A Pretty Good Year

Eugene Walker chuckled to himself from behind the curtain as the postman slipped on the icy front walk. “That’s right,” he thought. “We’re all buried in winter up to our eyeballs. Why should it be any different for him?”

Eugene pulled himself away from the cold of the upstairs window and limped for the stairs. He winced with every step he took. By the time he had hobbled his way down, Mrs. Walker was already collecting the mail from the box.

“Close the door, Angie,” Eugene barked. “It’s cold enough to freeze the face off the abominable snowman.”

“Here’s your mail,” Angie Walker said flatly, handing him the envelopes. “Enjoy the bills.”

“Of course it’s bills,” Eugene snorted. “Why would I expect anything different?”

“Oh, what’s this?” Angie said as she turned to close the door. “There’s a package out here.”

“It’ll be a mail bomb, with our luck,” Eugene scoffed.

“Wow, it’s light,” Angie said as she brought it inside. Eugene was sifting through the several letters in his hand. She handed him the box. “It’s for you.”

He grunted as he took it from her. “It is light,” he said. “Is there even anything in it?” He shook the box and heard nothing. “There’s no return address. Some dimwit’s idea of a joke, no doubt. But the joke’s on him for the wasted postage.” He set it on the landing to the stairs.

“Aren’t you going to open it?” Angie asked.

“Later, if I’m in a good mood. Right now I’ve got to write an angry letter to this debt collector.” He held up an envelope. “We paid up the medical bills last month!”

And Eugene Walker shuffled off to his study.

He returned an hour later, rubbing his sore back, to find Angie watching a black-and-white movie on television.

“What’s all this?” he asked.

“It’s Cabin in the Sky with Ethel Waters and Lena Horne,” she said without turning away from the TV. And she began to sing along under her breath to a musical number.

Eugene waived at it dismissively and started for the kitchen to find a snack. Along the way, he passed the package and waived dismissively at that too.

“Oh, while you’re in there, would you mind making me some hot tea?” Angie called.

Eugene pretended not to hear her.

The afternoon passed uneventfully, until Eugene was left with nothing to do but entertain the notion of opening the package. On the one hand, he felt that to do so would be a sort of surrender, as though he’d be giving in to the idiot who had sent it to him. But on the other hand, he couldn’t stand not knowing with certainty whether he was supposed to be the butt of some joke.

He took a carving knife out of a drawer in the kitchen and approached the package. He brandished the knife as if to let the package know who was boss and then went to work. He cut the packing tape along the top of the box and then sliced each end. He set the knife down and readied himself for the unveiling.

He had known the box would be empty, but that didn’t stop Eugene from being disappointed when it turned out to be so.

“Hah, I thought so.”

But he caught a whiff of something familiar. He lowered his nose to the open box to confirm that’s where it came from.

It was the aroma of Ma’s kitchen when she would make her sweet potato pie at Thanksgiving. It caught him off guard, and he looked around the kitchen.

“Are you cooking something?” he called to Angie.

But then he caught the smell of something different. It brought the heat of summer with it, and he felt the burn under his feet. He could feel the sweat under his collar as though he wore his old uniform. And he could smell the steam off the pavement when the water from the hydrant would hit it. He could almost hear the children laughing.

He smiled in wonderment. “Well, I’ll be doggoned.”

He picked up the box – the empty box that nonetheless had him so intrigued. He was about to walk it to the basement door to toss it downstairs when he caught another scent, this time the rose petal perfume Angie used to wear when they’d just met.

There was an air of something else too, but he couldn’t quite place it…

“Say, Angie…”

“Yes?” She appeared in the doorway.

“Do you remember the night we saw the Supremes in Vegas?”

“My heavens, you mean back in 1970?”

“Is that when it was?” Eugene did the math in his head – fifty-five years. At this moment it felt so fresh.

“I remember the date because that was the night you proposed.”

“Angie,” Eugene said with a sudden exuberance, “let’s see a concert show. Who’s out there nowadays?”

“Well, you know what the youngsters are listening to.”

“No, I don’t. Is it any good?”

“Well, I suppose that all depends on your point of view.” She smiled. “But, come on, let’s see who’s out there for us.”

She grabbed his hand the way she used to and pulled him along. He followed trustingly as she led him to their old computer desk. She sat and started clacking the keys.

“I’m glad you know how to work that thing,” he said to her. “Every time I try it, I’m afraid I’m going to break something.”

She smiled again. “Look what I’ve found,” she said. “A Night of Motown. Will you look at that, Eugene? It’s actually this Friday…Valentine’s night.”

“Really?” Eugene looked at the screen. “That’s just downtown. Can we still get tickets?”

“Let’s find out,” she said, and she went back to the screen.

As Angie navigated through the website, Eugene caught another wave of memories carried on the air from the open box – air that seemed to come from another time.

Of course, he thought. Ma’s pie, the kids playing in the hydrant water, Angie’s perfume – it all fit.

“1970 was a pretty good year,” he said offhandedly.

Angie said nothing, but Eugene thought he noticed her smiling again.

Friday night arrived. Eugene had dug his blazer out of the attic and aired it out for two days to get rid of the mothball smell. Angie had chosen a dress she’d bought for some occasion long passed. Eugene had likely complained at the time that she had bought it on impulse and would never wear it again.

Mr. and Mrs. Walker strolled arm-in-arm from the car to the foyer of the concert hall. Eugene felt regal as they walked, with his queen on his arm, and imagined everybody gazing at them – or most likely just at her. He relished the ability to tip his hat courteously at everyone they greeted.

She wore a fresh corsage pinned to her coat, made from the bouquet he had presented her earlier that evening.

As they mingled their way toward their seats, they noticed many folks there as senior as they, but chose instead to see themselves in some of the younger couples.

“Do it now, when time is yours,” Eugene silently willed to a young man as they passed. “Put down that dang phone and be with your young lady.”

And the man seemed to hear, to understand, and he slipped his phone into his pocket.

They found their seats and waited for the house lights to dim. The players took the stage – the men in their slim-fit tuxes and bow ties, the women in their slinky sequined gowns and long gloves. The white-jacketed band was gleaming perfection.

Eugene and Angie were thrown backward to that time of musical wonder, that golden hit parade of yesterday. They swung to Ain’t No Mountain High Enough, grooved to Dancing in the Street, and danced slow to My Girl.

The performers, many of whom had not even been born during the Golden Age, stood in for Marvin Gaye and Tammi Terrell, for the Vandellas, the Miracles, and the Temptations.

Eugene was surprised to find he still remembered the lyrics to Reach Out (I’ll Be There). Angie sang along to I Hear a Symphony. She sang it to Eugene. She put her head on his shoulder for Ooo Baby Baby.

“That’s right, this is our music,” Eugene thought. “All you young folks could take a lesson in romance from the Supremes. You could learn how to be gentlemen from the Four Tops.”

The pair wore bright smiles as they exited the theater.

“Well, I am proud of you, Eugene; you stayed on your feet the whole show.” Angie watched his gait as they walked toward the car. “Eugene, you’re not limping.”

“I’m not? Well, what do you know?”

“It must have been all that fine Motown music.”

“It must have been the fine company,” he replied.

They arrived at the car, and he opened the door for her. He smiled to himself as he closed it and walked around the car with a spring in his step.

And Eugene and Angie rode home after their first night out in years.

* * *

Angie Walker dug through a pile of boxes in the attic. It had been so long, she couldn’t remember how she had organized it. 1970 was a trip, all right. But what next…what next?

She found a smallish box, but sturdy, and turned it over in her hand. It was taped up tight; surely the air was preserved. She looked for the date, the little code written in a bottom corner in tiny numerals: 1973.

“1973,” she said. “Our first child. That was certainly a good year.” She held the box to her cheek and felt the warmth of the year pressing through.

That afternoon, Angie entered the post office with her package, addressed to one Eugene Walker.

“Very light,” the postal clerk said as she weighed the box. “You’ll get by with $4.25 First Class. Anything fragile, liquid, or perishable?” she asked.

Fragile? Perhaps. What is life but one fragile memory after another? And oh, the liquidity and fluidity of time…

But perishable?

“No,” she said.