The Secrets We Bury

Tuesdays are for memory hunting. It’s the only day of the week Gino can spare me at the restaurant. If he could get away with working me 365 days a year, I know he would. Gino doesn’t believe in holidays, or so he says. Personally, I think he can’t stand to lock people out on Thanksgiving, but maybe I’m giving him too much credit. Jeannie says I always look for the best in people.

Maybe. It’s how I survive in a world that makes me want to pull the covers up over my head and sleep away the student loans I’ll never be able to escape after two years and countless ulcers in medical school. But on Tuesdays, I have no trouble facing the world. I dig for a different reality, a reality that’s already come and gone.

The owners of the antique shops all know me by now. They like me well enough, but I know they resent that I never buy the hand-carved furniture that represents the real money and brings the tourists in droves to our sweet little town.

They all know me as the “paper girl.” I choose a shop every week and wait outside for the doors to open. Then I lose myself in unmarked photos, old magazines, and even marked-up cookbooks. Brushing aside the guilt that comes with spending money on anything but food, rent, or loan payments, I usually head home with a small paper bag of treasures.

For a long time, that’s where they stayed. I felt like I’d be moving on soon enough, and I didn’t want to worry about having to get my security deposit back. But eventually, the old photos called to me, and I covered the walls with them, a creeping black-and-white collage that started in the small, gloomy hallway and gradually radiated into the living room, the bedroom, even the bathroom.

Jeannie is my only visitor. She always says she feels like she’s being watched in my apartment, like she’s never alone, even when it’s just her and the cats. But for me, it’s comforting to look up at every wall and find them pasted over with memories, even if the memories are not my own.

Today, I have to clutch my coat around myself to keep the brittle wind from circulating underneath the layers of clothing and penetrating into my bones as I wait for Elaine to open up the shop, The Music Box. It’s my favorite, but I only let myself come here on the regular schedule. Can’t let it get too picked over.

Elaine nods as she unlocks the door with shaking fingers. We’re both too cold for small talk, and the warm, welcoming breath of the shop draws us in. I head toward the back, as she knows I will. I dive right in, pausing only a moment to warm my fingers.

The knots in my shoulder and the constant throbbing in my feet from working on a concrete floor all day fall away and I start to see only stories, stories told by solemn faces and endless intriguing backgrounds. I check out the latest stack of vintage magazines too, and the minutes fly by faster than I’d like.

“Fiona?”

The voice startles me and I stand up too quickly from where I’m squatting next to a low shelf, banging my head on a nearby china cabinet. It starts to throb, so I sit down and lean against it.

“Oh, I’m so sorry dear.” Elaine is standing over me, concern in her eyes. There's a small black book in her hand. “I just thought you might like this. I’ve been saving it for you. A woman brought it in with her grandfather’s things a few weeks ago; she didn’t want it. I don’t think it’s worth anything, but I knew it was the kind of thing you’d love. Here, take it.”

I do, and I fall in love with it immediately. It’s got a smooth, sturdy cover and a thick spine of moth-thin pages.

“Wow. It's beautiful. How much?” I look up at Elaine, stooped in her green turtleneck and librarian glasses, hoping it won’t be more than the tips I’ll make during tomorrow’s lunch rush.

“No charge, dearie,” she says, smiling at me. “My treat. Just bring whatever else you want up to the front and I’ll ring you up.”

Back home, I start to read, eager for life lessons and thrilling insights from a man who’d lived through two world wars. But the diary turns out to be not much more than a log of every stalk of corn the man had ever tried to grow. I’m starting to drift off when something catches my eye:

“Burried box next big stone, safkeeping.”

The spelling is absurdly bad, but I can’t help myself. I have to know.

***

Late the next morning, I’m pacing my apartment, trying to figure out my next move. I don’t know who this man is, where he lived, or how in the hell I’d be able to legally go looking for whatever he buried. But first things first.

I call Gino, affect a gravelly voice and swear up and down that I’m sicker than I’ve ever been in my life. After several minutes of colorful swearing, I’m off the phone and into my shoes. Elaine’s shop opens in ten minutes, and I’m going to be there.

Her eyebrows shoot up toward her hairline when she sees me standing outside.

“You’re back? Why, it’s only been twenty-four hours!”

“This book. I need to get in touch with the woman who brought it to you.”

Elaine frowns.

“I don’t think I can do that, Fiona. My clients like their privacy.”

“Can you just ask her? Please? It’s important.” I don’t know if it really is important yet, but I can’t think of anything else to say. She doesn’t reply, but unlocks the door and pushes it open. She doesn’t tell me to get lost, so I follow her in.

“Please, Elaine. If you do this for me, I’ll never come in here again and bother you.”

“Bother me, honey? Why, I barely notice you’re in here when you come by. You’re the quietest little thing I ever met.” She sighs. “All right. I will call the lady and see if she’ll agree to meet with you. Stay here.”

A few minutes later, Elaine walks over with a scrap of paper.

“This is the address. Her name is Jennifer and she’s cleaning out the house now to sell, but you can go on over.”

I thank her over and over again, but soon head out to the car and start chasing another memory.

***

Jennifer, the granddaughter of the world’s chattiest corn farmer, is standing in the long gravel driveway as I pull up. I suddenly feel shy as I pull up and wave at her. But there’s no turning back now. Notebook in hand, I approach.

She looks tired, drawn, and she doesn’t offer a smile or handshake.

“The lady at the antique shop said you had something to talk about?”

It takes me a minute to find my tongue. This woman cuts right to the chase.

“Yes, something that was in this diary.”

“Oh, that old thing? I got tired of corn after ten pages.” She turns and glances across the massive cornfield. “It was fun to run around here as a kid, but I won’t be sorry to get this place off my hands. So what is it? Did you find out he was King of the Netherlands back in the 30s or something?”

“N...not exactly,” I say. “But I did notice this line.” I point it out to her. “Do you have any idea what that means?”

“Well, there’s a big boulder out in the field. I don’t really have time to check it out, but there’s still a shovel in the barn if you want to take a look. Be my guest.”

And with that, Jennifer turns and heads back into the house. I can hardly believe she’s willing to let me loose on the property, but I don’t question it. I head on over to the barn and grab the rusty shovel. She’s lucky I don’t have a murder streak running through me because there are so many places to bury a body out here.

I can see the boulder from the barn but it takes a while to walk out to it. When I get there, I need to catch my breath before I start digging. Digging is much harder than I’d realized, and I know I’m going to have blisters and bruises tomorrow when I start my shift.

I dig in a circle around the boulder, going a couple of feet deep. It's nothing but dirt and small rocks, and I’m feeling tired, thirsty, and defeated. But when I thump the shovel into the ground a bit deeper, I hear a different sound.

My arms find new strength and I’m digging as fast as I can. Finally, I find a plain black lunchbox, rusted in places, but still sealing the contents against the dirt surrounding it. I want more than anything to open it, but I can’t feel good about that unless I take it to Jennifer first.

She answers the door, looking impatient. But when I hold up the lunchbox, her eyes grow wide.

“Oh my god, you actually found something! What’s in it?”

“I don’t know; I thought you should open it.”

She takes the box and gestures me inside. There’s not much furniture left, but there’s a folding table covered in newspapers. She sets the box down on top of it. The lid is closed tightly, so she uses a small screwdriver to pry it open. A stack of papers sits inside.

“Oh,” says Jennifer. “I was hoping it would be cash.”

But I’m speechless. Because in the box are stacks of something even more valuable—stock certificates, from some of the oldest companies in America. They’ve got to be worth a fortune by now.

“Jennifer,” I say, holding one up to her, “you’re rich.”

She slowly thumbs through the certificates in awe, seeing names like Johnson & Johnson and MGM flip by her. As she looks up, I see a new emotion pass over her face: gratitude.

“I almost sold this place." She pauses. "I almost. Sold. This. Place. Thank you.”

And in the next moment, she passes me a stack of certificates and smiles. I don’t know the second thing I’ll do when I get home, but I do know the first thing: I’m calling the restaurant to tell Gino I quit.