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door. "Miss Hill, it's Harold Bannister from downstairs. We've brought your trunk up."
     
    She hesitated a heartbeat, then walked tentatively to the door, unlocked and opened it. She moved back by the window as the two men carried the trunk inside, scraping it lightly over the threshold. The sight of it was a blow to the heart. She wanted to tell them to take it away, please, she didn't want it, but they would just think she was crazy, so she remained silent.
     
    "Where do you want it?" Harold asked, giving her a shy smile.
     
    "Anywhere. Uh, right there, by the sofa is fine. Yes, yes, that's fine. Thank you."
     
    Harold's helper was a taller, bigger man than Mrs. Bannister's nephew, unshaven, wearing a faded plaid shirt under his jacket. Older than Harold, she thought, as she averted her eyes from the trunk.
     
    "We took the early lunch hour," Harold said, "so we could bring this up to you."
     
    When the trunk was settled in place, she thanked them.
     
    "Got to get back," the man with Harold said. "We'll be late."
     
    She was about to thank him again, but he had already slipped out the door, and was on his way downstairs.
     
    "That was Danny Babineau," Harold said. "He works with me at the bakery, rents a room a couple of blocks from here. He goes home to Petite Ridge on weekends. Lotta French people live there. Danny's French. I guess you know—from his name."
     
    "Yes." She paused, then said, "I know a woman who's French, but I don't think she speaks it. Just English. Though she doesn't say much either way. Her name is Ella Gaudet."
     
    She also once knew a French boy, and he spoke it beautifully, and English too, but she wouldn't talk of William, not to a stranger. It had been a while since she'd thought of William, who, in a way, seemed like a dream from which she had finally woken.
     
    She became aware of Harold standing there looking at her, nodding, waiting for more of the story. When none was forthcoming, they both directed their attention to the trunk as if it were a third person in the room and might have an opinion on the matter. No point in ignoring it; the trunk was here now. Familiar. Hard to look at, like looking into the eyes of your betrayer. Like Jesus must have felt when he looked into Judas' eyes. But she was being silly. The trunk was an inanimate object, incapable of thought or intent.
     
    "It's a nice trunk," Harold said. "Got those fancy brass hinges."
     
    "Yes, it belonged to my parents. They're gone now."
     
    "Oh. I'm sorry."
     
    "It's okay. It happened a long time ago." The trunk was their legacy to her, along with the money in her bank account. They intended you no harm. They did what they thought was right. Doctor Rosen's voice.
     
    The trunk was black and flat-topped, with the brass hinges Harold had mentioned, and hasps and other bits of brass on the corners. They'd carried it in by two worn leather strap handles. She knew it was very old, once belonging to her mother's mother, Caroline, for whom she was named. She visualized the key in her purse that would open it. Pandora's Box came to mind.
     
    "My parents are divorced, "Harold said, drawing her attention from the trunk. That's why I live with my aunt."
     
    "She loves you a lot," Caroline said, surprising herself at her boldness. But she almost felt as if she knew him. "I could tell."
     
    He reddened slightly and gave a shy smile, shrugging his shoulders as if to say she sometimes fussed over him, but nothing he could do about it.
     
    She took notice of the tee-shirt he wore beneath the jacket, with John Lennon's likeness on the front. Harold looked a little like the murdered musician, with his rather long, pleasant face and glasses with their round frames. He had nice hair, thick and dark blond, parted in the middle. Like a poet, she fancied. Like John Lennon, she thought again. She probably looked odd to him, too. A mental case, living in his aunt's rooming house.
     
    He was shy like her and she was made brave by his