I knelt beside it. There was a lot of rust.
“Look at what was scratched on the side,” Todd said, and I turned it to look.
“It’s a date: ‘11/60.’ That’s November 1960. More than fifty years ago,” I said.
Todd nodded as if we had found something that belonged in a museum alongside Egyptian ruins. “Maybe there are millions of dollars in jewels inside it,” he said. “Old jewels are worth more, aren’t they?” he asked my father.
“Maybe a hundred-year-old cameo or something,” my father offered.
I looked up at him. Was he serious? “Really?”
“Or thousands in cash. People used to keep money under the mattress, especially someone like old man Foxworth, who I heard was a real tightwad unless it was for the church,” Todd said, wishing that we would find money.
Dad smiled at him. “Well, he’s not wrong. People still hide mone
y in their homes. They’re afraid the banks will find a way to steal it. Anyway, Kristin, we waited for you to open it. Ready?”
“Sure.”
He pulled a hammer out of his tool belt and knelt beside me. Then he put the back of the hammer under the latch and began to force it up. It gave way quickly because it was so rusted through. He handed the box to me. “Yours to open,” he said.
Slowly, I lifted the top and gazed down into the box. There were no jewels, and there was no money. There was only what looked like a leather-bound diary. I plucked it out carefully and showed it to my father and Todd.
“Maybe it has a treasure map in it or something,” Todd said, disappointed.
I opened the cover carefully, as the pages looked yellowed and fragile. “No, it’s actually someone’s diary,” I said.
“Unless it’s Thomas Jefferson’s, there’s no money in it,” Todd declared mournfully.
Dad smiled and shrugged. “He’s probably right. We’re about finished here. The foundation is in pretty good shape. Whoever the buyer is could build on it if he wants. I’ll just make a few notes, and we’ll head out.”
I put the diary back into the box and went to our truck. After I got in, I put the box on the seat and then sat back and took out the diary again.
The very first page identified whose it was. It read: Christopher’s Diary.
I thought for a moment. Christopher? Who was Christopher? Was he one of Malcolm Foxworth’s servants or relatives?
I read the first page.
When I was twelve years old, I read “The Diary of Anne Frank.” First, I was interested in it because it was written as a diary, and when someone writes a diary, he or she usually doesn’t expect anyone else will read it. A diary is like a best friend, someone to whom you could confide your deepest, secret thoughts safely. I really didn’t have a best friend. This would be it. I thought that whatever was in a diary had to be the most honest words anyone could write about himself or herself and about the people he or she loved and the people he or she met.
How do you lie in a diary?
I looked up when Dad opened his door to get in. He unwrapped his tool belt and put it behind the seat.
“So, whatcha got?” he asked as he got behind the wheel.
“A diary written by someone named Christopher.”
“Really?” He started the engine.
“Do you know who it might be?”
He started to turn the truck to drive off. Todd beeped his horn and waved to us, and Dad waved back.
“Christopher, huh? Well, it could be one of those kids in the attic. I seem to remember now that the older boy was named Christopher.” He glanced at me. “It might be nothing but someone’s silly ramblings, Kristin. More garbage about the Foxworth family. I wouldn’t waste my time reading it.”
He looked at the diary. I put it away.