Forgotten Boxes Read Free

yard was part of what spooked
her to begin with. Like the interior of the house, at first glance there was nothing
amiss about the flourishing flowerbeds and prolific hedges. The ivy-covered arbor
out front might even be considered charming. So might the vines that clung to the
fence, tucked neatly along the row of evergreens. Only now did she realize that
the sleepy, overgrown yard offered more secrecy than privacy, more a sense of unease
than of peace. The excessive yard had given her the heebie-jeebies, even before
she saw the clothes.
    “Did you know my aunt well?”
    Hilda Brooks shrugged her beefy shoulders. “As well as anyone
did, I suppose.”
    “How long had you known her?”
    “Let’s see. We moved here before my Tommy was born, so about…
forty years, I think. Yes, that sounds about right. Oh, my, how times flies!”
    Charity made the appropriate murmur of agreement, although she
was eager to ask her next question. “What can you tell me about my aunt?”
    “Well, she was your aunt!” the woman softly chided.
    “We didn’t see each other very often. I live in Maryland,” Charity
explained.
    “Like I said, Nell didn’t get out very often, not after… well,
not in the last thirty years or so. But she was a good neighbor, all the same. I
would drop by to visit, and we talked on the phone at least once a week. I’ve truly
missed her since she’s been gone.”
    “I’m sure you do,” Charity offered her sympathy. “Are you the
one who cleaned out her refrigerator?”
    “Yes, I didn’t want there to be any spoiled food to worry about.”
    “Thank you for that, it was very thoughtful of you.”
    “Nell would have done the same for me. Well, if she had left
this yard, anyway.” Tears glistened in the other woman’s eyes as she attempted the
sad joke.
    Charity mulled over her earlier words. “You said Aunt Nell had
been that way for about thirty years? She came to my mother’s funeral sixteen years
ago.”
    “Yes, I remember. You have no idea how difficult it was for her
leave her safe place and to travel all that way by herself. I offered to go with
her, just for moral support, but I had a terrible case of the flu and she wouldn’t
hear of it. She was devastated by your mother’s death and she insisted on going
to the funeral.”
    Simply hearing the story made Charity’s heart ache. She could
not imagine being so terrified of — What? Of anything! — that you were unable to
leave your home. Nor could she imagine conquering that fear for such a sad and solemn
occasion as attending your only sister’s funeral, particularly a sister from
whom you were estranged. It was simply heartbreaking.
    “That’s so sad,” Charity commiserated. “What-What happened to
make her become like that?” she asked with sincere curiosity.
    The talkative neighbor suddenly clammed up. She darted a nervous
glance around the yard, her eyes seeming to land on the old shed on the opposite
side of the house. “I-I believe it was after her husband died,” she answered vaguely.
“Grief, I suppose.”
    “What can you tell me about my uncle? I never knew him. He passed
away before I was born.”
    “Harold was… a dreamer.” Her search for a kind word of description
was obvious. “Always thinking of some way to get rich without having to actually
put in an honest day’s work. He was a friendly enough fellow, most of the time.
But he was a dreamer and a schemer.”
    Charity heard the disapproval in Hilda Brook’s voice. “What did
he do for a living?”
    “He never had any job for long. He did a variety of things, from
lobstering in Maine, selling insurance, trying his hand at a cranberry bog, logging
in New Hampshire, selling shoes door-to-door. You name it, he tried it for a month
or two.”
    “So he traveled a lot?”
    Hilda bobbed her head. “Claimed he knew every road in these highlands.
That’s why he started up his own delivery service. He was so sure he could do a
better job than the postal