Epilogue, Part I
Epilogue, Part I
The ShoeboxDurban, South Africa
1960
The girl was more excited than she’d ever been in her life. She’d never waited so long for anything. She finally understood why her dad said, “Anticipation is the greatest part of life.”
It had been three hundred and sixty-five days, two hours and eleven minutes since she’d found the shoebox when the garage stuff was moved around, so her dad could lay out the train set he gave her for her eighth birthday.
She’d been a whole lot more excited about the shoebox than the train set, which was similar to the model planes and antique cars of past years. She suspected her father had wished for a boy, but he adored her, and as long as he was happy, she was perfectly content. He was her hero, you see, and she’d never disappoint him.
The shoebox.
When she’d accidently bumped into the old bookshelf during the train set-up session, soft crocheted blankets tumbled on top of her head, bringing down the box.
She’d held the well-sealed rectangle in her hands and immediately felt its ounces of weight become pounds, with all the secrets within.
It was covered in brown paper, double-tied with string, and everywhere the string entwined, a dark red blob of sealing wax pulsed. Not molded in a crest or a coat of arms like in the days of spies and kings, but hasty, hot-melting wax, creating urgent blobs the color of congealed blood, throbbing with danger.
For a magical instant, she saw an outline of shimmering yellow around the box, like a halo. Blood and sunshine. She shivered and smiled at the same time.
“Daddy, can I open this box?” Her words were breathy.
“Ask your mother.” He wasn’t paying attention to her at all. He was too busy with the train set.
Inside, when the girl asked innocent permission, holding the box, her mother’s face was tinged with crimson. The girl knew trouble was coming.
“That box is only to be opened when you are old enough. Do you hear?” The girl was taken aback by her mother’s seldom-used harsh delivery.
“Why is it so secret, Mommy?” the girl asked logically.
“It belongs to your uncle and aunt. We are keeping it for them until it’s safe.”
“Safe from what, Mommy?”
“From authorit— from people who could make it difficult for them,” her mother said, her accent thicker than usual.
“But when I am old enough, I can open it?” the girl asked, holding her breath.
“When you’re old enough, you can tell their story, but only then. Do you understand me?” The girl nodded, understanding completely that nothing would change her mom’s mind.
But from that day forth, she wondered how old “old enough” could be. She figured that if she didn’t ask, she could make her own decision as to when that time had come.
Now she was nine.
Since she was much older and wiser, to celebrate her birthday, she decided she would open the box. Her gift to herself. And her first decision.
Though it was they who encouraged her independent spirit, she doubted her parents would approve of her first undertaking.
It was all she could think of during the weeks before her big day of turning nine.
At last. She pretended to be really excited by the gleaming plastic blow-up globe she unwrapped that morning. It was her father’s wish that she have a keen sense of the world outside the little dot of Durban on which they lived. In truth, Charlie the rabbit, who was revealed in a cage in the back yard, would have been enough to set her nine-year-old-world on fire, but she held back for the ultimate pleasure her birthday could bring. The gift she’d promised herself.
Her mother’s head bobbed around her bedroom door. “You be good. I’m going to tennis with Aunty Wendy. Take off your school uniform. Do your homework. Maid’s in her room if you need her. When I come home, I’m going to make you the best dinner ever in the history of the world, with Christmas crackers in November and chocolate cake! Then you can play with Charlie.” Her mother’s words rolled with the rich, musical lilt she loved so well.
The girl smiled at her mom, not because she loved her, though she did, but because she couldn’t wait for her mother’s car to pull out of the garage so she could get in.
She felt like a criminal as she snuck into the garage. To calm her nerves, she sang, “Happy birthday to me ... ”
She pulled a small table in place and, balancing preciously, managed to access the box her father had strategically placed out of her reach after her mother’s reaction. She swore she could feel her hand get hotter and hotter as it got closer to the shoebox. Her fingers found the box, and joy filled her.
“Happy birthday to me … ”
Balancing on her perch, she carefully brought down the box and stood silently just holding the secret cardboard vault. She sat down on the concrete floor and traced the string slowly with her finger, from one smooth, blood-red blob to the next. Once the seals are broken, there is no going back.
She didn’t know how long she sat there, but when she knew it was time, she picked up the small knife and sliced through the string. The twine sprang back.
She sat looking at the delicious keeper of secrets in her lap. Her fingers tingled. Open the bloody box. Instinctively, her hands covered her mouth to stop more bad words coming out.
She gave in, eased off the string and, denied too long, quickly ripped off the brown paper.
She tried to justify her actions. “If I’m to tell their story, I need to understand their secrets,” she thought with solid logic and felt even better about her first decision as a nine-year-old.
As she gingerly lifted the lid, she smelled flowers and earth and paper. But not just any paper, papyrus perhaps, from the ancient Egyptians in her history book, such was the richness of it all.
She gently laid down the lid and began the ultimate treasure hunt ...
