by Elizabeth Carlson

Illustration by Judy Vonkrogh

My mother drove past the sign that said WELCOME TO MORRISTOWN, turned left, and stopped in front of Grandma Clark's house. Wearing an expression I knew well, she said, "I don't want you bothering your Uncle George about those old souvenirs. He has more important things on his mind."

For a second I lost my determination. The box of treasures was probably long gone from the secret compartment in the table leg. Yet when Grandma first showed me the hiding place she said, "No one outside the family knows about this because it's where I keep my purse." Grandma said the table came from Virginia City and that gambling men hid their gold in the cubbyhole.

On my first summer visit alone to Morristown, Grandma placed a few postcards into a shoebox to amuse me. It became a game to find treasures for the box: an imitation pearl brooch the next summer, a cat's eye alley marble added the year I was nine, a few copper coins and a string of Indian beads when I was ten or eleven. Grandma kept the box in the table's hollow leg.

Last spring, right after my twelfth birthday, Grandma wrote she'd added the best treasure of all, a tiny music box. Before I had time to appreciate the new gift, Grandma had a stroke; then she died. A letter followed from Uncle George to say he was selling the house and getting rid of the contents. That's when my mother decided to visit Morristown.

I ate a third gingersnap and started on the raisin bread. If Grandma had been alive, we'd have strawberry tarts. Even though mother said not to, I intended asking about the table and was waiting for the right time. Finally, unable to keep quiet any longer, I said, "Where's Grandma's table?"

"In the confusion I forgot the hollow leg," Uncle George said. "I sold all the old furniture to Oly, the secondhand dealer."

I raced the three blocks to Oly's shop and found the door tightly bolted. When I returned the next morning, Oly said he had no idea who'd bought the table.

"Don't you give a receipt?" I asked.

"Cash," Oly said, and he began to sweep. "Got a namebook over there--take a look if you want," he said, softening. Two hours later, fingers smudged, I had seven people who'd bought old tables.

On the walk back to my uncle's, I thought about the importance of the treasures, and how nothing would make me give them up. Collecting them began as a game, but the treasures became more than toys. Grandma spent hours telling me the history of each until I knew the stories by heart. My whole life was wrapped up in the gifts. Grandma called it heritage.

Armed with a telephone directory I got to work. Mother, on her way to the car with a box of dishes said, "The table could be miles away. People only pass through Morristown."

"Who'd lug a heavy thing like Grandma's table far?" I argued. By quarter after four I'd eliminated all but two names, both at the old end of town. I decided to get some fresh air and visit the people in person.

After a straight no at the first house I headed for the last, an old place set far back in the trees. But the need to find the table pulled me up the long driveway and eight steps to an enclosed sunporch--without any sun. In full view, a small girl sat at Grandma's table.

The girl of about five slid from the chair and felt her way carefully around the table, and that's when I saw she wore a leg brace. "What do you want?" she asked, in an unfriendly way.

Not sure how to handle her mood I asked, "Your mom around?" I was just about to say something nice when a woman dragging a basket of wet clothes pushed open the screen door form the house. She grabbed the girl as if I were going to run off with her. I was so startled that all I could do was point to the table and say, "That belonged to my Grandma."

"I paid $5 for it," the woman said, and she stuck out her lip as if to say, 'Want to make something of it?'

I walked over to the table, and on my knees pushed aside the center panel. The old shoebox was where Grandma had left it. The woman's mouth formed a large O, and she nearly knocked me down in her hurry to get to the box. "Look, Laura. Secret presents," she said, pulling the girl down to the floor with her.

"They're mine," I said.

"Finders keepers," the woman said and she hugged the box as she glared. Suddenly she shoved the box into my hands.

Now it was my turn to feel badly. "Your little girl can collect her own treasures," I said, but a glance into the house showed nothing worth calling a treasure. The box felt clumsy, my neck felt scratchy. I wanted to leave the awful place, but it was as if my feet were stuck to the floor. The little girl looked at her mother, then at me. She reached out and touched the music box and it sang a note. She smiled, and it was as if the sun had found its way onto the porch. I got a funny feeling in my stomach.

I was almost crying as I picked out the alley that had belonged to my dad. My fingers brushed the music box--oh, how I wanted it. I handed the box and everything but the alley back to the woman. They quickly went into the house and I heard the key turn.

Slowly I walked back to my uncle's house, thinking about Grandma. I could see her as clear as anything, and she seemed to be smiling.