“Should we start in the closet?” Greg asked. He opened the arched door to the small closet and searched for a light inside. There was none. He guessed the closet was perhaps three feet wide and four feet deep. The floor was covered with a layer of crumpled socks and old shoes that looked so worn even Goodwill wouldn’t want them.
After glancing at the pile on the floor, Greg chose to start with the ceiling. Bob watched as he moved the wand back and forth over the surface. The needles on the machine would occasionally bounce slightly, indicating that a nail or some other small piece of metal lay hidden beneath the surface. As Greg finished scanning the ceiling and walls, Bob wondered if they should move the old shoes so they could finish examining the floor. Greg simply ignored the mess, as he swept the disk over the top. Other than the plumbing pipes they’d discovered in the basement walls, the search had been fruitless. Now, we’re scanning Harry’s old shoes, Bob mused silently. At that moment, a screech blared from the machine that startled Bob. The alarm continued as he stepped forward to gaze at the machine that Greg held in his hand. The needles had moved all the way off the scales.
At the sound of the commotion, Laura and Michelle rushed into the room. The look in Greg’s eyes was nothing short of triumphant. “I knew this detector would do the trick,” he gloated. Bob could only nod. He hated to admit it, but Greg was right.
The closet was only big enough for one person at a time, so Laura and Michelle leaned on the bed, letting Bob and Greg maneuver for best position inside. Bob won. “Let’s get these out of here,” he suggested, eyeing the shoes and socks. Like a fire brigade passing buckets, Bob handed the shoes to Greg, who would in turn pass them off to Michelle and Laura, who would place them in a pile in the middle of the bed. Eight pairs of shoes, two strays that didn’t seem to have matches, and seven assorted socks later, Bob emerged from the closet. He stood broadly in the doorway, letting Greg know he was not through inside. In his hand he held a wooden floor vent. “I think we’ve found something. There’s an intake vent in the closet on the floor. It can’t be a real vent.”
“How would you know that?” Michelle wondered.
“First of all, you would never put an intake vent in acloset. Vents need to be in a hall or big room for the air to circulate.” Bob paused, trying to suppress a smile. “And secondly, when I reached in, I could feel the dial of a floor safe.” Greg’s smile broadened. Bob continued, “Laura, can you grab a flashlight from the basement for me?” He wasn’t about to go himself and let Greg into the coveted spot.
“Sure, give me just a second.”
A floor safe? The whole notion seemed bizarre, but at this point Bob would believe anything. “Do you remember this safe when we were kids, Michelle?” he questioned.
“I don’t. Do you think it’s been there that long?”
“Well, look at the vent cover. It looks pretty old. It’s just surprising we didn’t know about it. Then again, Harry was good at keeping things to himself,” he added sarcastically.
Laura popped into the door with a flashlight in each hand. “Which one do you want?” She guessed he didn’t care and handed him the biggest one. Bob snatched the light and then turned back into the closet. Greg squeezed in, attempting to hold the other light over Bob’s head. The beams of light indeed revealed a large steel floor safe that had been hidden under the cover of the vent. It was about a foot and a half wide and almost as long. It was difficult to tell the age of the safe. It looked to Bob to be as old as the house, but then most safes look old, he reasoned. Either way, they had found it. Bob held the light in one hand and pulled on the handle with the other. The safe didn’t budge. “The combination?” he muttered, as if someone outside the closet should know.
“Is there anything written on the door?” Greg asked.
“Nothing. There’s nothing in here at all.”
“How about the closet walls?”
Bob scanned the light slowly around the closet in alldirections while Greg tried to do the same. Again nothing. So close, yet without a combination they could not get inside. After several more seconds of searching, Bob decided it was time to retreat and let Greg have the closet to himself. The closeness was killing him, and he knew Greg wouldn’t be happy until he checked every inch for himself. After a few minutes, Greg emerged. “Nothing.”
“Like we didn’t know that,” Bob mumbled.
“There are usually three or four numbers. Let’s check his desk, downstairs, anywhere he might have written it down. It must be here somewhere.”
Forty minutes later, they had scoured the place and come up empty-handed. Greg was getting frustrated. He even checked every shoe from the closet.
“How about birthdays, social security numbers, anything?” Michelle and Laura began writing down all the important days, brainstorming any possibilities. Another half-hour later, they had dialed in every birthday, every anniversary, and even every death date. They tried them backwards and forwards. Greg would try them and then Bob would take a turn. Both were becoming short on patience. Michelle and Laura sat against the bed, while Bob and Greg sat on the floor near the closet.
“We could blast it open,” Greg suggested.
“Oh, now there’s a good idea,” Bob replied.
“Okay then, I took welding in high school. How about we torch it open?” Bob could see this time Greg was serious.
“You can’t torch open a safe. The walls are probably two inches thick. And besides, what if there’s money inside? You want to burn it up? Not to mention the house.”
“Can we get the whole thing out somehow? Get it out and then have it cut open?”
“Sure,” Bob responded, tiring of Greg’s stupid ideas, “We’ll just cut a hole in the roof so the crane can lift it out. It must only weigh a thousand pounds.”
Laura spoke next. “It seems to me that Harry wanted it hidden, at least for now. I’m guessing, but I’ll bet the combination is hidden in one of his poems.” Greg looked at Bob. They were thinking the same thing. “You get the books, I’ll get paper. Everyone to the kitchen table.”
Of the poems still not solved, it was easy to guess which one held the coveted combination. “It has to be the gold poem,” Greg muttered. “And it’s just not that complicated. If we all put our heads together, it shouldn’t take long.”
Sitting together as a group, Greg read it slowly aloud.
The Hidden Gold
Listen, a story I overheard told,
Of lost hidden treasure, tall mountains of gold.
Oh could it be true? Such a sight to behold,
Kings we would be with such piles of gold.
Assembled possessions were auctioned and sold,
To have enough money to search for the gold.
Health gone, their lives wasted, left tired and old,
Oh, life would’ve been grand, had we just found that gold.
Mirage? No it’s there, just reach out and lay hold,
Each too blind to grasp the true nature of gold.
“If we all concentrate on this one poem,” Michelle said, “it shouldn’t take long to find the clue.”
They had two books between them. Greg was the first to notice it. “I think I have it. Yes, I do—it’s similar to that other one, what was it, the floss one. Take the first letter of each line—it spells, ‘Look at home.’ I knew it!”
“Knew what?” Michelle wondered.
“That there’s gold here. It tells us to look at home.”
“Honey, I don’t think it means that at all,” Michelle replied.
Laura agreed. “Don’t you see, Greg? It’s a metaphor. Read the poem. He’s saying one shouldn’t waste a lifetime chasing after real gold because the true riches in life are, you know, happiness at home, that sort of thing.”
“I guess I see your point, but it seems to me that it could read either way. Let’s read the letter, see if we can find the combination, and then we’ll know for sure.”
Bob ran to the car to retrieve his laptop. When he
returned, everyone gathered around the computer and watched the small screen.
Dearest Emily,
In life, remember the things that matter the most. It sounds so easy but is often difficult. Many of the problems we get worked up about don’t matter. The sooner we come to that realization, the happier lives we’ll live.
When we were to be married, Kathryn designed a beautiful wedding gown. She purchased some silk satin in San Francisco. It was ivory with a gold floral design woven through it. She spent hours working on the dress. It was almost complete when her mother came to town. Her mother was—well, let’s just say a bit domineering. She insisted that her daughter wear a pure white gown and nothing else. I told Kathryn to stand up for herself, that it was her wedding, and that she should wear the dress she wanted. She was never one to back down from what shethought was right, so when she didn’t seem concerned, I was puzzled. When I pressed her about it, she replied that certain things in life don’t matter—it was just a dress, that she could wear a flour sack to her wedding and as long as we were still husband and wife afterwards, she’d be happy.
The wedding day arrived and she did wear a plain white dress. She taught me a great lesson that day. Unfortunately, it took me many years to understand that lesson fully. You see, Emily, I was hoping that when Michelle married, she’d wear that gold dress as a tribute to Kathryn. Instead, Michelle ran off and got married without even telling me. I was furious. I couldn’t even speak to her for months. It took me that long to realize that I was being just as bullheaded as Kathryn’s mother—it was, after all, just a dress.
I’d always wanted to apologize to Michelle, tell her that I was wrong. I didn’t get around to it. The more time that passed, the harder it became. Learn from my mistake, Emily. If you hurt someone, tell them right away that you’re sorry and move on with your life. It gets harder as time passes.
Oddly, Kathryn never kept the dress, the white one she actually wore on her wedding day. When a friend needed a dress for her wedding, Kathryn gave her the dress and told her she didn’t need it back. The gold dress, however, she cherished. I think, to her, the gold dress was her wedding gown. She tried it on occasionally, but most of the time it sat, boxed carefully, in the top of the closet.
I gave a piece of the dress to you, by the way. Look at the cover of your book and you will find it. Now I know that the thought of your old grandpa cutting up Kathryn’s beloved dress will make Bob and Michelle cringe. When they do, put your little arms around their necks, squeeze them tight, andtell them that your grandpa learned the hard way that it’s only a dress; it doesn’t really matter.
You had a wonderful grandmother. I can’t wait for the day when you get to meet her.
Love,
Grandpa Harry
“I never knew he wanted me to wear it. I’d have loved to. I’m sorry,” Michelle whispered.
“Don’t apologize,” Laura replied. “You didn’t know.”
“Why did you two just run off anyway?” Bob questioned.
“Bob?” Laura winced at his words, hoping Greg and Michelle wouldn’t be offended.
“No, it’s okay,” Michelle continued. “I thought Dad hated Greg.”
“He did hate me,” Greg added.
“Well, that’s true,” she continued with a smile. “I was young and scared. I figured if I told Dad, he wouldn’t let me go through with it. We’d only known each other for a few weeks. So we just ran off.”
“I don’t blame you,” Bob added. “Except I didn’t have anyone to talk to after that.”
“Hey, I don’t mean to interrupt this fun little jaunt down memory lane here, but let me remind everyone, we still don’t have a combination to the safe.” Michelle rolled her eyes at Greg’s cold comment. Bob knew he was right.
As she contemplated the problem, Laura was struck with an idea. “What about the one you read to me coming home from the airport, Bob? The password was all numbers and the title was something about safety in numbers. Could he be saying ‘Safe Numbers’?”
Bob’s eyes widened. “That’s a good idea, Laura.” He marveledat her astuteness. The poem was quickly located. The numbers were two, ten, and eighty-two.
“It won’t work,” Bob realized, sitting back down at the table.
“And why not, little brother?” Michelle questioned.
“Eighty-two is too large. There’s no eighty-two on the dial. It was a good idea though.”
Just to be sure Greg ran to the safe and dialed in two, ten, eight, and then two. The handle didn’t budge.
“Sorry,” Laura apologized as he walked back to the table. “It was just a thought.”
“At least she’s thinking,” Michelle added. “I guess then it must still be hidden in another poem.”
Tired, they continued to scour the remaining poems for clues. After another thirty minutes, Laura glanced at her watch. She had just two more hours before she’d need to leave to get Emily. Michelle interrupted the silence, “I think I have it.”
“You do?” Greg’s eyes were wide with excitement.
“I don’t know if it will tell us what we need, but check out the grammar poem—you know, the one on page twentytwo. Look at how clever.” She read the poem to the group.
The Writer’s Dilemma
Proper English is important, my dear parents taught to me;
It will help you get through college, get a job, trust us, you’ll see.
It’s not that I don’t believe them, I don’t mean to stew and fret;
It’s just English is perplexing, there are things that I don’t get.
In choosing words to share ideas, I try to be selective;
I’m just confused, that noun I used, is it abstract or collective?
And words combined to make just one, I think they’re called conjunctions;
And expletives used properly, just what the hell’s their function?
And words have gender, yes, it’s true, like sister, aunt or gent;
If they’re used wrong, can I be sued, for sexual harassment?
My ad-verbs never seem to add, and adjectives I mangle;
Do I need to call the doctor, when my participles dangle?
I hope you understand my plight. Don’t think my view absurd;
It seems my best solution is, shut up, don’t say a word!
Yet grammar, like most everything, the more you try, you grow;
Now simply solve the riddle, just think and read it slow.
Tomorrow soon will be today, today soon gone forever;
What’s done is done, so don’t be tense, these words are not that clever.
“So what’s the password?” Greg asked.
Michelle was thrilled to have been the one to find it. “Well, the poem is about grammar and he comes right out and tells us that the solution to the riddle is in the last stanza. He’s very quick-witted.”
“Get to the point, Michelle.” Greg’s patience was gone.
“I am. You see, he tells us not to be tense about the verbiage. You get it? He’s asking us for the three verb tenses— the ones you learn in grammar school. ‘Tomorrow soon will be today’ is the future, ‘today is gone forever’ is the present, and ‘what’s done is done’ certainly describes the past.
Bob typed in the words. She was right. It opened instantly. He turned the screen toward Michelle to let her read.
Dearest Emily,
I want to talk to you now about hopes, dreams, reality, and choice. As you grow and mature, you will start to create a vision of your life. Dreams will blossom and grow. This is good. Without dreams, we would lose hope. Just remember to keep them in perspective.
What I am saying is that some of your dreams will come true, others will fade or change, and others will be dashed to pieces before your eyes. You will probably need to let go of a dream or two in your life, but as you do, other opportunities will blossom before you.
As a young man, I loved to write poems. I don’t remember when I started. They always seemed to be a pa
rt of me. I would use them to express the deepest feelings of my heart, something I find difficult to do face-to-face.
After my graduation from college, I took a job at a newspaper in El Paso, Texas. We packed up everything we owned, climbed into our old car, and drove to Texas to begin our life. The job lasted just two months before the paper folded, laying off all of its employees. I started my search for another position—there weren’t many. Before I began, however, Kathryn convinced me that I should compile some of my poems into a book and send them off for publication.
I will admit to you now that since childhood I’d dreamed of becoming a famous writer. I was enthralled by her confidence in me. I was excited and yet nervous, all at the same time. Kathryn worked as a secretary during the day, and as a seamstress at night to support us, while I spent my days and nights writing my first book of poems.
I poured my heart and soul into the book and was so proud when it was finished. The first rejection letter wasdevastating. I was expressing my innermost dreams, hopes, and desires to the world and found the world had trampled on them. By the time the rejections numbered a dozen, I was completely numb. After two dozen rejections I sat down on the back porch and reevaluated my priorities. It was a difficult thing to do. How long does the actress wait tables before giving up hope of getting her first part? How many times does the violin player audition before realizing he may never be a part of the symphony? When does the dancer hang up her shoes, realizing her moves are not as graceful as those of younger girls on the stage?
I began to think of Kathryn and her dream of living in a redbrick house, with arched doorways—a tree swing in the side yard and a front porch where she could sit in the evening and wave to the neighbors as they’d pass.
On my current path, I could see it was likely that we’d never reach that dream. Ultimately, I accepted a position with an advertising company in Lake Park. We saved every penny, and soon had enough to begin our home in Midvalley. My brother, Arty, helped me build the house. We swung our hammers side by side as the house took shape. I promised him I’d return the favor and help him build a house as soon as he married, but I never got the chance. He died in a smelter accident just three years later.
Letters For Emily Page 13
