The Old Army Trunk

And above all, watch with glittering eyes the whole world around you because the greatest secrets are always hidden in the most unlikely places.

~Roald Dahl

My husband kissed the nape of my neck before pulling back the quilt and slipping out of bed. I smiled, half asleep, mumbling a faint acknowledgement. It was 5 a.m., and he had a long drive ahead of him on this cold November morning. His Aunt Jan had died weeks before and, being her sole surviving relative, he was left with the task of cleaning out her house. But it wasn’t just Jan’s house. This was Chris’s childhood home. He had grown up there with his mother and grandparents, all of whom had since passed.

I heard his car backing out of the driveway and tucked myself further under the blanket. With two hours before my alarm went off, I closed my eyes and drifted into a quiet slumber.

Chris’s mother, Nadine, led me through a back door and down a dark, narrow staircase to a basement filled with furniture, boxes, and household wares. I had no idea where I was or why I was there, only that I had a connection to this place. Somehow, these items now belonged to me, even though I had no attachment to them and didn’t want them. I turned to leave, but she grabbed my hand and insisted I follow her. We walked through a maze of garbage bags stuffed full of broken, discarded objects. At the rear of the basement, next to a wooden bar cluttered with blenders and cocktail glasses, she stopped and turned to me.

“I want that,” she said, pointing at a green army trunk sitting against the wall alongside the bar.

“You want that?” I repeated.

“I want that!” It was a command.

“Okay,” I said, giving her permission to take it.

I walked out of the basement and up the stairs, leaving Nadine behind, happy to get away from all that clutter.

The alarm jolted me awake. My eyes shot open, and I lay in bed recounting every detail of my dream — the basement, the bar, the cocktail glasses, and the army trunk. This was no ordinary dream. It had been so vivid. So real. This was a message. As I pieced together the images, I knew the basement had to be Aunt Jan’s. I had only visited the house once or twice years before and had never ventured beyond the kitchen, but where else could it be if not Chris’s family home?

It was odd that Nadine had come to me instead of to my husband. But it made sense. This wasn’t the first time I had received and acted on messages from those who had passed. My father had come to me in dreams offering guidance during troubled times, and even my recently deceased dog had shown up with an image of the puppy she wanted us to adopt. Chris, on the other hand, did not believe in communications from the Great Beyond. If his mother came to him, he would think it was his grief talking and promptly dismiss it.

When Nadine was alive, we would chat on the phone, make plans and even, on occasion, conspire together. Chris and I missed her, and now with Aunt Jan gone, the last of that generation, the gaping hole in our hearts was even deeper. Perhaps Nadine was telling me to hold on to what little was left.

I wanted to tell my husband about my dream, but I worried that it would make him feel his loss more keenly. He was in mourning and had a huge task ahead of him, and I didn’t want to complicate matters. I would have to be careful how I approached him, but until I figured it out, I would keep the dream to myself.

I slid on my fluffy red slippers and made my way to the shower. As the warm water washed over me and the grogginess of the morning faded, I began to plan my work outfit and go over my to-do list, the dream all but forgotten.

At 10 a.m., Chris texted to update me on his progress; he was getting a big Dumpster and throwing out everything. The image of the green army trunk and my mother-in-law pointing at it popped into my head. She was not going to let this go. “Okay,” I whispered out loud. “I’ll tell him.” But still, I was hesitant. Would Chris be open to receiving the message? Would he think I had lost my mind? Honestly, it could go either way.

It was now or never. I texted back: “I wasn’t going to mention this, but your mother came to me in a dream. She led me through a basement to a bar, and on the floor was a green army trunk. She pointed and said, ‘I want that.’ She was adamant.”

I held my breath and waited.

“Is this a joke?” he responded.

I knew it. He didn’t believe me. I was wrong to tell him.

“Why?”

“You’re joking, right?”

“I’m not joking. I hope I didn’t upset you.”

He didn’t text again. A few minutes passed, and then he sent a picture. It was a green army trunk. The trunk was sitting on the floor next to a bar filled with cocktail glasses.

I gasped so loud that my co-workers looked up. Recovering my composure, I picked up the phone and called Chris.

“How is this possible?” I asked.

“When we moved out of the house over twenty years ago, my mother told me she regretted not taking that army trunk with her. She’d had a terrible fight with her parents and never spoke to them again. She told me that the trunk was the only thing of value in the house. Whatever is in there had to have meant something to her.”

“Well, open it!” I said.

“I’ll bring it home,” he said.

That evening, Chris and I sat on the living-room floor sorting through the trunk. Inside were neatly packed handmade cloth and wooden figurines, cut glass, and Christmas ornaments, all from Germany where Chris’s grandfather had served during World War II. When Nadine died, we had turned her house upside down searching for the Christmas ornaments from Chris’s childhood. They were nowhere to be found. We assumed she had sold them or given them away. Were the items in the trunk valuable? We weren’t sure, but to my husband, they were priceless.

— Aileen Weintraub —