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Bob was in the kitchen when Franck walked in, wet and hungry.
Franck went straight to his room and stripped off wet clothes for dry ones. Every time he took something out of his dresser, the box stared at him, gnawed at him.
“Franck!” shouted Bob. “Sit down! I’ve got mac and cheese for you. Hop to it!”
Franck went to the bathroom, hung up his hat carefully to dry, shook out his hair, dried it with a towel, and strode into the kitchen using a Monty Python funny walk.
“So you’ve come to your senses. You will start cooking for me every day,” said Franck.
“Sit your ass down there, buddy,” said Bob with a twinkle in his eye.
Franck sat down obediently, also with bright eyes. “Bob.”
Bob turned around, and said, “Franck.”
At exactly the same time, both of them said, “You won’t believe what happened!” They cracked up laughing.
“Okay, you first,” said Bob. “You tell good stories.”
“I thought you didn’t like my stories. Too crazy.”
“No, I like ‘em. They’re entertaining. Come on, make it good.” Bob laughed.
“Make it good. Okay, you won’t believe it. You know how you’ve been telling me maybe Regina likes me and that’s why she is annoying the hell out of me?”
“Don’t tell me you … Okay, go on. Just as long as there are no classy crimes–”
“Well, it was an absolutely dreary day with the rain, and boring customers, and damn few of them. So Regina’s doing up her thing more than ever. It was too much to take. About my stupid hat, and me being all talk and no action and then laughing at me as if the thought of action with me was the most hilarious idea. Like I’m the Big Nerd, you know.”
Franck drew himself up and lowered his voice. “So one time I’m at the cash register and she rubs her tits against me from the back and taunts me about being her big boy, and sneers at me passing by. So I catch up to her and give her a big pat on the ass, and she whips around and I say, ‘Hey baby, it’s you and me tomorrow night, hot time. Be ready after dinner shift.’ And she looks at me shocked, and everything changes and looks up at me all quiet now and says, ‘Well okay, you’re on,’ and that was that. Can you believe it? I have a date with Regina tomorrow night. It’s completely insane.”
Bob laughed. “Ok, get this. I have a date with Julie.”
“You’re kidding. That’s impossible. I thought she was ironclad, another guy’s girl. How’d you do it?”
“I just asked, that’s how,” Bob said, suddenly realizing he was proud of himself. “Not like you, though. It took me all day to get up my nerve and then when we were leaving for the day, I stopped her and told her it would be nice to have company for dinner, and she said that sounded good to her too. I can’t believe it myself. She’s all talk about her boyfriend, but my Mom thinks that’s just because she doesn’t have any local options. I guess mothers know something once in a while.”
“So when’s the big day?”
“Oh this weekend some time, we’ll work it out tomorrow. Maybe I can even find a show to take her to, that would be perfect. Are you okay?”
Franck had gobbled up his mac and cheese quickly and now looked a bit glassy-eyed. In fact, he had broken out in a sweat but it wasn’t about the food. He realized he was torn. He was feeling desperate to cut short dinner and get into his room with the box, but he also didn’t want to keep it a secret from Bob. He just wanted some time with it himself, and strangely enough, he didn’t feel like telling stories about breaking into the parsonage house.
“Yeah, I’m fine, I’m just thinking about some things.” Franck pulled out his cellphone. “I have to make a call, I’ll be back.” He ducked into his room.
Carefully he picked up the wooden box with the fragile old newspaper on top, and placed the newspaper back on his dresser. He carried his treasure to his bed and sat down with the box in his lap. The latch wouldn’t give. Underneath it, he now saw there was a keyhole. The box was locked. His hopes deflated so fast that the air escaped him in a sigh, and his head dropped slowly to his chest.
“Franck!” called Bob. “Ice cream! I really did it up tonight!”
Franck lifted his head. He felt very heavy. Slowly he placed the box next to him on the bed and called faintly, “Okay, sounds fine,” as he drifted back into the kitchen.
“What’s up with you?” said Bob, dishing out the chocolate - chocolate chip - peanut brittle - caramel - raisin - almond ice cream. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“I did,” said Franck. “Among other things. At the house.”
Bob drew a breath and let it out as if preparing himself for an ordeal. “Yeah, I meant to ask you about that,” he lied. “Whatever happened at the house? Did you break and enter? Did you steal stuff? Forge any more names?”
Franck dug into the ice cream. “Yes, yes, and no. I broke and entered, stole stuff, but nobody gave me anything to sign.”
“Whoa. Classy crimes, my friend.”
“Yeah, Class C, or Class E?”
“Looks like it’s freshman year at Jail University for you.”
“Bob, I need a little help.”
“I’ll say. But I don’t know who to call.”
“No, I mean I have to open a box. Do you have any oil or can you pick a lock?”
“Hmmm. I have some oil, some WD40, is that all it needs? A rusty hinge?”
“Maybe. I think probably we need a key.”
“Right. No. I’m not a locksmith. But let’s see it. Where is it? What are you talking about, exactly?”
Franck retrieved the box off his bed and placed it on the kitchen table.
“Is this from the house?”
Franck nodded. “I have a feeling it’s really important.”
Bob whistled as he examined the box. “No, this baby’s locked. We need a key, and I have no idea how to find one. We can take it to a locksmith and see what they say.”
“Yeah,” said Franck, and slumped again. For no good reason, he had got his hope up again that Bob would know how to open the box.
“So what happened at the house? Where did you find this?” asked Bob.
“Well, for the first time I can remember, I don’t really feel like talking about it. That place has a history I can feel in me and I don’t understand it. McIver’s wife was sick there before they went down to North Carolina. There are unpaid bills all over his desk. There are photos of people on the walls. I can’t imagine he won’t be back soon to live there again or at least pick up his things. There was stuff in the attic.”
“You even went up to the attic?”
“Yeah, I peeked in. It was magical. Old planking, old furniture stored there…and this. This wooden box. It feels like I was, well this will sound really weird.”
“What. What about this box?”
“It feels like I’m being asked to open it. It’s a funny feeling but I’ve got to know what’s inside. We could cut it open, I suppose, but I don’t want to hurt it. And I don't want to damage anything that’s inside. I want to know what's inside but I also want to put it back.”
“Right, let’s be careful then. We'll figure it out. You have a little time tomorrow before your hot date. Take it to a locksmith and see what they say.”
“Too bad we can’t just open it. It was lying there right under an old newspaper. Oh, yeah, I took that too. You should see it. It’s from around the Civil War.”
Franck got the newspaper from his dresser.
“Wait, let me clear up this food and stuff,” said Bob. He cleared the ice cream dishes and wiped the table clean. Franck gingerly placed the newspaper on the kitchen table. Bob sat down slowly, eyes fixed on the front page.
“October 6, 1858. Hmm. Unbelievable. Crystal Palace burns. Campaign for Senate. Campaign for Governor.”
“Bob, take a look at the ads, right there on the front page. Respectable Protestant boy wanted, situation needed for Catholic man, horse groomers, all sorts of stuff you wouldn’t see today.”
“Yes, look at that.” Bob read some of the ads. “I think we need to steam this paper carefully or humidify it somehow before we try to open it. It seems so brittle. Maybe we run the shower and put it in the bathroom? Or maybe that would run the shower too long. How about we put my vaporizer in there for a while? It’s the warm steam kind.”
They cooled their heels for the evening and let the old newspaper occupy the bathroom with the vaporizer for company.
It seemed to work. A couple of hours later they carefully brought the paper to a table in the living room and found they could slowly unfold it. The events of 1858 shouted headlines at them and wove elaborate stories in the flowery and opinionated style of old newspapers.
Carefully, Bob opened the front page. It did not take long for his eye to spot a familiar name. “Pastor McIver to Leave for the Orient” announced a headline on page 3. Josiah McIver, it said, was leaving for Indochina to convert heathens in Siam and elsewhere to the good faith. The elders of his church had encouraged him on his mission, and money had been raised for his journey by a church committee headed by his uncle, Robert McIver.
“Do you think that has anything to do with your family, Bob?” asked Franck. “I doubt it had anything to do with the other McIver in town, do you think? Wouldn’t it have been a big deal back in 1858 if the pastor was black?”
Bob was silent for a time, rereading the article. “I don’t know,” he said finally. “I only know my family back to my grandpa Jack. But my Dad said something the other day about him and his brother overhearing some random talk about another part of the family that they weren’t allowed to ask about. I wonder if he knows any more than he’s told me already. Or whether he’d even be willing to talk about it if he did know something. I think I’m going to sleep on it, Franck. I’m too tired to trust myself to jump into talking to my Dad again right tonight. I have to let this thing sink in a little. It might be just a coincidence with the name in the newspaper.”
Bob got up slowly. ”Intriguing about the Robert, though. Sometimes first names stay in families… Well, that’s it for me for now. I’m going to bed.” He headed for the hallway. ”Let me know if you find any more ads or interesting stuff in the paper. Be careful with it, though. I think it’s still pretty brittle. G'night.”
Franck was left in the living room with his two treasures from the parsonage house. He regarded them in silence for a while, and then thought about what a strange couple of days it had been. The vibe from the house still haunted him, and the dream, the box. Something was expected of him. And a date with Regina tomorrow? How weird is that?
He stood up in front of the newspaper as it lay on the table. He took hold of page 3 and carefully turned to the next page. A crease in the center fold cracked and left a small hole. He let the old pages settle open onto the table, barely touching them, and glanced through some of the articles. The price on an ad for tools was incredibly cheap.
He reached for the next page and turned it gently but it wouldn’t give. He tugged again, and a wide, long crack opened up, covering half the right-hand page. He quickly smoothed out the paper, which alerted him to the bump. There was something under that page.
Franck carefully lifted the torn page from underneath and felt an envelope stuck fast and weighing it down. He slid his hand under the envelope and picked it up slowly along with the whole page.
Patiently he was able to separate the envelope from the newspaper. It was thick, and heavy. The flap was folded in, rather than sealed, but moisture had sealed it. He held it up to the light and gasped. Inside was a key.