Forty-One

On the lowest rack, beside the foot of the iron stair, the frost comes away in sheets. Under it is not ice but a wooden box with an old state archive's name stenciled on the lid. It is packed with cotton, and in the cotton stand brown wax cylinders in rows, each in a cardboard sleeve. There are forty-one.

A catalog card is tied to the lid with string: Songs, mostly. Some not to be played for outsiders.

There is no machine in the room to play them on. You turn one in its sleeve, and the sleeve says only the name of a creek and a day of the week.

Under the catalog card is a second one, newer, typed:

Claims received: three families, one university. Not played.

You take none. You tie both cards back onto the lid the way they were tied. You find you are holding your breath, so as not to fog the sleeves.

The compressor stops. In the quiet the wax settles with a small dry tick, and the frost begins to grow back over the lid.