Out of the Box (4 page)

“Golf clubs?” I ask. “Since when—?”

“The putting green in the park. We wanted to use it, since we're so close, and we found a few putters at a garage sale, but the guy wouldn't let us leave without the entire set of clubs.”

I nod and hold up a 1972 orangutan calendar. We both laugh.

An hour later, the place doesn't look much different. I've started two piles—one to keep for the sale and one to throw out—and Jeanette is squatting in front of a bookshelf, engrossed in the history of Borneo. I've discovered a black cube-shaped instrument case, less dusty than most of the stuff down here. I blow the dust off and pull gently at the handle. My heart speeds up. I can think of only one instrument—an accordion—that would fit in a case like this, and one person—Alison—who might own one.

I press the latches, and they flip open easily. A soft red cloth covers something too small to be an accordion. I sigh and feel a wave of guilt as I realize what the contents might really be. I didn't get to see Alison while she was sick, but Mom says the whole house was filled with medical equipment. After the funeral, Mom helped Jeanette clear it up. They probably put it all down here in the basement. What I'm looking at is probably some sort of medical device from when Alison was sick.

Instead of honoring Alison's memory, I'm thinking only of myself. I glance back over my shoulder. My aunt has placed the book on the floor beside her and is pulling another off the shelf. She's smiling.

I consider shutting the case, but instead, I peek under the red cloth and gasp. It's not medical equipment, and it's not an accordion. It's something even better than an accordion.

“You found the
bandoneón
!” Jeanette says, appearing beside me. “I brought it down here when we needed more space upstairs, and I lost track of it. Alison bought it right before she got sick.”

My aunt doesn't look anything like depressed, so I stop trying to hide my excitement. I know, because I saw one at a tango festival last year, that a bandoneón is a tango instrument, smaller than a regular accordion. It has buttons on both sides instead of piano keys.

“Alison bought it on a whim and was determined to learn how to play it. You know what she was like.” Jeanette's smile is bigger now. “She even found someone to take lessons from.”

I ask her if I can take it out of its case. She nods, and I lift the instrument gingerly from its box. I slip my hands into the handles and draw the bellows apart. The bandoneón wheezes. I press a button and push the folds back together again. It wails. I pull.
Wheeze
. Press another button and push.
Squeak
. Jeanette sticks out one arm, curves the other as though around a woman's waist and strides like a tango dancer down a narrow path through all the junk. She grabs the hula skirt, ties it on and dances up the stairs and back down. The instrument keeps squawking and honking like an asthmatic goose, and soon we're both laughing so hard that we sound like sick birds too.

“I'm so glad you found it,” Jeanette says, sitting on the cold concrete floor, fanning herself after the laughter subsides. “It's yours if you want it.”

I stare at her. I've never told her how much I want to play the accordion—or something like one, anyway. Dad hates the accordion because his parents forced him to take lessons when he was a kid. Which is why I've never asked to learn. Since last summer, though, I've been sneaking
CD
s from the library, downloading foot-stomping accordion tunes onto my iPod and dreaming of playing them myself one day. It's not something most teenagers dream about, I know, but I don't really care. My music makes me happy.

I like the sound of the bandoneón even better than the accordion. It's richer and more haunting somehow, and you can add all sorts of accents to the music by clicking your fingernails across the buttons, drumming on the casing or bouncing the bellows on your knee.

“I can't believe you're giving it to me.”

“Of course you can have it,” she says. “What am I going to do with it?”

“Sell it?” I ask. “It must be worth a fortune.” Much as I want this instrument, I know the money should go to the soup kitchen. That's what Alison wanted to do with the basement stuff, wasn't it?

Jeanette shrugs. “We didn't pay much for it. We got it at a yard sale from a woman who kept complaining about all the junk her son brought home. Alison was about to tell her that this ‘junk' goes for thousands on eBay when the woman said something racist about a customer who was trying to barter. Alison was so disgusted, she just paid the asking price and left.”

I laugh, because I can totally picture Alison's polite smile getting tighter and tighter, rage blazing in her eyes. She didn't get angry often, but when she did, everyone knew it.

“So it
could
be worth a fortune,” I say.

“A few thousand,” Jeanette admits, “but I think Alison would have wanted you to have it. The idea was to do something useful with our old stuff. Fundraising for the soup kitchen is one possibility. Giving it to someone who would really appreciate it is another.”

I nod, looking down at the instrument with its shiny black ends and round white buttons. I do appreciate it, and I can always give it back if I decide it should be sold. For now, it's mine. “Thank you.”

I pack it away, smoothing the red cloth on top. Then I take it up to my room, lay it in the center of my bed and give it a pat before heading back down to rescue my aunt from a box of old socks.

“The basement?” Mom asks that evening during our nightly phone call. I settle into the worn armchair by the wall phone. My aunt is the only person I know who doesn't have a cordless phone. Mom's voice sounds tinny and very far away. “I can't believe you've started already,” she says. “I thought for sure Jeanette would take a few months to work up to it.”

Which shows how little my mother understands her sister. When my aunt says she'll do something, she follows through. No way am I going to point that out, though, because if I say this about Jeanette, Mom will think I'm saying she herself doesn't follow through on things. (Which is true, actually, especially when she's stressed out, but I would never say that aloud. My mom has a lot of great qualities, but it's best to avoid talking about things that aren't her strengths.) “It was raining too much to do anything else today,” I tell her. “You should see some of the stuff we found down there!”

For a second, I'm tempted to tell her about the bandoneón, but I stop myself. Depending on Mom's mood, she might see it as a quaint passing interest, or serious competition for the violin, which she knows I hate. She knows how much Dad hates the accordion too, and since I'm not in the mood for another lecture about teenage rebellion, I say nothing.

“You sound like you're having fun.” She doesn't sound particularly happy about it.

“Oh, I am,” I say too quickly, then rush to cover up before her feelings get hurt. “I miss you though. Are you doing okay?”

There's a long silence, and I can hear her swallow.

“What?” I ask. “What is it?”

Jeanette comes to the door of the living room with a kitchen towel in one hand. She scans my face, and I try to smile to show her that everything's all right, but I can tell Mom's on the verge of tears. The silence, and her swallowing, conjures up the image of her face, eyes scrunched together, lips pressed tight. I know she's shaking her head. “It's just so hard without you,” she says. “Your father disappears into his office all the time. Our agreement about chores has just fallen by the wayside.”

“Oh, Mom, I'm sorry.” I thought it would work so well, the list of chores I'd put on the fridge for them.

“I'm in survival mode.” Mom sniffs. Her voice is shaky, but she's fought back the tears for the moment. A few years ago, when I started having panic attacks before math tests, she taught me deep breathing techniques, and we started doing yoga and meditation together. She taught me about pulling into a quiet place inside myself where I was safe and strong and able to do anything I put my mind to. I wish she would remember some of those techniques right now.

Jeanette's frowning at me.

“Maybe if you talk to him,” I tell Mom. “Calmly, I mean, and—”

“Ellie,” Jeanette says, holding out her hand for the phone. “I've just remembered something that I need to tell your mother.” The look on her face says I don't have a choice. I mumble something to Mom and hand over the phone.

“On second thought, I'll use the upstairs phone.

Hang up down here when I pick up, Ellie,” Jeanette says and bounds up to her bedroom. It doesn't make sense. Surely my aunt can talk to my mother in front of me. What is it that she doesn't want me to know?

S
IX

“M
orning, guys,” Jeanette says to four men sprawled on the steps of the stone church. They're scruffy, dressed in far more clothing than most people wear in July, their faces hardened into scowls. But when they see Jeanette, a few of them break into smiles. One guy is missing two front teeth.

I've seen people like this before. They're the ones my parents cross the street to get away from in downtown Vancouver. Of course, when Jeanette wanted me to go with her to the soup kitchen where she volunteers, I knew we'd see people like this, but I hadn't imagined actually talking to them.

Sarah might have imagined it, though, considering the outfit she picked out for me for today. She's a strong believer in outfits that fit the situation and she has the closet to prove it. For my trip to the soup kitchen, she gave me scruffy runners, baggy cutoffs held up with a wide black belt, and a white T-shirt with the sleeves rolled up. “Tough and street-smart,” she said, waving me out the door. She pulled a backward ballcap down on my head and looked very proud of her creation. Jeanette seemed more amused than anything else, but she didn't say anything, either for or against, on our way here.

I've already decided not to tell my parents about the soup kitchen. Normally I brag to them about all the crazy stuff Jeanette and I do together, and sometimes my mother declares her sister insane and makes her swear never to take me white-water rafting or tree-climbing or tenting in bear territory again. Jeanette never promises anything, and Mom eventually gives up. Jeanette is the only person who can get my mother to admit defeat. We all laugh about it. I hope that never changes.

“Got a new recruit?” one of the men asks in a gravelly voice. He smells of cigarettes and stale sweat.

“This is my niece, Ellie,” says my aunt. “She's staying with me for a couple of months. I wanted to show her where I spend my Monday mornings.” She looks at me like I'm supposed to do something. I mumble “Hello” and am about to shove my hands in my pockets when she clears her throat.

It's a threatening kind of sound, one I've heard from teachers at school, but not one that's ever directed at me. I hunch deeper into my costume, but “looking the part,” as Sarah says, doesn't make things any easier. I don't know what Jeanette expects me to do.

“Ellie Saunders,” she whispers. “
Where are your
manners?”

I look at her, wide-eyed, hoping she'll realize how ridiculous she's being. Does she honestly expect me to shake hands with these people? Mom would be horrified. Much as she believes in politeness, safety always comes first, and who knows if these people ever wash their hands or what they last touched. Yuck.

My aunt's stare reaches out, grabs my stomach and twists it hard. I open my mouth, but no words come.

“Hey, don't be so hard on the kid,” says one of the guys.

“Yeah, give her a break,” says another. “It's not like I'm the king of France or something.” He smirks, and the others snicker like he's made a great joke.

I sneak a glance at Jeanette and can tell I'm beaten. The only thing worse than shaking hands with these men would be to lose her respect. I stick out my hand and smile as though I'm greeting royalty after all. “Pleased to meet you,” I lie as I shake hand after filthy hand. There's always soap.

Inside, the building is not the dark, dingy place I had imagined. It's new and bright, with high ceilings and lots of windows, and people sit at long plastic tables, talking, drinking coffee and laughing together. A few people have their heads down, sleeping. One guy is talking to himself. In the far corner, a woman is dancing. Someone else is shouting about poison in the coffee. No one pays any attention to her or to the woman barfing into the garbage can in the corner.