A Oliphant's Crate

Henry Oliphant forced himself to focus on the gun, the cleaning
fluid, and the cloth. He stared intently through the large magnifying
glass mounted on the wooden trestle, ignoring everything beyond the
light of his desk lamp, the one with the green glass shade. The rest of
the study was in shadows. A few weak beams seeped in from the street
lamps outside, confusing the angles.

He re-assembled the freshly cleaned revolver and gently returned it to
its case. Closing the lid, he smiled silently at the word "JUSTICE"
branded directly into the wood. It had not been easy to find an
engraver who could reproduce the branding effect so expertly and cause
no damage. He lifted the case with both hands, reverentially bowing his
head slightly and holding it upwards towards the ceiling. After a
moment, he lowered the case and placed it on the desk to his left,
reaching for a smaller box on his right, also branded, but with the
word "FREEDOM." He opened the smaller box under the lens, and counted
five bullets, the same as yesterday, the same as every day. Each bullet
rested in its own holding space. There were six holding spaces.
Oliphant made sure there was one bullet in the revolver at all times.
He rotated them monthly.

The bullets loomed large in magnification. The casings were brass, each
casing etched with the word "TRUTH." The tips were solid gold. They
radiated in exquisite contrast to his white cotton gloves. Like most
things in Oliphant's study, the bullets were a cross between a museum
curiosity and a practical invention. Gold is expensive, far more so
than lead, but it is also soft. Like lead, gold will expand upon
impact, making a memorable exit. 'The truth shall set you free,' he
thought. 'Or at least it will make the passageway larger.'

He arranged the five bullets in a row on the leather desktop, like
soldiers standing at attention, guarding. They passed initial
inspection. He cleaned and polished the first bullet, returning it to
the box before selecting the next. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. He
looked at the five shining bullets resting in the box. It was a
comforting sight, full of potential.

Oliphant found the green baize lining of the bullet box especially
comforting. It was a matter of aesthetics and practicality. Pleasing to
the eye, the baize also prevented the bullets making any noise when
being removed or replaced. Not that anyone would ever hear such a small
sound, other than Oliphant himself, of course. He liked everything to
be in its place, even if it rarely was. The box was specially designed
so that the lid held the bullets in place to prevent rattling during
transit. It had never traveled farther than from the lower-right desk
drawer to the desktop and back, but it was a nice feature, all the
same.

He closed the bullet box, put it aside, and leaned back in his chair.
From this angle the magnifying lens looked like a clouded eye. He
grinned and leaned forward again, aiming the lens at various objects on
his desk. He giggled like a child. "Oh that eraser is big!" he said. He
commandeered the lens with both hands and scanned the room, laughing
playfully. "Admiral Oliphant reporting," he announced. "The world is
dark and distorted!"

Still laughing silently at his own joke, Oliphant closed his eyes and
tried to clear his mind. He needed ritual tonight. He needed something.
He was afraid. He wanted to run screaming into the night. He stayed
put, afraid of what might be out there. He opened his eyes and surveyed
the study. He stopped at the crate. Hard oak. Full grain. Same as the
gun case and the bullet box. It had the rich patina of an heirloom
humidor. "Patina is such a lovely name," he said. "If I ever have a
daughter, I shall name her Patina." His words fell dead against the
black velvet curtains. He followed the progress of a flock of migrating
dust motes, made visible by a skin of light drawn through a narrow gap
in the curtains. 'There must be a draft in here after all," he said.
"Going south for the winter, little ones?" No answer. Oliphant noted
how the skin of light resembled a length of wrapping paper drawn from a
vertical roll, the kind you used to find in the gift-wrap department
back in the days when escalators were made of wood. "Wouldn't it be
interesting, if I could tear off a length of that light and wrap
something in it?" he thought, pausing. "It's not practical, but I'll
sit here and watch for a while longer just the same." He would do
anything to avoid focusing on the crate, and yet, they were
inseparable??.

??outside??Fortis struck a match. The head gently detonated, showing
the wrinkles in his hands. He cupped the lighted match and raised it to
the cigar in his companion's mouth, his umbrella hooked over his left
arm at the elbow. Parker puffed in short, sharp pulls. He felt the hot
air and smoke enter his mouth. The business end of the cigar began to
glow, brightly when he sucked, faintly when he exhaled. Parker stood
straight and blew a smoke ring towards the street lamp.

"Not bad, Parker. How long have you been practicing?"

"About two months, ever since I joined the force. And you?"

Fortis paused, taking several intense sucking puffs on his cigar. At
the peak moment, he ballooned his cheeks, filling them with dense
smoke, formed a perfect trout-mouth with his lips and extruded six
classic smoke rings upwards at a 45-degree angle. Parker watched in
awe. In rapid succession, each ring passed through the center of the
ring preceding it, creating a telescopic effect. The colliding rings
mixed with the flume rising from Fortis's overheated double
corona.

Fortis looked past the smoke to the dimly lit windows on the first
floor. "You see that?" he said, pointing to windows above them with his
umbrella. "I joined the force shortly after Oliphant moved into that
apartment. This was my first beat."

"Who is Oliphant?"

The Chief Inspector examined the bluish smoke rising from his cigar.
The ash was now over one inch long.

"Have you ever noticed how cigar smoke changes color? Smoke rising
passively from a cigar looks bluish, especially in this artificial
light. Yet, draw smoke into your mouth, exhale, and it becomes gray,
losing the blue. Do you know why?"

Parker squinted. "No, but I've noticed the same thing," he said. "Why
is that?"

There was no answer. Parker had been warned about Fortis. It was
nothing serious. The old man just saw no need for straight lines.

"Oliphant is a writer," said Fortis, "at least according to his
passport he is."

"Have you ever read anything of his?" Parker asked, wondering under
what circumstances Fortis had seen Oliphant's passport.

Fortis looked at Oliphant's windows. He pressed his eyes closed
tightly, inhaled, squeezed the bridge of his nose between the thumb and
index finger of his left hand, holding his breath. He noted the faint
smell of lemon oil on his left hand and felt the umbrella gently
hitting against raincoat. He exhaled and ran his fingers down his nose.
Reaching the end, he opened his eyes and leaned left, balancing himself
against the pavement with the umbrella which he now gripped firmly in
his left hand. With his head at a jaunty angle, and leaning a few
degrees north-north-west of insoucience, Fortis brought his right hand
to his mouth with a studied flourish, inhaled the smell of cigar and
sweat from the back of his hand, and studiously drew several large
billows from the double corona. He exhaled the smoke indiscriminately
and laughed, thinking that the word patina might just as easily apply
to odors.

"Some of it is quite good, or so I've been told," he said.

Parker decided not to pursue this line of questioning??.

??inside??the metallic smell of gun cleaner retreated upwards in the
gentle convection of the desk lamp, allowing the faint smell of lemon
oil from the weekly polishing and dusting to resurface. That, and the
dust motes, reminded Oliphant that tomorrow would be the day to clean
house.

He pictured his grandmother's house ?an old wool carpet?Murphy's oil
soap?fading sheet music?the old upright piano grandma tried to teach
him to play?grandpa's old collapsible music stand?practicing the B-flat
Trumpet Concerto to grandma's accompaniment?just the two of them?the
pedal-operated sewing machine?the living room table with one drawer
containing all the old postcards and the Uncle Wiggly illustrated story
book?the free-standing book cases with glass doors that opened out and
up from the bottom and slid into the case like a garage door?the wooden
flower pot stands he'd used as a lectern as a little boy when Auntie
Roberts told him he would grow up to be a preacher or a lawyer because
he was so well spoken for such a little boy and she called him "Master
Henry" and not "Hank" or "Ollie" like most people. He'd never liked any
of his names, but especially not "Hank" or "Ollie."

One day Auntie Roberts gave him a scrapbook. She had started it with
newspaper clippings, tax stamps, canceled postage stamps, and
postcards. He was supposed to add to the scrapbook over time. Up to
that point, Oliphant had enjoyed visiting Auntie Roberts at the
Methodist nursing home. She had always been nice to him, and besides,
there was an upright player piano in the lounge area.

He had been fascinated by the rolls of perforated paper that played
music. Some of the rolls were stored in a metal bucket, balanced on end
like umbrellas. Others rested on top of the piano. They looked a bit
precarious up there. The piano was not in use very often, but he loved
to look at it and imagine what it might be like to see it play music.
He was quiet enough most of the time. No one complained. He wandered
around the lounge, disappointed, wanting the music to start playing.
The old ladies sat in their overstuffed chairs, often sleeping. He now
knows they were waiting to die, but at the time it was just a quiet
place. The memory made him think about how much time he spends sleeping
in his own chair these days.

Oliphant grimaced, remembering he'd never done anything with that
scrapbook. For years he'd lived with a low-grade dread that Auntie
Roberts would summon him to the nursing home and ask to see the
scrapbook. He squinted, trying to remember if he'd ever gone back there
after the scrapbook incident. He wasn't sure. No matter, though, as
Auntie Roberts died before she had a chance to ask about it. He
remembered feeling very relieved by that, and guilty. Fortunately,
though, he did not feel guilty for not becoming a preacher or a lawyer.
Those were just bad predictions, not expectations. "Well, Auntie
Roberts," he laughed aloud," some people say I am an opinionated
know-it-all, so maybe I proved you right after all."

He'd kept Auntie Roberts' scrapbook for nearly forty years, telling
himself that maybe some of the items would be worth something someday.
He'd even had a vague notion of bringing it up to date once he was
retired and had the time. Every ten years or so, he'd discover the
scrapbook by accident and feel a sharp pang of guilt. He'd flip through
the pages, then put the book back where he'd found it, where it waited
patiently for him to discover it anew another decade or so down the
line.

Oliphant tried to recall the last time he'd seen the scrapbook. It
wasn't all that long ago. He remembered looking at every page, trying
to find something of interest, something of value worth saving. There
was nothing. It was not much of a scrapbook, and never had been, at
least not from his perspective. He'd thrown it away at last, maybe five
years ago, probably right after his mother died. There had been a lot
of things to throw away back then. He pictured his grandmother again
and wondered who had inherited the sheet music when she died. It was
too late to find out now. It was all long gone.

Oliphant selected a file from the shelf behind him, experiencing a
sharp sting of rebuke as he noted the sloppiness of his study. There
were several cartons of blank cut sheet paper, at least forty reams.
Two shelves of books with blank pages, waiting for writing, most of
them dusty and stained, still blank, some of them carried across the
Atlantic Ocean three times. He detected a trace of tired cigar smoke
from the old days. Books were everywhere, many of them piled on the
floor because more bookshelves would have meant nowhere to hang the
artwork. Even the windows were suspect, perhaps most suspect of all.
They took up valuable wall space, yet they had to be covered at all
times. It was a battlefield. It followed him everywhere. He was pinned
down in the crossfire and had been for a lifetime. The crate was his
only constant, Oliphant's Constant. The crate held everything together.
Without the crate?
He opened the file. It contained just a few documents and letters, most
of them concerning three burial plots at the Arvidon Cemetery. One for
his mother?one for his father?one for him. Oliphant had known about the
burial plots for many years, since the 1980's. He was already in his
thirties by then. He recalled his father saying something like, "It's
there for you if you need it, but of course you don't have to use it if
you don't want." It had not sounded all that strange at the time. His
father was always planning ahead?way ahead some times?he had a
low-grade fetish for record keeping and planning. It had mostly seemed
a harmless hobby, something like stamp collecting or bird watching. His
father had even pre-ordered a headstone. His parents had agreed to
inscribe it "Together Forever," presumably meaning just the two of
them, though in retrospect the intention was not so clear.

As Oliphant examined the papers again, this hobby of his father's took
on a vaguely sinister aspect. His parents were by now both dead. The
head stone was filled. They were "Together Forever." Oliphant saw dark
irony in those words. He'd never seen any indication that they wanted
to be together in the first place, much less forever, yet?there it
was?and the empty burial plot still waited for him. Had it never
occurred to them that he might have a life of his own some day?a wife
and family of his own? He cringed. His stomach tightened into a knot.
He felt sick. For the first time in his life he realized that those
possibilities had never crossed his own mind, not seriously anyway. He
gagged, sweating. He could still hear them joking about the location of
the plots, alongside the paved road winding through the cemetery,
adjacent to two smallish pine trees. They laughed about how convenient
it would be for visitors, how the trees would grow and provide shade,
how it had a nice view. It was all a great joke to them, gallows humor
without the gallows. His mother had even said something about waving to
her brother, already buried on the other side of the lake. 'Death is
inevitable and all that,' he thought, 'but had it really been necessary
for his father to buy three burial plots? What kind of person does such
a thing? What was he thinking?'

Oliphant opened a plain manila envelope. It contained two greeting
cards sent to his mother on the occasion of his birth in 1950, one from
each of his father's two sisters. They were in the original envelopes.
Each card contained a handwritten note. Oliphant marveled at the fact
that these cards still existed after all these years. His mother had
kept them along with dozens of other little artifacts and objets
d'Oliphant. He grinned widely at the phrase "objets d'Oliphant." He'd
made it up himself just then. You are all witnesses.

He scanned through the two cards. It took just a few seconds. His heart
sank when he read the last line of the first card's little poem: "Good
Wishes to the Lucky Three!" He stared at that line, thinking about the
burial plots. On the back of the card, along with the usual
congratulations, Aunt Esther had written "We almost thought you decided
not to have the baby even after you got to the hospital." He guessed
Aunt Esther was trying to be funny. He recalled being told that it was
a long and difficult labor, so much so that in the end he had to be
born caesarian. That was very unusual in those days. The second card
was from Aunt Mary. She'd written, "I'm so glad that it was a boy."
That was enough. He slipped both cards back into their original
envelopes, replaced them in the manila envelope, and put everything
back into the file with the deed to the burial plots.

Oliphant leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. He felt tears
forming and cracked his eyes open to form a slit. He could only see a
watery light, diffused, straining like a clenched fist. He thought of
the hanging light fixture in his parent's kitchen. He could see its
vague outline through the tears, the brass color. All was silent for a
moment. His little knees hurt on the linoleum floor. He was looking up.
His father was sitting on a kitchen chair, looking down. Oliphant could
not breathe. He tried to inhale, but nothing would go in. He started to
pass out. He felt himself being picked up from the floor. The room spun
around. He was looking down at the linoleum floor, yellow with a little
red design. He felt his father's hand hit him on his back. Once. Twice.
His mouth opened. The mucus spilled from his mouth to the floor. He
could breathe again. Years later they told him that he almost died that
day. His father saved him. His father had to save him. Without Oliphant
his father would have no future.

Oliphant sat upright and brought his fist crashing down on his desk.
Once. Twice. Both hands now. Once. Twice. His fists tingled from the
pounding. He inhaled deeply. The lemon oil smell reminded him again
that tomorrow would be house cleaning day. The gun?the stale paper
smell of books and letters?a slight whiff of cigar smoke imbedded in
the old file?whiskey stain on the folder?He rose decisively, strode to
the door, flipped off the light and left the study. The crate heard the
door chuff into place and click closed??

??while?outside??. as the light went out in Oliphant's windows, Fortis
turned towards the spire in the distance and began walking, twirling
his umbrella twice for good measure. Parker took a last glance at
Oliphant's darkened window and followed. It felt like it might
rain.