Blizzard Baggage

“Junk mail, electric bill, doctor’s bill, junk mail, junk mail,” I mumble as I sort through the stack. “So much for going green.” Too tired to deal with more stress after a long week at work, I want to throw everything back into the still open mailbox. Instead I close the small door and turn to make the icy trek back to my small house.

“Evenin’ Ruth,” my neighbor, Mrs. Larsen calls out. Bundled in her usual blue parka, grey hat and matching gloves, she appears to be ferrying bags of groceries from car to porch.

I return the greeting, waving a likewise gloved hand in her direction. “Really started warming up today. Snow is finally starting to melt.”

“Well, first day of spring was more than a week ago now, so it’s about time.”

Since the weather and street name is about all I seem to have in common with her, I nod and continue the line of conversation. “That late season blizzard last week almost convinced me to pack up and move to Arizona. I don’t think my toes will thaw out until August!”

She laughs and slams her car trunk with more force than I would expect from a retiree.  “Arizona is nice, but a few too many snakes for my taste.” She gives an obvious shudder and hefts the final load of bags.

“Totally worth it,” I think to myself as I scan the snow still piled up along the quiet street. At one point this winter, I couldn’t even see my mailbox for the snow pushed up by the municipal plow service. 

Despite the higher temperature today, I’m ready to get out of the rapidly approaching darkness and increasing chill. “Goodnight,” I call out and pull my own red knit cap further over my ears, careful not to lose the mail still gripped in my right gloved hand. I hear her murmured response as she starts moving the bags from porch to house. 

Noticing that another of our neighbors is arriving home, children bundled against the cold piling out of the minivan’s backseat to rush inside, I pause long enough to wave a friendly greeting across the street. It’s as I lower my arm and begin to turn away that something protruding from the snowbank catches my eye. I approach close enough to see it’s been there a while and it will take my biggest snow shovel to extract. Knowing I don’t have enough energy or light tonight, I put investigating the object on my mental list for tomorrow and hurry back to my warm house and a hot dinner.

Saturday morning, I am disturbed from sleep by the load tones of my cell phone. Disgruntled at whoever has woken me before sunrise on my day off, I squint at the digital clock on the nightstand. The ugly red six followed by a three and seven indicates my caller could only be one person. I push up on one hand, using the other to pull out the phone’s charging plug and press the flashing red talk button.

“Mom, I love you, but the sun isn’t even up yet.”

“Oh, I’m sorry honey, but I just had to share my news with you.”

The chipper morning voice is familiar, as is the insincere apology. These early Saturday chats occurred at least once a month. Because I was somewhat difficult to reach during the busy work week, my mother felt justified claiming the weekends as her own. 

“Gladys and I did some shopping on Wednesday and found the cutest little antique shop on Griffin. It was rather disorganized, but after a bit of poking around I found the most amazing teacups!”

Now perched on the edge of the bed in my flannel pajamas, I paused in rubbing my eyes to pinch the bridge of my nose. “Mom, how many did you buy?” My tone was cautious, as I’m sure I didn’t want to know.

“Oh, a few. But they were just so feminine and delicate, I couldn’t resist. A few are porcelain with the sweetest purple roses, but the rest are…”

I groaned and interrupted the recitation. “Mom, you don’t have room for any more teacups. Didn’t dad say he was going to start throwing away the ones you already have?”

“Well, yes, he did threaten that. But I made him a chocolate mousse and he stopped grumbling.”

Mom called her collection a hobby, but once the obsession took over a perfectly usable dining room, I leaned toward labeling it hoarding. “You have to stop. Dad too. Do you remember what the doctor said about sweets?”

She sighed and her tone lost the excitement from the moment before. “I know honey, he just loves his chocolate so much I can’t deprive him.”

Being a fellow connoisseur, I felt sympathy for my dad. “But we love him too much to put his health in danger. Right, mom?”

“Of course, dear,” she responds lightly. “Well, I’ll let you get some more sleep. Stop by for dinner if can. I’m making lasagna.”

I respond noncommittally, extract myself from further conversation and flop back onto the still warm pillow. I close my eyes but the return to sleep is no more likely than convincing my parents to change their ways. As the first rays of sun peek through my curtains I push my feet into slippers and shuffle to the kitchen to make coffee. 

As the smell of the brew fills the small space, I mentally review what I want to accomplish today. Because the house is a rental, I’m not responsible for much of the maintenance but I do like to keep the interior clean and the property neat. Since the snow is hopefully done for the year, I’ll need to start thinking about the front flower beds in a few weeks. Moving to the front of the house I push aside the curtains to peer out and suddenly I’m reminded of the object that I glimpsed in the snowbank the night before.

Sipping my coffee, I quickly dress and pull on my snow boots. I include my hat and gloves as the temperature likely dropped below freezing again during the night. I gulp the last swallow, place the cup in the sink, and push through the door that connects the garage.  I pause to grab the handy snow shovel and murmur a quick plea that this will be its final use this winter. Lifting the larger garage door, I blink against the bright spring sunlight and move to inspect the mystery item peeking from its dirty white shroud. It took a few moments to break through the crusty surface and clear around the edges.  

Though it was still covered with snow, the little wheels and zipper around the sides quickly identified the box as a carry-on suitcase. “How on earth could that have gotten in my snowbank?” I wondered aloud.

“What’s that?” I turned to find a pink robed Mrs. Larsen watching me from her front porch, a steaming cup perched in her wrinkled hands.

“It appears to be a suitcase,” I respond.

“Why did you leave a suitcase in your yard?” she queries.

“It’s not mine,” I respond, trying to hide my internal eyeroll. “I saw it sticking out yesterday after some of this snow melted. I wonder who it belongs to?” Locating the case’s handle, I wrestle it free of the snow and set it upright near my feet. Straightening I slowly scan the street in both directions, as if the answer would suddenly become clear.

“Well, if you want to bring it over, I’ll share my coffee.” She waves her hand, gesturing toward her house.  “Maybe there is a tag or something on it.” 

I consider the second cup of coffee waiting for me at home, but nod and heft the case toward the neighbor’s house. Since this is the first time in nearly a year of acquaintance that I’ve received an invitation inside, I decide it’s an opportunity I shouldn’t pass up.

Her living room is somehow both plain and frilly at the same time. The Victorian style floral couch is so faded that it’s reverted to unremarkable. The white lacy doilies on the end tables blend so perfectly with the stark white walls that they virtually disappear. Not comfortable with the odd room, I gladly follow Mrs. Larsen into the kitchen. 

This is clearly the most comfortable and used spot in the house. Warm peach accents from another decade blend cozily from the Formica counters to the small chairs around the eat-in table. She pats the back of a chair, indicating I should sit, and quickly reaches for a cup matching the one in her hand.

“Cream or sugar?”

“Just black, thank you,” I respond as I settle in the indicated seat. Looking around at the spotless space I ask, “Do you have a towel to wipe the rest of the snow off before I set it on your clean floor?” 

She places the steaming mug in front of me and disappears around a corner. I hear shuffling sounds from what I assume to be a hallway closet, and she quickly returns with an old yellow bath towel. I thank her when she sets it on the floor beside me, and I gratefully place the case on top. It’s not all that heavy but holding up for several minutes has left my arms somewhat tired. Relieved of my burden I sip the warm brew and hum appreciatively before turning back to the case. I wipe of the remnants of snow, examining it on all sides, but the grey canvas gives no indication of ownership.

“I don’t usually put a name on my carry-on when I travel.” Mrs. Larsen says, echoing my own thoughts. “I put those little tags only on my checked bags.”

I remove my gloves and set them down on the table to cradle the warm cup. “I’m not sure if it would be rude to open it, or not. Should I take it to the police, maybe?”

Mrs. Larsen stares at the bag with raised brows. I couldn’t tell from her expression if she thought it might contain snakes or diamonds. She hummed and sipped her coffee for several moments before replying. “I can call an officer friend of mind and ask him what to do.”

I cocked my head and smiled at her. “Would this be the officer friend you were having lunch with last week in the diner?” I remembered seeing the elderly man in the black uniform when I stopped by Frankie’s for a quick sandwich. I was in a hurry to get back to my office that day and since Mrs. Larsen hadn’t noticed me, I hadn’t taken the time to chat.

She blushed and rose to refill her mug. “Perhaps. I’ve known Dennis since our school days. I’m sure he would be willing to help you.”

Seeing this new side of the seemingly quiet widow was rather amusing. Hiding a smile behind another sip, I didn’t pry and simply asked, “Would you happen to have officer Dennis’s number Mrs. Larsen?”

“Oh, call me Laura, please.”

Happy that the formalities between us were easing, I smiled and thanked her when she offered a refill.  I continued to study the bag as she dug through a drawer beside a newer model landline phone. Apparently having located the desired scrap of paper, she dialed a number and asked for her friend. Once connected with Dennis she explained the situation. 

“I understand,” she finally said after several minutes, then hanging up she turned to me. “He said nobody has reported a missing suitcase. So,” she paused dramatically, “unless there is something illegal inside, it’s yours.”

My eyes opening wide at that possibility, I now considered the case with wariness. “I’m sure that’s unlikely, dear. It’s probably just somebody’s underwear and razor,” she said. Her tone fell short of reassuring.

“I hope your right,” I murmured as I reached for the zipper along the right side.

“Wait!” she said quickly, startling me into pulling my hands back. “Did you sniff it?” 

Controlling another eye roll, I took a deep breath and reached down once again. “I thought you said it was just underwear and a razor?” Grasping the small little pull tab, I looked up at her and she just shrugged. The sound of the zipper was loud in the quiet kitchen. I could smell Laura’s coffee scented breath coming closer to look over my shoulder as I peeled back the front flap.