Hell Bound

Bucky promised to send Russell my way if he happened to find him, but I heard nothing from either of them. Graham managed to keep his job and didn’t throw anything by the end of the month. He even got his own phone and was looking into cheap apartments. I would have gladly let him rent my spare room, but I was afraid of him getting further sucked into my bullshit.

Since I wasn’t used to having extra time alone with no one to talk to, I decided to go ahead and find that extra job. Graham had a few suggestions for where I could put my aiming skills to use with projectiles. But once Tony caught wind that I was looking for work, he magically procured something for me to do at home from my laptop. Which ended up being the simple task of organizing, editing, and labeling his personal notes and blueprints. Something his assistant or even Jarvis was fully capable of doing. But he claimed he didn’t trust anyone else, and Jarvis was too snarky. I didn’t complain because it was exactly what I needed to keep busy. And Jarvis really was very snarky.

After a month, I came to the conclusion that Bucky hadn’t found Russell. The only thing I knew for sure was that he hadn’t traveled very far. Not just because he told me he’d stay close but also because I came home one day to find a new bathroom mirror sitting on my couch.

To be honest, I was upset that he didn’t stick around. But I wasn’t surprised. Graham helped me set the mirror up, and then I went to my room to be alone. Where I found a box sitting on my bed.

It was a metal lockbox that looked standard military-grade, even in the same ugly shade of green. There were scratches on the lid and dirt stuck into the crevices. It looked like something that had been buried and dug back up.

I made sure Graham was asleep and listening to music before I got around to playing with it. The key Bucky found was stashed away in one of my drawers. He’d told me to keep it somewhere safe, and I didn’t know where else to put it. So I pulled it out of a sock and sat down on my bed with the box. It looked like he’d at least tried to wipe it off.

It took a great deal of courage to put the key in. I was worried it would be too packed with dirt to fix, but the keyhole was cleaner than the rest. Bucky had apparently cleared it out for me. The key slid in smoothly, and for half a second, I hoped it was the wrong key so I didn’t have to see what was inside. But the lock clicked, and the lid popped up and dusted my comforter with dirt and pebbles.

I didn’t want to open it. Not without Bucky. I wanted him to learn about what was inside too. Maybe it would help him. Perhaps it would tell us precisely what Hydra wanted from me and how to stop them. But that was probably just wishful thinking. If he didn’t stick around to see it, it likely meant he already knew. And the only way he’d be able to know is if he found the man who’d buried it.
Maybe I just wanted him there so I didn’t have to face it alone.

I took a few seconds to psych myself up for it. Then I told myself to stop being such a baby and just get it over with. I opened the lid and kept my eyes pinched shut. “Big baby,” I muttered, and then I forced them open.

The box was full of letters. They were still in their envelopes and wrapped up with twine. There were several stacks of them, but each one looked like my mother’s handwriting. Only they were all addressed to different names in different places. The return addresses were different too. Not my mom’s name, but definitely her handwriting. The only thing out of the ordinary about them was the dates written on the front of each envelope. The earliest one seemed to be from October of 1985.

I lifted the first stack. Might as well start from the beginning. I pulled the twine to release the stacks and picked up the first envelope. It had already been opened, and the paper was delicately fragile. Apparently, about as old as I was. I pulled the letter out and slouched in disappointment.

It was written in code.

“Well, that’s just great,” I mumbled.

There were no translations, which meant whoever she’d sent the letters to must have memorized the code well enough not to need translating. I was going to go ahead and guess the letters were for Russell. Since it was his box and his key, but the code didn’t help a whole lot. I’d have to ask for Bucky’s help translating them. Even then, it would take months, maybe years, to get through all of them.

I folded the letter and stuck it back in the envelope. Then I lifted the next one. It was thicker than the first and dated a few months later. I slid the letter out, glanced at the code, and then unfolded it. Two pictures dropped out onto my lap.

They were rather old. At least in regard to my life. The first was a picture of a gurgling baby lying on a bed. I recognized my mother’s floral bedspread. The baby was drooling and wearing a god-awful red dress with more ribbons and ruffles than any child needed. There was even a little bow in the baby’s brown hair.

I was pretty sure it was me even though I’d never seen it before. I turned it over to read the back. “Johanna. Christmas 1985.” The second picture was definitely a tiny Clara, and the fat baby on her lap was more than likely me. She was wearing a similar red fluffy dress, perched by a Christmas tree and holding me awkwardly. The back of the picture said the same thing. “Johanna and Clara. Christmas 1985.”

I dropped the pictures and the letters back into the box and put my hands over my eyes. I flopped back onto my pillowcase, holding back a scream. But throwing the box across the room and breaking things wouldn’t solve anything. I didn’t have to read the codes to know what they were. I thought back to all the times I’d caught my mom writing coded letters at the kitchen table while we did our homework. Every time I asked, I got the same answer. “They’re for your father. He likes puzzles,” she would say.

Of course, I’d believed they were for my dad. The man who raised me. Her husband. Clara’s father. Not some unknown uncle I’d only ever heard about in silent whispers at holiday dinners.

The letters were addressed to a different name every time. All to and from various addresses. All written in code. To protect me. So that my mom could keep Russell (I assumed) updated on my life.
I didn’t know why he’d buried them or when. Or why he’d left me codes and keys and couldn’t just outright tell me the truth. That was the worst part of it all. I could understand my parents not wanting to tell me to protect me. Or because they knew it would hurt. But Russell. He could have. I spent years of my life training and working with him, and he never said anything.

Unless he had, and it was lost in the haze of missing memories.

I sat up sharply. I remembered something else I’d said in that dream with Bucky and the basin of water. When I was being questioned about Russell. I said I knew exactly what they wanted and where they could find it. I had no idea if I was telling the truth, but it was possible he did tell me. What if he’d told me everything?

I stuffed the photos and the letter back into the envelope and shuffled through the stacks to find the most recent one. The top of one stack was dated 2002 when I was still in high school. I undid the twine and picked up the last letter. Dated just a month after I was discharged and sent back to Ohio. I quickly pulled out the single slip of paper. It wasn’t written in code this time. There was no name on the top. No need for a code because it only said one thing, written in my mother’s beautiful handwriting.

“She’s not doing too well. I’m worried about what she’ll do.”

That was it. I looked at the address and the postmark. It was around the same time he came to visit me. When he’d found me in that baseball field parking lot eating what I thought would be my last meal. When he’d given me the knives with the hidden vowels.

I slapped the letter against my hand a few times. If this was the last letter, it meant he’d buried the box shortly after. This was before I went to work for SHIELD. There were no more letters after that because my mother couldn’t update him anymore. But I wouldn’t have been able to find anything without the book. When did he give me the book?

I couldn’t remember. Not a date or a timeframe or anything. Just the canvas cover against my palms. The scent of coffee. The sound of clinking dishes. It was in a café. Not at a funeral. The funeral was at a different time. He’d been wearing black then. His hair was cut short and only slightly graying. He was wearing a sweater at the café, with longer hair and more prominent gray.

We were in New York.

Why the hell was I in New York? I shut my eyes and tried to bring up the memory. I could see him sitting across from me at a table. We both had cups. The sweater he was wearing was blue. His hair was longer, and he looked more like a civilian than a soldier. There were windows by the table. I could see Stark Tower at the end of the block. Broken. Pocked with holes. A single solitary A left hanging on the side of the building.

I went to the city to see Clara after the battle of New York. Russell was there too. Maybe he knew I’d want to check up on my sister. Or perhaps he just genuinely cared about his niece. I remembered what Clara told me about our mother’s mysterious brother. How he used to send her dresses for Christmas every year before he disappeared. I couldn’t remember him contacting me, but we’d met for coffee, and he slid the book into my hands as if he expected me to read it and pick up the abnormalities and codes. To lead me to a buried box full of letters from my mother.

I glanced over the rest of the letters to see if anything else stuck out to me. That was the most recent date I could find, and none of the others seemed to be written in English. Some were thicker than others as if they were carrying photos. But I didn’t feel like looking through them. I’d seen enough pictures of my childhood. Russell wanted me to see the box, but the letters and photos weren’t meant for me.

I closed the box back up and dropped it on the floor beside my bed. Then I lay down and stared at the shadows on the walls. I didn’t have the first clue about how to decode the letters. I wished Bucky had stayed.