The Box

This was written over a year ago, about a month after the death of my only sibling.

I went to the bank yesterday, The Peoples Bank and Trust in Montevallo. It's one of those new buildings that tries to exude old southern charm and gentility, like an antebellum relic that has stood firm for 150 years, survived Sherman's March. An old estate that has been in the same family for generations, with a colorful history to go with it. The inside is full of rich, dark wood that gets polished everyday by a white-haired black woman. It's like a church when you slip in late for Sunday services, people looking up when I walked in, speaking in hushed tones.
I'm thinking I should have waited, come back when I am cleaned up, for I have spent the day sweating in the sun, throwing things into the giant dumpster I have had delivered to Taylor's house. I wonder what he would think if he could see what I am doing. But that is for another time.
I went to the bank yesterday to get into his safety deposit box. I wondered what he could possibly have needed a safety deposit box for. He barely had a pot to piss in. One of his friends told me he had cash, that he had put his inheritance from our grandmother in the box. I cannot imagine that he had actually saved money; it would have burned a hole in his pocket, screaming to be spent on something he didn't need. I barely remember having signed a signature card for the box. I have both keys, they don't ask for identification. A woman opens the vault and removes the green box. It reminds me of those boxes the army uses for ammunition, well-worn but strong. She leads me to a small room, slightly larger than a phone booth, that contains a table and single chair. A spotlight shines down on the table. Deep breath. I feel like a voyeur, a 12 year old peeping-tom right before a glimpse of the lady next door undressing. I raise the lid of this treasure chest with trepidation and anticipation.
As I remove papers and inspect them one a time, I am struck by the unusual collection. A social security card, the receipt for a fine paid 30-something years ago on Padre Island (I have heard the story, typed it up when he committed it to paper), quite a few old coins, an envelope containing two poems written long ago and the rejection letter from Atlantic Monthly, a copy of our father's obituary. There are a dozen or so paper bands that banks use when counting currency; my notion that he would have spent the money is confirmed. I pull out several sheets of notebook paper that are neatly folded. The handwriting looks familiar. It takes only a second to realize that the handwriting is my own, the flowery script of a 15 year old girl. I could not read but the first few lines, my throat contricted. It is a letter that I wrote to my big brother as he was leaving home for college.
I gathered everything up, wishing I had brought a plastic grocery bag or something. I walk out into the steam bath that is Alabama in August, and get into my car, the leather seat burning the back of my bare legs. As I wait for the air conditioning to dry the beads of sweat on my face, I lay the papers and coins on the seat beside me. A final look at this stately building that tries to look as if it has a history, and I begin the long drive home and think of my own. Perhaps tomorrow I will be able to read that old letter and remember the heart of a woman-child.