Flavio wondered if someone had entered his house while he was gone. If they had, why had they done nothing more than move a box that was worthless from one place to another? Then it occurred to him it was possible he had actually moved the box without remembering, for himself to find later. The thought made him even more tired than he was, so he shook his head and closed his eyes.
Four hours later, Flavio woke on the couch in the living room. It was almost sunset. The light coming in the windows was pale and flat. He sat up slowly and brought his hands to his face, feeling weak and tired, as if he hadn’t slept at all. He took a deep breath and rubbed his eyes with his fingers and realized that the day was nearly gone. He realized, too, that all the evening held for him were two tortillas, cold beans, and the same magazine he read each night before falling asleep. His eyes fell on the shoebox a few feet away. It bothered him again that it hadn’t stayed on the shelf in the closet where it belonged. I’ll put it away, he thought, pushing himself up off the couch, and then see about dinner.
Flavio knelt beside the box and took off the lid. What he saw inside was not a layer of thin white paper covering Martha’s shoes, but six neat stacks of envelopes that completely filled the box.
“What is this?” Flavio said aloud. “Where are Martha’s shoes?”
The top layer of the envelopes that faced him were all identical. There was a stamp in the upper right-hand corner and printed on each of them in Martha’s handwriting was:
To Flavio Montoya
Box 17
Guadalupe, New Mexico
“What is this, Martha?” Flavio said again, as he reached down to pick one up. He slid his finger along the seal and opened it.
To my husband, Flavio
April 3, 1996
The apple trees are full
of blossoms this morning, and
I can hear the noise of so many bees.
It is a warm sweet morning.
your loving wife, Martha
Flavio stared blankly at the writing. His mouth was half open and he squinted, trying to comprehend not only the meaning of the words, but the fact that it was his wife who had written them. In all their years together he and Martha had seldom shared words such as these. Besides that, he couldn’t remember her writing anything other than a recipe or a few, hurried lines on a pad of paper that, more often than not, said, “Flavio, I have gone to the store and will be back soon, Martha.”
Flavio placed the letter he had read on the floor. Then he reached into the box and took one from another stack.
To my husband, Flavio
January 6, 1952
When you come home tonight,
I will tell you I am
carrying our baby.
Be careful, my husband,
it is so cold.
your loving wife, Martha
Flavio’s breath caught in his throat. He could remember that day forty-nine years ago. His cows had broken their fences, and he had found them walking the road at the south end of the village as if they had a place to go. It had taken him all day to chase them back where they belonged and then to fix the fence. By the time he had returned home, it was dark and his toes were swollen and purple from the cold. Martha had greeted him at the door, her face flushed. “I am pregnant, Flavio,” she had said laughing.
“We made love that night,” Flavio said out loud. Afterward, they had lain close together and stared at the ceiling, neither of them talking. It was a few days later that Martha found out she’d been mistaken.
Flavio put the letter on the floor with the one he had already read. Once more he reached into the box.
To my husband, Flavio
September 1, 1945
Today I buried my poor red shoes
beneath the apple tree.
When I told this to Grandmother Rosa,
she smiled and said that maybe an
empty box is of more value than one
with shoes.
We have been married one month and
it is like a second.
your loving wife, Martha
Suddenly, Flavio found himself standing. He ran into the kitchen and filled the coffeepot with water and enough grounds to make mud. He stood impatiently by the counter while the coffee brewed, every so often peering into the other room at the box on the floor. He ate a cold tortilla and, between bites, told the coffee to hurry. When it was finally done, he took the whole pot and a cup and went back into the living room.
Flavio began reading backward through his life with Martha, and in each letter he, too, had something to say. More often than not, he would remember what Martha had written about, but when he didn’t, he would shake his head and say, “Eee, you should have told me.” Once he began arguing with a letter and when he heard how loud his voice was, he lowered it to a whisper and chided Martha for making him so angry.
Flavio read and talked until it was dark and then on through the night. When morning came, not only was Martha truly gone, but she was all about him. She was sitting on the sofa, her hands together in her lap. She was in the bedroom straightening the blankets and folding his clothes. She was in the kitchen at the small table by the window with a pencil and a piece of yellow paper. She was in the air Flavio breathed. From that moment on, although Flavio never stopped dreaming while awake, whatever it was he had lost in the months after Martha’s death, she had returned to him.
INSIDE RAMONA’S OLD HOUSE, Flavio and Felix sat together on the sofa. They leaned heavily against each other and Felix’s hand still lay upon Flavio’s. Flavio’s chin had sunk down low on his chest and he was staring blankly at the floor. At first glance, the two of them looked more like brothers napping on a warm morning than anything else. Suddenly, Flavio took in a sharp breath. He blinked rapidly and then raised his eyes and looked out the front door. A slight breeze had picked up, and the leaves on the cottonwoods stirred. The door creaked a little back and forth. He could feel a cramped muscle in his neck and he moved his head gently until it eased.
“I must have fallen asleep, Felix,” he said out loud. And for a second he almost remembered what it was he had dreamed, or thought he dreamed, and then it flew away from him. With a groan he pushed himself up to the edge of the sofa and sat there quietly for a moment. His hand still lay beneath Felix’s and he could feel the constant trembling of Felix’s fingers. He spit out some air and shook his head. “I dreamed you talked, Felix,” he said. “That’s what happens when you stand in the sun for so long. And then to be in this house.”
Flavio rose to his feet and stretched out his back. The day outside looked hotter than ever and, worse, now a dry wind was beginning to blow. In his mind, Flavio could see Ramona’s alfalfa field wilting and dying in such heat while he sat inside doing nothing. “I should take you home, Felix,” he said. “Back to Pepe where you belong.”
Behind him, Felix leaned forward and reached out and touched the back of Flavio’s leg. “My feet hurt too much, Flavio,” he said, “and I don’t feel so good.”
And, without thinking, Flavio answered, “That’s what you get, hombre, for walking through the mountains at your age.” Then, he fell silent.
A sudden chill ran through Flavio’s body so deep that his legs nearly buckled. The rasp of Felix’s breath filled the room, and again Flavio felt the brush of Felix’s hand. As if he were still a child, Flavio thought that what was happening couldn’t be and that it was possible one of them had died while dozing on the