His first sunset in his new world. He wanted to do something to celebrate it and make it special. As the last of the day disappeared and the beginning of the new night became, he thought of exactly what he wanted to do.
He rummaged through the one box that he hadn’t opened yet. He had tucked it in the closet. It was a small box, a shoebox actually, not buried but tucked away neatly behind some, well, shoes. He grabbed it, walked back to the balcony, and placed the box on the table in front of him.
He opened the lid, getting a strong whiff of the past as he tossed the lid aside. It was mainly trinkets, things he had managed to save, odd mementos that meant nothing to any one but him. He picked up each one, every trinket bringing back a memory that made his heart smile or a twinkle he would never see flash across his deep blue eyes.
Wrapped in a square of newspaper and tied with kite string was what he was actually looking for. He put everything back in the box, shuffled the top back on and pushed it out of his way on the table. Like a child he tenderly unwrapped his gift, being careful to save the paper and the string, holding the contents high in the air letting the moon glow highlight the prize inside.
It was a locket, tarnished and old, but a locket that he had managed to save. His grandmother had died when he was still in grammar school. After the funeral, a man in a fancy suit came to the house and talked with his Uncle Nate. He didn’t hear the conversation, but he could tell that Uncle Nate wasn’t happy.
The strange man came over to Ian and handed him an envelope. He told him, “This is from your Grandmother. She wanted you to have it. Take care of it young man, and remember no matter what, she loved you with all her heart.”
Ian turned the envelope over and over in his hands. He recognized his Grandmother’s handwriting, but he was afraid to open it. He jumped when he heard the man shut the front door. Ian got down on his knees in the floor and tried to carefully open it.
He had barely peeled it half way open when Uncle Nate appeared out of nowhere and snatched it from his hands. “I’ll keep that for you”, he said, almost dared. Ian cringed back afraid that his uncle might kick him or strike him, as he was known to do on too often an occasion.
Nate stuck his fingers in the small opening that Ian had made and splintered the envelope apart. He threw the envelope in the fireplace and moved his lips while he read whatever was written down inside. He crumpled the contents and jammed them in his pockets.
Nate began pacing and Ian heard something kick across the floor. He had seen it fall when the envelope was shredded, but dared not let on, just in case Uncle Nate left the room long enough for Ian to grab it and hide it, so he could see what it was later.
“This ain’t gonna happen you crazy ol’ woman. It ain’t gonna happen!” Uncle Nate headed straight for him. Ian got out of the way as quickly as he could, but not before his knee caught Ian in the eye. “Well, get outtuf the way you retarded little bastard!” He grabbed the truck keys hanging off the wall and stormed to the screen door. “Don’t move until I get back!”
Ian nodded dutifully but as soon as the old truck pulled out of the driveway, Ian put aside the throbbing in his eye and started searching the dirty floor for whatever had been kicked across it. He didn’t know how much time he had, but if he wasn’t almost exactly where he was when Uncle Nate left the house upon his return, he knew good and well he’d have more than a black eye to make him cry.
He could feel the eye starting to swell. Ian had to feel under the tables and chairs as quickly as he could anyway. It wasn’t until he had almost given up; that he felt something under the old orange vinyl sofa that your butt stuck to when it got hot. Just as his fingers latched on to it, he heard the truck pulling back in the driveway.
Ian dashed back to about where he was and squatted back down on the floor. He shoved his prize down into his underwear, knowing good and well no matter what might happen, and anything could when Uncle Nate was mad, drunk and especially both, that it was probably safest there until he was alone.
Uncle Nate slammed back in the door and threw the keys over in the corner. He twisted the lid of the fresh bottle he’d procured and swallowed a good part of it before it slammed it down on a table. He put his hands on his hips and stared at Ian, nostrils flaring and puffing like he had just run up and back from the holler. “Did you move?”
Ian shook his head, “No, Uncle Nate, I didn’t”
Nate back handed him. “That’s for being a lair”, and then he back handed him in the other direction, “And that’s for speaking to me, when a nod would do, ya uppidy little bastard.”
Ian dared not cry. Nate smacked at him again. “Now git to bed and don’t let me see you until I want to! Git!”
Ian ran to the little room that was his. He shut the door and sat on his cot. He waited until he was sure that Uncle Nate was either passed out drunk or asleep before he reached down in his pants and found what had fallen from his Grandmother’s letter.
And now twenty years later, Ian held it high in the sky, not afraid that Uncle Nate would take it away or Clair would turn up her nose and throw it out. It was just a cheap dime store locket, dented shut from an absent minded kick, and tarnished by time.
He put it around his own neck and let the thumbnail sized heart fall against his chest to nestle in the soft black hair there. The past was now the past. There was nothing to hide and no drunken men or thoughtless women could make him cringe in the corner ever, ever again.
Ian stood up and put the box back in the walk in closet. As he turned off the light, on a second thought he did something else he hadn’t done in years. He grabbed a battered old guitar case and brought it to the balcony with him.
He sat down and ended the beginning of the night by strumming a few chords. The few chords become a few bars and the few bars became a few songs, losing the pain of the past and pulling Ian into the night by losing himself in music.
Ian slept soundly that night feeling freed from 29 years of hiding. Of course, it wasn’t until his Uncle Nate died a few years ago that he fully understood what the man had been so angry about. Ian’s Grandmother had left everything to him; the house, a fairly nice sized bank account and a bank box.
By the time Ian had discovered this, the house was so useless that the family he sold the property to were able to knock it down with a few swift kicks. The bank account had been drained or moved somewhere, and the bank box was empty, but Ian didn’t really care. He was just glad to finally be rid of the burden of the past.
The rest of the week flew by, gloriously exciting and deliciously dazzling. Every morning the staff met around nine, ate breakfast together and talked about who would do what that day. They made connections, held conferences and worked together to make what they wanted happen. The place was filled with laughter and the spirit of artists working, replacing the smug fog that had doomed the previous group.
Wella even hired the perfect personal secretary for Ian, a nice young man named Blake, fresh out of college with Harry Potter spectacles and an eager smile. By the end of the young man’s first day, he had not only made his place on the team, he had managed to consistently second guess Ian’s needs so eerily it almost made him feel that he had been watched for months before he had even thought about the possibilities of moving to California.
Even Trish seemed to fall in line. She sulked about for the first few days, and while not insulting to any one, she was still the chill on an otherwise busy and seemingly unstoppable ray of sunshine. By 5 PM on Friday, they had either gotten used to the frost or she had decided to just give up the attitude and at least attempted to be civil.
Nights at home had been quiet. He ate alone and played his guitar or watched TV until he fell asleep. Outside the office, his contact with the world included the person he left a tip for when he ordered food, and an occasional wave at the sour looking woman who threw the morning paper at the front door. Right now it was work that was important.
That was Ian’s mantra. This is what got him out and would keep him from ever having to go back.
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