A Keeper

This is for the current Wordsmiths challenge. The introduction and picture were provided by wordsmith Tiff (thanks a lot, I went through a lot of virtual paper on this). My ending to the story is below the photo. I value your comments, please tell me what you think! And, I want to read YOUR story so get writing. All the stories entered will be linked at Wordsmiths soon - go! Read! ======================================= A loud rapping at the door awoke me from a deep dreamy sleep. It was early, too early to be awake, and certainly too early to be out in the streets pounding on doors. I thought that there must be some emergency in town and ran to the door to find out whatever news there was from whoever was there. Much to my surprise, there was no-one at the door ready to identify themselves and their message, and yet a package with my name on it had been left at the door. It was a most curious circumstance, and yet I saw no real harm in it, because secret gift giving was the hallmark of the holiday season. I myself had delivered many a gift in that manner over the years. The package was heavier than it should have been from its size, and once I had it indoors I eagerly opened it to find out what it was and who had sent it. Alas, there was no identification of the giver, and more's the pity because what was inside was a most remarkable carved wood box, worked with figures of animals and dragons all over, in a magnificent shade of red. Whoever sent it to me must have been a prankster, though, because I could see no way into the box, no clasp or lock announced itself, no hinge or platen presented itself as a means to the inside. I was locked out, and most frustrated by this unfortunate turn of events.

I found this note with the box, kept in a steamer trunk in my grandmother’s attic for generations. A faraway look crossed her face when I asked her about it. She smiled, blinked back a tear, and folded my hands over it. “I’ve had a long and happy life, I want you to have it.” That’s all she would say. Months after she died, I brought the box downtown to my friend, Charlie. He owned a crowded little pawn shop, which held far more than should have been possible in a tiny storefront. He was a five-foot man with a ten-foot personality; he could easily throttle an entire gang using a yardstick and golf ball. We had lunch together several times over the years, and he spoke perfect English. Whenever he was in his store, however, he adopted a hilarious accent, spouting Confucius’ teachings whenever asked the price of an item. He said it was good for business. He peered through round spectacles at the intricate scrollwork. “Ohhhh, this bling you good ruck!” he burbled. “This velly good thing to have around,” as he pressed it into my hands. I turned it over, smiling. “But, what is it? It doesn’t open and has been in a trunk for decades. Is it worth anything?” His expression hardened. He solemnly hefted the trinket. “Yes, it is worth something. What is it worth to YOU, is the question.” “Uh, I dunno,” I stammered. “Maybe a collector would get more out of it than I would. Make an offer, if, if you want it.” “Two thousand dollars,” he said with uncharacteristic shortness as the till slammed open. He grabbed a stack of twenties and waved me out. I thanked him, but he shook his head sadly, not taking his eyes off the box. The doorbells tinkled as I turned down the street, happy to have the money but uneasy about Charlie’s behavior. I walked along the deserted road, oblivious to the chill in the air and the thick silence afforded by a blanket of snow in this sleepy season. Glancing up, I locked eyes with the panicking driver, a young girl in a white knit hat. Her frantic steering did nothing to change her course. I sidestepped as her car jumped the curb, crossed the sidewalk, and slammed into a coffee shop. Heavy icicles fell from the canopy. I watched the wagon swing around to pin me against the wall. Vertebrae and bricks ground together, fanbelts snapped, steam escaped with a teakettle whistle, echoing, cascading, drowning in the thrushing of blood in my eardrums. The car shifted, dropping me to the fluid-soaked sidewalk. It was a long way to fall. The contents of my pockets fluttered into doorways, over festooned lampposts, down storm drains. Cold concrete pressed against my cheek and warm blood met my lips. Charlie stood over me, hot tears stinging my forehead. He covered me with his old cardigan. I faded, hearing him sob, “You should have kept box, my friend.”