Stone of the "Uncontacted"

PART I

WHITE PLAINS, NEW YORK – SUNDAY, FEBRUARY 3, 2019; 8:47PM

“I can’t stand the feeling of construction paper - it gives me goosebumps,” I announced, as my fingers brushed a small stack of scribbled crayon drawings I had etched during my younger years. The papers, once a vibrant red, were now weathered, orange, and torn around the edges. They had a familiar graininess to them that I abhorred, even as a child.

“But, I’ll hold onto them, I guess. This is some of my best work,” I justified with a slight shrug.

My grandmother, Nonnie, seemed a bit taken aback by the comment, her face overcome with confusion. Nonnie was great at many things, but concealing her true emotions was not one of them. Her animated facial expressions, in and of themselves, told greater stories than her speech ever could. I always assumed this would be her downfall had she ever taken up poker.

“You never mentioned that! I never would have bought it for you had I known,” she protested.

Nonnie took pride in her thoughtfulness, as evidenced by her oversized desktop calendar. Many of the squares housed her infamous “old people” cursive, which I could not decipher until I was well into my high school years. The calendar was her bible: it served as her trusty reminder of birthdays, holidays, and other important dates for which she would send greeting cards out to her loved ones. It also, quite literally, featured bible verses each month.

“Oh, and while we’re on the topic of things I wasn’t a fan of as a kid, I always thought those Highlights magazines were so boring. I didn’t want to hurt your feelings back then by telling you,” I admitted, realizing that I was unintentionally roasting Nonnie. We had a close enough relationship that I knew it would be okay.

She took it well, chuckling as she replied, “Ouch, I would have saved a lot of money had you not spared my feelings. Sorry for trying to keep you kids well-read.”

“What you mean, Grammaw? I’m plenty ed-u-ma-cated,” I jokingly retorted. Our sense of humor was eerily similar.

My grandparents provided a sense of tradition and normalcy that I did not have at home, living with my mother and older sister.

Two whole years have come and gone since I spoke to them. The last words my mother uttered to me run through my mind like an iPod on repeat, “Don’t have children, they’re not worth it. Don’t have children, they’re not worth it.”

I resented my mother for the hands-off way she raised me. She spent most of her time in bed eating and watching General Hospital, while I took care of keeping up with the daily affairs necessary to maintain a functioning household.

“I never wanted kids,” she would often remind me. “It was your father who really wanted you two. Then the son-of-a-bitch died and I got stuck with the responsibility. Had he still been alive, we’d have gotten divorced and you would have been his burden.”

Sometimes I wished that were so.

I never quite knew which Josephine I was going to get: the easy-going, happy-go-lucky one, or the raging lunatic who would kick me out of the house and shower the lawn with my clothing. Now, in my late 20s, I resolved that having her out of my life has been for the best.

Jo would often take credit for how well my life turned out, given our disadvantaged circumstances. By the grace of God, her “intentional” lack of formal parenting yielded two Ivy League school graduates who managed to climb their way out of poverty. I now know better than to give her credit for that.

The practice of digging into my memory box with Nonnie was oddly therapeutic. Although I did not appreciate her attempt to elicit nostalgia by sneaking in an envelope of old photos of my mother, sister, and me.

“Oh, I found those photos laying around in the attic while I was packing. Aren’t they adorable? I also gave a few to your sister when she dropped your memory box off,” she explained.

I dutifully shuffled through the photos, understanding how important family is to Nonnie. Her suggestive glare as I moved from one bent photo to the next weighed on my heart like an elephant. Ultimately, we both knew this desperate attempt was a futile one. My ability to maintain an “authentic” smile until the first photo in the bunch resurfaced was impressive. I reached for the envelope and gently placed the photos back inside. I knew it would be a while until I could stomach that exercise again.

Peering back into the depths of my memory box, I noticed one last artifact of interest, gasping for air beneath an assortment of knickknacks and “Livestrong” bracelets. A small black notebook.

“I don’t remember this,” I uttered suspiciously, as I unearthed the Moleskine, almost dismissing it as another one of Nonnie’s desperate attempts to reunite the family.

“That I’m actually not sure I’ve ever seen before. Y-you must have kept a journal when you were younger,” she muttered somewhat quickly. “Well, look at the time! Can you believe it is almost nine? You should probably get going. You’ve got a long drive back to the city.” Nonnie’s entire demeanor changed, and I immediately took the hint.

“You’re right. This has been fun, but I should hit the road. I’ll take a look at this later on,” I replied with a forced yawn, hoping my eagerness to investigate the notebook was not too apparent. I carefully placed the notebook back into the bottom of the box and packed the remainder of my belongings. After a final short exchange and a kiss, I departed, placing the box into the trunk of my Jeep before waving goodbye and buckling into the driver’s seat. With my foot on the brake and a gentle push of a button, my car jolted to life, the headlights reflecting against the glass of my late grandfather’s greenhouse.

I slowly backed out of the driveway, pretending to proceed with caution, knowing deep down I have backed out of Nonnie’s driveway enough times that I could do it blindfolded at 90 miles per hour. I understood how important it was to demonstrate how “safe” of a driver I am. All the while, I could practically hear the little black notebook pounding deep in the depths of my memory box like a scene out of Poe’s “The Tell-Tale Heart.”

Waiting to get home to explore its contents was not an option. In spite of my every anxious emotion that circulated my mind and body, I managed to formulate a coherent plan. I would pull over on a nearby access road, dig into the box, and immediately feed my curiosity.

I did just that, never second-guessing the dangerous repercussions of my impatience. Just call me Pandora.

With the notebook in hand and a trunk full now flooded with my memories, I turned a dome light on and plunged into its contents. My breath intensifying with every turn of a page. My demeanor become less intense and more disappointed as I scanned its empty contents. That is until I turned to the final page. A small key was nestled into a small pocket on the inside of the back cover.

There, etched in pencil was my name, above the words “Chase Bank, Farmington Ave, West Hartford, CT. Safe deposit box – no. 875”.

“I guess I’m going to Hartford,” I whispered to myself as I searched for the bank’s address on my Google maps. It was an hour and a half drive I was more than willing to make. With that, I threw my Jeep into drive and excitedly made my way to Route 15 North. I had been waiting for this adventure my entire life.

PART II

WEST HARTFORD, CONNECTICUT – MONDAY, FEBRUARY 4, 2019; 8:58AM

The temperature dropped to a bone chilling 10 degrees overnight, but with sunrise came a crisp February day in this charming section of West Hartford. I had not slept a wink in anticipation of the bank’s 9 a.m. opening. I watched intently as a banker turned on the lights and unlocked the front door, determining that she would think I was suspicious if we were to lock eyes. Fortunately, such an exchange of glances did not occur.

With my trusty notebook in hand, I stepped out of my car, greeted by a light gust of cold air, carrying with it the scent of freshly baked bagels from across the street. My lower back was the slightest bit sore from the car seat and I slowly arched my back to relieve the tightness. My heart pounded in anticipation with each step towards the bank.

Upon entering, I was greeted by the same banker I had seen opening up shop. Her blouse was blue and perfectly pressed and tucked into khaki slacks. Her nametag read “Serena”. The banker’s black hair was neatly pinned back and her makeup done meticulously. Not that she needed it; she was young and naturally attractive with wide bright blue eyes. Serena had put time and effort into her appearance. I imagined she was up all night just as I was, making sure everything about her was sheer perfection in anticipation for today’s day at work. Her appearance and aura was a stark contrast to mine. For one, my hair could use a comb and my pants could benefit from some ironing.

“Um, good morning. I would like to access a safe deposit box in my name,” I muttered, like a nervous child asking for a second serving of dessert.

“I can certainly help you with that, please, step into my office and take a seat. I’ll just need to box number if you have it and two forms of identification, like a driver’s license and credit card,” she replied in a professional tone.

Serena gestured to her office. I made my way over, reaching into my pocket for my wallet, pulled out my identification, and took a seat as instructed.

“Box 875, thank you,” I said nervously, as I handed her what she needed. I began to wonder what would happen if she was unable to locate my information.

After a bit of light small talk and a quick search in her computer, she was able to verify the information. Serena then asked that I follow her into a secure area that housed the safe deposit boxes and asked that I sign a visitor log.

“Do you have your key, Mr. Paterno?” Serena asked.

I nodded, opened the notebook to the back cover, pulled out the key, and handed it to her. The banker presented a key of her own, unlocked a small box, and offered it to me.

“I’ll give you a moment with your belongings,” she announced, adjusting her Tom Ford glasses that slightly slid down her button nose.

I politely thanked her and waited for her to depart before opening the box to reveal its contents.

Within it lay a handwritten note, a photograph of my father surrounded by several dark-skinned children, and a pinkish gray stone. On the back of the photograph were the words, “North Sentinel Island – 1974.”

I felt my hands begin to shake violently as I reached to open the note and reveal its message:

“Son – this priceless stone belongs to the ‘uncontacted’ of North Sentinel and must be returned. It yields power beyond our worldly comprehension and has brought me a brief period of enormous fortune. However, I believe it to be the cause of my sudden deteriorating health. Resist temptation and do not make the same mistake I did. You will surely be met with violence upon arrival, so be very cautious. If you make it to the island alive, present this stone at once. Love, Dad.”

Now confronted with the most exciting dilemma of my life, I sat and pondered: should I return the stone as instructed?