Neither Keri nor I ever cared much for the crowds of the big city, so when a few weeks before graduation we were informed of a business opportunity in my hometown, we jumped at the chance to return to the thin air and white winters of home. We had expended all but a small portion of our savings in the new venture and, as the new business’s initial returns, albeit promising, were far from abundant, we learned the ways of thrift and frugality. In matters financial, Keri became expert at making much from little, so we rarely felt the extent of our deprivation. Except in the realm of lodging. The three of us needed more space than our cramped, one-bedroom apartment afforded. The baby’s crib, which economics necessitated the use of in spite of the fact that our baby was now nearly four, barely fit in our bedroom, leaving less than an inch between it and our bed, which was already pushed up tightly against the far wall. The kitchen was no better, cluttered with Jenna’s toy box, Keri’s sewing hutch, and stacked cardboard boxes containing cases of canned foods. We joked that Keri could make clothing and dinner at the same time without ever leaving her seat. The topic of overcrowding had reached fever pitch in our household just seven weeks before Christmas and such was the frenzied state of our minds when the tale of the Christmas Box really began, at the breakfast table in our little apartment, over eggs over-easy, toast, and orange juice.
“Look at this,” Keri said, handing me the classifieds:
Elderly lady with large Avenues home seeks live-in couple for meal preparation, light housekeeping, and yard care. Private quarters. Holidays off. Children/infants welcome. 445-3989. Mrs. Parkin
I looked up from the paper.
“What do you think?” she asked. “It’s in the Avenues, so it has to be large. It’s close to the shop and it really wouldn’t be that much extra trouble for me. What’s one extra person to cook and wash for?” she asked rhetorically. She reached over and took a bite of my toast. “You’re usually gone in the evenings anyhow.”
I leaned back in contemplation.
“It sounds all right,” I said cautiously. “Of course, you never know what you might be getting into. My brother Mark lived in this old man’s basement apartment. He used to wake Mark up in the middle of the night screaming at a wife who had been dead for nearly twenty years. Scared Mark to death. In the end he practically fled the place.”
A look of disbelief spread across Keri’s face.
“Well, it does say private quarters,” I conceded.
“Anyway, with winter coming on, our heating bill is going to go through the roof in this drafty place and I don’t know where the extra money will come from. This way we might actually put some money aside,” Keri reasoned.
It was pointless to argue with such logic, not that I cared to. I, like Keri, would gladly welcome any change that would afford us relief from the cramped and cold quarters where we were presently residing. A few moments later Keri called to see if the apartment was still vacant and upon learning that it was, set up an appointment to meet with the owner that evening. I managed to leave work early and, following the directions given to Keri by a man at the house, we made our way through the gaily lit downtown business district and to the tree-lined streets leading up the foothills of the Avenues.
The Parkin home was a resplendent, red-block Victorian mansion with ornate cream-and-raspberry wood trim and dark green shingles. On the west side of the home, a rounded bay window supported a second-story veranda balcony that overlooked the front yard. The balcony, like the main floor porch, ran the length of the exterior upheld by large, ornately lathed beams and a decorative, gold-leafed frieze. The wood was freshly painted and well kept. A sturdy brick chimney rose from the center of the home amid wood and wrought-iron spires that shot up decorously. Intricate latticework gingerbreaded the base of the house, hidden here and there by neatly trimmed evergreen shrubs. A cobblestone driveway wound up the front of the home, encircling a black marble fountain that lay iced over and surrounded by a snow-covered retaining wall.
I parked the car near the front steps, and we climbed the porch to the home’s double door entryway. The doors were beautifully carved and inlaid with panes of glass etched with intricate floral patterns. I rang the bell and a man answered.
“Hello, you must be the Evanses.”
“We are,” I confirmed.
“MaryAnne is expecting you. Please come in.”
We passed in through the entry, then through a second set of doors of equal magnificence leading into the home’s marbled foyer. I have found that old homes usually have an olfactory presence to them, and though not often pleasant, unmistakenly distinct. This home was no exception, though the scent was a tolerably pleasant combination of cinnamon and kerosene. We walked down a wide corridor with frosted walls. Kerosene sconces, now wired for electric lights, dotted the walls and cast dramatic lighting the length of the hall.
“MaryAnne is in the back parlor,” the man said.
The parlor lay at the end of the corridor, entered through an elaborate cherry-wood door casing. As we entered the room, an attractive silver-haired woman greeted us from behind a round marble-topped rosewood table. Her attire mimicked the elaborate, rococo decor that surrounded her.
“Hello,” she said cordially. “I am MaryAnne Parkin. I’m happy that you have come. Please have a seat.” We sat around the table, our attention drawn to the beauty and wealth of the room.
“Would you care for some peppermint tea?” she offered. In front of her sat an embossed, silver-plated tea service. The teapot was pear-shaped, with decorative bird feathers etched into the sterling body. The spout emulated the graceful curves of a crane’s neck and ended in a bird’s beak.
“No, thank you,” I replied.
“I’d like some,” said Keri.
She handed Keri a cup and poured it to the brim. Keri thanked her.
“Are you from the city?” the woman asked. “I was born and raised here,” I replied. “But we’ve just recently moved up from California.”
“My husband was from California,” she said. “The Santa Rosa area.” She studied our eyes for a spark of recognition. “Anyway, he’s gone now. He passed away some fourteen years ago.”
“We’re sorry to hear that,” Keri said politely.
“It’s quite all right,” she said. “Fourteen years is a long time. I’ve grown quite accustomed to being alone.” She set down her cup and straightened herself up in the plush wingback chair.
“Before we begin the interview I would like to discuss the nature of the arrangement. There are a few items that you will find I am rather insistent about. I need someone to provide meals. You have a family, I assume you can cook.” Keri nodded. “I don’t eat breakfast, but I expect brunch to be served at eleven and dinner at six. My washing should be done twice a week, preferably Tuesday and Friday, and the beddings should be washed at least once a week. You are welcome to use the laundry facilities to do your own washing any time you find convenient. As for the exterior,” she said, looking at me, “the lawn needs to be cut once a week, except when there is snow, at which time the walks, driveway, and back porch need to be shoveled and salted as the climate dictates. The other landscaping and home maintenance I hire out and would not require your assistance. In exchange for your service you will have the entire east wing in which to reside. I will pay the heating and light bills and any other household expenses. All that is required of you is attention to the matters we have discussed. If this arrangement sounds satisfactory to you, then we may proceed.”
We both nodded in agreement.
“Good. Now if you don’t mind, I have a few questions I’d like to ask.”
“No, not at all,” Keri said.
“Then we’ll begin at the top.” She donned a pair of silver-framed bifocals, lifted from the table a small handwritten list, and began the interrogation.
“Do either of you smoke?”
“No,” said Keri.
“Good. I don’t allow it in the home. It spoils the draperies. Drink to excess?” S
he glanced over to me.
“No,” I replied.
“Do you have children?”
“Yes, we have one. She’s almost four years old,” said Keri.
“Wonderful. She’s welcome anywhere in the house except this room. I would worry too much about my porcelains,” she said, smiling warmly. Behind her I could see a black walnut étagère with five steps, each supporting a porcelain figurine. She continued. “Have you a fondness for loud music?” Again she looked my way.
“No,” I answered correctly. I took this more as a warning than a prerequisite for cohabitation.
“And what is your current situation in life?”
“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 lik
e 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 finished 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.