The Man in the Box
by
Marie Hoy-Kenny
Zane still lives in an unfinished wood box that I keep in my underwear drawer.
It’s nearing evening and John’s mumbling to himself in the living room. It’s been one of those days when goodbye gathers in my throat like a swarm of hornets. One of those days I need to let Zane out.
Zane tumbles onto the threadbare carpet, stumbles over to kiss my lips, my face, murmurs that it’s been too long, his back and knees ache from being folded up like a forgotten paper airplane for weeks.
I let my wedding ring clink to the floor and replace it with the thin silver band with the tiny emerald that Zane slips onto my finger again. One by one he gently sets items from the box onto my bed: hardened peach gummy, spoon, Ace of Spades playing card, newspaper clippings of Scorpio and Libra’s horoscopes, Avatar movie ticket stub, dog-eared Heineken beer coaster. He runs a finger across the dried peonies, the driftwood, and drinks the vial of rainwater as if it’s a potion that will bring us back.
He’s asking why I kept all of this stuff and I don’t know what to say except some cliche line about not knowing then what I know now, of not feeling like I deserved him at the time, about the twisted desire to push and push and push, to see what lines would recede and which ones would unravel like frayed rope.
He’s got the letter in his hand now, his voice quavering as he reads aloud to me, saying, it will always, always be you but he can’t finish, John’s clambering up the stairs, shouting “where did you hide the scotch?”
Zane’s folding back up again, in half, in quarters, groaning because it hurts to have to keep doing this, it’s unnatural, until he’s the size of a fist, resting once more on the pieces of time. My hand moves mechanically, I’ve done this many times before, the taking out and the putting back, and the box is in my drawer before John flings open the door.
I hand him the bottle of scotch and he takes a swig, and starts jabbering about wanting something to eat, and it’s just as well he’s being loud, otherwise he’d hear mechanisms clicking, whirring, clanking as they spin backward, the thumping of heavy feet, crushing things unfurled, and Zane, who’s singing the first song we ever slow danced to, his voice a low rumbling as if under water.
It’s nearing evening and John’s mumbling to himself in the living room. It’s been one of those days when goodbye gathers in my throat like a swarm of hornets. One of those days I need to let Zane out.
Zane tumbles onto the threadbare carpet, stumbles over to kiss my lips, my face, murmurs that it’s been too long, his back and knees ache from being folded up like a forgotten paper airplane for weeks.
I let my wedding ring clink to the floor and replace it with the thin silver band with the tiny emerald that Zane slips onto my finger again. One by one he gently sets items from the box onto my bed: hardened peach gummy, spoon, Ace of Spades playing card, newspaper clippings of Scorpio and Libra’s horoscopes, Avatar movie ticket stub, dog-eared Heineken beer coaster. He runs a finger across the dried peonies, the driftwood, and drinks the vial of rainwater as if it’s a potion that will bring us back.
He’s asking why I kept all of this stuff and I don’t know what to say except some cliche line about not knowing then what I know now, of not feeling like I deserved him at the time, about the twisted desire to push and push and push, to see what lines would recede and which ones would unravel like frayed rope.
He’s got the letter in his hand now, his voice quavering as he reads aloud to me, saying, it will always, always be you but he can’t finish, John’s clambering up the stairs, shouting “where did you hide the scotch?”
Zane’s folding back up again, in half, in quarters, groaning because it hurts to have to keep doing this, it’s unnatural, until he’s the size of a fist, resting once more on the pieces of time. My hand moves mechanically, I’ve done this many times before, the taking out and the putting back, and the box is in my drawer before John flings open the door.
I hand him the bottle of scotch and he takes a swig, and starts jabbering about wanting something to eat, and it’s just as well he’s being loud, otherwise he’d hear mechanisms clicking, whirring, clanking as they spin backward, the thumping of heavy feet, crushing things unfurled, and Zane, who’s singing the first song we ever slow danced to, his voice a low rumbling as if under water.
NUNUM
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