Joy in a Box
By Sally Hanan
Copyright 2009 Sally Hanan
Smashwords Edition
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This is a work of
fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and
dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s
imagination or are used fictitiously.
Because of the dynamic
nature of the Internet, any Web addresses or links contained in this
book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid.
“The Spider and the Fly” is a poem by Mary Howitt
(1799–1888), published in 1829. This work is in the public domain
worldwide.
Cover photo of jewelry box: Hanan Exposures
Cover design: Square Balloon
Editor: Inksnatcher and Strong Tower Publishing
Joy in a Box
By
Sally Hanan
To Gerry, Becky, and Zack. Without you, my life would not be so full of joy.
Table of Contents
1. Joy in a Box
2. A Gift . . . A Friend . . . A Foe
9. In the Orange Sherbet Light
10. Will You Walk Into My Parlor?
11. The Collection
12. Blind Trust
13. Writers’ Forum: Translation 101
14. I Can Smell Him
16. Prosperity
19. The Star of Troy
21. Three Days
22. Note Attached
24. Work with Me
25. One Blessing
26. That Carpenter
29. Maud-in-Law
30. I Have a Gift
1.
Joy in a Box
I stepped inside as he was hanging the last painting. It was, somehow, a comforting place to be, in spite of the white walls and well-hung portraits. In a way, the austerity added to the warmth. I lingered by the first picture. It was of a little boy playing in the sand. His face captured my attention. Looking straight at me was joy personified.
I couldn’t move from where I stood, and the gallery owner moved over to stand with me.
“That’s Kurt. I like to remember them in their best moment. He was shot down in the summer of ’65; died in a lot of pain.”
I moved on, not really wanting the owner beside me. I liked to make my own observations.
The next one was a beauty! She sat sideways on a kitchen chair, hand on her growing belly, her whole face alive with a smile. As I looked more closely, I could see that she was smiling at her husband.
“That was the last time she smiled like that. I lost her in childbirth.”
I shuddered. I hated being reminded of suffering. Here on the walls was no misery, only happiness. Why did he have to spoil my enjoyment?
I glared at him, moving fast across the room to another beauty. This one was gray-haired, with the wrinkles of time resting on her content face. There was such depth to her, such a sense of fullness.
“That’s Victoria.”
I turned to face him. “I’m sorry, sir, but I came in here to look, not listen, and you’re making it very difficult for me to do that.”
His saddened eyes surveyed the floor. Finally, they moved back up to my face.
“Lady? I’m Jack, and this is my family. These here people are all I’ve got left. Each one was in my heart and in my life; now they’re all in someone else’s arms. I painted these here walls white to help remind me of where they went, but I painted their faces to remind me of who they were.
“See Kurt here? I watched him die. Was holding his hand as he opened those eyes of his for a second, and then I saw him smile. It reminded me of the time we was on the beach as kids, me ’n my brother. I wanted to remember that time, not the time he left me.
“That old lady there? She’s my mom. Great lady that one. Never a cross word in the house with her around. She’d take my daddy aside and say, ‘Now John, them kids gotta stay kids. Time enough to change their ways when ’n if they get old enough to bother other people.’
“And this beauty? Well, she’s special. She loved me like no woman has ever loved a man.” He sighed a deep sigh and gently touched the outline of her lips. As he did so, his smile began to return.
Now I understood. I took his warm hand and placed it in my palm. He seemed puzzled, but smiled back anyhow. I wanted to explain to him what he had just done, but I couldn’t put it into words.
“I’ll be back; I promise.”
A week later, I took the tram back to the little gallery. Under my arm was a scrapbook—nothing much to look at from the outside, but deep within its pages were some mementos of my own. I practically ran to the door of the place. When I got there, all I found through the window was a collection of questionable plastic forms and a glittery red vulture at the door.
“Where’s the old man, Jack, the painter who was here last week?”
“Oh, DARLing, he died. DO come inside and have some cocktails. I’d LOVE to show you my Venus.”
I pulled away from her talons and started to walk the other way.
“DO come again, DARLing. We have a special on the Eros figurine. It was imported from IIIIItaly.”
The tears were dripping off my chin and onto my scarf now. On looking at it, I could see that my mascara obviously wasn’t as waterproof as the ads had claimed it to be. Unable to go any further, I sat on someone’s front doorstep. As I opened the cherished album, each smile and grin and beam reached out to embrace me. I started to smile with them; in fact, I even began to laugh.
Jack had given me this gift. He didn’t need reminders of his joy anymore. He was living it. And because of him, I now had some joy of my own, all encased in a little unassuming scrapbook. One day, I would get to meet my mom and my dear sweet David again. Until then, I had their smiles, and they weren’t boxed up on the top shelf of my closet, along with my joy, anymore.
2.
A Gift . . . A Friend . . . A Foe
She played with her fingers outside the courtroom. The lines on her palms were deeper these days. Blue veins thudded their contents across the back of her hand. A white smudge under the nail of her left index finger captured her scrutiny. A gift, a friend, a foe . . . Frank had taught her that old childhood rhyme back in third grade. He’d always been the superstitious one. What would he say now, now that her index nail was telling her that another enemy was on its way?