Gwendy's Magic Feather

13

AND WHAT ABOUT THOSE gifts the box so willingly dispenses?

Although she didn’t actually witness the narrow wooden shelf slide out from the center of the box with a silver dollar on it, she believes that’s where the coin on her desk came from. Coin, box; box, coin; it all made perfect sense.

Does that mean pulling the other lever—the one on the left side by the red button, she remembers as if it were yesterday—will deliver a tiny chocolate treat? Maybe. And maybe not. You can never tell with the button box. She believed it had a lot more tricks up its sleeve fifteen years ago, and she believes it even more now.

She brushes her fingertip against the small lever, thinking about the animal-shaped chocolates, no two ever the same, each exotically sweet and no bigger than a jellybean. She remembers the first time she ever laid eyes on one of the chocolates—standing next to Richard Farris in front of the park bench. It was in the shape of a rabbit, and the degree of detail was astounding—the fur, the ears, the cute little eyes! After that, there was a kitty and a squirrel and a giraffe. Her memory grows hazy then, but she remembers enough: eat one chocolate and you were never hungry for seconds; eat a bunch of chocolates over a period of time and you changed—you got faster and stronger and smarter. You had more energy and always seemed to be on the winning side of a coin flip or a board game. The chocolates also improved your eyesight and erased your acne. Or had puberty taken care of that last one? Sometimes it was hard to tell.

Gwendy looks down and is horrified to see that her finger has strayed from the small lever on the side of the box to the rows of colored buttons. She jerks her hand back as if it’s wrist-deep in a hornet’s nest.

But it’s too late—and the voice comes again:

“Light green: Asia. Dark green: Africa. Orange: Europe. Yellow: Australia. Blue: North America. Violet: South America.”

“And the red one?” Gwendy asks aloud.

“Whatever you want,” the voice answers, “and you will want it, the owner of the box always does.”

She gives her head a shake, trying to silence the voice, but it isn’t finished yet.

“The buttons are hard to push,” Farris tells her. “You have to use your thumb and put some real muscle into it. Which is a good thing, believe me. Wouldn’t want to make any mistakes with those, oh no. Especially not with the black one.”

The black one… back then she called it the Cancer Button. She shudders at the memory.

The phone rings.

And for the second time today, Gwendy almost faints.