The Crate

Dorothy has come home unexpectedly.

Days before she packed a small borrowed bag. As she travels rarely, she does not own one herself. The older woman at the church who has befriended her has provided it. Into it she folds a dark wool dress which will have to do for the funeral. It is not black as it should be. It is old, and she regrets she has not found the time in previous months to make a similar one. Her one pair of pumps goes in too. Dark brown, well-polished, but in need of new soles.

Her husband, Dennis, makes the long drive to the airport in Queens. The air is cold, and the gray light of late autumn lends a solemn atmosphere. Dorothy sits silently beside him, a pair of worn leather gloves in one hand. Behind her, are her three young daughters. In the days since the phone call they have cried and begged her to take them. But flying is expensive.  A ticket has been purchased by the estate of the deceased for her alone. Now, resigned to being left with their father, they sit quietly, hands folded in their laps.

At the airport Dennis parks the car. He removes the small case from the trunk and carries it in one hand. His youngest daughter occupies his other arm. The five of them traverse the terminal until they find the gate from which she will depart. When it is time, she bends down, and the girls silently circle her shoulders with their arms. There are kisses but no tears. Standing up she embraces her husband awkwardly.

“Off you go then,” he says.

“I won’t be gone long,” she reassures him.

Then she walks to the gate.  She turns one last time before handing her ticket to the attendant. Everyone waves and then she is out the door onto the tarmac and climbing the mobile stairs pulled up to the plane.  

Flying is a novelty and despite the purpose of her trip Dorothy appreciates the sensation of rising into the sky. Dinner arrives which she is grateful to not have cooked. She notes that it is only warm but consumes every bite.

“A cup of tea?” the stewardess inquires.

A blanket arrives. But sleep is intermittent and before a real night of rest has passed the sun is rising ahead of them. The darkness gives way to day. Her country of origin appears in the window. Long sloping meadows bordered by hedges appear ever closer. And then the ground rises up with a hard thud and she is home.

Her sister, Sybil and brother-in-law, Frank meet her at the arrivals gate. They have not seen each other in over five years and their greeting is genuine but restrained.

Her immediate family consisting now of only the three siblings has always been short on ceremony. Both her parents and two of her original five siblings have passed away with quiet services.  But tomorrow a full funeral at the local parish church has been arranged. While the cremation takes place a reception at the home of her deceased aunt has been planned.  Then the ashes will be taken to the cemetery for internment.

She considers all this as they make their way to Sybil and Frank’s bungalow in Surrey. Airport congestion gives way to open emerald green fields and darker hedge rows. Small groups of semi-detached homes with their distinctive terra-cotta roof tiles form villages with names like “Crawley Down” and “Shipley Bridge”.

“Nothing but a post office and a public house,” she thinks critically.

The roads get narrower, yet her brother-in-law continues at a good clip. Perhaps she is tired, but she finds in her time away that she has become surprisingly unaccustomed to the dips and turns and the uncertainty of not being able to see the oncoming traffic on the narrow lanes. She closes her eyes to regain some composure.  

She remembers her Aunt Louise, now dead and soon to be eulogized.  She had been a spinster and had always lived alone. Yet there were rumors concerning the source of her moderate yet sustaining income. She owned the cottage on the edge of the village and took in some income from the two rooms she boarded out. But otherwise it was unclear how her aunt managed the holidays in France and the small automobile that took her there.  She was generous to her siblings’ children; bringing one on her travels occasionally, making modest gifts or loans available. Perhaps, they had imagined, there was something elicit, unmentionable at the root of her financial security.  It was a mystery alluded to but never pursued.

They arrive in the village of Shirley Park.  Frank retrieves her borrowed case from the ‘boot’.  Tea is made and the gas fire in the lounge makes an effort against the damp.   The three of them sit quietly but congenially together. Her brother-in-law reads the paper.  Sybil, having put down her tea cup, takes up her knitting.

Leaning toward her, Sybil suddenly begins a story.

“Do you know, Dorothy, Aunt Louise wasn’t a spinster at all.  The aunts kept her story, to themselves for some reason,” Sybil says looking up from her knitting briefly.

“But now,” she continues, “that other members of the family have been allowed into the house some discoveries have been made.  A bank accounts book, locked in a desk drawer, has revealed considerable investments. A key to a safety deposit box has yielded a set of hand-written diaries kept since the early 20s. Two of the cousins have begun reading and sharing their contents.”

Dorothy frowns. It is not like her family to have secrets she thinks. They are straight forward as a whole. Almost dull in their routine.

Her sister leans closer still.

“And, it seems a wooden crate has been found in the attic. It’s quite heavy and large.  No one could move it themselves. So, a furniture removal company was retained to move it to the ground floor. Finally, today, after much effort on the narrow stairs it has been brought down to the lounge.”

“On the crate,” Sybil continues, “is an old, very yellowed paper label. The writing is in blue ink and written in an old-fashioned hand. Mr. Andrew Chapman, it says.”  

“Who might that be,” Dorothy asks her sister. She has never heard the name.

Sybil lays her knitting down in her lap and turns to Dorothy.

“It was our aunt’s husband,” Sybil tells her solemnly and significantly.  

“And,” she says after a pause, “the crate was never opened, till today.” Her sister looks down at her empty hands.

With that Sybil stands, gathers the tea cups together and makes the trip to the kitchen.

Frank looks over his paper at Dorothy.  One eye brow raised he declares it a mystery indeed.

Dorothy notices strangely that her heart is beating just a pinch faster. She stands and smooths her skirt and quietly inhales deeply. Composed, she follows her sister into the kitchen.

Sybil is doing the washing-up.  She turns toward her sister and hands her a dish towel.

“Apparently,” Sybil goes on, “even the aunts didn’t know about the box. But they are quite broken up about its existence.”

Sybil, having finished wiping down the sink, makes another pot of tea and they sit down together at the table.

“Chapman, it seems, was quite successful and considerably older than Aunt Louise. He bought the cottage before the wedding along with many furnishings including quite luxurious lounge and dining room furniture.”

Dorothy wears a puzzled expression. “But how do you know all this.”

“The diaries, of course,” blurts Sybil. “The pinnacle of his generosity was a set of Royal Staffordshire Porcelain, for twelve, including every conceivable extra serving piece. Apparently, he chose the  pattern for its jewel colors. Lots of gold. It was exquisite. Still is. Mint condition. Never been used.”

 “And,” she concludes, “it was a surprise, timed to arrive shortly after their return from their honeymoon.”

“They had a very small wedding service,” Sybil goes on. “Registry, I gather. The new couple left immediately for France. It was early September.  Aunt Louise wrote in the diary that the weather was like summer; blue skies, no sign of rain, breezy. An easy boat crossing. Arriving in France on Sunday they moved into their room in the Hotel Barrière Le Normandy.  It’s still there.  Enormous. Very fancy indeed.”

“Aunt Louise says that they strolled along the ocean-front, ate dinner in the hotel dining room and returned to their room. She mentions nothing unusual. Early the next morning, Chapman, kissed her and left quietly for his customary morning walk.”

Sybil pauses.  She leans back in her seat. She looks at her hands on the table and twists her wedding ring.

“Well?” Dorothy asks her sister with a hint of impatience.

“He’s never been seen again since, don’t you know.”  Sybil’s voice trails off but her expression conveys shock and a hint of suspicion.

Dorothy takes this in quietly. Now, she measures it against her own experience. Unfortunate things happen all the time, she thinks. Some have happened to her. Death, war, illness, misfortune. Her very own brother, now dead, disappeared for over a year before he was found alive in a POW camp.

Her sister goes on.

“Aunt Louise searched for Chapman for days, calling in at the gendarmes stations and hospitals.  She wandered the streets herself in search of him. For days and days. But he was not to be found.  Eventually, she returned to the cottage.”

“And then, the following day, the crate was delivered.  It was maneuvered into the attic where it has remained, unopened, until today.”

“She must have been too distraught,” Sybil says quietly shivering and pulling her cardigan more tightly around herself.

 “Who? What do you mean?” Dorothy asks.  

“Aunt Louise, silly. Too distraught to open the crate of course. Such a shock. Such a loss.” 

“Oh, I see,” Dorothy nods. But she is unsure what she is meant to feel about all this.

Dorothy looks put-out but Sybil ignores her and goes on.

“And not to have even a body to bury. All that uncertainty.  The aunts say she continued to hunt for him for years. Those trips to France...you went on one remember, were to follow up leads private detectives brought her. Chapman left her well provided so she stayed in the cottage. Never moving lest he show up one day. It’s all recorded in the diaries.”

Sybil sighs audibly and looks out distractedly to the autumn garden.

Dorothy shuffles in her chair, crossing and uncrossing her ankles. Nothing is said for a minute or two as they both look out at the gray late afternoon.

“Must have been a gangster,” Dorothy tells her sister finally.

“Got himself into trouble I reckon,” she concludes.

She smoothes her skirt again, pats her hair, and stretches slightly. It has been a very long day of travel.

Sybil turns quickly and looks at her reproachfully. “Don’t you find it sad?” she asks.

“Well, I guess it is unfortunate,” Dorothy concedes.

“But our aunt made out pretty well. I imagine that china set is worth a packet now. Not that we’ll see any of it,” she adds.

Dorothy yawns holding a hand over her mouth politely.

“Long day tomorrow. Think I’ll make my way to bed,” she says rising.

Carefully and quietly she pushes the kitchen chair under the table. She stands behind the chair, hands on the chair back.

“Can you wake me tomorrow?” she asks.

“I neglected to bring an alarm.”

“Of course,” says her sister quietly looking not at Dorothy but again at the garden.

“Well, good night then,” Dorothy says cheerfully.

When her sister doesn’t respond Dorothy steps back, turns and starts toward the stairwell. She looks back at Sybil for a moment, smooths her skirt and ascends the stairs.