It was dark up there. Monica stepped up on the next rung of the stepladder and turned on the flashlight. Before she went any farther, she wanted to see what she was getting into. One more rung and her head and shoulders were through the opening in the closet ceiling. She sent the flashlight beam around the dark space slowly.
It was truly a crawl space, the roof pressing down on the attic floor. Head room, she thought, only for a Lilliputian, or a small army of Lilliputians. The floor of the crawl space was covered with a thick carpet of fine black dirt, and every corner and roof beam was draped with ragged clouds of cobwebs. And, as far as she could see, there was nothing else.
So Laurita’s guess was right, she thought. There’s nothing of my mother’s here. Feeling a mixture of disappointment and relief, she reached for the hinged door, ready to close it, the beam of her flashlight searching for possible spiders. That was when she saw it: a can pushed into a corner where the slanting roof line met the ceiling, a corner just beyond the door’s outer edge.
It was a round, red can about eight inches tall. Even though it was almost concealed by a cloak of cobwebs, she recognized what it was. An old-fashioned two-pound coffee can, the kind that trendy restaurants displayed along with old-fashioned coffee grinders and ancient spice racks. If she climbed one more rung, she could stretch her arm over the hinged door and reach it. She shuddered at the thought of her fingers pushing through the sticky webs and maybe awakening a sleeping black widow spider. Still, she had to look in that can, just in case. She stood still for a moment, wondering what to do, then she grinned.
She would make one of her roommate Courtney’s “reaching-for” tools. Courtney, who was barely five feet tall, had straightened up a wire hanger, curved its end, and was able to pull things down from the closet shelves and tall bookcases at Raeburn with unbelievable ease. In a matter of minutes, Monica, too, had shaped a wire hanger and had dragged the coffee can to where she could reach it. She dusted it with a paper towel and was out of the closet and on her bedroom floor, ready to lift the lid.
But she was too excited to move. Printed on the lid below a roughly drawn skull and crossbones, was,
Monica knew there were things inside it, things with bulk and substance. She had felt them shift when she was dusting it. For a few minutes she sat and stared at the rusting red can. Her mother—how long ago?—had hidden it away. When Monica finally attempted to remove the lid, she found it wouldn’t budge. She struggled with it for a few minutes and then resorted to hitting the overlapping side of the lid with a paperweight from her desk, careful not to dent the can. Gently, gently, she tapped the lid and at last it moved, making a scratchy metal-on-metal sound that made her cringe.
Now. She pulled off the lid. A faint, musty scent, sweet and flower-like, rose from the opened container. It was easy to see why. Dry rose petals, curling and brown, lay on and around the three items stored in the can: a small green notebook, a collection of cards, and a thick sealed envelope. Monica dragged out the notebook. Inside its cover was written in a small firm hand, “Property of Cristina Salas, 1465 Lucia Street, Los Angeles, California, U.S.A.”
“These are my mother’s things,” Monica whispered, and felt the skin on her arms turn to goose flesh. The notebook was an address book, one that had comments written beneath the names and addresses. Under Mario Avila was written, “He’s cute and nice and I think he likes me. But Laurita’s crazy about him, so I won’t even smile at him anymore.” Quickly, Monica turned to the letter S. There were three listings. First, Luisa Sanchez, with the comment, “Thinks she’s more important than our whole class put together.” Next, Cheryl Smith. “I think we’re going to be friends.” Finally, Laurita Salcedo. “My very best friend. She is so good to me. But I guess she’s good to everybody.”
Monica put the book down and picked up the stack of cards that was held by a disintegrating rubber band. She brushed the dry bits of rubber aside and glanced quickly at the cards. There were some valentines, a few birthday greetings, and one get-well card. She would look at these later, too. What interested her was the last thing in the coffee can, the long envelope that at one time must have been white, but was now yellowed and browning at the edges. It was addressed in a bold, flowing hand. It said, “For Cristina Salas, to be opened only upon the death of her parents.” Below that was a signature, “Francis Mead,” and a February date. It had been written thirty years earlier. In the lower right-hand corner of the envelope, in the tiny hand Monica now recognized as her mother’s, was a note. “I promised El Pintor and I will keep my promise. I won’t even tell Laurita about this. And, of course, I can’t tell Mamá or Papá.”
Why, Monica wondered, why couldn’t she tell her parents? The answer was immediate and clear. Of course. If El Pintor had wanted them to know about what was in the envelope, he would have told them. But he had not done that. Instead he had given Cristina a sealed envelope to hold in trust. The thought of her mother, a twelve- or thirteen-year-old girl, stealing into the attic to hide securely the envelope her friend El Pintor had given her, moved Monica deeply. She was moved even more by the thought that her mother had never learned what the envelope held. Her chest tightened, and she blinked back the tears that welled up in her eyes.
She remembered vaguely—or had it been told to her?—visits with her father to see an old white-haired man in a wheelchair. The visits had been to a hospital, or a place like a hospital. She knew now that the old man was her grandfather and that, according to Rosa, he had died of a great sadness, the sadness of losing both his daughter and his wife. Monica leaned against the side of the bed, staring through the remaining wetness in her eyes at the envelope in her hands. Her mother had kept the promise she had made to El Pintor. She had died before her parents, and the envelope was still intact.
Almost intact, Monica thought, for as she turned the envelope over in her hands, she discovered a section the size of a large paper clip torn from its back. Parts of two handwritten lines showed through the tear. Just a few words, but those words were enough to make her sit up abruptly. The top line showed, “… better life …,” and below that, “… our sec …” S, e, c? That had to be the start of “secret.” She lifted the torn edge a little, and a bit of the dry paper fell away. Yes, the word was secret. Her mouth was dry with excitement. I have to find out what was so secret. But that means reading the letter, and should I? I suppose I should wait and ask Dad. Or, better yet, El Pintor.
Yes, he was the one to ask. But he wasn’t around, and who knew when he’d be coming back. So why should she wait? If he had wanted Cristina to know what was in the letter, why not Cristina’s daughter? Of course, she should see it. As suddenly as she had that thought, another elbowed its way through. If her mother, who must have been as curious as she was, or even more so, had kept a promise, maybe she should keep that promise, too. Yes. She would not open the envelope until she asked El Pintor’s permission. And she would not tell anyone about it. Not Laurita. Not her father. She returned the envelope to the can, put the lid on tightly, and slid it to a far corner under her bed.
Later, when she and Laurita were having supper, Laurita asked, “Well, Monica, did you find anything?”
Monica looked up sharply into Laurita’s smiling eyes. “How did you know?” she asked. “How did you know what I was doing?”
“Because, although you’ve never been my age, I’ve been yours,” Laurita answered, her smile broadening. “At your age I would’ve been up on that stepladder the first chance I got. So, what did you find?”
“Some cards,” Monica said easily. She had practiced this answer, knowing that it would be a half-truth, just in case. “And an address book you’ll want to see.”
They spent the evening going through the address book.
“Mario Ávila,” Laurita said just before they went to bed. “Cristina could have had him. I didn’t want him, even if all the girls fell for him. He was a spiffy dresser, lots of neat plaid shirts, but he was a jerk. Aunque el mono se vista de seda, mono se queda.”
“What does that mean?”
Laurita gave her a look of swift surprise. “Don’t you know Spanish?”
“Sure I do.” Monica hoped her face wasn’t as red as it felt. “It’s just that … just that I don’t use it too much. My father insisted I speak it even though none of my friends did.”
“Well, then, you’re one step ahead of them, aren’t you? As for the saying, it doesn’t sound as good in English, but it means that even if a monkey dresses in silk, he’s still a monkey.”
“Gracias,” Monica mumbled, and they said goodnight.
Her sleep that night was dotted with dreams. All of the dreams were uncomfortable. In one of them she pushed a tiny Courtney into a coffee can, yelling, “I won’t let you out until you learn to talk Spanish!” In another, she and Laurita dug a deep hole in the backyard and dragged from it a frail, whiskered man who was El Pintor. All in all, Monica was glad to awaken and find that it was morning. She sat up in bed and sniffed. Coffee and other good smells. Laurita must be making breakfast. She swung out of bed and called down the hall, “Am I in time for some of that good stuff?”
“Just in time,” Laurita called back. “I’ll start the eggs.”
Breakfast was barely over when there was a knock at the back door. It was Toni, wondering, she said, how Monica was getting along with Sopa and wondering, too, if she had seen El Pintor.
“No,” Monica said, glancing eagerly at the studio. “Is he back?”
Toni shrugged. “I guess not, but I was hoping.”
“Are you still worried about him?”
“I wasn’t,” Toni said. “El Pintor’s a pretty independent old guy.” She wrinkled up her nose in something like a frown, shook her head, and sat down on a porch step. “Then Roberto came home, and he’s fit to be tied about El Pintor.”
“Who’s Roberto?”
“My brother. He just got back from college. And the first person he wanted to see was El Pintor.” Toni rolled her eyes to the sky. “You should’ve heard the explosion when we told him how long El Pintor’s been gone.”
“Does he think something’s wrong?”
“I don’t know. I tuned him out after a while. El Pintor’s done a lot for him, an awful lot. My mother swears El Pintor’s a saint. Maybe he is. As far as I’m concerned, he’s just a nice old guy, and I sure wish he’d come home.”
“I do, too,” Monica said softly. The sound of the words surprised her. She hadn’t meant to say them. Then her eye caught a movement at the corner of the house. Rounding the corner of the house, wearing old sneakers, khaki shorts, and another white T-shirt, was the same guy she’d found in her living room two days before. She jumped up. “Hey, you! What’re you doing here again?”
Toni stood up slowly. There was a smile on her lips, a twinkle in her eye. “You’re pretty sneaky, aren’t you, Rob? I know I’m just your sister, but you might have said that you knew Monica.”
Rob shrugged. “Sorry. I forgot.”
“Well, I didn’t,” Monica said. “You scared the life out of me. Do you always sneak up on people?”
“What’re you two talking about?” Toni demanded.
“The other day he—” Monica started, but Rob interrupted.
“It’s about El Pintor,” he said stridently. “And the job he had laid out for me. He wanted me to paint the Ramos house; he’d mailed me the key. So I went to check the place out. How’d I know it had already been painted and that it was occupied?”
Toni had an impish grin on her face as she said, “If that’s the case, what’re you doing back here again?”
Rob glared at her. “Looking for you. Do you have the key to the studio?”
“Yes, but I don’t think—”
“I know what you don’t think,” Rob shot back. “But I think we have to do it. Where else can we find out what’s happened to El Pintor?”
“I don’t know,” Toni said, shaking her head slowly. “Honestly, Rob, I don’t know what to do.”
“I think you should let him,” Monica said in a quiet voice. Toni spun around, her face showing surprise. “What harm can it do? You let me see ‘Springtime.’ Anyway, he’s right. There’s nowhere else, is there, where you can get a hint of what was going on with El Pintor before he disappeared?”
“I guess not.” Toni went down the porch steps. “All right, Rob, but please make it fast and don’t move things around too much.”
“Relax, little sister,” Rob said. To Monica he called out, “Thanks.”
“No big deal,” Monica answered. “I’d like to see you find him, too. I’d kind of like to meet him.”
“He’s an impressive man. Come on, Toni, let’s get started.”
Monica felt left out as she watched them enter the studio. And why? After all, she told herself, this is really none of my business. I don’t even know El Pintor. But he did write that letter to my mother that I just have to read and that I can’t until I get his permission. Her thoughts were interrupted when the boy in the red cap, the one called César, came racing around the side of the house.
“Where’s Sopa?” he asked, panting. “I’ve been chasing her and I saw her come in here.”
“Chasing her? Why?”
“Why?” The little boy threw his arms out and looked at her with disdain. “Jeez! For El Pintor, of course. She was way out at the other end of the street. He’ll think he’s lost her.”
“No, he won’t. Cats roam all over the place. Anyway, El Pintor’s not back. He’s the one who’s lost.”
The boy called César stamped his foot. “Don’t say that!” he yelled.
She looked down from where she stood on the steps at his angry face that was pinched and coloring and truly wished that she hadn’t said what she had. “I’m sorry,” she said. “But don’t worry, Roberto’s going to look for him. And he’ll find him.”
César shot a funny little look up at her. “How would you know? You don’t know where he went or where he is. And somebody oughtta know.”
Suddenly he began to cry.
Monica was searching her mind for something reassuring to say when César spun around and, with a quick swipe of his arm across his eyes, fled around the corner of the house.
