The Clinics Box

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“Steven, would you please go downstairs and get the clinics box for me?”

The request came from aged Mrs. White, a tiny white-haired Southern belle. Cindy and I, early in our marriage, were working for her in exchange for free rent in the apartment above her garage.

As the lazy afternoon Southern sun drifted through the gauzy windows, illuminating dust motes floating in the air, Cindy and I were vacuuming the floors and wiping down her antiques—in a futile effort to conquer those same motes when they came to rest. Mrs. White was an easy person to work for. She wasn’t demanding or demeaning or unreasonable. Her wants were generally few.

“Steven, would you please go downstairs and get the clinics box for me?”

“Sure, Mrs. White. What kind of box did you say?”

“Clinics. A clinics box.”

She seemed a bit frustrated, which was unusual for her, so I didn’t press it any further.

Clearly a clinics box must be some kind of first-aid kit, filled with items you might find at doctors’ offices. I searched the first floor assiduously. In my mind a clinics box must be plastic or metal, and it probably had a red cross on its outside with the words “FIRST AID KIT” proudly emblazoned on it as well.

After searching the living room, dining room, kitchen, bathroom, and closets thoroughly, I had to admit defeat. Feeling foolish, I went back upstairs.

“Mrs. White, I’m sorry, I can’t find it anywhere!”

She laughed a little at my stupidity. “Go on back down there and look again. Why, it’s just as plain as day!”

“A clinics box,” I said.

“Yes!”

Down the stairs. A repeat of my previous search. Suddenly, I had an epiphany. Or, at least it was as close to an epiphany as I’m ever going to get.

When Cindy asks me to find something, I usually have to admit similar defeat only to have her come in the room and lay a hand right on it. My problem in such cases was often that I had an inaccurate image of the item in my mind. If I thought we had grape jelly in a large jar but what Cindy wanted was strawberry jelly in a small jar, I would look right past it. “There is no large jar of grape jelly in this refrigerator!” my mind would tell me.

So maybe a clinics box looked different from what I thought. Maybe it wasn’t an official first-aid kit. Maybe it was an old shoebox or cigar box where Mrs. White kept yellowed Band-Aids and dusty gauze along with topical ointments years past their throw-away dates. Maybe it was shoved under the couch or somewhere else unexpected. Or maybe….

It didn’t matter where I looked or what I looked for, I still came up clinics-boxless.

Well, Mrs. White must be mistaken. That was the only possible answer. I wasn’t sure what she wanted, but I was sure that it couldn’t possibly be on the first floor!

I mounted the stairs again, embarrassed to admit another failure.

“Mrs. White,” I said, “I’m really sorry, but I can’t find a clinics box anywhere! Can you describe it to me?”

She did the best she could to contain her frustration at my muddle-headedness. “It’s where it always is! On the end table by my reading chair!”

“Why didn’t you say that in the first place!?” was what I wanted to holler. But I didn’t. What I said was, “Oh, OK, I’ll look there.”

Down the stairs again. Across the living room to her chair. Look down at the end table.

And there it was, just as she had said, plain as day.

I had walked past it time and time again.

I grabbed it and hurried back up the stairs and handed it to her.

“Oh, thank you!” she said. “My nose is just running and running!”

When Mrs. White said she wanted a “clinics box,” what she meant was … a box of Kleenex.