“Carlita, what are you looking at?” Grandpa asked.

     “This small crate,” I said. It was a two foot square box about eighteen inches tall. Printed on one side in red letters were the words, “Guess what’s in this box.”

       Grandpa lifted it. He shook it.  “Trastos,” he said using a Spanish word meaning trash. “Let’s go check what’s out back.” He and my eleven-year-old brother Pedro walked off.

     I couldn’t take my eyes off the box. I tried lifting it; it was too heavy for me. How had my grandpa picked it up so easily?

     “Could you open this box for me?” I asked the man holding the yard sale.

     He shook his head. “Have to buy it as is.” 

     “But it might be empty.”

     “Take your chances.”

     Who would buy a mystery box? Nobody. Except maybe me.

     “How much is it?”

     “Five dollars.”

     I walked away from the box. I only had five dollars to spend. Even a kid of thirteen knew when someone was conning them. Cheaper stuff had caught my eye.

     I saw an elderly woman looking at the box. She kicked at it then walked away grumbling.

     The box was beckoning me, saying, “Buy me.”

     “I’ll give you three dollars for it,” I said to the yard seller.     

     ”It’s a deal.”

      He helped me put it in the back of Grandpa’s truck. Maybe Grandpa was right and it was full of junk. And maybe not.

      When we got home Grandpa shook his head. “Thought you were such a smart girl,” he said as he carried the box into my room and put it on my bed.

      I remained silent. I closed the door to my room. With a hammer I pulled out the nails on top of the box. As I lifted the top a sweet fragrance escaped. The scent seemed familiar, but I couldn’t place it.

      I gasped.

      The box contained a jewelry box in the shape of a treasure chest. It was beautiful, shiny, sturdy and clean.

     At the bottom it had a pull-out drawer, lined in blue velvet. It was a perfect fit for letter-sized paper.  Inspiration struck.  From the top of my desk I took a copy of the short story I had written and placed it in the drawer. Then I closed it.

     Pedro came into the room. “That’s pretty,” he said smiling. “Hey, did it come with perfume?”

     “I didn’t see a bottle of it,” I said. “The smell must be coming from the lining.”

      Pedro smiled again. “It smells like Grandma. When I was little, I loved her smell.”

     Grandma had passed away two years ago. She knew I liked writing stories. She told me I would someday have all my stories published.

     The story I had put in the drawer was a story about her. I had shown it to my English teacher at school two months ago.

     The next day at school I learned my teacher had sent my story to a short story contest for young writers. My story took first place and won a hundred dollars. I was thrilled and forgot all about the box.

     Pedro took the crate out to the curb for trash pickup.

***

     The homeless man was going through neighborhood trash cans. Usually home owners chased him away. He lifted the closed crate and shook it. Something slid inside.

     He sat on the box and took a swallow from a wine bottle. He sighed. The memories returned. He hadn’t yet consumed enough alcohol today to stop them.

     Vietnam. The horrors of war. His return home to his wife, son and daughter. Then the Post Traumatic Stress had plagued him. The terrible nightmares. Not being able to hold down a job. His wife supporting all of them. She refused to give up on him.

     Then the cancer came and Mary was gone. His good, funny kids who never took drugs and were smart in school grieved for their mother. Comforting them was impossible for him. He hurt too much himself.

     So he took them to his brother and left. He wandered the streets of big cities throughout the state. The grief, the loneliness of a proud Latino man was not something he could share with family.

     His kids were grown now. He often wondered what had become of them. Never wanting them to know of how desperate, how lost he had become; he had never returned. Life was a waiting, a willingness to die, only not by his own hand.

     He felt the box beneath him, stood and studied it. He read what was written on the side of it. Maybe something in this box would provide an answer for him. He took it behind the old diner down the street. How could he open it? He had no tools.

     To his amazement the top lifted off easily. Inside were a packet of about forty letters, rubber-banded together. They looked old. The wine bottle rolled away from him. It rolled under the trash bin. He didn’t notice.

      “Caramba!” he exclaimed as he read the addresses. These were letter he had written to Mary and those she had written to him during the war. He pulled off the rubber bands and excitedly began to read.

      Tears rolled down his face as he read Mary’s words. Her words were full of optimism. She wrote of her love for him, her belief in the future, in their children and future grandchildren. And his written words echoed hers. Strong positive words had flowed from his pen.  

      “Hello, Juan.”

      He looked up and saw the new rookie cop, a kid with a face full of freckles and a head full of red hair. Juan wondered how long it would take for this young man to turn bitter, rough and lose faith in his fellow man.

     The young policeman smiled and squatted beside Juan.. “I’ve something for you.” He handed Juan a folded piece of paper then stood. “Think about calling.” He walked away.

     Juan unfolded the paper and two quarters fell out. Written on it was his son’s name and a local phone number.

     Clenching the letters tightly, Juan nearly ran into the diner and to the public phone. Hurry he told himself. Before you talk yourself out of it.

     “Hijo. I’m ready to come home,” Juan said, “if you want me.”

     A voice from the past answered.      “Papa! Where are you?”

      Juan told him.

      “I’m coming right this minute. And I’m bringing little Juan and his sister Mary. They want to meet their grandfather. I love you, Papa.”

***

     Bill Simpson scratched his head. How had that box gotten back to his yard sale?

     A young woman and a girl were standing next to it.

     “But, Libby, we don’t have much money and we don’t know what’s inside it. That man said the seller won’t let anyone open it.”

      “Tell him you’ll buy it for two dollars,” seven-year-old Libby said. She touched the box. “It would be like buying something special. I think this box has a secret.”

     Her mother sighed feeling it was a gimmick to get people to kiss their money goodbye but she gave in. Bill Simpson agreed to the two dollars.

      “Let’s open it!” Libby said excitedly as they took the box to their car.

      “It might be empty,” her mother warned.

      Inside the box was a brand new, blue baby car seat.

      “Just what we need,” her mother said sarcastically. Libby smiled. She had wanted a baby brother or sister almost all her life. Her mother said it wasn’t happening for them.

Libby was sure that this car seat meant she would soon have a baby brother. Blue was for boys, right?

    They stored the box and the car seat in the garage. A week later Libby’s mother learned she was pregnant. Her dad was so happy. He said it was a miracle. Libby believed in miracles.

     “Can we go visit Penny?” Libby asked.

     Her mother smiled. “Sure, let me call her mother and see if they’re home. She might be in the hospital for more tests.”

    Soon they were on their way to see Penny. Libby had put the box in the back seat of their car.

     “Does Penny need a box?” her mother asked.

     She needs this box, Libby thought but merely nodded.

     Penny was sitting up in bed. She had a bowl in one hand and the television remote in the other.

     “Sorry. I keep spitting up today,” Penny said and lifted the bowl in explanation. “What’s that box for?”

     “Have you heard of taking a leap of faith?” Libby asked.  Penny shook her head.

     ”Well, Father Chris talked about that at Mass on Sunday.  I want you to step into this box,” Libby said.

     Penny was very weak today and had trouble getting into it. Soon she was sitting on the floor inside the box.

    “Are we going to pray together?” Penny asked.

    “Sort of,” Libby said. “On the side of the box it says to guess what’s in it. Well, I guess that there is a healthy, all cancer gone, Penny Santos inside this box.”

     Penny smiled. “I like that prayer.”

     Two weeks later Libby’s mother through tears and laughter told her daughter that Penny’s cancer had gone into remission. The cancer had stopped. Libby was not surprised. She knew she had guessed right.

***

     The closed box sat in a grocery cart in a store parking lot. It was waiting for the next precious guesser, believer.

     A sad, defeated and abused seventeen-year-old boy noticed it and in shuffled footsteps walked up to it.