The rain rolled on. Will took a shower and, a couple hours later, another. The novelty of hot water had long gone, but he had no other means of killing time. If he could have found a way to kick his bowels and bladder into action, he’d have done so. The myriad cups of coffee had helped a bit, but now his stomach was starting to protest. It was the first time since he’d left the Cities that he missed having a stereo or television. He had a couple of books, but they had been favorites, and there wasn’t one of them he’d read at least half a dozen times.
Will made a sandwich. He ate a sandwich. He looked out the back door a dozen times. No sign of a let up. He quashed the urge to dash to his truck and head to the Muni. There was a genuine risk of getting shitfaced, and what that would result in was nothing he wanted to consider, much less risk. He added a second beer to the one he’d had with the bacon lettuce and tomato. Finally, at last accepting there was no other means available to put off what he’d been avoiding for weeks. He left the kitchen and plodded up the steps, on his way the attic.
It was dark. What light made its way through the plastic was barely enough to illuminate the stairway. It didn’t improve a great deal when his head cleared the floor level, but once Will’s eyes adjusted, he could see well enough. The attic had lost much of its mystique due to Maartens’ efforts. There were no cobwebs or dust. The lights that used to dangle from the ceiling had made it eerier. The yellowish light from the forty watt bulbs could never reach the corners, and the, to Will as a boy, had always triggered thoughts of dead relatives. That smell was gone, too. The new decking laid over the roof boards had replaced the mustiness with the faint aroma of fresh lumber. He tried with a deep sniff to trigger a remnant memory, but new wood was all he could smell. There wasn’t even a hint of bat poop. His mother’s stories of a crazy Uncle having been locked up here for years hadn’t helped much. The odd scatterings of old furniture and boxes of books and photo albums did little to dispel a young boy’s trepidation.
Most of the old furniture was gone. What had been there weren’t treasured antiques. Most of it had been well worn chairs and sofas from the late thirties and early forties, standard, functional homeware straight from Sears and Montgomery Wards. Threadbare but functional, the upholstery worn beyond Nan’s toleration, but suitable enough for handing down to someone in need. His grandparents were solid pragmatists. They furnished according to need, not fashion. And what had crowded the third floor wouldn’t have been in line with Ken Maartens’ vision of historically appropriate. But it was gone. All that remained were a set of four solid but plain oak chairs and folding wooden table. The rest of it had to have been moved out, along with the main house furnishings after his grandmother had died. Will could only think that had been the work of his father. There would have been no sorting for treasures or parceling out to specific friends.
Nan had outlived her family, and his grandfather was the last Limburg Rijsbergen in Minnesota. Those that had left did little to keep in touch, and he’d been the youngest. Will had heard mention of great uncles and aunts, nieces and nephews, scattered around the northwestern United States, but as far as Will understood, there hadn’t been much maintaining of family ties once Gran’s brother had made to the South Dakota border. He imagined his father had simply hired somebody to clean out the house, unload the contents however they could, and nail the doors shut. Will knew for a fact that Nan’s funeral was the last trip he’d made west of the Minneapolis suburbs. Will had found that a hard thing to resent when it came to his dad. At least the old man had made it to the funeral.
Without the furniture, all that was there was an irregular stack of sharp angles, tucked tightly beneath a blue plastic tarp, the same stuff that covered the roof. It was held in place by a netting of crisscrossed bungee cords. Will had it uncovered in scarcely a minute, unhooking the straps and leaving them where they dropped. When the tarp was balled up and tossed toward a corner, he was standing over a couple of steamer trunks, atop of which were piled several taped heavy cardboard boxes, some crates, and in the middle of that stack, a small cedar chest this size of an infant’s casket. Fitting, he thought, as the image flashed in his head.
Will stared down at it, for how long he wasn’t sure. It was nestled between a pair of crates, which through the slats he could make out picture frames. At any other time, he’d have taken some pleasure, perhaps even relief, in that not all memory had been dumped and discarded. Memory had dragged him up here, at last, but it was not fond reminiscence. What was inside that simple but elegant hinged box had dragged him up the steps, but at the same time had kept him camped out on the main floor. It was what had made his heart sink at Maartens’ mention of “crates and boxes.” He’d been holding out some hope that this had been carried from the house, the chest sold after its contents had been dumped and either burned or sent to some landfill. This whole thing would have been simple, if that had been the case. Fix it all up, sell it, and live the rest of his life spending daddy’s money in a way that would aggravate him most. Simple.
Will was breathing heavy as he reached into the stack, caught the handles at each end, and lifted it out of the center of the stack. He carried it a few feet from the pile and set it on the floor. He dropped down in front of it, chest still heaving. The hope that all that was inside it was baby clothes and a few mementos was dashed the instant he hefted it. It was too heavy for that. It was full of paper, had always been. More and more, year by year, diaries, journals, wire bound notebooks. The documentation of a life too short in years and too long in living it, the thoughts and dreams of a pubescent young lady to the rants and delusions of a mad housewife.
“Why are we going to Gran and Nan’s?”
“To start a new chapter, Willy-Billie-silly boy.”
“But I’ve got school for three more days.”
“And now you don’t. Any other kid would call himself lucky, little Billie, to have his mom carry him away to the country for a little rest and relaxation. Mom needs to pick back up where she just left off. And Gran and Nan need to see their only grandchild.”
“Dad’s going to be mad, again, mom. We can go Saturday, or even Friday night.”
“I’d tell you ‘fuck Dad’, Billie, but that’s supposed to be my job. But it’s been a long time since he’s let me do my job. He’s afraid you’ll wind up with a little brother or sister. If he doesn’t want you to have a little brother or sister, and he won’t let me fuck him, there’s no point in waiting until the weekend. So, we’re leaving, and leaving now, so that means Daddy-o is just going to have to fuck himself.”
Staring again. Will reached to the box, flicked at the hasp that hung from the lid, watched it drop back over the eye. If only this thing had a lock, and the key had been lost. With a sign, he stood, lifted the simple but elegant chest, and made his way back downstairs.
+ + +
Back at it and don’t feel any imminent slow down looming. So, there.