The carved box

Arianne was blown away when the police called to tell her that no one had claimed the money and as a result, it was hers. Guess finders-keepers isn’t just true on the playground. Arianne couldn’t believe that no one had picked it up, that the police hadn’t confiscated it, that some crooked cop hadn’t found a way to make it their own. It was a lot of money, just over $20,000 crammed into a carved wooden box. It was the box that had caught her eye, sticking out from under a bush in the corner of the park. The box was dirty but looked serviceable and so she picked it up.

When she opened it and saw the money, she felt terrified. She froze in place – certain that someone was going to yell at her, maybe hit her and grab the box. She would be in trouble for trying to take something that wasn’t hers. Arianne looked around, expecting someone to be running across the park shouting for her to stop.

But there was no one around. Arianne stood there, clutching the box tightly as though some unseen force would sweep it from her hands.

She took the box home and stared at it, sitting so innocently, on her kitchen table. Should she just keep it? It wasn’t hers but there was no way of knowing who it belonged to. She dumped the money on the table to see if there was an address or something. Nothing. It was drug money for sure. Arianne pulled on kitchen gloves to push the money around and then to count it. $20,300 in hundreds and fifties, crumpled, well used paper money – not the new plastic money.

Finally, she put the money back in the box and put the box in a large canvas shoulder bag and walked to the police station.

The police were polite, but seemed sceptical. They almost sounded like they didn’t believe she had just found it. This scared her. If they tested the money for drug residue would they arrest her as a drug dealer? Surely not. They would know she wouldn’t turn the money in if she had gotten it illegally. Why were they staring at her? She felt slightly nauseous, and sweaty. Great – now she looked guilty – of what? She didn’t know. Shouldn’t doing the right thing feel good? Apparently not.

The next day had been terrible. She felt angry with herself for turning the money in. Probably the police would keep it as “proceeds of crime” or worse, hand it over to some bad guy who could somehow prove it was his. Why did she care? It wasn’t hers.

Then the phone began to ring – the media thought this was a wonderful good news story. They wanted pictures of her for the local news. But it wasn’t good news. Arianne did the right thing for the wrong reason. She handed the money in because she was scared – scared that the drug dealer would track her down and kill her – scared that someone saw her take it and would report her – scared that the money was coated in cocaine. She was scared of some cosmic retribution for doing something wrong. She wasn’t a hero.

And she wished she had kept the money.

It didn’t matter how she felt. The local paper ran a picture of her and she looked terrified. She assumed the drug pusher would see her picture and know she had taken the money. She had tried to smile. Her colleagues said she looked modest in the picture. They praised her and said they were proud to know her. And they said - they would have kept the money. Was she crazy? And then they would talk about what they would do with such a windfall.

Months passed and Arianne began to relax. The money was safe with the police. Maybe a little old lady would claim her lost life savings and then Arianne would be able to feel the virtuosity that others thought she should feel. Slowly, Arianne stopped missing the money that was never hers.

Then the police called to say the required time had passed – no one had claimed the money and it was hers to collect.

The money was still in the box, still crumpled and a little dirty. The police assured her there was no drug residue – so they had tested it – and she could safely handle it. The media was waiting for her. It was a very good news story now. The virtuous was rewarded. A good deed. A fine ending. This time she smiled for the picture and went home feeling somewhat lighter.

She put the box in the closet, shut the door and made tea.

A week later she found herself smiling and humming a tune as she walked to work. The money was hers – legally and morally and really, truly. She liked looking at it. It was still in the box, but she had smoothed out the bills and made a nice neat stack, with the queen’s face up and on the right – just the way it should be. She couldn’t bring herself to put it in the bank. She needed to look at it. It was hers.

She was still smiling into the sunshine when she accidently kicked a small object that skittered away like a frightened mouse. She bent over and picked up the little black object. Was it a wallet? No, it was a cute little notebook, with an elastic cord to hold it shut. Maybe she really was a finder. Her gramma always said Arianne had magic – that she was special. Well, for the last twenty years it had never manifested in any meaningful way – lackluster job, no social life – not so special. But finding the box and now the notebook – maybe she was magic. With any luck the book would contain the secrets to the universe. Or a really cute guy’s address.

Maybe it would contain important information and there would be a reward. Sure, the little book would contain important information about the secrets of the universe and a really cute guy would pay a reward and they would fall in love. Sure. She really had to stop snacking on those movies. Junk food for the brain.

She pulled back the elastic, opened it and noted the neatly lined, off white pages.

There was a built-in bookmark near the end, so she opened it there - to see the secrets of the universe. The printing was neat but the words were not profound. They seemed to be a log of some activity. Who wrote anything down anymore?

• Cancelled cable

• Closed bank

• Called DR – no answer – left message

• Where is it?!

The last word was in all caps and underlined several times. There was an exclamation mark. The writer was clearly annoyed, frustrated.

Flipping through the other pages was more of the same. Entries near the beginning of the book were just as banal but at least seemed to be more like to do lists. Less anger.

She liked the feel of the book in her hands. The cover wasn’t leather, but it was soft and warm. The front page said “in case of loss please return to:” but the only information was: Marlee and D308. Not much help. There was a place for a reward but she guessed Marlee didn’t care too much since that line was blank. So, no secrets of the universe, no cute guy and no reward.

The back cover was embossed with the word, Moleskine. At first, Arianne read it as “moleskin” and thought maybe the cover was leather, from a very small rodent. She even sniffed it. Then she noted of the ending “e”. What was a Moleskine? Just a brand name. It meant nothing.

That night Arianne pulled out the Moleskine and flipped through the pages. Mostly boring lists, reminders, ideas and random comments. Occasionally there was an inspirational quote. Profound thoughts but not original. There were diagrams and sketches on a few pages. Reading the notebook was like peeking into someone’s brain – random thoughts, scattered images.

Then she saw this: “The carved box. Where is it?”

The next line was a reminder to call DR again.

Arianne read that one line again. The printing was neat, there was no doubt, it said “the carved box”.

The entries after that seemed to be plans for some event, flowers, random names – just first names, a phone number and then, again, “find the darn carved box.”

Impossible to tell when the notes were written. Marlee occasionally noted a date but never a year. It seemed like long periods of time would pass without anything being written. Maybe Marlee found her carved box. It couldn’t be Arianne’s carved box. Why would Marlee’s box end up under a bush in the park. It didn’t make sense. It was just a coincidence. Besides, wouldn’t Marlee have seen the media coverage of Arianne finding of the box? Wouldn’t Marlee have gone to the police?

But Arianne’s sense of well being began to slip away. She would think of Marlee and her missing carved box. She read the entire notebook again, carefully now, looking for clues. Just two mentions of the carved box. And a phone number.

Arianne called the number and the call was answered by a cheerful female announcing, “Sundale Hospice, how can I help?”

“Uhm, I’m looking for someone named Marlee. Sorry, I don’t have a last name. I don’t need any personal information, just if she is… there.”

The receptionist paused, “I’m fairly new and the name isn’t familiar. Just a sec, I’ll check.” After a moment the voice assured her that they had neither staff, nor a resident named Marlee. Arianne hung up.

It had been over a month. She knew she should take the money to the bank but she just couldn’t. She looked at it every morning and counted it every night. She had taken to smelling it. Musty, somehow inky, maybe sweaty – she couldn’t decide. But it was hers. In the bank, it wouldn’t be hers. It would belong to the bank. She would never see those particular bills again.

Watching TV, she fondled the little notebook. Opening at random pages during commercials, she like the drawings best, the diagrams and arrows and exclamation marks. They meant nothing, but still.

Near the end, in the midst of blank pages there was a pencil drawing of a cartoon dragon – well executed, detailed, funny and fierce at the same time. It was signed. Dawn Russell. The Internet provided lots of Dawn Russell’s but none were cartoonists, no hints there.

The second to last page before the blank pages was just another list – things to do – nothing interesting. Arianne was about to look for a more interesting page when she saw this little note, scrawled in a shaky hand. Call DR. And a phone number. She had noticed it before but assumed it was a reminder to call a doctor but maybe it was Dawn Russell.

It was dark outside. If she called now and it was a doctor’s office, she would get an answering machine. That would be okay. But if it was Dawn Russell, what would she say? Hey, do you know Marlee? And if she said yes, what then? Arianne imagined saying, “can you tell her I have her carved box.” What came next? I’m holding it hostage. It was empty? I have her money.

If Dawn answered, she would pretend to be a telemarketer – Dawn would hang up – but a bit more of the mystery would be solved.

Arianne decided to take the chance – she called and heard:

“Sundale Hospice, how can I help?”