Zoey Cummings and the Box of Time

1. The Birthday Rule

She first realized there was something special, something different about her when she was four years old. It was on the afternoon of her birthday party…

* * * * * *

All of the children were gathered in the backyard. Mrs. Cummings had just finished leading them in a spirited rendition of “Pin-the-Tale-on-Miss Piggy.” And now the moms had clustered in the far corner of the yard, near the barbecue where hot dogs and hamburgers were sizzling on the grill. Mrs. Cummings and two other moms were engrossed with paper plates, buns, and ketchup and mustard.
The children, eight girls and two boys, were scattering about. Judy, Chloe and Courtney made a beeline for the swing set. Brittany and Greg were still busy examining all the areas of Miss Piggy’s body, with tails stuck everywhere, some even appearing on the wooden fence. Rebecca and Martha were sitting in the middle of the lawn forcing Donny to try on a variety of crepe-paper party hats. Little two-year old Phoebe Cummings was crouching between a few trashcans peering through the diamond shaped holes of a chain-link fence, playing a game known only to two-year olds. She paused just long enough to watch her older sister Zoey, now four, wander innocently through the open gate, up the driveway and into the front yard.
Zoey had only been in the front yard for a minute, carefully picking certain flowers, when a man approached her. There was a vague air of familiarity to him. He was much older than Gramp-Papa, with longer gray and white hair that flowed cleanly down to his shoulders. His watery old eyes were a crystal blue and warm and friendly as he ran his long, thin fingers through a peppery silver beard before picking two yellow daisies.
“Here. I believe these two will go nicely with your bouquet,” he said and his voice was rich and melodic.
“I’m four today,” Zoey announced, her mind still on her work. She added the two daisies to her collection.
“Well, then, a very happy birthday to you, young lady. You are quite old for your age, eh?” There was a definite twinkle in the elderly man’s eye.
“Thank you. ‘You know what?”
“Mmm?”
“Mom says I’m four going on twelve.” Zoey held the bunched flowers up to some red geraniums, surveying them. She shook her head, her long blond hair flowing in the warm spring breeze.
“I must take my leave,” proclaimed the old man, “But before I do I have brought a special gift for a special young lady.”
Zoey stopped what she was doing, ran quickly to the front porch and set the flowers down. She straddled the steps.
“I see you when we go to the park,” she stated matter-of-factly.
“That you do. That you do.” And the old man walked gracefully to the front corner of the garden, sized up an area, finally stopping between two large rose bushes. “This will do.”
“Mom says not to play there–thorns,” she warned.
“It will be our little secret,” the old man said absently. “Besides, we are not really going to play here. We are going to do something very special here.” Zoey took a side straddle-step followed by two tiny steps closer to him.
Curiosity.
He continued. “We are going to hide something here, right here.”
And he pointed to an area between the two rose bushes. “My dear young lady, this is–,” he paused, “this is for you. But, I must add, there is a very, very important rule that comes with this gift.”
The old man slid a small rectangular shaped, glossy cedar box out from under his overly large and flowing coat. He held it above his head with both hands for a moment, almost like a priest with a special offering. Zoey had now moved very close to him and gazed from the box to his wizened face, her bright blue-green eyes wide with wonder.
“What’s in it?” she asked.
“Ah–ah. Not so fast, young lady…” And he patted her softly on the top of her head. “Patience. You must have patience… We all must have patience.” Zoey scrunched up her nose. “It’s very shiny.”
“Yes, it is, isn’t it?” He looked into her eyes. She blinked hard, but for the most part, held his gaze.
“Now,” he asked her, “What is your favorite number?”
“Seven.” No hesitation. She said it as though it were the most obvious thing on this planet.
“Seven. Good, good. A very strong number.” He stroked his beard again, seemingly lost in thought. Then, quite suddenly, he produced a small metal trowel from out of one of his many pockets.
“Now, young lady, here is your birthday rule…just one rule. It is the only rule, but it is of utmost importance that you follow it to a ‘T,’ ” he added thoughtfully. “Today, you are four—”
Zoey nodded swiftly.
“…So for the best results we will add seven.” He said this last bit more to himself. “All right…” He swept one hand over the box quite quickly and mumbled something under his breath.
“The birthday rule is simply this. You must not open this box until your eleventh birthday…”
Zoey scrunched up her nose again and emphatically put her hands on her hips. She cocked her head to the side. She looked as if she was going to say something but the mysterious old man put a forefinger to her lips and stopped her.
“It will be hard. You will be tempted. But, promise me now that you will wait. For even though you are four going on twelve, this box contains things only for a young lady eleven going on twenty.”
He searched her eyes and could tell that she was processing, digesting all of this.
“The time will pass quickly,” he offered. “You will spend it growing up all too fast as it is.”
Zoey wasn’t so sure she liked this game anymore. And she started to tell him so—
“Nuhp…” The long, bony forefinger was at her lips again. Their eyes held and connected.
“Zoey, can you make me that promise, dear? It is, as I said, of the utmost importance that you wait. I cannot tell you why, my dear young lady. You must trust me…Patience…” Slowly he closed his moist, silvery-blue eyes and drew in a deep, deep breath. Zoey was certain that, for an instant, she saw wisps of tiny silver stars flow from his eyelids that, then, quickly dissipated into thin air. Quite suddenly Zoey twirled around in a circle twice, put her hands over her eyes, then removed them. She was thinking, dealing with it all. The old man waited motionless, patient.
Finally Zoey cupped her hands around her lips like a megaphone and announced, “All right. I promise.”
“Ah, wonderful!” The old man proclaimed. “Now, we must work quickly. Come on. Come on.” He handed her the trowel. Then, almost magically, he pulled out another small shovel from another pocket, bent down onto his knees, and began digging. Zoey watched him for a second, shrugged and stifled a giggle, then joined in.
“It must be a nice deep hole,” he said, and he worked quickly and efficiently. Their heads were close together and they were both very intent on their project. Zoey used the trowel and her hands to scoop and mold the dirt. The old man, on the other hand, used only the trowel, deftly and efficiently, like he had done this before.
“Can I tell anybody?” Zoey suddenly asked as they worked.
“Best not to,” answered the old man who did not even pause to look up. He continued with his task.
In no time at all, it seemed, they had buried the cedar box deep between the two rose bushes and had pushed the earth back into its original place. Zoey did the final packing, smacking the ground hard with the backside of the trowel.
“Happy birthday, young lady four going-on-twelve,” said the old man as he gathered the trowels, wiping off the excess dirt before returning them to his pockets.
“Thank you. I want to be eleven!”
“The old man laughed and, with that long forefinger, reminded her, “Patience…”