Sixty-Nine

YouStoreIt Self-Storage in Framingham had been hiding in plain sight just off the Mass Pike. I had driven past it dozens of times on the way to visit my mother. I never knew she had a unit here. The building matched the drawing on the handwritten bill. A tall lobby faced customers, while a phalanx of garage doors, entryways to storage, ran down the side of the low building.

I pushed through the glass doors into the office. An older woman sat behind the desk, wearing a red YouStoreIt collared shirt and jeans. She had crinkly eyes and weathered skin. She watched a large HDTV that was mounted on the wall as talking heads blabbed on the screen and words scrolled across the bottom: Iranian Saber Rattling.

I asked, “How’s the news?”

She answered with a husky smoker’s voice. “The world’s ending tomorrow. It has been for years.”

I placed the bill on her desk. “I’m here to pay Angelina Tucker’s bill. I’m closing the account.”

The woman picked up the bill. “I’d been expecting this. Poor Angelina. Are you her son? Are you Aloysius?”

I nodded.

“I’m so sorry for your loss.”

I nodded again. “Thanks. I’m surprised she mentioned me.”

She held out her hand. “She talked about you all the time. I’m C.C.”

We shook. “Did you know my mother well?”

“She used to come here every week. Usually on Sundays, but sometimes she’d come if the world’s news got especially bad.”

“Really? What’s here?”

C.C. peered at me. “You don’t know?”

“No. I never knew my mother had this place.”

“That’s so sad. I would have expected her to share this with you. You’re John’s son, after all.”

“Shared what?”

“I’ll show you.”

We left the office and walked through the cool September air. Summer was definitely over. YouStoreIt consisted of three long buildings with wide white doors spaced along the sides. C.C. led me to the closest building and we walked down its length.

“Your mother had a ten by ten unit,” C.C. said. “About the size of a small office. That’s obvious considering how she used it.”

“Used it?”

“You’ll see.”

We reached a unit. C.C. consulted a strip of paper and entered an access code. “The code is 0723,” she said.

“My parents’ anniversary,” I said.

“That’s sweet. I never knew that.” She pushed a button. The door rattled open, and I dropped through a hole in time.