Bears

THE PULL-DOWN STAIRS TO THE ATTIC SQUAKED WHEN BILL TUGGED THE ROPE IN THE HALL WAY. He paused, buttoned his cardigan, and ran a hand through his silver-grey hair before the climb. In his thoughts, Mary warned him. He ducked at the top, missed the crossbeam, and smiled. His eyes glanced skyward in thanks.

A single bulb hung from the rafters centred over an old table. In the beam of his penlight, he located the three well-worn boxes piled in the corner. He opened the first. Christmases from the past rushed up at him. The scent reminiscent of old bayberry and dried-out cardboard cartons. He checked the contents with his light. Boxes of glass balls and wooden ornaments bought in the Sixties at Eaton’s big store downtown reflected the light. Rocking horses, soldiers, carved angels, nutcrackers and elves in sleighs, each sat in a section shaped to fit the ornament. Last week, Bill had seen the same ones in an antique store. Curious, he’d looked and his jaw had dropped. One hundred dollars? With his thumb, he flattened the curled tag still on the Eaton’s box, ten dollars, and ninety-nine cents, he grinned. Those ornaments had hung on their tree for many years.

Bill put down his light, closed the flaps on the box, picked it up, and carried it downstairs to the living room. In moments, he returned and shuffled back to the corner. He reached for the flashlight, but it had rolled away and nestled behind a tower of baskets. Never mind. He dragged the second box closer to the bare bulb hanging from the ceiling and looked inside at the contents. On top sat a carton with train cars, the engine and track visible through the cellophane windows. The train, designed to be set up in the branches of the tree, was bought the year after Matthew’s birth. He’d been eleven last birthday. The rest was a jumbled assortment of one-of-a-kind china and plastic ornaments purchased on vacation trips.

Bill lifted the train carton and set it on the floor.

He looked in again and saw Mary’s china houses. There must be a dozen. A laugh caught in his throat, and he choked—dust. The houses were a way to surprise her each year. Mary had been in on it, a willing conspirator; she’d started collections to help him know what to buy. They joked about it sometimes. Swarovski crystal animals and the typesetter’s drawers hung as shelves to hold them, silver spoons, and the teddy bears. Bill bit at the corner of his lower lip, there’d been no china house this year. The tears glistened in his eyes, and he blinked fast, but one escaped. It trailed across his wrinkled cheek. Bill raised a hand to wipe it away. He wouldn’t set up the houses this year. From the box, he retrieved a smaller carton of lights and ropes of tinsel. Bill piled everything on top of the train and ferried them downstairs.

The cumbersome, artificial tree box was the last. He struggled with it. The height conspired against him, and the girth was too much for wrapping his arms around. He got it standing up and leaned it against an old bureau. The dried joints of the furniture creaked and when he straightened the big carton, he bumped a wooden box that rested on top. At the sight of the toy chest he swallowed, but the lump in his throat refused to move.

He carried it to a table and dragged over a chair. It was a simple rectangular wooden box with a hinged top; the face decorated with a stencil resembling a carving of bears frolicking on a cloud. Settled, he lifted the lid, and it slammed back closed. Bill looked around for a prop. When it had been downstairs, a length of cord wrapped around the hinges compensated for a broken catch and kept the top open. Eight months ago, a month after Mary passed, the bears displayed in the corner had hurt too much. He’d cut the string, piled “everyone” in, and brought the box up here.

Bill found a clip to use on the hinge and returned to the chest. He looked in to see the humps of fabric had expanded and threatened to overflow. First out was a terry-cloth bear with button eyes and an embroidered mouth. A fluffy bear made of someone’s discarded fur coat came next. One with a sailboat attached to his hand and another small bear wearing a t-shirt emblazoned with her company’s name followed. Bill knew these bears, every one of them. That blue-gray one was from a little shop in Bayfield. The one with the leopard spots carried home from England. Bill arranged them outside the chest. When Mary was alive, every bear got to be on top of the others, the primo bear, or out on a corner table or sometimes exploring the mantle. He chuckled at the duck dressed in a bear costume. He removed its mask, then thought better of it. There were bullies among the bears.

He continued until he had all but one on the table. His vision blurred as he picked up the denim-clad bear. The first, Bill had used it to hide a watch, fastening the jewellery under the jacket and around the bear’s waist. Delighted, Mary had overlooked the watch. Chest unloaded, he blinked back the memory and looked at his happy troop of—he counted twenty-six bears.

There were a few escapees downstairs. A small golden bear with a red rose in his paw, and a heart on its foot sat next to her urn on the mantle. Bill reached for a bear to put him back into the chest. He decided that they could come out for Christmas. After that, who knew.

In a shadowed corner of the chest, he noticed a brown, corrugated cardboard box, three inches square. Bill lifted it. Inside was a carefully wrapped item. He peeled back the tissue paper and held the ornament in his hand. A white glass snowman wearing a wide grin and a blue sweater rode a hockey stick. His eyes widened. This was new. A tag hung from a loop of string. Bill’s fingers trembled as he turned it; to read—Merry Christmas, Bill.