Into the Free by Julie Cantrell

he asks, working his charm. “I understand. We’ll try again later.”
    “No,” Babushka says. She blinks and rubs her eyes.
    “I’m sorry,” I say. “We shouldn’t have disturbed you. We’ll let you rest.”
    “No,” she says again, louder this time. She grabs my hand and pulls me close to her. She smells of onions and goat cheese, and her voice is wet, but there is something about her that makes me feel welcome. “This belong to you,” she says. She pulls a small green pouch from the pocket of her skirt. It is made of felt, and she drops it into my hand. I have never seen it before, and I don’t know what to say.
    I pull the sides apart and turn it upside down. A small silver key drops into my palm, and Babushka says, “To know future, must know past.”
    I don’t have to ask what the key is for. I now know for sure that it was River who watched when Mama buried her box and threw her key into the water.
    I thank Babushka and River. I promise to return. Right now, I have somewhere I need to go, alone.

CHAPTER 11
     
    I climb up the hill to the sycamore tree and press the felt pouch into my pocket. On my hands and knees, I stab the earth with my pocketknife. I scrape back layers of ivy, dirt, rock, and leaves, and there, under it all, is Mama’s wooden box.
    I pull it out of the ground and give it a good dusting. Then I slip the key from the little green pouch and poke it into the keyhole. Perfect fit. The lock clicks open, the lid snaps up, and Mama’s secrets are all revealed.
    I sit and look at the open box for a long time, not quite believing it really exists. Sliding into a daydream, I remember the day I spied on Mama, how she stood in the kitchen and told me she’d been cooking. The first time I realized she was capable of telling lies.
    A crow caws, jerking me from my daze, so I pull the first item from the box and examine it. It is a wrinkled business card, a bit torn on one corner with a thick crease from being folded in half. Printed on the front of the card are two bold lines that read Hank’s Tank Shoeshine Stand Serving Downtown New Orleans. On the back of the card, someone has written in thick black ink: Glory of God Revival Temple, The Reverend Hank Bordelon, Sundays 9:00 a.m., 74 Depot Street. The words mean nothing to me, and I can’t imagine why Mama would have bothered burying such a thing.
    I look back into the box for more clues. I am drawn to a smoke-stained family portrait. It shows a petite dark-skinned woman; a pale, freckled man; and two tanned teen boys with shiny smiles. I don’t recognize any of them, and I wonder if I’ve got relatives out there. Someone other than my mother’s parents, who want nothing to do with me. I can’t help myself. I feel a pulse of hope. A tiny shimmer of belief that someone out there might be looking for Mama and me.
    Next I find a Bible. Two silver cross bookmarks rest at the beginning and end of Luke. The pages of that book are tattered and worn more than the rest. There are no names at the front, no recordings of births or deaths, nothing to indicate who read this Bible so diligently. I flip through the pages. I find many verses underlined and pages folded lengthwise to mark special passages. One stands out in particular, with three dark stars sketched in the margins.
But wilt thou know, O vain man, that faith without works is dead? (James 2:20)
     
    I return the Bible to the box and pull out a small boll of cotton. At first I think that’s all it is, a soft white ball of fluff with a hard seed left inside, but as I spin it inside my palm, I realize it’s not a seed at all. I unweave the fibers and find a shiny diamond ring, crafted for a woman and just a little too big for my left ring finger. I can’t imagine why Mama would have buried anything so valuable. I think of the rent due each month and can’t help but wonder how much a piece of jewelry like this might be worth.
    Finally, I find a light-blue baby blanket. Three dark letters