The Footlocker Nobody Threw Away

Lyle

Lyle Kuehn lived in a ranch house on the east side of Alder Creek with a two-car garage. He was fifty-eight, a bearded, soft-spoken man, and he had driven a garbage route for twenty-two years.

We got to his driveway at about seven on Wednesday evening. There were four pickups already in it. Duane was standing at the garage door in his post cap, and Fran was beside him, and Irv Feldman had driven up from Wausau and was sitting in his Buick with the window down.

The garage door went up before we got out of the car.

I will say this plainly. It was sitting in the middle of the concrete floor, under a work light, on a folded moving blanket. Olive drab, scuffed at the corners, a brass hasp, a padlock.

I stopped in the driveway and could not walk.

Lyle Kuehn stood next to the footlocker with his cap in his hands. His wife Peg stood behind him in the kitchen door, wiping her hands over and over on a dish towel.

“Ma’am, I have not opened it,” Lyle said. “I want you to know that first. The lock was on when I got it and the lock is on now.”

I could not speak. He told me anyway.

“Monday morning, about ten to seven. Elm Street. I’m on the back of the truck with my partner Merle.” He stopped and swallowed. “There was a mattress and a dresser and a lot of black bags. And this at the end of the row.”

“I walked up to it to throw it in the hopper. I picked up one end, and it was heavy, and I looked down, and I saw the name.”

His voice dropped.

“My dad had one just like it. He was in the Army, Korea. After he died I found his in the attic, with his name on the end. It’s in this garage right now, on that shelf. I couldn’t throw out my dad’s. I stood there with my hands on it.”

“I told Merle to give me a minute. I put it in the cab of the truck on the passenger side, buckled in, and I drove the whole route that way, and I did not feel right about it until I got it home.”

Peg made a small noise in the doorway. Lyle did not look around.

“I called the number on the sign twice and got a machine. Tuesday I wrote a note and taped it to the For Rent sign out front. It said, I have the footlocker from 2B, call Lyle Kuehn, and my phone number. I went back Wednesday and the note was gone.”

I looked at Duane. Duane looked at the floor.

“I figured somebody tore it down,” Lyle said. “I figured somebody did not want to hear it.”

I got down on my knees on the concrete beside the footlocker. I put my hand flat on the lid, over the stenciled name. The paint was cool and slightly gritty under my palm.

I reached for my purse for the key.

A hand came down over mine, very gently. It was Duane’s. He had gotten down on one knee, which I could see cost him something.

“Jodi,” he said quietly. “Honey. Before you open that. Let us carry it to the post, and let us do it right.”