The House on Seventh Street by Karen Vorbeck Williams

swiftly pierce, core, and peel the fruit for her apple pies.
    ON SATURDAY MORNINGS when Winna was thirteen, she went to the house on Seventh Street for lessons in French and housekeeping. She was aware that her grandmother saw these Saturday mornings as an opportunity to remedy what was lacking in Winna’s education at home.
    She could still hear her grandmother’s voice: “Edwina”—she didn’t believe in nick-names—“it’s apparent to me that your mother has no intention of teaching you the things a well-bred young woman should know. Your mother is so busy painting those ridiculous pictures, she doesn’t have the time to bother—but I do. You do want to be a good wife. I can’t begin to understand how you’ll get along in life unless I teach you myself.”
    Her grandmother had explained that Winna should do her best to marry a wealthy man. “After the first couple of years, it’s easier to love a rich man than a poor man,” Gramma cautioned. “I do not care one bit for George Bernard Shaw, but he did say, ‘The lack of money is the root of all evil’ and I know from experience that he’s right about that. Still, my dear, you should hope to love the man you marry—he should be someone very like you, with the same interests and, more importantly, the same background.”
    Gramma had said that if she didn’t marry a wealthy man like her grandfather, Winna would need to know how to keep up appearances and, using her own wits, fit into society. Juliana taught her how to polish silver, write thank-you notes, keep accounts, write checks, sit like a lady, hold a cigarette like a lady, and all the rules for accessorizing her clothes in every season.
    On child rearing she had said how important it was to keep a child in a playpen most of the day where it was safe and that the best way to amuse a toddler was to put him in a highchair, dip his fingers in honey, and hand him a feather. On getting her way with an obstinate husband she had said, “You must use your womanly wiles. A man cannot bear to see a woman weep. Most will give in if you start crying.”
    Young Winna was repelled yet fascinated by her grandmother’s lessons, for along with the particulars seemed to come a scandalous philosophy for impressing others and getting one’s way.
    Eager to explore the rest of the attic, Winna rose to her feet taking the apple peeler with her. It held such happy memories for her. Cleaned up, it might be usable again. It was, after all, a handy tool—a much better implement than any modern convenience that had followed.
    Winna had come to the attic on a mission she had almost forgotten. After the party and her reunion with John Hodell and other old classmates at Kate’s party, she wanted to find her high school yearbooks. She vaguely remembered that her father had mentioned putting them in the attic—or she assumed he had—along with a box of other things that belonged to her.
    On the far wall, she noticed a stack of tall metal shelves loaded with boxes and books. The attic was hard to navigate, but she made her way to the shelves weighed down with old account books, boxes of canceled checks, and check registers. Another crate held dozens of 78 phonograph records and some complete operas in their own boxes.
    Admonishing herself for stopping to look and remember her childhood with every object she touched, Winna pulled away from the dusty shelves. She turned toward the large dormer window and made her way to the light end of the attic. In the midst of the clutter, she found a curiously large open place where a familiar braided rug sprawled over the floorboards. Someone had positioned furniture around it.
    As light from the dormers seemed to shift then dim, and the smell of old things, of decay, weighed the air, she stared at the scene in disbelief. Winna put her hand over her nose and mouth. Stunned, she realized exactly