family research in later years. I sidled along the edge of the stairway opening and began laboriously moving bed railings, a headboard, a footboard. The blue paint was faded and crackled now. It seemed foolish that we’d saved the furniture. I suppose Annalee had been thinking that the little trundle suite might one day be a perfect heirloom, that Roy might pass it along to a son, or paint it pink for a daughter.
Those ideas were too difficult to consider, even now. Too painful. The heart is never prepared for a child who remains frozen in time, for hopes unrealized.
I caught a glimpse of tarnished brass behind the three-drawer chest that held Roy’s little-boy clothes. We’d rescued that dresser from a trash heap when we were living on Switch Grass Island. Annalee had painted it to use in our bedroom at the time. I was a young man, working for Hughes Aircraft at Cape Canaveral, in the race of a lifetime. A race beyond all that was known, to the surface of the moon. The hours were long, but the work was important, competing with the Russians an imperative. Annalee was busy with the house and with Deborah. My work was stimulating and challenging. We made the most of my rare days off by enjoying time on the lake in our little boat. Life, it had seemed, couldn’t be any more golden.
I stretched across Roy’s dresser now, and there was the black steamer trunk, the one my mother kept in her sewing room with a lace quilt draped over it. I was more likely to find something of value in there than in all the boxes I’d sorted through to date.
I went to work moving the rest of the furniture, stopping on occasion to mop my forehead and catch my breath. Good fortune that I hadn’t started this project in the summer, or the attic heat would have been unbearable. All the same, I took heart in my ability to clear the furniture out of the way. Only a couple weeks ago, such work would have been beyond my capacity, but all this climbing up and down the stairs and moving the boxes had increased my stamina.
The trunk was wedged a bit, having been shoved under the rafters when we hastily piled Roy’s furniture and boxes near the stairway. I bent over, grunting as I threw my weight against the handle. It budged finally, then began grinding across the layer of dust on the floor, the brass corners digging into the wood and producing a loud screech. I paused in a clumsy squat, like a cat burglar listening for awakening home owners. The girl wouldn’t come up here, surely. She probably hadn’t even noticed the noise.
I attempted to lift the lid of the trunk so as to check the contents, but the lid was either locked or rusted shut. I would need tools, and in reality, I would probably be better off moving the trunk downstairs, so that I could take my time with it, down where the air was cooler. I scooted it a bit farther, pausing at the stairway to consider the potential weight of the trunk, added to the component of gravity and the slope of the stairs. At times, knowledge of physics can be useful. I mentally calculated that the load should be manageable, provided that I stayed in front of it and eased it down a step at a time. The later problem, then, would be what to do with the trunk when I was finished with it. Even empty, it was probably more than I was capable of moving up the stairs.
But first things first. I slipped in front of the trunk, then braced myself with my back against it to slow the descent. Drawing one last fortifying breath, I reached behind myself, tipped the beast off balance, and started the downward trek one step at a time, each very carefully. One, bump . Two, bump . Three, bump .
The process was going well at stair six, moving according to plan, and then suddenly the contents shifted and the trunk began to list onto its side.
I heard a sharp gasp, which I assumed was my own, and next I knew, I was bumping down the steps like a youngster sliding on his backside, the trunk, now askew, pushing me along, moving
Those ideas were too difficult to consider, even now. Too painful. The heart is never prepared for a child who remains frozen in time, for hopes unrealized.
I caught a glimpse of tarnished brass behind the three-drawer chest that held Roy’s little-boy clothes. We’d rescued that dresser from a trash heap when we were living on Switch Grass Island. Annalee had painted it to use in our bedroom at the time. I was a young man, working for Hughes Aircraft at Cape Canaveral, in the race of a lifetime. A race beyond all that was known, to the surface of the moon. The hours were long, but the work was important, competing with the Russians an imperative. Annalee was busy with the house and with Deborah. My work was stimulating and challenging. We made the most of my rare days off by enjoying time on the lake in our little boat. Life, it had seemed, couldn’t be any more golden.
I stretched across Roy’s dresser now, and there was the black steamer trunk, the one my mother kept in her sewing room with a lace quilt draped over it. I was more likely to find something of value in there than in all the boxes I’d sorted through to date.
I went to work moving the rest of the furniture, stopping on occasion to mop my forehead and catch my breath. Good fortune that I hadn’t started this project in the summer, or the attic heat would have been unbearable. All the same, I took heart in my ability to clear the furniture out of the way. Only a couple weeks ago, such work would have been beyond my capacity, but all this climbing up and down the stairs and moving the boxes had increased my stamina.
The trunk was wedged a bit, having been shoved under the rafters when we hastily piled Roy’s furniture and boxes near the stairway. I bent over, grunting as I threw my weight against the handle. It budged finally, then began grinding across the layer of dust on the floor, the brass corners digging into the wood and producing a loud screech. I paused in a clumsy squat, like a cat burglar listening for awakening home owners. The girl wouldn’t come up here, surely. She probably hadn’t even noticed the noise.
I attempted to lift the lid of the trunk so as to check the contents, but the lid was either locked or rusted shut. I would need tools, and in reality, I would probably be better off moving the trunk downstairs, so that I could take my time with it, down where the air was cooler. I scooted it a bit farther, pausing at the stairway to consider the potential weight of the trunk, added to the component of gravity and the slope of the stairs. At times, knowledge of physics can be useful. I mentally calculated that the load should be manageable, provided that I stayed in front of it and eased it down a step at a time. The later problem, then, would be what to do with the trunk when I was finished with it. Even empty, it was probably more than I was capable of moving up the stairs.
But first things first. I slipped in front of the trunk, then braced myself with my back against it to slow the descent. Drawing one last fortifying breath, I reached behind myself, tipped the beast off balance, and started the downward trek one step at a time, each very carefully. One, bump . Two, bump . Three, bump .
The process was going well at stair six, moving according to plan, and then suddenly the contents shifted and the trunk began to list onto its side.
I heard a sharp gasp, which I assumed was my own, and next I knew, I was bumping down the steps like a youngster sliding on his backside, the trunk, now askew, pushing me along, moving
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