this room,” Keri said, “and the furniture.”

  “You should see some of the things up in the attic,” I said.

  “Mom, how will Santa find our new house?” Jenna asked anxiously.

  “Oh, Santa’s elves keep track of these things,” she assured her.

  “The trick will be how Santa’s reindeer will land on the roof without impaling themselves,” I joked.

  Keri cast a sideways glance toward me.

  “What’s impaling?” asked Jenna.

  “Never mind your dad, he’s just teasing.”

  Barry laughed. “Aren’t you supposed to be making dinner for the lady?” he asked.

  “We officially begin our arrangement on Monday. In fact, she is making dinner for us tomorrow. At least she invited us to dine with her.”

  “Is that right?” I asked.

  “She was up here just before the two of you came down.”

  “This should be interesting,” I decided.

  We finished the meal and, after thanking Barry profusely for his help, we cleared away the dishes. Then I dove into a pile of receipts and ledgers, while Keri put Jenna to bed.

  “Can Daddy read me a story?” she asked.

  “Not tonight, honey. Daddy has a lot of work to do.”

  “It doesn’t have to be a long one,” she pleaded.

  “Not tonight, honey. Some other time.”

  A disappointed child was tucked under the covers and went to sleep yearning for “some other time.”

  Chapter III

  UNDAY WAS NOT proclaimed the “day of rest” by a mother with a family to ready for church, but such is the irony of piousness. Upon our return home at the conclusion of the day’s “churching,” we reveled in the discovery of a glorious new lifestyle. In our last apartment we had had such little space we found ourselves looking for ways to spend our Sunday afternoons outside the home. Now we defiantly spread our things, and ourselves, throughout our quarters. I napped in front of the drawing room fireplace while Keri read in the bedroom and Jenna played quietly in the nursery. What we may have lost in family togetherness we more than made up for in sanity.

  At quarter to six Keri woke me, and after washing up, we descended the stairs to Mary’s dining room. It smelled wonderfully of roast beef and gravy and freshly baked rolls. The dining room was spacious and, in typical Victorian style, the floor was covered with a colorful Persian rug that stopped short of the walls, leaving a border of the polished hardwood floor exposed. The room was built around a large, rectangular, white-laced dining table. A Strauss crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling directly above the center of the table, suspended above a vase of freshly cut flowers. The east wall had an elaborate built-in china closet displaying the home’s exquisite porcelain dinnerware. On the opposite wall was a fireplace, as ornately carved as the parlor fireplace, but of lighter wood. The mantel extended to the ceiling, and the firebox and hearth were tiled in marbled blue-and-white patterns. To either side of the fireplace were walnut side chairs with Gothic carved backs and tucked haircloth upholstery.

  Mary met us at the doorway and thanked us graciously for joining her.

  “I’m so glad that you could come!” she said.

  “The pleasure is ours,” I assured her.

  “You really shouldn’t have gone to so much trouble,” said Keri.

  Mary was a hostess of the highest order and would not feel the affair worthwhile had she not gone to a lot of trouble.

  “It was no trouble at all,” she said instinctively.

  The place settings were immaculate and beautiful, and the china plates were trimmed in 24 karat gold.

  “Please sit down,” she urged, motioning us to some chairs. We took our seats and waited for her to join us.

  “I always pray before I eat,” she said. “Would you please join me?”

  We bowed our heads.

  “Dear Lord, thank you for this bounty which we have during this blessed Christmas season. Thank you for these new friends. Please bless them in their needs and their desires. Amen.”

  We lifted our heads.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  Mary uncovered a woven basket of steaming rolls, broke them apart, and placed one on each of our plates. She then filled our goblets with water and the food-laden platters were passed around the table.

  “So how are your quarters?” Mary asked. “Have you moved in all your things?”

  “We have,” Keri replied.

  “There was enough room in the attic? I was afraid it might be a little cramped.”

  “Plenty,” I assured her. “We don’t own much furniture.” I lifted another spoonful from my plate then added, “You really have some beautiful things up there.”

  She smiled. “Yes. That’s mostly my David’s doing. David loved to collect things. As a businessman, he traveled all around the world. He always brought something back from each journey. In his spare time he became very knowledgeable about furniture and antiques. A few years before he died he had started collecting Bibles.”

  I bobbed my head in interest.

  “See this Bible over here?” she said. She motioned to a large, leather-bound book sitting alone on a black lacquer papier-mâché table inlaid with mother-of-pearl. “That Bible is over two hundred and fifty years old. It was one of David’s favorite finds,” she shared joyously. “He brought it back from Britain. Collectors call it the ‘wicked’ Bible. In the first printing the printer made an error, and in Exodus they omitted the word ‘not’ from the seventh commandment. It reads ‘Thou shalt commit adultery.’ ”

  “That’s deplorable,” Keri chuckled.

  Mary laughed out loud. “It’s true,” she said. “After supper you’re welcome to look it up. The British crown fined the printer three hundred pounds for the mistake.”

  “That was a costly mistake,” I said.

  “It was a very popular version,” she said, smiling mischievously. “In the front parlor is a French Bible with what they call fore-edge painting. If you fan the pages back there is a watercolor of the Nativity. It was a unique art form of the period. Upstairs in the attic is a Bible box that David bought for it, but I think the book is so beautiful that I leave it out.”

  “The Christmas Box,” I said.

  She looked surprised at my familiarity with the box.

  “Yes, there is a Nativity scene etched in the wood—of the Madonna and the Baby Jesus.”

  “I saw it up there. It’s very beautiful.”

  “It’s not from France, though,” she explained. “I believe it was from Sweden. Fine box-making was an art in the Scandinavian countries. When David passed away I received not a few requests to purchase the Bibles. Except for the Bible I donated to the church, and the three that I still have, I sold the rest. I just couldn’t part with these three. David took such joy in them. They were his favorite treasures.”

  “Where is the third Bible?” I asked.

  “I keep it in the den, for my personal reading. I’m sure there are some collectors that would have my head for doing so, but it has special significance to me.” She looked down at Jenna.

  “But enough of these old things, tell me about your sweet little three-year-old,” she said kindly.

  Jenna had been sitting quietly, cautiously sampling her food, largely ignored by all of us. She looked up shyly.

  “Jenna is going to be four in January,” Keri said.

  “I’m going to be this many,” Jenna said proudly, extending a hand with one digit inverted.

  “That is a wonderful age!” Mary exclaimed. “Do you like your new home?”

  “I like my bed,” she said matter-of-factly.

  “She’s glad to get out of her crib,” Keri explained. “We didn’t have room in our last apart
ment for a bed. She was devastated when she found out that she was the only one in her dance class who slept in a crib.”

  Mary smiled sympathetically.

  “Oh, speaking of dance,” Keri remembered, turning to me, “Jenna’s Christmas dance recital is this Saturday. Can you make it?”

  I frowned. “I’m afraid not. Saturday is going to be a busy day at the shop with all the December weddings and Christmas formals.”

  “It must be a very busy time of the year for your type of business,” Mary offered.

  “It is,” I replied, “but it drops off in January.”

  She nodded politely then turned to Keri. “Well, I, for one, am glad that Jenna likes it here. And, if you’re wanting for company, I would love to take Richard’s place at that dance recital.”

  “You are more than welcome to join us,” Keri said. Jenna smiled.

  “Then it’s a date. And,” she said, looking at Jenna, “for the little dancer, I made some chocolate Christmas pudding. Would you like some?”

  Jenna smiled hungrily.

  “I hope you don’t mind,” Mary said, turning to us. “She hasn’t finished her supper.”

  “Of course not,” Keri said. “That was very thoughtful of you.”

  Mary excused herself from the table and returned carrying a tray of crystal bowls filled with steaming pudding. She served Jenna first.

  “This is very good,” I said, plunging a spoonful into my mouth.

  “Everything is delicious,” Keri said. “Thank you.”

  The conversation lulled while we enjoyed the dessert. Jenna was the first to break the silence.

  “I know why flies come in the house,” she announced unexpectedly.

  We looked at her curiously.

  “You do?” Mary asked.

  Jenna looked at us seriously. “They come in to find their friends . . .”

  We all stifled a laugh, as the little girl was in earnest.

  “. . . and then we kill them.”

  Keri and I looked at each other and burst out laughing.

  “My, you are a little thinker,” Mary said. She chuckled, then leaned over and gave Jenna a hug.