A Locker with ... Love?

“It’s just a storage unit.” She told herself standing in front of the dingy garage door. “Just a ten by ten space rented and forgotten by Michael before he died. I’m surprised it’s still here.” She stood back and waited for the lot manager to use her drill to take out the lock. The squealing of the metal was loud and shrill and went on for longer than Jeanne was comfortable with. She had to admit that that somehow going through Michael’s things after he was gone was leaving her feeling kind of ghoulish. At the same time, there was a definite dullness about it all, and still a mercenary interest for all that he owed her after 14 years together. She just wished he had family closer than 600 miles away in another state.

Jeanne didn’t even realize when the screech of the drill stopped. “You’re good.” The manager said, stepping back and breaking into Jeanne’s thoughts. She held remnants of the lock in her hand. She swung the drill up under her arm and stuffed the other hand into the pocket of her jacket.

“Here’s another lock for when you get finished. The key is in it.” The manager dropped the metal cylinder in Jeanne’s hand and with a nod of the head, strode past and up the hill.

Jeanne found herself just staring at he garage door again. “Well it’s not going to get done like this.” she thought, stepping forward to where she could reach the door handle and give it a mighty tug.

The door lifted more easily than she had predicted. It swung overhead and the sunlight gave some visibility to the piles within. And there were piles. It was mainly up to the walls all the way around, sort of sloping down into the center. There was broken glass and ceramic, collapsed shelves, and toppled cardboard boxes. She had no idea when the last time was that Michael had been down here, but it couldn’t have been recently. He hadn’t felt up to it for one thing, and the state of this stuff was the other.

Jeanne just stood there, her skin crawling. She couldn’t believe she had to deal with all this stuff! She was almost ready to call the JunkMasters to come and take it all away, and let them sort it out. The fact that she knew there was a gem or two she wanted, prevented her from doing it.

She walked back to lean on her car and pulled out her phone. “Crys? Hey, are you doing anything? ... Could I borrow you for the afternoon?” Jeanne paused, looking down at her feet instead of looking back into the dusty, cobwebby storage locker. “Can I put you to work then? … I’m trying to start on Michael’s storage locker, and I just can’t face it by myself. … You can? That’s wonderful! … Can you do me a favor and go by my place? There’s stuff I’m going to want. … Oh, like the broom, flashlights, bottles of water… and if you could… Oh, don’t worry, I just wanted to see if you would stop by WalMart for some contractor trash bags. I feel like we’re going to need them. ...You can? Cool. … You know where I am, right? The place on the frontage road? Space E10. … Yeah, I’ll see you when you can get here! Have I ever told you you were an angel? … Yeah, yeah, yeah. Get yer butt over here. I’ll see you.”

Specs of dust floated in the air, glittering in the sunlight in the small area that had the light. Then it fell and added to the layer that coated everything piled underneath. I now knew why I hadn’t been able to put up Christmas for years, all my stuff was down here. Another point for Michael.

As she stood there, Jeanne realized that probably part of her problem with the locker was her left over hostility toward Michael that formed after his death. Dealing with the locker was just one more thing she had to deal with, one more thing he’d put on her. It wasn’t like mailing his quilt back to his sister.

She looked around. Who knew what was living in the couch. She didn’t want to know and was glad Crystal would be there before she’d have to find out. Moving that table would be a beast of a chore. It would definitely be a two person job. While she was looking around, she noticed that there was a lightbulb in a cage with a pull cord in the center of the chamber. “Great,” she thought. “Michael probably shoved everything in here with the light on and just gave up on turning the light off and let it burn out.”

Jeanne gingerly reached over the top of the nearest items to touch the tip of a roll-up blind lying across the top and holding things down, and warping the edges. She lifted it by the edge, with the cord wrapped tightly around it, and dropped it forward onto the floor. “Well, I’ve done something,” She thought. She turned back to the table in the center of the room and lifted off a small, plastic, three-drawer unit that weighed just nothing it seemed. She set it out in the sunlight where it was out of the way, and could start a pile of things that might be salvageable. The plastic unit was a goner, but the stuff inside might be okay.

Looking at her watch, Jeanne went back to the car and turned on the radio. She turned on light jazz and listened for a few bars. She leaned back in and flipped the knob. The music changed to classic, arena rock. “That’s more like it.” Looking around, her eyes fell on the shaggy green woods and brush on the bordering fence. Right against the fence were a doe and two fawns. “Well, you don’t see that every day...must have followed the rail track in.” She looked at her watch again. “I wonder when Crys will get here…”

She stepped up to the large box on the table and began going through Michael’s collection of pots and pans. They had once been a decent set, and could clean up to be fairly nice again, if need be. Jeanne had collected pans anew since Michael had died, she couldn’t believe it had been so many years since he’d died and the locker was still here. His brother had paid for it like some kind of lasting legacy, in case there was something important to the family in Michael’s things, but had never had the chance to come look. Now Glen had died and the locker was up for grabs, and all the treasures inside were fair game for any strangers to paw over. Jeanne wasn’t ready for that to happen.

Stacking the pans and bakeware together she emptied the box, putting the ironstone in a different pile. That, she was interested in. About the time she finished with the big box, realizing the cardboard was too decayed to be strong enough to hold the load anymore, Crystal drove up.

“What ho, Stranger?” She called over the top of the car. She swung her long black tresses and brushed them back over her shoulder.

“Come and visit my nightmare.” Jeanne offered.

Crystal brought trash bags, a bag with small items in it and a broom slung over her shoulder. “You said trash bags and a broom, but you didn’t say anything about a dustpan.” she said as she hopped the narrow ditch down the center of the aisle between the buildings. “And it didn’t hit me till I was ready to pull up here.”

“I’m sure there’s something we can make do with.” Jeanne assured her. “I need one bag for pots and pans I don’t want to keep, but that aren’t trash, and one for stuff I do want to keep…”

Crystal laid her prizes on the table and asked “Where should I start?”

“Pick a spot!”

“Well, we’ve got to get this table moved before we can get to anything else, so since you’re working on the top, I’ll start underneath. Is that a computer monitor?”

“Let me sweep first,” Jeanne started.

“No, I’ve got it!” Crys insisted.

So the two ladies went to work bagging and sweeping the broken items from the floor and sorting the loot on the table. Once the floor was somewhat clear, Crys pulled the dismantled carcass of an old computer from under the table, pulling it out into the light like the plastic bin. Then she got a good look at the monitor. “Did he ever throw anything away? Do you want to keep this computer or monitor?”

Jeanne laughed. “Not hardly.” She pulled another small plastic rack off the table and tossed the empty box out of the locker.

Crys hauled the monitor out from under the table, and moved it out with the computer carcass. When she returned to table, she stopped and fished a three-inch flashlight out of the bag of miscellaneous things she’d brought, stopping to pull off a paper towel to wipe the grunge she’d already gotten on her hands.

Jeanne carefully bagged up Christmas ornaments and other decorations. Some of them were over 60 years old she knew, because of her mother’s old stories. She couldn’t believe Michael had locked them up down here. It was better than the alternative that they had just been a consequence of a move.

Crys crawled back under the table and suddenly asked, “Hey, what’s this about?” She came backing out from under the table with a box. A box about the size of a new, boot-box. It was wrapped in brown paper and tied with string. She set the box on the table and the two looked at it.

“There’s no writing on it.” Crys started.

Jeanne sniffed. “It’s probably just another box of Michael’s porn VCR tapes.

“I don’t know, this paper seems awfully old.” Crys folded a small corner to prove her point as the paper crumbled in her fingers.

Softening, Jeanne got curious. She didn’t know if this was Michael’s, if it was from his family legacy, or if it was something of hers he’d tied up, or at the very worst, something that came from Mom’s when she died. He adopted her but he had no right to anything after she died. “I’ll just take it and look at it later.” With that it was carefully placed on the front seat of the car and work returned to the locker.

After a grueling, dirty, sweaty day Crys and Jeanne gave it a rest. There was more to do, but it would have to wait. Jeanne now sat on her bed with the mystery box. She couldn’t decide whether to open it or not. Her scissors poised, she decided she owed it to Glenn who had protected the legacy for so long to find out what Michael might have been holding.

Her scissors made fast work of the string and carefully cut into the layers of aged paper. The box was actually a boot box. It had been a good call. It hinged on one side and had ancient cellophane tape all along the open side. Jeanne slowly opened the box that had once had a sign on it that just said “Michael” so she wouldn’t damage any contents.

It was family. It was Michael’s childhood family, apart from his father, so the pictures were all of his mother and the siblings, all six of them, smiling and happy, days to remember instead of the abuse. The pictures had been sent to Micheal to remember instead of the pain, he just never had the chance. All the joy that had been hidden by a plain, brown box.