Red Mask in the Mailbox

Red Mask in the Mail Box
By Chris Griffith

Chapter 2: Monster in the Can
White clouds had been high and far away; the air, had been clear and tasty. Joe looked at the classifieds while Thomas watched cartoons. Scooby Doo’s theme song played as Joe walked to the kitchen. “Come here Tommy,” he said, “I want to show you something.”

Margie peeled potatoes at the breakfast nook.

“Hey Honey, what are you making for dinner?” Joe asked.

“Dad, what are we doing?” Thomas asked and cocked his head.

“We’re having pot roast, with mashed potatoes and lima beans,” Margie said. “What are you up to Joe Trimpton?” she asked.

“Can you go ahead and open the lima beans?” Joe asked. “I want to use the cans for something.”

“All right, but you two had better stay out of trouble,” she said, as she waved the potato carving knife.

Margie grabbed the can opener from the drawer, pulled two cans of lima beans from the cabinet, bit down on the first can, and twirled the spindle. The can rotated and paper peeled along the top. The smell of lima beans filled the room. “Shewwee, I hate the smell of them things,” Joe said. A shiver began at his nose, and traveled through his body.

“Me too,” Thomas said and pinched his nose. Margie opened the other can, poured the contents into a faded green Tupperware bowl and stuck it in the refrigerator. She rinsed both cans and handed them to Joe.

Joe took them and walked down into the basement with Thomas following close behind. He sat the cans on a workbench and dug through some junk boxes on work shelves which held jars of screws, nails, cans of paint, thinners, and an assortment of tools. “I’ve gotta’ clean this stuff up one day, or your mom’s going to put me in the dog house,” Joe said.

“Dad, what are you looking for?” Thomas asked.

“I’ll show you in just a sec…,” Joe said.

“Oh, here it is!” he said, picking up a huge ball of grease stained twine.

“Whatcha’ gonna’ do with that, Dad?” Thomas asked.

“You’ll see Tommy,” Joe said and rubbed the top of his son’s head.

He grabbed the tin cans and asked Thomas if he would carry the twine. Thomas agreed.

Before closing the basement door, Joe yelled upstairs, “Be back in little while Hon’.”

“Make sure you lock the door behind you, and be back in time for lunch,” she said.

They climbed the steps, a gentle breeze blew, and the summer sun felt sweet and friendly on their faces.

The Huntington mansion sat empty on the corner lot of Princeton Circle and Huntington Avenue. Two football fields of waist high grass and a few trees separated the house from the road. The big house was dilapidated with broken windows and an occasional shutter hanging askew. A big, green, copper roof brought from England, sat on top.

Halfway through the field Joe stopped and looked around, reached for his Old Timer pocket knife and punched two holes in the bottom of both cans.

“What are you doing Dad?” Thomas asked.

Joe grabbed the loose string on the ball of twine and dropped it on the ground where it rolled into high grass. He threaded string into the hole of a can, tied a knot, and handed it to Thomas.

“Tommy, do you see that big tree over there on the corner of the field?” Joe asked.

“Yes sir.”

“Well, what I want you to do is to hold on to the can and walk slowly until you get to that tree, and then stop,” Joe said. “Okay buddy?”
“Yeah Dad, I gotcha’,”

Thomas turned and faced the big willow tree, walked towards it, and looked into the blue sky above. An airplane flew by and Thomas chased its shadow. He looked over his shoulder and saw his dad walking backwards, untwirling the thread. Joe grinned and Thomas smiled back. “Dad, does God make airplane shaped clouds?”

“Thomas, God can make clouds in any shape or size he wants. There are no two the same, just like us. All of us are different, yet in some ways, we’re a lot alike, just like clouds.” Thomas smiled, and walked towards the tree, trampling down the tall grass, making a path.

When he reached the tree he turned and saw his father tying the other end of the string onto the can. “Pull the can tight!” Joe yelled.

“What did you say?” Thomas yelled, thinking he said, “not enough light.”

“Pull the string tight!” Joe yelled louder this time.

“Okay Dad!” Thomas yelled back. He put his ear to the can after pulling the string snug. He remembered when Mrs. Lucado let him listen to the ocean in her giant sea shell. It amazed him.

“Thomas can you hear me?” Joe’s voice came through the lima bean can. It sounded like a bee trapped in a Mason jar.

“Yeah Dad, I can hear you!” Thomas yelled.

“Talk into the can, son.” Joe said.

“Who is this?” Thomas spoke into the can.

“I’m the monster in the can,” his father said, from 100 yards away.

That was the summer before the accident.

They spent several hours having fun in the field of the Huntington Mansion. Joe showed his son how to loop a string around two trees and send a telegraph. Later, they walked back to the house, got a kite from the attic, took the twine , and flew it over Huntington Mansion. This time, instead of sending a message to each other, they wrote a message in the clouds, letting Heaven know everything in Roanoke on that summer day had been just fine.