The Happy Box
Nov. 15th, 2007 10:33 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dexfarkinI was retiling the shower, replacing the cornflower blue ones that were at least eighty years old, with some kind of quasi-vinyl dirt resistant ones that my wife had fell in love with at the Home Depot, when I found the niche. It wasn't much bigger than a bar of soap; just a tiny little alcove built into the wall when the shower was put in. There, covered in dust and grime, was a child's box of chalk, and an old barrel style key. The chalk was in an old paper box, mostly rotted away, but dating back to the 1920s.
For a few days, we wandered around the old house, checking the key in every door, latch and lock we could find. But we didn't have any mysterious doors or hidden rooms that needed just a secret key to uncover. The only lock that we couldn't open in our home was one of the doors of an old desk in the garage, but that was because it had rusted out year ago.
Halfway into the second bottle of wine one night, I dug out a piece of chalk from our daughters' art box and stood speculatively looking at the brick over out fireplace. My wife just laughed and went to change the CD while I drew a shaky rectangle, with a cartoon-like keyhole. When I pressed the key to the chalk, it slipped into the fake hole as if oiled.
With both stood very still, watching the key sit inside the chalk hole I'd drawn in the brick. Finally, my wife nudged me to reach out, and turn the fat, stylized end. With a click, the chalk lines opened in the brick, and it swung out like a door.
In my created cupboard, there was a bright blue scarf.
After we'd been married, our first vacation had been to a little cottage on Lake Huron, tucked deep into the woods. I'd been showing off with the boat, bragging about my watercraft skills, even though it had been years since I'd steered one. Abruptly, she had turned to me, the blue scarf fluttering around her neck with the speed created wind, and told me that by the end of the year, I'd be a father. The wind snatched the scarf from her neck as I embraced her, disappearing unnoticed over the lake. Holding it, smelling the scent of the pines and the water on it, it took me back to my happiest moment.
My wife didn't understand the tears in my eyes until I told her. Stunned, she closed the created door, locked it and removed the key. Grabbing up the chalk, she kicked aside the rug, knelt on the ground, and sketched in a new door and keyhole. This one opened just as easily, and her hands trembled as pulled out a dog-eared copy of 'The Velveteen Rabbit'. Her father had read it to her to sleep every night, even in the hospital bed where a seven year old could not possibly understand what cancer was. She'd never read it since, unable to take the loss of the perfect moment it had created in her childhood.
Soon enough, one by one, our friends tried it. Hockey cards long lost, stuffed toys, missing letters, photographs gone forever appeared. Most people cried or smiled as they drew the object from the chalked cupboard, behind the impossible door. There was a lot of embarrassed laughter with my brother in law pulled out the pair of lace panties, until my sister admitted that she had worn that exact pair on their first date, and dragged him off home to thunderous applause. It was a place to keep the things that represented your happiest moment, tucked away and finally someone had the key.
Until the day that our eldest turned the key, to the speculation of what a 15 year old boy could possible have in there, and drew out a copy of my old carving knife, covered in blood and with a few dark brown hairs, the same colour that missing girl from his seventh grade year, clinging to the blade.
For a few days, we wandered around the old house, checking the key in every door, latch and lock we could find. But we didn't have any mysterious doors or hidden rooms that needed just a secret key to uncover. The only lock that we couldn't open in our home was one of the doors of an old desk in the garage, but that was because it had rusted out year ago.
Halfway into the second bottle of wine one night, I dug out a piece of chalk from our daughters' art box and stood speculatively looking at the brick over out fireplace. My wife just laughed and went to change the CD while I drew a shaky rectangle, with a cartoon-like keyhole. When I pressed the key to the chalk, it slipped into the fake hole as if oiled.
With both stood very still, watching the key sit inside the chalk hole I'd drawn in the brick. Finally, my wife nudged me to reach out, and turn the fat, stylized end. With a click, the chalk lines opened in the brick, and it swung out like a door.
In my created cupboard, there was a bright blue scarf.
After we'd been married, our first vacation had been to a little cottage on Lake Huron, tucked deep into the woods. I'd been showing off with the boat, bragging about my watercraft skills, even though it had been years since I'd steered one. Abruptly, she had turned to me, the blue scarf fluttering around her neck with the speed created wind, and told me that by the end of the year, I'd be a father. The wind snatched the scarf from her neck as I embraced her, disappearing unnoticed over the lake. Holding it, smelling the scent of the pines and the water on it, it took me back to my happiest moment.
My wife didn't understand the tears in my eyes until I told her. Stunned, she closed the created door, locked it and removed the key. Grabbing up the chalk, she kicked aside the rug, knelt on the ground, and sketched in a new door and keyhole. This one opened just as easily, and her hands trembled as pulled out a dog-eared copy of 'The Velveteen Rabbit'. Her father had read it to her to sleep every night, even in the hospital bed where a seven year old could not possibly understand what cancer was. She'd never read it since, unable to take the loss of the perfect moment it had created in her childhood.
Soon enough, one by one, our friends tried it. Hockey cards long lost, stuffed toys, missing letters, photographs gone forever appeared. Most people cried or smiled as they drew the object from the chalked cupboard, behind the impossible door. There was a lot of embarrassed laughter with my brother in law pulled out the pair of lace panties, until my sister admitted that she had worn that exact pair on their first date, and dragged him off home to thunderous applause. It was a place to keep the things that represented your happiest moment, tucked away and finally someone had the key.
Until the day that our eldest turned the key, to the speculation of what a 15 year old boy could possible have in there, and drew out a copy of my old carving knife, covered in blood and with a few dark brown hairs, the same colour that missing girl from his seventh grade year, clinging to the blade.
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no subject
Date: 2007-11-16 03:35 am (UTC)I'm...not really coherent yet.
Wow.
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Date: 2007-11-16 03:44 am (UTC)no subject
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Date: 2007-11-16 04:16 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-11-16 05:40 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-11-16 08:59 pm (UTC)no subject
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Date: 2007-11-16 04:25 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-11-16 08:55 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-11-16 11:58 am (UTC)Shit.
no subject
Date: 2007-11-16 02:24 pm (UTC)However, the story itself, the ideas, are stunning.
no subject
Date: 2007-11-16 04:16 pm (UTC)Most of my favorite writers try on different styles very often. Right now I'm thinking of Russell Banks, one of the best novelists working right now... and all his recent books are very different from one another. It bores me when I follow someone's career and they write the same thing over and over in the same manner.
no subject
Date: 2007-11-16 04:21 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-11-18 04:20 am (UTC)There, that's a word I wanted. It's a good story, but something in the word use or telling feels clunky and less sleek than his usual writing.
no subject
Date: 2007-11-18 04:50 pm (UTC)And I do think that pacing is a part of style (with a little "s"). I was just talking to my students about Style (with a capital "S") and how it is fallaciously used with this weird "cult of the author" thing that so huge. So I'm a bit overanalytical about the term these days.
no subject
Date: 2007-11-19 05:40 pm (UTC)And. You're a genius. The rushed/clunky is so much pacing. You... yes. Hugs for the genius.
no subject
Date: 2007-11-17 03:33 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-11-18 04:21 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-11-16 03:55 pm (UTC)I like it but want to see it live out in a larger story. The concepts are too great to leave here... they need to move forward.
Make it so!