“Is it though?” Ry surprises me with his response. “To be so content with the earth that you don’t feel the need to be affected byoutside opinions. To know that nature has its own story to tell, and to be the one to listen as opposed to changing it?” I blush and immediately feel regret over my choice of words. So, Ry is deep. Who knew?
“I mean to say, how lonely. How lonely to feel you only have the trees to talk to.” I try to clarify. Ry glances sideways at me, and then looks back out the window before he says,
“Oh, I don’t think he was alone at all.”
9
RING BOX
RACINE 1978
Ry left shortly after our talk in the attic, leaving me deciphering the comment he made earlier. He had made it seem as if there were no significant other in my uncle’s life at the time of his death, and the townspeople seemed to deem him nuts, so how would he not be alone? Was he in fact saying that the trees were his company? While that truly sounds like the makings of a sad poem, I find some solace in it. Knowing that my uncle had a deep connection to nature, much like me.
I grew up attracted to the call of creaking branches in a quiet forest near my childhood home. My thoughts wander to the old hickory tree near the woods on this property, and I dearly hope there will be a break in the rain tomorrow so I can travel out to see what had caught my eye out the attic window.
I am adjusting to the house perfectly, and expect that is because it already felt like home the moment I stepped inside. The quiet knowing of the trees on the property and the house filled my bones with an uncomfortable recognition instantly. Will it always feel like this? Or will this quiet secret it’s holding reveal itself in time and leave that part of me at peace?
I unpacked some of the cardboard boxes we had brought downfrom the attic earlier in the day. The rectangle containers floppy and breaking apart when I moved them onto a table to shuffle through with more ease. A sure sign of how long they had sat up in that attic unmoved. More old books filled a couple, much like the one that yelled out to me from the library shelves.
One thing I can count on with this rain is the amount of reading it persuades me to do. Not that I’ve ever needed persuading. Tonight, I look forward to digging into the ancient myths of the trees, hoping I will gain more perspective on my uncle’s disposition to this land and the trees that occupy it.
Quite a few of the boxes were overflowing with vintage furs, women’s gloves and clip-on earrings that must have dated back to the early nineteen hundreds. More than once, I found myself entranced with the stunning, ornate brooches that were mixed in amongst all the retro magic.
I imagine there must have been a woman in this house at some point. Or multiple women based on the sheer number of feminine accessories. Did my uncle have a love or many in his early days? The inheritance paperwork hinted at no sign of him ever having a spouse, making his mystery grow with every discovery.
Sorting through the miscellaneous but vintage pieces is a sort of therapy. Anytime I hold something that has endured an entire lifetime as someone’s property, the energy of sentiment surges through me. The emotions lingering on certain objects, giving me some palpable peek into a past time.
It charges me almost, but there are so many items here that the vibrations feel like ropes securing me to them as if they are mine alone. Still, I continue pulling out items as if it were the only thing I was put here to do.
The evening has quickly fallen into dark night, and the rain remains steady against the expansive roof of the estate. Reaching down to grab the last item at the bottom of the box, Ipull out a smaller box, but instead of cardboard it is made of wood. A small trinket box of sorts.
The light brown wood isn’t one I recognize, but there is an engraving of interconnected leaves all along it. Arms of a willow branch weave along the smooth surface to what I think is a magnolia flower etched deep within. The clasp, fabricated from an actual branch that looks glazed with some hardened sap, holds the box closed. I pull on it, and it snaps open, breaking the sap as it drops in bits and pieces to the floor.
I slowly open the lid, feeling a weird sense of dread and omniscience at the same time. A cold breeze graces the room from one of the open windows, chilling me to the bone, which is odd for this time of year, even if it is raining.
My gut restricts in a manner that feels all wrong. This box feels wrong. But I open it anyway. My curiosity wins the battle as the lid falls back on its bronze metal hinges. The knots in my stomach grow like rot on a carcass sitting under leaves on the forest floor.
I discover two empty spots inside the box. They look to be nooks to hold some sort of circular object, a ring perhaps. Above one opening, someone marked “Opal” in a beautiful hand-etched script. The name written delicately in a dark reddish-brown ink resembling dried blood. The second compartment is marked Jade, looped in that same dried liquid. Both are empty.
My mind automatically goes to the ring I found within the jade willow tree. That must be a mere coincidence, but I’m having a hard time believing in those anymore. I packed it in my cosmetic case. My bare feet leave vanishing imprints on the floor as I quickly go to retrieve it.
To my relief, the ring is just where I left it. The box in my other hand feels heavy, as if it awaits this transaction in quiet anticipation. Reluctance tries to find me, but I ignore it as I fit the ring inside. A perfect fit. But how? These two worlds of Detroit and this estate keep merging, making my head spin.
I look at my finger wondering if the ring could fit, the buzzy feeling growing stronger and stronger behind my eyes. There are too many coincidences for me to make sense of. The ring hidden in the jade willow now fits perfectly in a box found miles away marked “Jade.” And then—there’s my name.
Nausea creeps up inside me stronger, urging me not to. My skin hums with a warning I can’t ignore. There is a battle within me, my subconscious telling my body yes, but an electricity making itself known all around me to stop. The ring hovers just above the tip as I decide to fight back on the repelling energy around and put it on once and for all.
BOOM!
A bolt of lightning cracks outside, echoing through the house and vibrating up the pads of my feet. I drop the box and the ring, all but jumping out of my skin. The rain must have turned into a storm, and it sounds like a big one at that.
Picking up the box, I secure the ring back inside, saving my curiosity for another day. A feeling of unfinished business works its way into my being. I bury it, like I do so many other things. I doubt it will stay that way.
The wind picks up, and the storm is in full effect by the time I get my bearings. My body moves on autopilot as I start to close the storm windows by securing the metal latches, rain splashing inside the windows and onto my face every time the wind blows.
Being so near the gulf, the house is fitted with huge storm windows and large pull-down guards made from waterproof fabric. I yank down the guards and attach them to the hooks at the bottom of the floor, a feat easier said than done. A rumble of thunder and flashes of lightning breach the open shades of the windows I haven’t yet reached. I quicken my movements, hoping the floor isn’t completely soaked by the time I’m done.
The last two shades are toward the front of the house. As I walk that way, a pulsing glow reflects off the entry mirror. It mustbe from one of the windows connected to the adjoining sitting room. I’m about to turn my head that way when without warning my eyes blur and I am pulled into another vision.
