The Anything Box

like a coupla days fishing.'
'Better hang around, son,' said Pa. 'We might be needing you in a day orso.'
'Oh?' I said, a little put out. 'I had my mouth all set for Honan's Lake.'
'Well, unset it for a spell,' said Pa. 'There's a whole summer ahead.'
'But what for?' I asked. 'What's cooking?'
Pa and Ma looked at each other and Ma crumpled the corner of her apron inher hand. 'We're going to need you,' she said.
'How come?' I asked.
'To walk Aunt Daid,' said Ma.
'To walk Aunt Daid?' I thumped my chair back on four legs. 'But my gosh,Ma, you always do for Aunt Daid.'
'Not for this,' said Ma, smoothing at the wrinkles in her apron. 'Aunt Daidwon't walk this walk with a woman. It has to be you.'
I took a good look at Aunt Daid that night at supper. I'd never reallylooked at her before. She'd been around ever since I could remember. She was as much a part of the house as the furniture.
Aunt Daid was just soso sized. If she'd been fleshed out, she'd be about Mafor bigness. She had a wisp of hair twisted into a walnut-sized knob at theback of her head. The ends of the hair sprayed out stiffly from the knob likea worn-out brush. Her face looked like wrinkles had wrinkled on wrinkles and all collapsed into the emptiness of no teeth and no meat on her skull bones.Her tiny eyes, almost hidden under the crepe of her eyelids, were empty. Theyjust stared across the table through me and on out into nothingness while herlips sucked open at the tap of the spoon Ma held, inhaled the soft stuff Mahad to feed her on, and then shut, working silently until her skinny neckbobbed with swallowing.

'Doesn't she ever say anything?' I finally asked.
Pa looked quick at Ma and then back down at his plate.
'Never heard a word out of her,' said Ma.
'Doesn't she ever do anything?' I asked.
'Why sure,' said Ma. 'She shells peas real good when I get her started.'
'Yeah.' I felt my spine crinkle, remembering once when I was little. I saton the porch and passed the peapods to Aunt Daid. I was remembering how, afterI ran out of peas, her withered old hands had kept reaching and taking and
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shelling and throwing away with nothing but emptiness in them.
'And she tears rug rags good. And she can pull weeds if nothing else isgrowing where they are.'
'Why—' I started—and stopped.
'Why do we keep her?' asked Ma. 'She doesn't die. She's alive. What shouldwe do? She's no trouble. Not much, anyway.'
'Put her in a home somewhere,' I suggested.
'She's in a home now,' said Ma, spooning up for Aunt Daid. And we don't have to put out cash for her and no telling what'd happen to her.'
'What is this walking business anyway? Walking where?'
'Down hollow,' said Pa, cutting a quarter of a cherry pie. 'Down to theoak—' he drew a deep breath and let it out— 'and back again.'
'Why down there?' I asked. 'Hollow's full of weeds and mosquitoes. Besidesit's—it's—'
'Spooky,' said Ma, smiling at me.
'Well, yes, spooky,' I said. 'There's always a quiet down there when thewind's blowing everywhere else, or else a wind when everything's still. Whydown there?'
'There's where she wants to walk,' said Pa. 'You walk her down there.'
'Well.' I stood up, 'Let's get it over with. Come on, Aunt Daid.'
'She ain't ready yet,' said Ma. 'She won't go till she's ready.'
'Well, Pa, why can't you walk her then?' I asked. 'You did it once—'
'Once is enough,' said Pa, his face shut and still. 'It's your job thistime. You be here when you're needed. It's a family duty. Them fish willwait.'
'Okay, okay,' I said. 'But at least tell me what the deal is. It soundslike a lot of hogwash to me.'
There wasn't much to tell. Aunt Daid was a family heirloom, like, but Panever heard exactly who she was to the family. She had always been likethis—just as old and so dried up she wasn't even repulsive. I guess it's onlywhen there's enough juice for rotting that a body is repulsive and Aunt Daidwas years and years past that. That must be why the sight of her wet tonguejarred me.
Seems like once in every twenty-thirty years, Aunt Daid gets an awfulcraving to go walking. And always someone has to go with her. A man. She won'tgo with a woman. And the man comes back changed.
'You can't help being changed,' said Pa, 'when your eyes look on thingsyour mind can't—' Pa swallowed.
'Only time there was any real trouble with Aunt Daid,' said Pa, 'was whenthe family came west. That was back in your great-great-grampa's time. Theyleft the old place and came out here in covered wagons and Aunt Daid didn'teven notice until time for her to walk again. Then she got violent.Great-grampa tried to walk her down the road, but she dragged him all over theplace, coursing like a hunting dog that's lost the trail only with her eyesblind- like, all through the dark. Great-grampa finally brought her back almostat sunrise. He was pert nigh a broken man, what with cuts and bruises andscratches —and walking Aunt Daid. She'd finally settled on down hollow.'
'What does she walk for?' I asked. 'What goes on?' 'You'll see, son,' saidPa. 'Words wouldn't tell anything, but you'll see.'
That evening Aunt Daid covered her face again with her hands. Later shestood up by herself, teetering by her chair a minute, one withered old handpawing at the air, till Ma, with a look at Pa, set her down again.
All next day Aunt Daid was quiet, but come evening she got restless. Shewent to the door three or four times, just waiting there like a puppy askingto go out, but after my heart had started pounding and I had hurried to herand opened the door, she just waved her face blindly at the darkness outsideand went back to her chair.
Next night was the same until along about ten o'clock, just as Ma wasthinking of putting Aunt Daid to bed. First thing we knew, Aunt Daid was by
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the door again, her feet tramping up and down impatiently, her dry hands
whispering over the door.
'It's time,' said Pa quiet-like, and I got all cold inside.
'But it's blacker'n pitch tonight,' I protested. 'It's as dark as the
inside of a cat. No moon.'
Aunt Daid whimpered. I nearly dropped. It was the first sound I'd ever
heard from her.
'It's time,' said Pa again, his face bleak. 'Walk her, son. And, Paul—bring
her back.'
'Down hollow's bad enough by day,' I said, watching, half sick, as Aunt
Daid spread her skinny arms out against the door, her face pushed up against
it hard, her saggy black dress looking like spilled ink dripped down, 'but on
a moonless night—'
'Walk her somewhere else, then,' said Pa, his voice getting thin. 'If you
can. But get going, son, and don't come back without her.'
And I was outside, feeling the shifting of Aunt Daid's hand bones inside my