Our Box

CW: Death, grief

"Look, Dad, there's our box!"

"Yes, son, there it 'tis!"

In our Cockney lilt, we'd excitedly notice when we'd hustle, bike, or drive past that phone box on the corner. It was a joyful tradition that lasted decades, until his final stroke.

Our Box was a common red British telephone booth located a block from our house in a town near London. It was our Phone Box because it was the one we'd call Grandma from when our party line at home was busy. It was our Telephone Box because when it rained between my school and home, we'd sprint to it and crank call people until the rain let up.

It was also ours because after seeing the Blues Brothers movie, we had to scrawl our names - mine, Jake, Dad's, Elwood - on the red metal using a permanent marker. "To stand the test of time, Buddy!" my father exclaimed, proud of his penmanship on the vertical wall in the dark.

While my father, Elwood Jones, was my best friend, he was also my exact opposite. His gregariousness matched my debilitating shyness. My sister inherited his charismatic leadership, while I inherited my mother's bookish introversion.

The one trait we all shared, though, was the inability to say I Love You. It may have been learned behavior from Elwood, but we would each make up for it by saying "Thank You" instead. No matter how much time had passed, what task was completed, or what favor was granted, our family's unspoken, strict rule of integrity was to make sure the recipient knew they were appreciated.

After Elwood retired from the General Post Office in London, he cared for my mom before she surrendered to cancer. During this time, cell phones replaced the iconic telephone boxes, and they were being transported to rural salvage graveyards.

I now handle the logistics of transporting these heavy cast-iron booths. Weighing just under a ton, they require specialized equipment and flatbed lorries staffed by skilled lifting crews to move. After delivery, my last daily task is to walk the rows, counting the inventory, and closing the doors to keep critters from taking shelter and nesting.

I had just been promoted when I became responsible for caretaking Elwood after his first stroke. It wasn't too bad, and by making him my dependent, I could get his care covered by my company's insurance. After dinner, when I would tuck him into bed, he would look at me gently and say, "Thank you, Jake."

"Thank you, Dad." I'd respond with a smile.

A year after my second promotion, he had a second stroke. This one was bad and required him to be put into an assisted living facility near the house I shared with my new bride. Our careers were demanding, and we couldn't take care of him. The nurses there helped him recover his speech, but he couldn’t walk or feed himself.

Recently, I sat in my portable office and looked out over the newly delivered boxes, lined up like the Queen's guards. I saw a few doors ajar, and it was time to check the inventory to confirm every box was accounted for. As I readied for my nightly assignment, my mind returned to my father, as it had all this week. Especially today.

He died a year ago. His third and final stroke happened before my wife and I arrived for Sunday supper, eager to share the news of our first pregnancy. That bubble burst when the nurse took us aside and explained why Elwood wasn't in his room.

I had always pictured his death like a Hollywood ending: us holding hands, saying thank you, the final goodbye before he took his last breath. That expectation never materialized, and before he passed, I hadn't realized how important this ritual was to me. My grieving wasn't just for missing him; it was also for the unexpected lack of closure.

It was dark now, but the yard lights cast a warm yellow glow over the scene. I relinquished my angst so I could focus on counting boxes and securing doors. After finishing the first few, I heard an unexpected sound! One of the phones was ringing. Completely puzzled, I hurried down the line of boxes. As I neared the source of the ringing, I could tell it was coming from the one with a closed door and a lit dome light.

How could this be? These boxes are no longer wired! This must be a joke the fellas are playing on me. The door was hard to open on the uneven earth, but it finally surrendered to my pull.

I paused as the phone continued to ring. Thinking it was a joke, I answered rudely. "What the hell, you guys!"

"Jake?!" I froze.

"Jake? Is that you?" It was my father's voice. This is a cruel joke, I thought. My heart's beat stuttered.

"Jake, answer me, Lad." I released a breath I didn't know I was holding.

"How-"

He cut me off, his words tumbling over each other, like he had been running and had to deliver an important message in a short amount of time.

"Look, Jake, don’t hang up. It's me, Elwood. I've been waiting for a portal to open up, and it did! Today of all days! And this is the day I have to move on to, well, wherever is next. I don't know if I can do this again. You gotta listen, okay?"

"Okay," I answered quickly, afraid I would lose this inexplicable connection.

"Jake, you did the best by me, making me comfortable in my last years. I want you to know how grateful I am to have had you as my son. I know you're hurting, and that we didn't get to say goodbye. But this is it, my boy. Thank you."

"Thank you, Dad." I stammered in a sob-choked voice.

"I gotta go now." He said at a slower pace. Relieved, it seemed, that he had completed his final act of integrity. Before the line went dead, he quipped a saying from my childhood that caught me by surprise.

"Look, son, we're in our box!" The audible click of the disconnection woke me from my daze.

In the dim, flickering light, I noticed the faded, scratched scrawl of my father's pen on the vertical metal wall to the right of the phone.

"Jake and Elwood were here."