The Shoebox

Marc’s eyes burned, thick tears lodging in the corner of each eye. The air where he walked at the edge of a dying town flew about in cyclones of dust and debris. No matter what trick he tried, the dust penetrated and dug into his eyes. The burning sensation annoyed, but not as much as the dry scratching sound the dead leaves made on the concrete sidewalk.

“Early winter,” he muttered, “an early winter, dang it!” An early winter scared him. It worried him more than their car’s transmission falling out, more than their inability to see their parents, even more than the fact that Sara was late did.

Living even a few miles from a massive lake meant harsh winters were the norm. An early winter, well, he and his wife Sara had both breathed deep sighs of relief when they had finally turned off their furnace earlier that Spring. The way the furnace had shaken in its foundation as the power had been cut told them it may never run again. At least not safely. A winter without heat?

There was just no money left, no credit left. He couldn’t pay a technician to come out and look at it let alone repair or replace a furnace.

Later, much later, Marc wondered at how he had come across the shoebox. He was six blocks from the bus stop and had stopped short when a particularly nasty bit of grit caught in his eye. Slowly blinking his right eye, trying to dislodge the thing, he had fixed his gaze on the old Trimble house.

The Trimbles had been on his block since the ‘60s and had welcomed him and Sara into their neighborhood, hosting a block party to celebrate their arrival. The couple had vanished during the pandemic three years ago and all he knew of their fate was a pink condemned note stuck on their front door.

Blinking the tears away, he noticed a small blue and white shoebox sitting on their front step. Pulling a hankie out of his pocket, he gently wiped his eyes clean, checking the cloth, before blowing his nose loudly. As he wiped his nose clean, he could see the top of the shoebox lifting ever so slightly as the wind gusted down the street.

Glancing up and down the neighborhood, he saw he was alone. “Maybe it’s a memorial?” Marc said to himself. “Leave it alone.” Maybe their son left it, he thought. Then he remembered their son had died a few years back. Maybe a grandchild then? He was about to leave when the lid lifted a few inches, hovering, before falling back down as the gust abated. He caught a glimpse of what lay inside.

“Hmm,” he grunted. Feeling he owed the Trimbles a kindness, Marc opened the black wrought iron gate at their front walk. Trudging slowly up the walk, signaling to anyone who saw him he was on a solemn mission, Marc’s eyes, dry and burning, grew larger and larger as the lid lifted once more and he could see clearly what was inside the box.

Standing over it, he whispered, “Now what do I do?”

Sara stood silently, mouth hanging open, too stunned to speak. The shoebox lay open before them. Its lid was tucked carefully underneath the box. Sitting open on their small kitchen table, Sara tried to speak but all she could manage was a small guff of breath. Her throat felt sticky as if peanut butter had lodged halfway down. The feeling was unfamiliar. What lay before her was hope.

Marc’s grin was wide, reminding Sara of a drowning man who just caught a life-preserver. His eyes never wavered from the box before him, its contents laid bare. Looking down at the inside of the box she saw stacks of neat bundles of cash. Each stack had a ten or twenty on top, all of them were held together by cheap thin rubber bands. Neither of them had touched the money yet.

“How much do you think is there?” He asked tremulously.

“Honey, I don’t know. What? Um.” Her small hand, nails short, quicks pulled back and cracked, came up to cup her right cheek. “What do we do?” she asked aloud.

Breaking his gaze a moment, he looked at his wife excitedly and with a hint of fear. “I don’t know but I think we should count it.” Sitting down, he reached into the box and grabbed a stack. As he peeled the rubber band off the bundle it broke, a piece crumbled while the rest snapped smacking the back of his hand. “Ow!” he said involuntarily.

“Marc, what’s that?” Sara pointed into the box at a small object revealed at the bottom of the box.

“Hmm?” Marc asked absently. He was too focused on counting the cash and creating piles of tens, twenties, and an occasional five spot.

Reaching into the shoe box, Sara withdrew a small black notebook. Her thumb rubbed the cover, “Moleskine” she muttered, then opened it. There on the first page of the notebook in a fine literate hand was a message.

To whom it may concern,

The contents of this box are yours.

A choice must be made.

What will you do with it?

“What does that mean?”, Sara wondered to herself. She looked up and watched her husband continue to count, stacking the cash. He was halfway through the box already. Turning the page absently she discovered a name, an address, and a number written on the next page. The name was unfamiliar but the address was several blocks away.

Turning another page she found a different name with a different address and another number. Again she did not recognize the name but knew the neighborhood. It was only a street over. Flipping through the notebook she guessed there were at least ten names in the book, all with addresses, all with numbers. And the numbers varied. Not until the sixth name did she come across someone she knew. “Maggie,” she said aloud.

“What about Maggie?” Marc asked. He had finished sorting and counting the cash. Without waiting for an answer, he spoke again, “Honey, there’s twenty thousand dollars here. We can get the furnace replaced and maybe even fix the car.”

“Twenty thousand?” Sara asked. “That much!” The amount was dizzying. They had been married for a few years and neither of them had ever seen that much money in one spot. Twenty thousand. “Wait, hold on,” she said. Flipping through the black notebook quickly, she totaled the numbers beneath each name. It was what she suspected.

“Marc, um, there are names in this book.” She held it out to him. Seeing it for the first time, his hand shook as he reached out and took it gently from her hand. “And the amounts, do you see them there, beneath their addresses? Those numbers total twenty thousand.”

Not speaking, he flipped quickly through the pages then turned to the first page and read the message for the first time. “Wait, what?”

They argued for hours about what to do and what it all could mean. Marc read and reread the paragraph aloud. His staccato rendition of “The contents...are yours” became stronger and more emphatic with each reading until he shouted, ARE YOURS. Sara, ever the patient one, drew silent and waited until his steam ran out.

Pacing around the kitchen like a caged tiger, Marc eventually took a hard look at his wife’s face and the resolve etched there. Sighing deeply, shoulders slumping, he asked, “What is it you want to do?”

Sara hugged him, her warmth and love enveloping him with her arms, her head resting on his chest. Looking up, she kissed him quickly on the lips then answered, “I want to call Maggie.” Marc’s mouth opened to protest as she expected so she continued, “I won’t tell her about the money. I, just, want to find out if everything is alright. OK?”

“Ok,” he finally agreed after a lengthy pause.

“It has been a long time, Mags.” Sara sat in their living room, staring out the front window. The money was too distracting and she needed to focus on her friend. “How have you been?”

Marc sat at the table, a hand resting on top of the closed shoebox, listening and watching his wife. She sat on an old loveseat inherited from her parents five years earlier. It was an ugly mauve floral pattern. A broken spring always pushed against the back of his left knee, numbing most of his leg, so he avoided sitting on it.

Their call lasted an eternity but was probably less than five minutes. After Sara ended the call, she sat alone, silently staring blankly out the window. Standing, he left the shoebox on the table, the first he had parted with it since finding it. When he stood next to his wife, her free hand grasped his. Looking up into his eyes, he saw the tears there.

“Maggie was laid off last month.” He knew better than to speak, “her insurance ran out last week. She has a new job lined up but it doesn’t start for two more weeks.” Drawing in a deep breath, she continued, “Her son’s inhaler prescription needs refilled. It’s $400 and she doesn’t have it.”

He knew the answer but asked anyway. “And the number by her name?”

Nodding, she answered tearfully, “400”.

Quietly, they both thought to themselves, if Maggie’s son’s need was great, what about the other names on the list? What about the names with bigger numbers? Marc called one of the people he knew on the list, the same story, only the facts changed. Marc and Sara’s need hung heavy over them. She knowing what they would do. He stewing over it. They spent the rest of the day avoiding each other.

In the morning, Sara came into the kitchen to find ten thick envelopes stacked on the kitchen table. The empty shoebox stuck out of the kitchen trash. On each envelope in big block writing were the names of each person from the notebook.

Staring down at his work, she put her hand on his shoulder, squeezing it firmly. This was the man she married and she could not be more proud of him.

“You know Sara, I’ve been thinking all morning. Where did this little notebook come from? The cash? And I can’t figure it.” He stood then and poured her a cup of coffee with a healthy dose of creamer.

“When you’re finished with your coffee, let’s make some deliveries.”

Her smile a mixture of joy, sadness, and fear, she gestured with her cup, “Let’s make this a go-cup.”

The walk home was slow. Holding hands, deliveries over, each squeezed the other’s hand whenever doubt crept in. The temperature was already dropping. Frost was expected in a few days. Tears ran from the dust, the debris, mixing with their joy and sadness. Stepping onto their front stoop, they held each other tightly against the encroaching cold.

Sara saw it first, a thick envelope lodged into their mail slot. She tripped on the top step. Hope surging in her heart, she said, “Marc.” Her tone alarmed him and he looked up quickly spotting the envelope. Stepping forward, his right hand squeezing her left. Holding her hand tightly they both huddled by the envelope.

“Go ahead,” Sara urged him.

His left hand trembling, Marc touched the envelope. It was warm, fresh from a coat pocket or the inside of a vest. Pulling the envelope free from the mail slot with a quick tug, it tore. Holding it in his left hand, Sara brought her right hand up and tore the envelope fully open. In the envelope was a bundle of twenties. Quickly rifling through the cash, Marc stood in shock.

“Is it enough?” Sara asked.

“More than enough,” Marc answered, a sob choked in his throat.