by Kelly Rimmer
“Are you sure—” she murmurs, and I flash her a look.
“You asked. I told you I’m fine, just getting used to things. You need to drop this,” I say flatly. Ruth sighs again and opens her hands in surrender, and we continue down the hallway in silence.
Grace
December 5, 1957
It was so much easier for Patrick and me to meet once I started secretarial college. I had a newly minted driver’s license but was anxious driving in the city, so I caught a series of buses to get to my campus. The buses could be unreliable, and sometimes I’d be studying late...at least, that was the story my parents heard. In reality, I was always finished by four o’clock, and the buses ran like clockwork. But Patrick finished work at four during the winter when the days were short, and we’d sneak a precious hour together before he dropped me off at the corner so my parents had no way of knowing I hadn’t taken the bus.
In the same way that I now obsess over the dark thoughts that swirl through my mind, I once obsessed over all there was to love about Patrick. He was attentive and affectionate and kind, and flirty and fun and cheeky in the best kind of way. Sneaking around only added to the fun of it, at least at first. My sister, Maryanne, was a defiant child, always reveling in the opportunity to do the unexpected, but I was the exact opposite, quiet and compliant, determined to please and to obey. Certainly part of the allure of Patrick Walsh was that being with him was my first rebellion—and the danger was delicious. Perhaps that’s also why I didn’t even tell Maryanne about my secret relationship. I knew she’d understand my desire to rebel, but I was also quite certain that my bookish, fiercely independent big sister wouldn’t have a clue about how it felt to tumble headlong into love, and I couldn’t bear her disapproval. We spoke on the phone every few weeks over that first year and I didn’t say Patrick’s name to her once.
But soon enough, my year at the secretarial college was coming to an end, and my father talked about a phone operator position at the bank. I didn’t mind the idea of a job with Father, but there was another possibility that seemed even better: marrying Patrick. I knew it was either the job or the wedding, because Father’s bank operates under the marriage bar, and once a girl is married, her employment is terminated.
It was another crossroads, I suppose—another moment when I could have walked away, another opportunity to correct my course. Instead, Patrick and I decided it was time to come out from under our cloak of secrecy. I invited him to join us for Mass, and then afterward as we mingled on the church front lawn, I introduced him to my parents as a friend. Patrick didn’t go to our church normally—he sporadically attended Mass in downtown Seattle, near the apartment he shared with two work friends. But ours is a very large congregation, and my parents had no idea that he wasn’t a regular attendee. We tried to ease them in gently—Patrick attended the same service as my parents and me for a few weeks, and then one Sunday I quietly mentioned to my parents that he’d asked me out on a date.
Father just grunted. Mother reacted with shock.
“But... Grace! Do you even know who his people are?”
“He’s an orphan, Mother. His aunt Nina raised him, but she lives in Bellevue and doesn’t see him often. He’s all alone in this world.”
I hoped that would endear Patrick to them, and that some sense of sympathy might soften the coming blow, because I knew what Father’s next question would be. I was totally unsurprised when he asked, “And what does this boy do for work, Grace?”
Any lie would be revealed eventually, so I had to tell the truth. I felt sick as I said it, because I knew that we’d reached the point where my loyalties would be tested.
“You’re not dating a contractor,” Father said as if that settled the matter. He caught my eye and sighed. “Just think about it, Gracie. He likely only asked you out because he knows that we have means. It’s best that you don’t see him again.”
I’d rarely argued with my parents over the seventeen years that preceded that Sunday, but for the week that followed, I found myself making up for lost time. Every time Patrick came up in conversation, Father would go red in the face, and Mother would reach for her pills or glass of wine as if we were stressing her beyond what she could bear. Sometimes when Father was at work, she’d sit me down to try to convince me of the error of my ways.
You don’t want to tie yourself to a man with low ambition, Grace.
Date if you must, but be sure to choose boys from our neighborhood. Or what about one of the boys from the bank? Perhaps once you start your new job you’ll meet someone nice there.
Gracie, darling, just think about it some more. I mean, what kind of life could he even offer you?
I’d thought about it plenty. My head was full of dreams about the life Patrick and I might share, and I was determined to reach for it. A few days later Patrick arrived unannounced with his hat tucked against his chest. Father slammed the door in his face. But the more vocal my parents became, the more I convinced myself that to choose anything but Patrick would be to betray the very love of my life. I walked out of their lavish home for the last time that night and went to stay with one of my college friends.
For the first few nights I felt brave and bold. That wore off quickly, and soon I found myself feeling miserable and lonely in my friends’ guest room. I wrote to Maryanne and told her what was happening, and of course, invited her to come for the wedding. In my heart of hearts, I knew she’d disapprove, but I felt so lost, and I had hoped she’d surprise me and I might be consoled by her support. When her letter came, her disapproval was every bit as vehement as our parents’ had been—but Maryanne didn’t care about the specifics of Patrick’s situation. She’d have begged me to reconsider even if I’d been marrying a prince.
Grace, you’re being wildly impulsive and you’re going to sorely regret it. Put aside these foolish thoughts of marriage, especially at your age! What you need to do is to reach for a better life, and I’ll help you do just that. You must cancel the wedding for now, and instead, catch a train down here and clear your head. Who knows? You might even want to enroll in college once you see what the lifestyle is like. You’re a bright girl. You could handle the coursework—and imagine the fun we’d have! Otherwise, what are you signing up for? A life of laundry and housework? You are meant for so much more. Do not let the haze of young love ruin your future, Grace. Perhaps this boy gives you butterflies, but if you stop for a minute and think about it, I’m sure you’ll agree that a few butterflies are no compensation for the ability to direct your own future.
The scornful, arrogant way my sister spoke of marriage and housewives and “uneducated women” always confused me, but when I read that letter, I realized just how different Maryanne and I really were.
Our ideological differences always existed in the space between us—but they were impersonal, vague. Now Maryanne’s inexplicable dislike of all things traditional had a face and a name. Her scorn was directed at the love of my life, and by extension, at me. For my sister, a union between me and Patrick was a tragic ending. To me, it was an exciting beginning.
A fracture appeared in my relationship with Maryanne for the very first time. She’d been living in California for several years but I still considered us close—yet her harsh letter damaged us in a way that even geographical distance had failed to do. I wanted so desperately for her to be happy for me and to understand that I wasn’t; I was actively achieving the life I wanted. I wrote her back, my pen strokes hard, my words unwavering.
This is my life, Maryanne. You do not have the exclusive right to make your own decisions regardless of what others think. Whether you and Mother and Father like it or not, I will marry Patrick next month, and I’ll be happy, even if my choice costs me my family.
Patrick and I had booked the beautiful St. Joseph’s Church on Capitol Hill. I steeled myself as the day approached—lonely and sad, but even so, determined to marry the love of my life w
ith or without my family. But the day before the ceremony, Maryanne appeared on my doorstep, fresh off the train from UC Berkeley. She held my upper arms in her hands and she stared at me.
“You’re sure this is what you want?”
“It is.”
“Then tell me how I can help.”
“You’re here,” I said, and then I burst into tears and embraced her. “That’s enough.”
Despite her last-minute arrival, Maryanne stood as my bridesmaid, and she was such a picture in that powder-blue dress that I couldn’t help but feel sad that she’d never be a bride herself. As I followed her down the aisle, I was startled to find my parents sitting right there in the front row. I’d sent them an invitation, although never in my wildest dreams did I expect them to attend. Only later would I discover that their quick change of heart hadn’t exactly been spontaneous—rather, Maryanne all but bullied Father into reconsidering his stance. I rarely understand my sister, but I can’t help but admire her moxie.
Patrick and I couldn’t afford a reception dinner, but Ewan’s wife, Jean, made us a cake for morning tea afterward. We cut the cake in the church vestibule and basked in the congratulations of my friends from secretarial college and Patrick’s colleagues. Aunt Nina surprised us with an envelope stuffed with crumpled notes—later we discovered it amounted to several hundred dollars—a fortune by Patrick’s standards. Mother asked us to join her out at the car, and that’s when she gave us the television. It was a shocking act of reconciliation. That gesture was almost as important to me as the ceremony itself—an acknowledgment that although Patrick wasn’t the husband they’d hoped I’d find, they still supported my decision.
I pictured Patrick and me in a humble but beautiful home, building a humble but beautiful life. In the end Patrick’s salary wasn’t nearly enough for us to rent anything, and it didn’t seem right for us to continue to live with his apprentice friends now that we were married. We were lucky, though—a public housing apartment in Yesler Terrace became available and because Patrick’s apprentice salary was so low, we were eligible. When we picked up our keys, the super dropped some none-too-subtle hints about how handy Patrick’s building skills would be, given the apartment had housed some less-than-respectable tenants and was in dire need of love and care. Patrick, my smooth, charming new husband, was only too happy to promise to fix it all up, given that we were so very lucky to get it in the first place.
Initially, Patrick did seem to delight in showing off his skills. We had that wad of cash from Aunt Nina and no idea what to do with it. I wanted to put it in the bank, but Patrick felt it would be wiser to have it safely on hand, so he spent weeks building a heavy wooden chest to serve as a coffee table for our living room, then proudly showed me the hidden compartment he built into the bottom. But his energy for at-home construction and maintenance quickly waned—and that easy access to the money was probably the worst decision we ever made, because it all evaporated, right along with Patrick’s desire to work around the house.
Four years later I’m still waiting for him to make those repairs he promised. This apartment is only a little larger than my bedroom was back at my parents’ house—three small bedrooms, the world’s smallest, dampest kitchen, a living area, an enclosed veranda and a roof that leaks when it rains. For the first three months we slept on a mattress on the floor in the living area because it was winter and that’s where the heater happened to be.
Mother called every few weeks, and we’d share a stiff, slightly awkward catch-up. Maryanne called sometimes, too, and sometimes she wrote. But despite her efforts, something had changed between us, and that became more obvious with every stilted conversation. Our chats were no longer smooth, and the connection between us no longer reliable. When the gap between her calls and letters began to grow, I was both disappointed and resigned. Perhaps it was inevitable that at this adult stage of my life, my sister would play a less vital role.
But despite the challenges, those early months of marriage were bliss anyway. Patrick and I were in love and building a life together. I looked after the house, and Patrick worked, and we spent our evenings and our weekends enjoying one another. Life was good. And it seemed even better when I realized that my time of the month hadn’t arrived for some weeks.
We were pregnant with our first baby, and everything was going pretty much according to plan.
FIVE
Beth
1996
By the time we reach the top of the stairwell, Ruth has overtaken me. I’m uncomfortable after the confrontation, so I let her take the lead, mainly so I can compose myself before she realizes how on edge our chat has left me. I’m so caught up in my head, I’ve almost forgotten where we’re headed and why...until Ruth reaches the top and lets out a horrified squeak. The door is resting against the wall at the top of the stairwell, and behind it, chaos waits.
I stand at her side as we take in the attic space. What was once a pristine studio is now a tableau of utter madness. Overflowing cardboard boxes are stacked almost to the roof in places, surrounded by heaping baskets and piles of papers and candy wrappers and discarded items of clothing, dirty bowls and soda cans, and half-built shelves upon half-built shelves. It’s a massive space—big enough that when we were kids, we could roughhouse and run around with our friends and it never felt cramped or crowded. Now this room is full to bursting. There’s so much junk up here that Ruth and I can’t even step into the room. Random junk is stacked or dumped or dropped at least waist height on every single square inch of space. I know there are floorboards and rugs under there somewhere, but I can’t see even a sliver of either.
There’s a bewilderingly confused scent hanging heavily in the air. It’s stale food and mold and paint and dust, and as it registers, I cover my nose and mouth as if that will help. When I glance at Ruth, she’s white as a ghost, also holding her nose. The sight of the messed up attic is upsetting, but watching Ruth react is almost worse. I can’t remember the last time I saw her cry, but right now there’s a definite shine in her eyes.
I look back to the piles of trash, skimming my gaze over it all, trying to understand. At first glance, the only objects in the attic that don’t appear to be trash are the paintings. Some are colorful, and some are dark. Some feature color palettes which seem completely random—jarring clashes of color without rhyme or reason. Some are done in acrylics, others are watercolors; one is a mosaic of tiny cubes that I suspect are tile. Some are simply lying flat on the other junk, some mounted on the walls; one is on an easel. They are differing sizes and shapes—most are rectangular, but two are square.
My sister fumbles for my hand and squeezes it, hard. “Jesus Christ, Beth. What is this?”
“I don’t know,” I whisper back. It’s like we’re both afraid to raise our voices, in case we stir up more trouble in this once-innocent space. Maybe there’s even some logic in that. “There’s got to be mice up here. Maybe even rats. Or snakes. Or all three.”
“There might be some mice,” Ruth concedes, tentatively tipping a box over with the tip of her shoe. “But probably not snakes. I mean, they’d be hibernating at this time of year anyway. Right?”
“Yeah. Hibernating in this vast sea of undisturbed trash,” I shudder.
“We’ll soon know. If there are droppings...” We pause, stare at each other, and then faux-gag. My sister and I will merrily deal with even the most menacing spider, but we both hate snakes with a passion. “I can’t let you pack this up on your own. I’d never forgive myself.”
“I’m not really giving you a choice,” I mutter, wrapping my arms around my waist. “I have time, you don’t. It’s simple.”
“Are you really going to bring Noah here while you clean this up?”
“Chiara offered to watch him.”
“This will take days.” She puffs out a breath of air. “Hell, Beth. It might even take weeks.”
I shrug, and Ruth sighs.
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br /> “At least let me get a dumpster. No, we’ll need at least two, and we’ll put them on the lawn out in front. And I’ll get some laborers to help ferry the trash downstairs.”
“Let me sort through it first,” I sigh, gingerly kicking a box right side up with the very tip of my shoe. Beneath it I find an unopened packet of paintbrushes and a moldy coffee cup. “Who knows what family mementos are lost among this chaos?”
“It looks like Dad used this as a trash room,” Ruth says. “I have a feeling you won’t find anything of value up here. You know what Dad was like. He was so precise with the things he loved.”
“Maybe. I’ll start sorting through it, and if it is all just trash, I’ll call you for help.”
“What do you make of the artwork?” she asks.
“Maybe he was trying to perfect an idea he could see in his mind.”
“Is it a letter? Half of the letter B?”
I tilt my head to stare at the nearest canvas, then shake my head. “Oh, I see what you mean. I don’t think so—why would he paint the curves of a letter like that?”
“Well, what do you see?”
“I didn’t see anything at first—just abstract paintings. Now that you’ve pointed it out, though, I do see that they all have something in common.” I skim my gaze around the paintings, squinting at them. “They’re all so different, but every one does feature a similar shape. It’s like a little curve, then a big curve right beneath it, right?”
“I see why you’re not an art critic,” Ruth laughs softly. “I meant how do you interpret it?”
I stare around the room and think about it in the context of the house, then I wrap my arms around myself, feeling suddenly chilled.
“I honestly have no idea what—if anything—the paintings represent. But I suspect that Dad was deeply ashamed of what he’s left up here—that’s the only explanation for the lock. And if you think about what he left on display—how pristine the rest of the house always was, it kind of makes sense that he’d lock away this mess.” I hesitate, then suggest, “It’s like we’re seeing inside his head, if you know what I mean. He managed to hide the problems he was having for so long, until he just couldn’t hide them anymore. This attic is kind of the same.”
