The Box:
Cat’s Curiosity
by
D. Foytik
SMASHWORDS EDITION
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PUBLISHED BY:
D. Foytik on Smashwords
The Box:
Cat’s Curiousity
Copyright © 2010 by D. Foytik
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The Box:
Cat’s Curiosity
The box sat there, tauntingly.
Cat stopped to stare up at it as she passed through the living room on her way to town. The box sat on the sill of the “high window” - a window set high into the wall’s face above the couch. It had become her daily ritual. She would make her way to the table where her keys sat and pause to gaze at it.
Despite the fact that it never failed to make her late, she couldn’t help stopping to stare at it each morning. Sometimes when she broke from her reverie, she noticed that nearly twenty minutes had passed, often nearly an hour.
All time seemed to stop, and she became unaware of the ticking of the large grandfather clock in the corner, the sound of the birds outside, or even the rhythm of her own breathing.
She stood under it, watching.
There was a large oak directly outside the window, and as its leaves fluttered in the morning breeze, filtered sunlight danced across the surface of the box making it ripple with a ruddy, iridescent fire.
Cat stood on the tips of her toes, leaned over the couch, and reached for it. She ran her index finger across it.
"So cold," she whispered to herself as her finger slid slowly along the smooth surface. A shiver traveled down her arm, along her spine, and down to her toes.
She had performed this ritual many times before, and was always surprised that it remained so icy. On especially sunny days like today, the other items on the windowsill and the sill itself were warmed as the sunlight fell upon them.
But not the box. The box was always curiously cold.
One time, when she had felt particularly daring, she had climbed up on the back of the couch, picked up the tiny thing and held it in her hand. It was very light; almost as if it had no weight at all. She soon had to put it down because it was like holding an ice cube that wouldn't melt.
"So very, very cold," she said into the empty room.
She had never asked Charles about the box, and she wasn't sure why. She remembered the day that he put it there on the windowsill. He had been over at his father's house rummaging around in the attic and brought home a crumbing cardboard box full of mementos from his childhood; comic books, matchbox cars, action figures, pictures, and carefully wrapped in an old scarf, the box. She had been sitting in the chair reading a book, and had set it aside as he started to share the contents with her.
The little metallic box had been the very last item he pulled out. When he saw it, he became quiet and unwrapped the scarf from it. His face had taken on a strange look and he took it carefully with both hands, walked very slowly to the high window and placed it there.
After placing it on the windowsill, he stood there silently. He looked at it for several minutes and adjusted its position on the shelf a few times before walking from the room without another word. Sensing that this object had some special meaning to him, she had resolved not to ask him about it. While they had no secrets, Charles sometimes needed time to talk about things from his past. She knew that he would tell her about it when he felt ready. But, that had been several months ago, and they still hadn't discussed it.
She chewed her lip and sighed in frustration. Charles was quite a bit taller than she, and she considered what it meant that he had placed it where she would have a difficult time reaching it.
“Now you’re just being paranoid,” she admonished herself.
She looked at it again. It tormented her.
She had no idea what it contained, but because of her choice not to ask him about it, and his failure to discuss it with her, she wouldn't - no, she couldn't - open it. Doing so would be a violation of their trust. An old fashioned concept to be sure, she chuckled to herself, but that was the way she was wired.
So there it sat, each day becoming more and more oppressive; taking on a life of its own, just sitting there, unopened - mocking her.
For his part, Charles had never even glanced at it again in her presence. They would sit in the living room for hours on end, talking, watching TV, reading, sipping tea, but he never seemed to even notice that the box was there. Cat, however, couldn't escape catching glimpses of it out of the corner of her eye, or feeling the presence of it looming there on the shelf.
Cat sighed and shook her head, breaking the spell. She turned and picked up her keys from the little table by the door and looked at her watch.
“You’ve got to stop this,” she told herself. She was having lunch with her sister and was going to be late, again.
She returned home that night to a dark, empty house, and, as always, the box was waiting.
Charles was gone for the weekend on a fishing trip with friends and she was alone. She hated being by herself. The old house was cozy and well maintained, but it sat by itself at the end of the long country road, tucked behind a grove of stately old oaks. While she and Charles both enjoyed the privacy, on nights like this, when she was the only one at home, she felt uneasy. Every creak and groan of the house was magnified by the silence, and it left her feeling on edge.