Yesterday, (1.28.22) I was running an errand and ended up driving behind a middle aged man driving a Subaru with an antique chest in the trunk. The chest had a handwritten For Sale sign on it, and something about it stood out to me, so I wrote a short story about it.
As soon as I entered the car I could smell it. The odor was a combination of dust and fragrance gone sour. It was the aroma that had been pervading our attic for years now. My nostrils had grown accustomed to the assault of the aroma whenever I periodically entered our attic, but it was a smell I was embarrassingly uncomfortable having in my car. And yet, this smell has invaded my vehicle for months now. I am fully aware of it’s source, but I am unable - or rather unwilling- to do anything about it. Let me explain. This chest, which belonged to Cheryl’s great uncle, has been occupying the trunk of my car since mid last year.
When the summer’s warmth turns the open area beneath our roof into a sauna for dry pink insulation, old photo albums, and holiday decorations, I took it upon myself to organize our attic even though the heat was unbearable. Ascending the stairs was like making a journey to the sun. The fibers of my shirt would absorb the hot air in the room, exhale them onto my aging body, and then absorb the deluge of sweat in return. Maintaining our 92 year home was beginning to be a young man’s game. Cheryl assumes that I still want to tackle these projects around the house on my free Saturdays. I don’t, but I’d rather subject my aging body to the steam-room that is our attic than wake up tomorrow with a resentful and unforgiving back from gardening outside with Cheryl.
One Saturday morning in July, I stumbled upon the chest again in a corner of the attic. It has a lock on it with the key nowhere in sight. It has been in our house longer than either of us have lived there. After we were married, my wife’s newly retired parents gave us their home as a gift. Cheryl’s uncle came to visit her grandparents in 1937. Supposedly, he wasn’t one to visit family much. He arrived by train and didn’t carry much luggage with him. That’s mostly because he was here to meet a woman. Shortly after he arrived, the family discovered his intentions for the trip. Cheryl’s grandparents, attempting to be hospitable, invited her Uncle Henry and his girlfriend over the house for dinner, but they were quickly surprised to find out that she was a black woman. Cheryl says that her mother recounts how beautiful she was. Tall, with beautiful brown skin; her jet black hair was styled in a bob, and she wore a yellow polka dot blouse and a gray skirt. After much protest from Cheryl’s grandfather and before they could even bring her into the house, the neighbors had already called the police.
When the policemen arrived and arrested Uncle Henry and his girlfriend - who I’m told her name was Joan - they were involved in a car accident on their way to the police station. Joan escaped from the scene, but Henry, knocked unconscious, remained in custody of the police, who eventually turned him over to the Klan, who murdered him.
Later that evening in the cover of night, Joan and another man brought the chest to Cheryl’s grandparents house. She told them that it contained Uncle Henry’s valuables from a business venture they were working on. Too grieved and too hurried to invite Joan to stay longer or find out what was in the chest, the family placed the chest in the attic, where it remained for decades. Cheryl believes it’s haunted and wants nothing to do with it.
About 20 years ago, I got curious one morning and actually broke into the chest. Inside of it, I found one million dollars in cash. The stacks of bills felt crisp and smooth as if they had recently exited an ATM machine. The money contained a fermenting odor that one could eventually ignore or even find pleasant while counting the contents of the chest. What someone was doing in 1937 to have a million dollars, I do not know. But here it was no less valuable than a million dollars today. I tried to tell Cheryl, but she just wants me to get rid of the thing. Because of the situation surrounding Henry’s death and Joan’s inconvenience, I cannot bring myself to keep the money and if I knew of Joan’s last name I would find her relatives and give it to them. Until I find somethng to do with it, I’ve attached this For Sale sign to the chest and the first African-American who desires to buy this chest - or whom I can convince to buy this chest (for only a dollar), will be in for a big surprise. Unfortunately, I do not know many, or any, well enough to pass this along to.
Just a second, this young man in the car next to me is waving me down and pointing to the chest.