The Chest Part 3

Time passed.

The years the Man struggled with what to do with the Chest came to outnumber the years he'd spent struggling with what to do with the Burden. His daily routine had shifted. For many years, he would wake up in the morning and study the Burden in the mirror, and then do the same before going to bed. Now he rarely took the time to look at the Burden. Instead, he spent hours a day studying the chest and contemplating what to do with it.

Standing at the mantle, idly rubbing the brass latch of the Chest with his thumb, had become his morning and evening habit. Even after years of touching and rubbing the Chest, it bore no evidence of his contact. The polished wood and brass still gleamed as clearly and brightly as the day he'd received the mysterious box. The only evidence of the uncounted hours of contact was a callus on the side of his thumb from rubbing, rubbing, rubbing...

One time the Man had actually gotten up the courage to throw the Chest into the fire. His family had been visiting, and a debate over the Chest, and why it had remained unopened for such a long time, resulted in some hard words and hurt feelings. His family had left with a sense of alienation and heartbreak over the Man's intransigent regarding the Chest (Da, just OPEN the damn thing. There can't be anything inside that'll do you more harm than obsessing about it every day!) Gripped with guilt over having let the Chest cause such a breech among his relations, he snatched up the box and tossed it into the fire.

He stood there watching the flames lick at the edges of the dreaded box for nearly ten seconds before a feeling of icy panic erupted within his gut. He desperately grabbed up the tongs and pulled the Chest out and gently, reverently it back on the mantle.

He examined the Chest closely and saw that it was completely undamaged. Gingerly he reached out and touched it, expecting at least the brass fittings and latch to have been heated up, but was surprised to find them as icy cool as ever, and the wood no warmer than the familiar, living temperature he knew so well.

As he stood there rubbing the Chest in his usual, unconscious way, he found himself muttering apologies and explanations out loud. He stopped himself in shock. There it is then, he said to himself, the blasted thing has driven me insane. I'm talking to it like it was a pet cat or a neighbor come by to borrow a cup of sugar. I might as well..

The Man stopped in mid-sentence as he thought he'd heard the box say something. He leaned forward, nose to latch with the Chest and glared at it, eyes narrowed, as though daring it to speak up. He turned his head and placed his ear against the Chest, listening breathlessly.

I said DA, open the door please!

The Man nearly fell over in surprise as he realized his son was at the door, banging away, and had been for several moments. He took a deep breath, shook his head and marched to the door, and opened it as though he were going to be confronted with the constable come to report a complaint about his grass being overgrown (which it was). Instead he saw his son standing there, a worried look on his face.

Da, are you feeling all right? You look a bit pale.

The Man stared at his son for a moment, as though he were trying to remember what to say. Ah, uh, well, YES, I'm fine. Couldn't be more fit. He stared imperiously into his son's eyes Now, what is it? The Man felt a pang of guilt that the question had come out sounding like he was asking a solicitor why he'd come knocking at the door.

I...uh...forgot my scarf, his son replied as he slowly edged past and into the house. He glanced between his father, the box, and the tongs that were still in his father's left hand.

The Man loosened up. It's right there about your neck, you careless boy. Did you have too much of my home made huckleberry wine today? He glared at his son, as though he'd caught him getting into the wine at too young an age, and then laughed. He went to clap his son on the back, then realized he still had the tongs in his hand. He looked at them in surprise, then ceremoniously set them into the umbrella stand by the door.

The Man cleared his throat and looked expectantly at his son, knowing there was some other reason for his return visit so soon after leaving in a huff.

The Son looked at the Chest for a moment, then turned to his father. Da, I'm sorry I was so pushy with you regarding this, this..the Chest. It's not really my business what you do with it. I just don't want to see you, see you...

See me become some crazy, obsessed old man who threatens to shoot the newsboy?

The Man smiled at the irony of his interruption. He was obsessed with the Chest, had just contemplated the idea that he was crazy, and had been tempted to shoot the newsboy for years for his habit of tossing the paper so it landed behind the hedge next to the house where it was difficult to reach.

The two men, elder and junior, smiled warmly at each other. They stood awkwardly for a moment, then briefly embraced, clapping each other's backs, the way men do when they aren't sure how showing what they really feel deep down inside would be received by the other man.

The Man looked at the Chest, sighed, and then back at his son. I admit it has become an obsession, perhaps even more so than my obsession to be released from my Burden. The note that came with it says the solution lies inside the Chest, but I've never had the courage to open it. Perhaps one day... his words trailed off as he reached out and began absently rubbing his thumb along the latch. He caught himself and turned to his son.

Well, the scarf has been recovered, amends have been made. Do you want some huckleberry wine to take home with you?

The Son smiled as he held up the bottle his father had given him earlier that evening.

Ah yes, of course. Now see, there it is: I AM becoming a bit of an absent-minded curmudgeon, and so as your father I do expect you to allow me my eccentricities. He noticed his son's expression and realized he was talking to him as though he were an eight year old being told not to get into the cookie jar.

At that moment, the Man realized the man standing before him was someone different than the boy he saw, and that it was important to acknowledge that. He just wasn't sure how. He opened his mouth, but no adequate words formed. His son looked back, and expression of hope on his face, as though he knew his father's thoughts and the man-boy he was was waiting for the words he needed to hear.

Howwww...about some muffins to go along with the wine? I made far too many for me to hang on to. They'll go stale before I eat all of them? It was all the Man could manage to say.

Sure, Da. I'd love some muffins.

The Man scurried into the kitchen and in short order, returned with a basket filled with muffins covered by a linen cloth. The Son's melancholy was only slightly apparent as he took the basket of muffins from his father's hands. The Man clasped his son's hands as he handed over the basket, and wouldn't let go for just a moment.

Be sure to return the basket when you are done. And, oh yes, don't forget to return the bottle either, said the Man as his son walked toward the door and opened it.

The Son paused and turned in the doorway. I'll be back with both of them soon as I'm finished. Both men looked at each other for an endless couple of seconds, both men realizing something vitally important needed to be said, something for which years had been leading up to this very moment, as inevitably as a glacier inches toward the sea.

And then the moment passed.

The Son nodded as he turned and closed the door. The Man nodded as he turned and picked up the newspaper, and sat in his chair. He glanced at the Chest on the mantle as he opened the paper, and idly brushed a few leaves from the hedge off the page.

End of Part Three.