Saturday Afternoon

Elenor found the box on Tuesday’s thrift shop search smelling of old wood and lemon oil. The shop was located on Maple Street with a full parking lot and a line at the check out counter. She wandered around looking over the usual items her searches included. One last row of baskets and boxes to look over then off to make dinner for the family. On the bottom shelf she noticed an old worn-out box that had a story to tell. She put it in her cart and headed to the cash register to find the line that long line was gone. The cashier, “Jay” was only half paying attention to me so when I told me $20 for everything, she slide him a bill and walked away.
That night, after the dishes and the late news, Eleanor set the box on the kitchen table. The brass latch was stiff; the hinges sighed. Inside: she found a folded square of oilcloth, yellowed and soft. She removed it all from the box. Sixteen coins glinted up at her gold, heavy, each the size of a half-dollar. Eagles on one side, a stern profile on the other. Dates were from 1851 to 1893. They clinked when she poured them into her palm, a small, bright avalanche. She sat very still. The clicking seemed to be the only sound in the room. Outside, the neighbor’s dog barked once and then stopped. Eleanor had lived 58 years on a teacher’s pension and careful coupons. She knew the weight of want. These coins were surprisingly heavier than she realized.
She did not sleep. At 3:17am she wrapped them back in the oilcloth, returned them to the box, and slid it beneath her bed like contraband.
The next morning, she called in sick-her first absence in twelve years-and then took bus to the university library. She photocopied pages on coins values, heart hammering at every clack of the machine. One 1877 piece alone: twenty thousand dollars, maybe more.
She told no one. Not even her sister in Tucson. Not Mrs. Alverez next door, who watered plants in her slippers. For a week she lived two lives. By day she graded spelling tests and smiled at children who smelled of paste and playground. By night she polished the coins with a chamois cloth, whispering their years like prayers.
One the eighth night she dreamed of the box’s maker: a man with ink-stained fingers, hiding his life’s savings before a train west. She woke up gasping; the coins cool against her cheek.
The following Saturday she returned to the same thrift store. Jay was restocking shelves with mismatched mugs. She said, “Hey, that box”, she said. “Who donated it?”. He shrugged. “Estate drop-off. Old guy on Elm Street, died alone.” Eleanor bought a teapot she didn’t need and left.
She decided to sell all the coins at the same time, through a dealer in the city who asked no questions. The money arrived in quiet envelopes: enough to fix the roof, to buy Ruth a plane ticket, to pay the heating bill for three winters.
She kept the box. Sanded it smooth and oiled the wood until it glowed. Inside she placed a single photograph: her mother at twenty, laughing in a sundress.
Some nights she opened the lid to smell the walnut and the faint trace of oilcloth. Sixteen ghosts, gone but not forgotten. The weight had shifted from her palm to her chest and it felt, for the first time in years, like something she could carry.