Box

by Catherine Kasper

He was only a boy when they said to him he could have two rabbits, two rabbits one white, one dappled with black, two rabbits in addition to the two guinea pigs, and the stubborn dog called a Spitz. In those days, it seemed everyone had dogs, and all of them were Spitz. It was illogical, he knew; it seemed ridiculous now. Now, of course, everything was clear; he had a great deal of what parents had once called "perspective" and there was comfort in that. The two rabbits, he could not remember how they died; they suddenly were gone and he was an adolescent. He could not remember their names.

It is his arm that aches him; his arm purplish-red that is also no longer his arm since they altered it. It swells now; it sends blood against the way it was first made; it is not his. It is a creation of their intelligence and the perversion of the disease. It is what he once imagined would happen if the Spitz had bit him. Had the dog bit him? No, never—and yet he felt chewed, pierced all over, and the world was not quite what he had imagined. He had, in fact, assumed it would be the same as it was for his parents—there would be great wars, great saving and sacrifices; people would die or come home; houses would be made of brick, and be well tended; people would bring milk to the houses with babies; there would be great love of country, and leaders who deserved respect. That in itself was an immensity for him to imagine; he’s not sure he did.

She told him, your greatest fault is lack of imagination. Why would she want to tell him his faults? Faults were things parents only discussed about their children. Later, planning the box, they could discuss together their children’s faults; John who was too sensitive for a boy, Alexander who hated to speak, and Stanley, who was always out with his friends.

It was only later, when he tried to imagine his sons’ faces that he had to realize that he had no children; he had never married. That was why he crouched here now, surrounded by white, the pain in his arm, the bites down his back, in his ankles. There was only him. In this brightness and burning he could not imagine being left alone; he could not move his eyes; his head was a stone. If he called? What then? There was no one to answer. That is what families had been for.

At eighteen, he returned from the "great" war. They were waiting in the kitchen where he had left them. They gave him the best chair, the chair that was his father’s, at the head of the table. They watched him eat in silence. When they re-wired the veins, his hair was black, streaked with gray, exactly as his father’s had been. When they hooked him up to the machine all of him went dead—something strange, something not quite right—he remembered the box.

Everything that is left for her is in the box. He promised—everything—all of it, in the box.

It was empty so they buried him on credit. The war office had gone bankrupt so there was no flag. There was no procession. No firing of guns. She cried a little, and then there was relief. And the bills for the dialysis.

They had speculated. It once held life insurance, surely a pension, surely savings. All the papers, signatures, salary paid into the box had disappeared? Self-combusted? Had his signature dissolved when his organs had? One by one all the bank books, insurance, coin collections had become as invisible as his once-real body. The phone calls were frustrating; no one remembered him. They had never heard of him, or heard what happened, or could even verify knowing he had existed. It was suspected, however, that papers might have been archived when they installed the new computer system. Archived, she imagined, meant wiped out, thrown away. Anyone not heard from in ninety days is automatically archived. She imagined his organs deciding the same, after all, they had died one by one, for lack of oxygen, blood; there were no signals, no responses. She was losing her mind; she would stare into the box for hours and imagine him there, in miniature, the last bit of tissue shaped into a key to a box in a vault somewhere, a letter that would explain what had happened to everything, who she should talk to, how he wasn’t dead but on some island somewhere waiting.

But she did not want him back; she did not want to call each of their daughters, in New York, in Santa Fe, in Toronto, ask them to change their plans, get on planes to an island, where they would rendezvous with the oxygen-breathing, real father, the father, even, of their dreams, who was more than human, a kind of cyberman whose wiring was flesh. This was something unimaginable for them. Had he been born of blood or wire, and to which had he returned?

There is a house with a pool, he would sometimes say, and she perhaps believed that we all go where we most imagine. Unfortunately, it would make more sense then that he was right there in the box, trying to crawl up the slick silver side. She put the top back on, and she could keep him there forever, an idea she liked as little as the island. She took the box and drove to the lake, where she emptied its contents onto a piece of bark, and giving it a slight push, sent it out towards the center of the lake. If he had been in there, he was gone now. Not drowned, but floating to the other side, where he could go ashore and live a new, bachelor life, one he had dreamt about. She was no longer responsible; she had not drowned him. She watched a bird swoop, peck at the make-shift raft. No doubt the bird was deciding on his tenderness, his edibleness; it flew on. There it was, she thought, she had done what she could and he had, nevertheless, ended up inside a bird. He was, perhaps, destined to failure. She sat in dampness near the reeds, holding the box.

He was late for work; they were slowing him down; they were never on time; he would leave and she could drive them. They got into the car and all he could do was yell; for the first time he realized he was yelling, and that had become his normal tone of voice. He was late, and what would they do, if he had no job, no future, nothing? The house, gone, and all their toys and books and clothes and schools and doctors—gone—unthinkable. He had never been so stupid as a child; he did what his parents told him; he could take care of things. He couldn’t stand to look at their faces; he would drop them off at the corner now and they could walk to save time.

What was he thinking? He sat connected to the machine; he could smell the chemical; he felt the burning.

I’m burning, he said.

She said, Sorry, and adjusted the machine.

She said, why don’t you just talk to them? They want to talk to you. But he could not stand looking at their faces. He made them come into the living room once. He said, my mother died when I was very young; I didn’t know what to do; we were abandoned. You don’t know what it is like to be an abandoned child.

One of them said, I thought she died when you were thirty?

He could not look at them anymore. Here he was, driving to work, late, always late.

How is it now? she asks.

Better, he says.

Still. He cannot remember their names. He knows he had two rabbits, one white, one gray?

They will have everything. His father told him, don’t worry about your mother, now, you will be provided for. Everything is provided for you. This is what a father does. He does not know how he got here, what it means. Providing. They will understand when they are older. He sits at a window. All the papers are there. He will sign everything. Someday when he is gone, they will come into the room. The sun comes in the windows, burning.

dialysis: "in chemistry, method of separating a colloid from a substance in true solution by the use of a membrane (natural or artificial) permeable to one and not permeable to the other. The particles of the colloidal substance are too large to pass through the membrane and are retained; those of the substance in true solution, however, being of molecular fineness, diffuse through it readily. A solution of salt or sugar, for example, can thus be separated from one of starch, a colloid. The method was originated by Thomas Graham, who termed the substance that remained within the membrane a colloid and that which diffused a crystalloid. An extension of the principle makes possible the separation of certain colloids by using an artificial membrane of known permeability, i.e., one that will permit the diffusion of one colloid and not of others"

Can’t, he thinks but it’s already happened.

If you had come in sooner, the doctors say, but it is impossible now. Possibility sparkled like a mist in his head. You will be safe at home, provided for. They gave him his father’s chair. His mother died abandoning him so he married. But this is years later, he counts, this is many years later.

Can’t, he says but there is nothing else to do.

At work, his desk is piled with papers. He tries to read, but everything is in the wrong language. He has been here since he returned from the war. Now is much later, he tells himself, standing to see the wall calendar. There is something he was supposed to do.

His arm is a shadow against the wall. Where they have re-wired him, he is all ridges: mountains and shadows. It is not his arm any longer. He fears the irregularity of electricity. He knows he is the dial that turns flow on and off; he is blood riding the river of his own veins. There were others, but he left them somewhere. The calendar has become ditches, deep and full of shadow. He walks through this valley of numerals, holding his arteries like tangled yarn in his arms.

After he is dead they tell her he has no organs left. After he is dead they tell her the marrow is almost gone. After. They tell her his insides have been flushed dry.

Under the bed, he told her.

Under the bed are cobwebs, his slippers, candy wrappers. Dozens and dozens of crumpled candy wrappers. No one in this house likes chocolate.

Everything that is left for her—

He promises—everything, all of it—

If unlike her, he was born devoid of hope—

If—lack of preparation—

If—the box—

she is left for it.

What was he supposed to do?

Burning

He wants to laugh.

Sorry.

Chocolate.

He was only a boy when they said to him he could have two rabbits, two rabbits one white, one dappled with black, two rabbits in addition to the two guinea pigs, and the stubborn dog called a Spitz. In those days, it seemed everyone had dogs, and all of them were Spitz. It was illogical, he knew; it seemed ridiculous now. Now, of course, everything was clear; he had a great deal of what parents had once called "perspective" and there was comfort in that. The two rabbits, he could not remember how they died; they suddenly were gone and he was an adolescent. He could not remember their names.

[end]