The Box on the Stone Path

Disclaimer: I am a dad living in Westchester, New York. The names of all people, but not all places, have  been changed to protect the innocent and me from the glares of my neighbors who are definitely not reading this blog. 

The cardboard box sits on the stone path that leads to our house. It is large, upright, and mocking me with its bizarre commonness. From my view through the bay window, I see the box has a picture on it. Unfortunately, I can't quite make out what the picture is without my glasses, so I grab my spectacles off my copy of John Cheever's short stories on the bookshelf. Then I turn on the light dangling above the steps leading to our door. Am I seeing that right? Is the picture on the box a car seat? Yup. There's definitely a child, no older than four, sitting in an uncomfortable strap laden seat. 

There were no car seats when I was growing up. Mom and Dad just put us in the van and hoped for the best. That's a lie, but I don't have the bandwidth to look up what our carseats were like when I was younger. I vaguely remember a car seat built into the car, but that seems gratuitous. Let's just assume they were a tub in the space between the front seat and the backseat.  

The box, with all of its regular, regulardom seems untouched. My first thought is that my parents or my wife's parents have sent us a gift for an occasion they didn't remember until months later. I walk outside into the rain and lift the box. Obviously, it's wet. That's what rain does to things. What's more alarming is that it's suspiciously light. Nevertheless,  I carry it into the house because I can't just leave a box there. What would the neighbors think?

There is no address. I peel open the flaps and look inside. Nothing. It's empty like a school in July. My first thought is someone is targeting us because we are family with babies who are loud when they cry, and our neighbors made up of mostly empty nesters don't enjoy that. The screams and shouts of my children interrupt their old fashions and pink lemonade spiked with vodka. My neighbors aren't the type of old people that stop their cars to look at my youngest. They don't say, "She's so cute. She looks just like you," Instead, they offer cursory glances at us, turn back to their swimming pools, and return to trying to find find themselves at the bottom of their glasses that they probably got from the Crate & Barrel or Arhaus at the Westchester Mall. Yes. There is only one possible answer to why this box has shown up in our yard. We are being targeted.  

My house and family have been targeted on numerous occasions. That's not fair. That's not completely true. We've only been targeted once. I suppose if you ask my wife, who is busy sleeping right now, not worrying about what I'm worrying about, she would tell you that we have never been targeted ever. 

"They left a bag of feces in our driveway," I said. 

"That's what people do in the suburbs," she replied. "It's better than what you would get in the city. You'd get human feces and no bag." 

"Maybe that would be better," I said. "Because at least you'd know where it came from." 

"We know where it came from. The rectum of a dog. Go to sleep." 

I stare at the box. It's midnight. I think about each one of my neighbors. Who could have done this? Who would have chosen to start a war with me? Greg and Anne probably. They hate our lawn. They hate my kids. Maybe it is the man across the street who always has the ambulance in his driveway. I'm worried about him, but right now I'm not. Maybe's its the guy who drives a school bus. Does he actually pick people up or did he just buy a school bus for aesthetic purposes? I don't know. It could be anyone, and that thought alone keeps me from sleeping.  In fact, I don't sleep the rest of the night. Instead, I think about what I will do with that box. It comes to me quickly. I will set that box on fire in the middle of the street for everyone to see. It will be my message to everyone. 

Come at me, and I will bring fire and ember upon your homes.  

The lights go on. Birds chirp. I think a cardinal. My eyes are swollen from getting exactly no sleep. I'm haggard. I look how my children describe me to their friends when they don't think I'm listening. I take the box out of the house without consulting my wife or children. I bring it to the center of the street. I take out my lighter that I don't use to smoke cigarettes because those are bad, and I promised my wife that I would stop when we had our third kid. The lighter exists only for times like these. I am about to bring the flame to the box when I look out onto my street and see trash everywhere. 

Oh, I think. "Oh," I say. It's trash day and the wind has taken the bins and contents of those bins to places they weren't supposed to be. Mystery solved I suppose. I leave the box in the center of the street and go inside.