Head in a Box

My friends and I were hanging around the Y. Kelsie went swimming. I just rode the elliptical and lifted a few five pound weights. Kurt sat in front of the TV and read magazines. Crazy! Why even come to the Y. Just stay home.

Mom and Dad wanted me home by nine. I cleaned up and asked Kelsie and Kurt if they wanted to walk out. They said they wanted to stay a little longer. I know. I know they hang as a unit. They want to keep it a secret.

My dad works for the water department in town. He drives a PT Cruiser. It’s nice but just a little putt-putt really. I was driving it home when I saw something in the middle of the road. I slowed down and the headlights shined on it. It looked like a box. Maybe two feet by two feet by two feet, something like that. I was the only driver on the road. It was dark. It was wet but no longer raining. I pulled the car to the gravel shoulder and got out to move the box. When I picked it up something rolled around inside of it. It scared me! I started thinking, it’s a body part or something. (C’mon girl, your imagination is running wild.) Carefully I loaded it into the back of the car and drove home. Dad already had the trash can at the curb, so I pulled the box out of the car and put it next to the trash can.

Mom and dad were glad to see me (probably gladder that I got the car home in one piece).

The next morning I was at the corner to catch the school bus at seven thirty. The big trash truck was lumbering down the street. My dad had already left for work. My mother was standing in the garage, which she does until I get on the school bus. The trash truck stopped in front of our house. The worker emptied the trash can, then picked up the box, kind of swirled it around, then set it down and opened the top. He stepped backwards, banging his head on the side of the truck. He looked at my mother.

"Lady, we don’t pick up human body parts!"

My mother acted for a minute like he wasn’t talking to her.

"What do you mean?" she asked.

"You got a human head in there. You’d better call the police."

Of course, I was petrified. I never said anything about the box I picked up in my dad’s car. I never even looked inside. My mother ran in the house and got her cell phone. When the bus came to pick me up, I didn’t get on. I told the driver we had an emergency.

After her call to the police, she said, "Where did that box come from? Chrissie! Stay away! Get away from that box!"

I had to look. I made it quick, pulling the flaps open. It was a head and neck. There was blood, there was fabric, like a scarf or something. Dark hair, parted. Eyes closes. Mouth ajar, like a word was about to come out.

My mother pulled me away.

"Chrissie! Where did that box come from?"

I could hear a faint police siren.

"I brought it home. Last night. I thought it was junk, just trash, that I picked up in the middle of the road."

My mother was furious, but so concerned that she left the driveway and went into the house. I felt like throwing up, heaving up my breakfast.

The police car pulled up and my mother came out to greet it.

"What we got here?" said the first police officer out of the car.

"It’s in that box," said my mother, pointing.

One officer said to the other, "Bring the camera."

They ordered us to stand back, inside the garage. When they opened the box they quickly knelt and the officer with the camera took a couple of quick shots. One officer approached my mother with a ballpoint pen in his hand and a notebook.

She explained what happened. The officer asked me the time of night that I picked up the box. A police truck arrived. They loaded the box into the back of the truck, and all the police officers left the scene.

I thought I was about to get into trouble for missing school. But my mother told me to go into the family room and watch TV. She called my dad on her cell phone.

I heard her say, "The neighbors are going to think we killed the man."

I wondered if I would be charged with his murder.

My dad works for the city. So he was able to get into the police department and talk to the officers who came to our house. When he got home for dinner he had a story, but not the answer:

"The cops think the box you found, Chrissie, fell out of a truck on its way to the landfill. You must have found the box and picked it up before they realized it was missing and could come back and search for it. You done good, little girl. You could have left the box in the road. The cops are trying to trace the dental records. Guy was about 37. Dead about 24 hours. You clued them in on a murder."

I dared to ask: "Where is the rest of the body?"

My dad looked at my mom. "That’s what the cops are trying to figure out."

That night I couldn’t sleep. I wondered if the killers would come looking for me, the one who botched their cover. It seemed like I had just fallen asleep when the alarm went off at six thirty.

Mom and dad were in the kitchen.

"We are proud of you, kid," my mom said. "You did something that made a difference."

"Yes you did, Chrissie," my dad said. But he added: "Hey, next time you bring home a head in a box, let me know, will you. I would like to know about it."

They laughed. Jojo the dog barked. It was time to get ready for school.