Christmas Passed

by Anita Klumpers

  “Mrs. Konig—”

  “Helen, please.”

  “All right. Helen, I don’t think we’ll be able to get the tree in the stand. It’s a bit unwieldy.”

  “You are such a tactful girl. You mean the sisters and I are too old. No! Don’t apologize! A nice strong man promised to come later, and he’ll take care of it.”

  The phone rang, and they both started.

  “Gracious, I’m not used to hearing it ring!” Helen moved to the stand and picked up the smooth black receiver. She spoke briefly, listened for a moment, and murmured something before placing the handset back in the cradle.

  “Ebbie’s daughter. Ebbie’s ankle is shattered, and she’s still in surgery. But that stubborn woman. She came around long enough to tell her daughter that Miriam thought there was a box of Christmas ornaments in the attic. Which comes as a surprise to us all, since the Wagners never went in for holidays. But there it is. Official permission to go into the attic and find them, and I’m afraid that means you, dear.”

  In the face of Helen’s rueful apologies, Dinah thought it would be unseemly to jump up and down for joy. Some women dream of tropical islands and some of Rodeo Drive shopping trips and some of sitting on the fifty-yard line at the Super Bowl. Dinah dreamed of rummaging through old attics.

  She might appear overeager if she bounded to the attic immediately. Prudence dictated she use a buffer of polite conversation. “The society has done a wonderful job. If these furnishings are reproductions, they’re excellent.”

  Helen smiled. “Much of what is here is original. The Wagners lived lightly and cared for everything. We moved anything more contemporary upstairs. The Christmas tree will be our finishing touch. There are lights—genuinely old and, according to the dealer, never used. First my husband will check over every inch. He was born understanding the mystery of electricity. But we can’t hang ornaments until the lights are strung. I’m curious about the ones in the attic. Do you mind going to search for them now?”

  Mind? She couldn’t wait. Dinah bounded halfway up the stairs when a roar stopped her in her tracks. A hand waved in the broken window joined by an irate face.

  “What on earth has been going on here?”

  4

  Dinah waited. Helen and the Lister sisters were no match for a madman. They might need someone with fourteen weeks training in Brazilian jiu jitsu to protect them.

  “Come in, Michael.” Helen appeared unperturbed, but still Dinah waited.

  The man shot through the front door and gesticulated wildly at the glassless window opening. “Helen, was there a break-in?”

  “You might say that.”

  Dinah heard shuffling in the hallway and assumed it was the Listers, arrived en masse, to observe and make non-verbal comments.

  “Ebbie took a bad fall and whoever got here first broke the window since the door was locked. Who got here first, Dinah? Paramedics or police?”

  The man’s gaze traveled up the staircase and landed on Dinah. He moved to the bottom step and peered up at her.

  “Dinah? Dinah Brown?”

  “Braun.” She started down to meet him. Something seemed familiar. “Mickey?”

  There he was, as big as life. Mrs. Wagner’s grandson, the bane of her childhood. He’d heard the song “Someone’s in the Kitchen with Dinah” and invented rude and cutting alternate verses to make her life miserable. She'd been gangly with unmanageable hair, untamable eyebrows, buck teeth, and a full lower lip that she always tried to suck in because she thought it too big. Now she’d beaten her hair into submission and discovered the joys of eyebrow tweezers. Braces took care of her teeth and her full lower lip was right in style. She’d even filled out in the places she’d always hoped to fill out. Mickey Wagner, on the other hand, was gorgeous as a rotten kid and was gorgeous as an irate adult.

  “You look different.” He didn’t inject a lot of admiration into the statement.

  “You don’t.” The conversation would have died there, but she couldn’t tamp down her curiosity. “What brings you here, Mickey?”

  “Mick. It hasn’t been Mickey since sixth grade. And I own the house. More accurately, I’ll inherit it. What brings you here, Dinah?”

  “I’m here to photograph the transformation for the Wagner House Winter Wonderland open houses. And now, I’ll help with the decorating since Ebbie is injured.”

  “Oh. Well, thank you.” He said it grudgingly. “I bet you’re doing it gratis. And if I sounded heartless earlier, I love my grandmother, and I’m not ready to take ownership of the place yet. My responsibility is to make sure the plans for this holiday shindig proceed in a proper manner.” He flung an arm at the broken window. “A hole in the window doesn’t say 'Welcome, Christmas.' More like 'come in and take what you want.’”

  “Careful. Some shards might be sticking out. If you call Ye Olde Homestead in Chicago, they can probably find a match for it. There’s no website listed, but they carry salvage for houses from the last hundred years. Here’s their number. They could get you something up here overnight if you don’t waste time.”

  She smiled at Mickey who didn’t smile back.

  “I was wrong,” he said. “You aren’t different. Still flaunting your incredible store of knowledge.”

  Dinah kept the smile plastered in place as she pulled out the neatly folded slip of paper on which she’d written the phone number. He reached a long arm over the railing and didn’t ask how she had gotten it, and she wouldn’t have told him if he had. One of his kinder and gentler childhood names for her had been Brainiyuk.

  Head high, Dinah turned and mounted the steps. In sixth grade, he’d made her want to cry. At twenty-six he made her want to slug him. “I don’t show off,” she muttered under her breath. “Not my fault if you were the dumb jock.” The accusations of being a know-it-all when she was young—and a geek, egghead, or egotist as of late—always stung. Never could she remember feeling superior to anyone. The more she learned made her understand how little she really knew.

  ~*~

  The upstairs hallway, where she’d expected to find a narrow set of stairs to the attic, led to nothing but several doors. Wishing she had asked exactly how to get where she was supposed to go, Dinah hesitated in the doorway to the first bedroom. This was the one she and Officer Jordan entered earlier from the balcony. It was packed with a miscellany of furniture and boxes and bulging garbage bags. The room next to it was more of the same. Dinah checked the closets and then crossed to the opposite side of the staircase.

  This back bedroom could have been pulled from the pages of one of Dinah’s vintage magazines and she wished she could linger. But that was outside the scope of her assignment. Feeling as though she were violating privacy, Dinah poked her head in the large closet. No attic access there either. Only a bedroom and narrow bathroom at the front of the house remained to be checked.

  At the bedroom door she barreled into Mickey Wagner. They exchanged awkward apologies. Then Mick leaned against the wall and crossed his arms.

  “I owe you another apology. I was going to do it anyway, but Helen was ready to get a pitchfork and prod me. Said she was certain you were dissolved in a million tears.” He added accusingly, “You don’t look like you’ve been crying.”

  “I never cried when you used to call me names,” she told him fudging the truth a bit for pride’s sake. “I’m not about to start now.”

  He bristled, but only for a moment. “What do you hope to find?”

  “You grandmother sent word via channels that there are decorations in the attic. From when she was a child.”

  Mickey frowned. “I don’t remember my grandparents ever decorating for Christmas. She’d make jelly doughnuts and Grandfather gave us each an envelope with a fifty-dollar bill. That would be it. No carols, no decorations. Just the Advent candles Grandmother lit.”

  “I wonder why she’s so eager for us to use ornaments she never did?”

  “No idea. Eager isn’t a word you apply to Miriam
Wagner. Grandmother probably forgot there was a stash of ornaments ’til this Christmas fundraiser idea came up.” He motioned toward the hallway. “I’ll show you the attic. Better yet, I’ll go up with you. Access is in the front bedroom.”

  Like the master, the front bedroom was free of clutter and frozen in time. Dinah turned to exclaim in delight to Mickey, but he wasn’t behind her. He wasn’t in the hall or any bedroom. Shrugging, she went back to the front room. The attic access door was in the large empty closet. She could see it but couldn’t reach it. The only moveable piece of furniture was a cushioned boudoir chair that was too short to bring her up to the attic height, much less to climb in.

  A clattering on the stairs distracted her from further contemplation. Seconds later a puffing Mickey appeared, carrying the step ladder.

  “Sorry it took so long. I checked the whole shed before I found this against the porch off the living room. Give me a hand, would you? If I scuff up the walls or knock down one of those paintings, my grandmother will sense it and call down curses on my head.”

  Dinah grabbed the top of the ladder and together they wrestled it through the small closet door, got it opened, and placed under the square panel that would lead to the attic. Mickey moved in front of her.

  “I’ll go up first. Not from any misplaced gallantry, mind you. One glimpse of a bat, and I’ll mow you down and be out the front door before you can whistle Dixie. But I should make sure there isn’t anything breakable in the way or noxious fumes or the like. Let a volunteer get hurt and Grandmother and Helen and Ebbie will haunt me long after they’ve gone to their reward.”

  Dinah let him and his gallantry lead the way, because if there were bats she would beat him to the front door.

  Mickey climbed the ladder and pushed on the square of plywood covering the hole. He grunted, pushed harder, and glared down at her. She smiled up innocently. “I think you need to—”

  His growl interrupted her. “I know what I need to do. Apply more leverage.” He climbed another step, braced his shoulder against the plywood, and shoved.

  “Ow! Ow, ow, ow!” Mickey howled. “Is there an elephant sitting on this thing?”

  “I was going to say there’s probably some sort of latch keeping the wood in place so warm air doesn’t leak into the attic. Since I don’t see any hook, my guess is you have to feel around the edge for some kind of release latch. It’s probably hard to tell because there isn’t enough light.”

  Momentary silence met this before she heard the sound of fingernails sliding cautiously across the wood—a wise move because it probably wasn’t sanded and might generate splinters. Then a small grunt of satisfaction. Dinah heard a click and a scraping of wood on wood and wisely stepped away from the ladder as the plywood shifted and a patch of light appeared, along with a shower of dust.

  Mickey was vociferous in his irritation, and Dinah thought it best not to inquire after his well-being. She waited from a safe distance while he brushed the worst of the debris from his head and shoulders and didn’t start up the ladder until he climbed through the hole and called down the all-clear.

  “All clear” was accurate. There was no sign of bats or other small creatures. No guano on the floor or chewed insulation. Quarter-round windows flanked the chimneys that rose on each end, and illuminated—even with the weak December sun—a pleasantly warm space that spanned the house. Walls sloped up to meet the ceiling and against them were piled stacks of boxes, cases, and trunks enough to make the historical society ladies salivate if they could only climb to see them. Mick pulled a cord dangling from a single bulb above them. The bulb lit. Everything was covered with a thick fur of dust. That didn’t bother Dinah. It added to the magic.

  “How badly do you want these ornaments?” Mick seemed immune to the allure.

  “Very badly.” She stepped cautiously into the space. Sometimes attic floors aren’t really floors but a series of joists and flimsy boards. This one, however, was a solid expanse of wide wood planks. “I’m going to try and open the windows. It smells amazingly decent up here, and I’m not worried about mold spores. Everything looks dry. Still, we’ll be disturbing a lot of dust, and I’d rather not invite it into my lungs.”

  Dinah examined a window hinged on the bottom. It opened with little resistance as did its twin on the other side of the chimney. Mick opened those on the opposite wall.

  “Cross ventilation won’t hurt,” he admitted. “And it’s warm as April out there.”

  “Isn’t it awful?”

  “We have differing opinions of awful. What’s not to like?”

  “Don’t you want a white Christmas? Sleigh bells ringing and carolers in the snow and Yule logs on the fire?”

  “Sleigh bells? When is the last time you heard sleigh bells ringing?”

  “In my imagination,” she answered promptly, “every time big fat flakes fall.” Dinah was defensive about her Christmas obsession. “When snow coats the bushes and makes everything soft, clean, and lovely.”

  “Have mercy. You sound like you’re ready to break into song.” He squinted at her. “Didn’t you win a contest for poetry in grade school? Got your picture in the paper?”

  “I did.” She smiled at him for the first time. “I’m surprised you remember.” Before she could chicken out, Dinah recited the poem her mother had decoupaged and hung on the wall.

  “Cold white mystery

  settles atop rosy warmth

  snow on red mittens.”

  She sighed. “Didn’t you love writing haiku?”

  “No.” Mick gestured at the stacks of boxes. “Any idea which of these contains the Christmas stuff?”

  “I don’t, but we should be able to figure it out. Most ornaments would be glass, and fairly fragile. They probably wouldn’t be in one of the largest boxes.” She was already shifting a stack of plastic storage containers. “It’s possible someone repacked them in these newer bins, but if you say the decorations haven’t been out for decades we might want to check older cardboard containers or wooden crates or even suitcases.” Mick didn’t respond, just watched her from under lowered brows. She could practically read his mind: She’s showing off again.

  With a mental shrug Dinah set aside the bins. They could check them if they didn’t find ornaments in the older boxes. Mick’s method was to open everything and call out the contents over his shoulder. Dinah stuck to her original plan, prowling the space for anything likely. Against the back wall, deep in shadows, a wooden crate about twenty-four inches square with a lid caught her eye. Nothing about it indicated the contents, but it made her curious.

  “Mick, how are those boxes of dishes and jewelry and glasses labeled?”

  “With exactly what’s inside. Dishes or jewelry or glasses,” he said flatly. His heart was not in this treasure hunt. Dinah could tell.

  “This one is pretty old. I doubt anything on this back wall has moved for years.”

  He tripped over a rolled-up rug and stumbled to her side. “That old box? The one we need to move two tons of old trunks and old furniture to reach?”

  “Yes!” She tried to keep the enthusiasm out of her voice. But from his disgruntled words, she realized she failed miserably. She made certain to do her share of tugging and dragging and lifting. They moved the rocking chair with a broken cane seat, a stack of empty picture frames, and a painted iron bed frame that showered bits of peeling paint, and steamer trunks that seemed packed with lead.

  Everything was a treasure, but right now, Dinah told herself she needed to focus. By the time they reached the crate they were filthy. Although she was itching to open it, Dinah hesitated. “I hate for all the dust on top to filter inside.” She wiped it with her lone tissue, but the little two-ply sheet wasn’t up to the task.

  Mick looked down. “It’s latched on both sides. I think I can lift it straight up with minimal mess.” For all his reluctance and lack of enthusiasm, Mick was taking the task seriously. He unhooked the latches. They gave with a screech of iron on iron. Dinah moved
aside as he lifted the lid, shimmying it gently side to side until it was loose enough to lift straight and set aside.

  They both leaned over the crate, and Mick nudged aside a mass of excelsior. “Christmas ornaments. You were right. We shouldn’t go through it up here, should we?”

  “No…I suppose not.”

  “You want to, don’t you?”

  She heard a smile in his voice and looked up in surprise. He sounded almost friendly.

  “It seems appropriate. But this isn’t my house, my ornaments, or my decision.”

  Without responding, but using as much care as when he’d removed the lid, Mick lifted the crate and slithered his way back through the misplaced paraphernalia. Dinah slithered behind him and leaned the lid against the flat-lidded trunk where he’d set the crate.

  “You can do the honors.” The smile was still in Mick’s voice.

  The ornaments on the top, nestled in what was probably their original box, were glass bells and geometric shapes with sparkling white Christmas symbols embellishing the sides. At a nod from Mick, Dinah lifted this box and set it on the broad-lidded trunk. The layer beneath contained brightly colored spheres with starbursts indented on the sides, some beautiful Old World blown glass in various shapes and a lone, very mid-century American-style Santa Claus. Dinah lifted this box and exclaimed in dismay.

  Beneath, its contents puddled onto the surrounding excelsior, was a sadly stained cardboard box. Dinah guessed it contained candles at one time but they’d melted in the heat of the attic into a misshapen mass of red, blue, green and yellow. Because of the waxy smears on the box, it was impossible to make out the lettering. Mick prodded the blob without interest and then prodded again. The blob see-sawed.

  “Doesn’t seem to be resting on anything level. Let’s find out.”

  Dinah let him take over exploration. At least he shared a bit of her intrigue.