Short Stories

The Box

by Stephen Kimball 
12/06/20
For Sale
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Subtly announcing its proper appearance, right on schedule, like distant thunder cutting through the stillness of the darkness, churning, rumbling, ever more boisterous as it makes its approach.

“Here it comes!”, declares the younger of the two boys, the one who still maintains a child’s love and admiration for the giants that ride the rails, to and from who knows where.

Whooohooooo, whiooooo!

Whoohoooooo, whioooow!

Adjusting his body and resting his arms atop the side panel of the hot tub, in order to give his best effort, Nathan, the patriarch, repeats the nightly challenge, “Whoever sees the light first wins!”

Everyone turns their attention to the east where they know the light will appear momentarily, between the stark, empty trees as it travels nearest their new home. The tracks are hidden deep in the woods — foreboding woods that none of them would have ever considered exploring or traversing up until now.

No more words are spoken, just the sturdy sound of its rhythmic advance. Nathan imagines himself standing on the tracks, the lemon-yellow head lamp bearing down in an early morning fog, like a deer in the headlights that has every capacity to jet away, but yet, has no capacity at all. Exhilarating and distressing at the same time, he senses the very thought is a betrayal of his family and his God.

It was a mere Eight months ago, Dr. Nathan Richardson, an emergency doctor at a busy hospital in Florida, stepped down from his position because of a mistake, a terrible mistake that had resulted in loss of life, and worse, the loss of the life of an infant, an innocent soul, completely dependent on the competency of those caring for him. He had seen children die before, many children in fact, but this time was different, this time he felt, deep down, he could have prevented it. The CEO at the hospital gave him two weeks paid leave while the incident was being investigated, but he knew from the moment he found out, that he would never step foot in that place again.

The Richardson’s had built a life in their home town of Gainesville; living, working and growing in the community for almost fifteen years. Their kids had grown up there. But a part of Nathan died on that fateful day along with that child, and now he questioned if pressing on in this profession was something he really wanted to do at all.

Nathan’s countenance sunk like the Titanic upon his departure from the hospital. He felt as if he had been stripped of his purpose in life, and stripped of his manhood along with it. He immediately dove into all of the things he’d been meaning to do around the house: cleaning the garage, fixing the pool deck, painting the hallways, and then he made up some more to do after his list was complete, all the while, detaching from the things and the people that really mattered in his life. Solitude and worry were becoming his best friends.

There were moments when he and his sweet wife, Christine, could almost see the clouds parting but after almost twenty years together, she knew him well enough to know that he still wasn’t himself; that he had internalized his troubles and his doubts, she just didn’t know to what extent.

The investigation officially exonerated the doctor, and nearing the end of his counseling sessions, they decided together that a change of scenery would do them good. They had always loved the mountains, so the mountains would be the place they would seek a fresh start.

After a couple of months of searching, Nathan found what seemed an acceptable position. Near enough to the Smokies, he would re-enter the work force in a small country hospital, in a quaint little town in between Atlanta and Chattanooga. Less busy, less pressure. This had been the longest four months they had ever known.  

Now, four months after the move, the whistle beckons Nathan. Day after day, after day. The light, the power, the nostalgia of days gone by, the certainty of the past. Unable to put it into words, he doesn’t share this with his sweet wife, but he feels the call in his bones, and knows he cannot resist much longer.

**********

Sleeplessness is not new to Nathan, but it seems to have worsened since beginning his new job at the hospital. Recurring dreams haunt him, both at night, in sleep, and in his conscious waking thoughts as well. He stands in the middle of an open field, surrounded by a massive swarm of countless thousands of puddling butterflies, frozen, knowing that one move and the entirety will vanish in a puff of smoke, lives will shatter into a million pieces. And he cannot be responsible for that.

Sitting at his dining room table, staring out the panoramic bay window, he takes in the view. The bare nakedness of the trees is new to him. Everything seems new here, and old at the same time. As he stares out the window, he tries to recall the view as they had first encountered it, with the tree’s and their colorful autumn hues seducing, with their sunlit dance. But the thought escapes him as he sets his gaze on the stained-glass panel that hangs in the top left corner of the window, the one that he and Christine had picked up in Helen last year, before the floor had been ripped out from under their world.

The shimmering sun-kissed lighthouse, familiar, as though it once knew the salty hair and tanned skin of his youth. It, like the train, took him back to a better day, a simpler day. Thoughts and remembrances that, for a fleeting moment, brought him the happiness and contentment he so desired.

As nice as their new home was, better than the last in almost every way, Nathan missed the old, the familiar. He had lost his job, his home, his friends and his confidence. Now, even his kids seemed to be as distant as that train whistle, still bitter over the move. In fact, everyone here in this new town, he observed, was distant. Polite, yes, for sure — much more so than the people in Florida. Polite but thin, filled with pretense. Everyone is interested, yet no one is interested at all, he had noticed.

Before all this, the open space of the mountains seemed liberating. Yet, internally, the walls had for months now, been slowly creeping inward, and despite his new environment, they were squeezing the life out of him. Although the earth continued to spin, the events of the recent past left Nathan fragile and vulnerable. It seemed to him that everything he had known had slipped away – everything. He had thought he was in control, but it was clear now, that control had been an illusion.

So, Nathan built a box. An impenetrable box, designed to shield and protect, big enough for him and him alone, its shell hardening like stone a little more with each passing day. He didn’t anticipate that the box, the one of his own design, would itself be suffocating. It may have protected, but it also trapped. Like a bear in the midst of a wildfire, burning out of control, frantically pacing back and forth, searching for a way out, sensing the inevitable. Fear chained him inside this box, soon to melt away; a soot spot in the middle of a burnt-out life. All the while, the key that could unlock the chain, resting in his own pocket.

Deep in his thoughts, unaware of the cloudiness through which he looked out his panorama, he came to a conclusion:

I have done this.

Only I can escape.

Only I can break out…break free.

The time has come.

**********

Early the next morning, with only the clothes on his back and a flashlight in his hand, Nathan set out headlong for the woods, toward the rails that will bring the train that calls to him. Such speed. Such Power.

7:15 AM and 7:15 PM every day, one thing he can count on.

Down the path, through the cow pasture and beyond the creek, into the unknown. Perhaps only a quarter mile to the tracks beyond the tree line, he trudges through the muddy terrain, tiring quickly as his boots squish into the soft surface with each step. Exhausted by the time he reaches his destination; he plops down on the tracks to rest and to wait. No watch, no phone, but day is breaking.

It won’t be long now.

The fog had already begun lifting in the early morning light. Two horses flanked Nathan, grazing on the far side of the tracks. He was taken with their beauty, one a pinto, his favorite, he remembered from his childhood days. He studied them. The pinto looked up, looked his way — Nathan was sure of that. And breaking the thick silence, he neighed a warning.

His focus was disturbed by the rumbling of the train as it made its approach. This time Nathan didn’t just hear the rumbling, but like an oncoming earthquake, he felt it. How close was it? He wasn’t sure, but he felt it. He felt it deep within, his insides churning as the mammoth roared closer and closer…and then he heard it.

Whooohooooo, whiooooo!

Whoohoooooo, whioooow!

His box rattled against the tracks as the yellow glow of the single headlight rounded the bend and bore down on him. All at once, he felt like a bug that knew it was about to be squished. His chains…his very soul, shook to its core. Just as the noise of the train and its whistle was reaching its doomful crescendo, he rolled hard over the rail, and as his body came to rest, he saw his box shatter into a thousand pieces as it met the engine at full speed. His ears rang from the cacophony of noise, the screechy wheels passing practically on top of him, carrying a line of behemoths, showing their force…chug chug, chug chug, chug chug, chug chug…puffing out hot air and covering his face with dust and debris, threatening his very existence, he knew.

Eyes closed. No pain, Nathan allowed his body to relax. He envisioned the lighthouse that hangs in his bay window. Images begin to flash through his mind, one after the other, in rapid sequence – hundreds of them. Snap shots of the family, the kids as they have grown. Videos play — football in the yard, watching a favorite movie, camp fires, hiking to a waterfall with his sweet wife, the whole family watching and waiting for “the beast” from the hot tub. Comforting…peaceful.

Nathan was cognizant of each snippet played on the screen of his mind, if not fully aware of their implications.  As he came around, he lifted his head from the jagged rocks that line the tracks. He sat up to gather his thoughts. He wondered how long he’d been out – had it been minutes? Hours? He searched the landscape for the pinto, but it was nowhere to be found. The heavens were bright blue, bluer than he remembered – clear, but for one feathery whisp that split the sky.

Safe, he thought, Thank God, I’m safe.

He wanted to get home, his familiar home. He stood up, brushed himself off, and checked to be sure there were still four limbs protruding from their proper places. His weariness melted into relief, like the dismal cloak of wintry gloom peels away with the sunshine and the warmth and the possibilities it brings with it.

Standing there in the light of day, mountains spread across the horizon in the distance, arms and legs still attached, he noticed the artistry, like he hadn’t in a long time.

Painted by the hand of God, he thought. And for a moment he stood silent, gripped by its beauty.

Then, as if being moved by an unseen force, greater than himself, he descended from the tracks and began his journey back through the woods, moving briskly across the same terrain that had robbed him of his strength earlier.

Lighter now, no longer encumbered by his box, he couldn’t wait to embrace his wife, his children. It seemed like no time at all had passed before reaching the break in the woods that led to the path home. He leapt across the Oothcalooga as if he were sixteen again and saw his home ahead, in the distance.

Approaching the house from the rear, there was no sign of life. The cover was off of the hot tub which now held just a small puddle of green water at its base. No power. No sense. The back door was locked, as it should be, but attached to the water pipe next to the door was a lockbox, a realtor’s lockbox. Confused, Nathan walked around the house to find the garage door closed. 

“Where is everybody?” He wondered aloud.

He cupped his hands and held them up to the dining room window. No furniture, no pictures on the walls — empty. He staggard backward and doubled over before taking a knee. He felt hot; faint. “Deep breath… deep breath… in…out”, he coached himself.

When he finally stood up, looking at the reflection in the window, he could clearly see the tree in the front yard — the one that had recently been split in two by a wind storm, hanging from it the birdhouse he had fashioned out of an old Marilyn Monroe tin. This was the right house, alright.

The reflection of that tree, framed perfectly in the window, was mesmerizing. As clearly as he could see the tree, and the birdhouse, and the “Sale Pending” sign under it, he noticed, just as clearly, what wasn’t reflected — himself.

He ran to the front door, frantically shaking the handle, as if it could be wrenched off by sheer will, desperate to cross the threshold back into his life — his good life, his familiar life. Then, sliding effortlessly over to the front bedroom window, deep down knowing what he wasn’t about to see, he again stared into the nothingness of its reflection.

Unsure of what to do next, he noticed the Rose of Sharon bush on the side of the house teeming with color against the wintry backdrop. He stood there and watched in wonder as it began to come alive with a myriad of purple butterflies. One by one, the butterflies take flight. A string of butterflies now, they cover him head to toe, and on the ground all around him. This was the moment; this was the dream. No longer held hostage by fear, he takes a step forward — instantly they swarmed, like he knew they would. With unnatural speed and grace and power, they swirl around him, forming a purple whirlwind, Nathan, completely enveloped within the confines of the living display.

Intense now, functioning together as a single unearthly entity, this harmonious purple tornado slowly elevates off the ground, and for a few seconds hovers over the driveway, as if allowing him one final look before ascending skyward. With weightless ease, the swirling kaleidoscope spirals up…up…and as quickly as it began, it disappeared into a mist.

No Nathan, no purple butterflies, not a trace.