TWELVE

 

 Miss Emma sorted through her fist of keys until she found the right one. Though the attic door looked like any of the other doors in the long hall, it opened to a steep set of unfinished wooden stairs. Stale air that heated up with every step pushed into my face until I reached the top and surveyed the area. The attic and everything in it was powdered with a fine layer of dust that made me sneeze. Where to start? Crammed full, it looked like an abandoned museum, or possibly, a fun house, preserved and waiting for someone to re-discover it. I moved on, stepping around ancient cradles, a wooden rocking horse, an old treadle sewing machine, a phonograph, several dress mannequins, dolls in a little wooden bed, and a host of other forgotten and discarded objects. By the time I finished my survey, there wasn’t much of the attic left unexplored. At last, I located the trunk that had, no doubt, been sitting there some eighteen years, ever since the accident that had sent my parents to their grave and me to live with my adoptive mother and father. Someone had written with a black marker that was fading to gray, “Marian and Washington.”

Two lives in a trunk, I thought. This is all that’s left. It was a depressing thought.

A little choked up, I watched my fingers shake as I raised the creaking lid that protested my invasion of its privacy. Looking over the top layer of neatly-organized items, I spied a tuft of tissue paper. Opening it up, I found a filmy wedding veil covered at the crown with delicate seed pearls. Next to it was a glass jewelry box containing a string of matching pearls. My mother’s wedding veil and pearls. Shouldn’t they be handed down to me to wear when I become a bride? Another tissue tuft revealed a carefully-folded white baby’s dress, probably a christening dress, but whose? Mine? My mother’s? I picked up the garment and held it to my face. It smelled of cedar and moth balls, not at all like baby smells. But it was as soft as summer air against my skin. Gently replacing the tiny dress, I next lifted a silver-framed photograph showing a sweetly-smiling, dreamy-eyed bride, who stood alongside a handsome groom, looking sharp in his tuxedo. My birth-parents’ wedding day, caught forever in time. She with the flowing, light hair, the slim neck encircled with pearls. He sporting the same patrician bone structure, dark hair, and cleft chin as his brothers, the unmistakable genetic imprint of the Overton clan. What would my life have been like had they lived?

Lifting out the upper layer divider, I encountered a small paper-wrapped bundle, which, with much unwinding, turned out to be a lovely antique cup and saucer. Its delicately scalloped edges were outlined with hand-painted pink roses. Most likely a family heirloom treasured by my parents. Putting the pair gently aside, I continued to sift through the assortment nestled in the lower part of the trunk. Piles of medals embossed with race cars, some attached to red-white-and blue neckbands, a tangle of trophies similarly adorned, a book of dried and pressed corsages that smelled musty, and a silver baby cup, tarnished with age and engraved, simply, WASHINGTON OVERTON. I lifted a cigar box on which was written “My Memory Box.” It contained ticket stubs, prom photos, a high school football program, a fine lock of light hair and a packet of envelopes tied with twine, which, when untied revealed a dozen greeting cards, everything from valentines to birthday cards, each signed “I love you, WASH.”

Underneath the memory box lay a high school yearbook. A quick glance inside the covers showed me how some things never change. The signatures under the photos, the tidbits of advice and humor were not much different from those in my own yearbook. Below his picture someone named James Poole had written, “Go for the gold, Wash!” While, right beside him Rusty Porter had penned, “Forget the gold, buddy. Go for Marian!”

I flipped through the pages until I found, in the Senior Section, my father’s young and smiling face, with the ambition “To win the Indy 500” printed underneath. Laughing eyes, old-fashioned haircut, my dad looked so full of life, but he was so dead. A heavy sadness tightened my throat. Life. Death. Both seem terribly unfair sometimes.

It took a while to find Marian’s picture, since I could not remember her maiden name. I located her in the M’s. Marian Mills. Mills? Where had I heard that name before? Of course. Eddie Mills. Luke had said Eddie Mills was the owner of the now-dead wolf-dog. Eddie Mills was, Luke thought, the leader of the Night Riders, the gang that vandalized the countryside. Were Eddie Mills and my mother related? Mills is a common name, but I would not be surprised since it seems everybody around here is somehow related. “To live, love, and laugh,” was her senior ambition. It was too ironic to dwell on. I snapped the book shut. Too painful. Too futile. All my discoveries only intensified my sense of loss.

In the very bottom of the trunk was a packet of letters bound with a faded pink ribbon. Probably love letters—so private. Did I dare read them? Was it a violation beyond my privilege as only child of Washington and Marian Overton? I’ll read just one, I decided after some thought. From the middle, I selected a blue-gray envelope addressed to Marian Mills, with the return address of the University of Virginia, the alma mater of all three Overton brothers.

“Hi, Marian,” the letter began. “College is a groove! Of course, it would be so much better if you were here to share it with me, but I won’t get on that old saw again, I promise. I know your folks don’t believe in higher education for their women, and I DO realize you have to work to help out your family. Look, do you think you can get away for Homecoming here? It’ll be a rad weekend—football against you-know-who—our biggest rival. Lots of parties and bands dishing live music at all the frat houses. Madison can drive down to get you and you can catch a ride back easily enough. What do you say? I hope you’ll say yes!

“Speaking of Madison, he’s gotten into a scrape here. He has to go before the honor court for alleged cheating. We know who set him up—can you believe one of his frat brothers? It’s very complicated, but he is absolutely innocent. Problem is Dad will NOT believe Madison was framed. He insists he leave school, come back home and work the farm and pay penance or something. At the very least, Dad is cutting Maddy off financially. With only a semester left to go. What a stubborn SOB Dad can be! Madison is furious and I doubt he’ll ever forgive Dad for this one. He’s determined to finish and graduate, despite Dad, even if it takes another year to do so.

“So, how’s everything at home? I miss the mountains and the lake and I miss you. I know your father and mine think this separation will make us forget each other, but they’ve forgotten that absence makes the heart grow fonder. My heart is bursting and I can’t wait to see you again, Sweetheart. I love you, Wash.”

I rocked back on my knees. I’d just learned more about my family and natural parents and their past than anyone had told me in my life. The Mills and Overton families both opposed the relationship between Marian and Washington. It also looked like there was a good-sized difference in the economic status of the two clans, so this was no Romeo-Juliet scenario. And my adoptive father had quarreled with his own father who would not believe in his innocence. Yes, that would sure be a blow to Dad and his integrity, the ever-upright Madison Overton. I could see how it would estrange Dad from his family. Bad, bad family feelings. Stirring up the past. Miss Emma knew what she was talking about.

I placed the packet of letters back in their corner, knowing I would return to read the rest at some point.

There was only one more item in the trunk I had not checked out, a cool, red-leather diary. This time I did not hesitate. I opened it, surprised to find only one entry, dated July 1st:

What a scum-bag my father-in-law is! He couldn’t prevent us from getting married, and he cannot make us stay under his roof. “I thought you might want to keep a diary,” he tells me. “My wife keeps one, and all the Overton women before her did, too.” I know very well why Thomas Overton, who rarely gives anyone anything, has presented me this diary as a “gift.” He wants me to write all our secrets, mine and Washington’s plans and hopes, so that he can sneak my diary away and read it and plot how to screw us. He’s so afraid my “family of lesser means” will try to get their hands on some of his precious money. He even insinuates that I am carrying someone else’s baby in my belly! What a bastard! A meddling, conniving, controlling fool who’ll die friendless and loveless. He’s even worse than Wash and Madison have described. Read THAT, you old SOB! Wash and I will be out of here as fast as we can get our wits together.

Nothing wishy-washy about these two. I’d evidently inherited my streak of determination from both parents. But another, equally interesting thought intruded. If Grandmother Lenore kept a diary, she surely must have written something about Rosabelle in her life. If Miss Emma and Abe were unable or unwilling to help me find out what I wanted to know about the strange and scary episodes I’d encountered, perhaps I could get the down-low from the horse’s mouth, so to speak. Sorry about the mixed metaphor. All the Overton women had kept diaries, according to Marian. So, where are they? A family as fixated on history as the Overtons would keep such treasured heirlooms in a safe place. I began another search of the cluttered attic. Likely-looking bureau drawers and cedar chests held only disintegrating ball gowns, rusting swords, and pieces of cracked china, pottery, and glass. Old wooden toys, a mildewed, leather-covered Bible, dozens of yellowed National Geographic. No diaries.

At last, I discovered a closet I had not before noticed. Paneled like the walls, it was virtually hidden from view. The door gave way reluctantly, spewing dust and woody splinters at my face. Phew! Stepping in, I waited for my eyes to adjust to the dusty gloom. Pushed back against the closet wall was a large, old-fashioned wooden desk; on top was a long, rusting footlocker that looked like a metal coffin. It was locked tight. Could I force the lock? Maybe a screw driver. Or a hammer. I bent to peer into the keyhole. Maybe a strong piece of wire or a crochet hook could work like a key. After all, if the diaries were here, a virtual library of Overton history, I was entitled to read them, wasn’t I? Snoop that I was, I’d lost all shame.

Shutting the door, I ran over some plans in my head. Like a homing pigeon, I returned to Marian and Washington’s trunk one more time, rummaging until I found, again, the packet of letters. If I could not find the diaries, I’d read more of the letters. Fair enough, right? Stuffing the packet under my T-shirt, which was sticky from sweat, I found my way out of the attic. I would hide the letters in my room and read them at my leisure. In the meantime, I’d think hard about how to get into that enticing footlocker. My instincts told me the family diaries must be locked inside. I had a fleeting, pleasing thought: All the Overton women kept diaries. How naturally I am following the tradition with my own diary. Someday, in the way distant future, would some curious young Overton get a kick out of reading my personal memoirs?

In a funk, I left the attic. Seeing photos of my biological parents, reading their thoughts, touching their possessions. Okay, I’d felt a connection like never before. But I was left with such a cold, empty sensation, a numbness, a dead feeling. I knew I should look for Jeff, but I only wanted to be alone with my misery and tears, free to feel sorry for myself.