Authors: Brian MacLearn
I wondered if they were removed and destroyed or just hidden away. My mind kept going back to the locked door downstairs, and I began to envision a little burglary in my near future. I thought about bringing my questions to Great Aunt Vicky, but quickly decided against it. I was now fairly certain Grandpa was hiding something and doing it in a way in which only I could relate to. It would be me who would catch on and be the one to ultimately decipher what Grandpa Jake was up to. I also had to give a measure of credence to the idea that he might have been in a delusional state, probably enhanced by whatever medication he had been on. It was possible I would be chasing the biggest, fattest goose there ever was. The eulogy would have to wait. “Something’s afoot,” as Sherlock Holmes would say, crossed my mind. I had a new purpose, to pursue a mystery requiring some amateur detective work.
I made a run for the small desk in the living room, certain it would hold the key to the locked door downstairs. I was less than hopeful, but it might even hold the torn-out journal pages. I sat down on the chair and turned on the little desk light to help me see. I stayed as quiet as possible, not wanting to roust my aunts from their conversation in the kitchen. It didn’t take long to go through the three drawers. My disappointment spread as I opened the last one to nothing more than a stack of old receipts and a collection of paid bills and medical insurance papers. I got down on my knees and felt under the desk and all along the inside; nothing was taped or attached that shouldn’t have been. I took out all three drawers and looked them over as well. I reached my arm into the vacant drawer slots, feeling all along the sides and back.
Satisfied that there was nothing for me to find, I put the drawers back in and sat down at the desk. I found an old yellow pad in the center drawer along with a pencil. Taking them, I headed back towards the front bedroom. I was no more than a few steps away when it dawned on me that I had forgotten to check the back of the desk. My heart started beating faster and triumphant feelings surged through me. I slid the desk away from the wall and was greeted with nothing more than dust. I had a sinking feeling my grandpa was not planning on making this easy. In reality, that was only if there was really something to find at all.
I went back to the journals in Grandma’s art room. I closed the door behind me, so I wouldn’t be interrupted. I looked at all of them lined up on the shelf and the few still lying on the floor, wondering what I should do and where to begin. I had a strong urge to forget the whole thing and concentrate on what I should …the here and now. However, instead of listening to my head, I followed my gut instincts. Sighing deeply, I sat down and began with the first journal. I wrote the dates of the first and last entry on the yellow pad. Next I started a column labeled, “Missing pages.” I took my time going through the journals on the shelf, not wanting to miss anything, but acutely aware of the day slipping away from me. When I had first sat down, the sun was still shining brightly through the window, at the front of the room. By the time I put the last journal back on the shelf, I was beginning to squint as I tried to read the notations in the waning light of early evening.
My yellow pad was well over three pages long, front and back, with all the listings of missing pages. The last journal was dated November 11, 2003 to April 2, 2004. If Grandpa had started another, it wasn’t on the shelf. I counted the missing pages listed on my pad and there were one hundred and fifteen gone. Several of the journals were completely intact and others had just a few missing pages. The more recent journals had more pages removed than the older ones. I couldn’t see any particular pattern in the dates of the missing pages or entries. I read a few entries before and after the missing ones, hoping to see if I could ascertain anything of interest from them, in regards to the removed pages. Grandpa was thorough at whatever he had been trying to conceal. There were no longer any doubts in my mind that he had indeed been trying to hide something.
The only missing pages that had any bearing for me, were the ones from just after the time of my mother’s accident and then after my dad’s escape from responsibility. I returned to the last journal and forced myself to read the entries prior to the time Grandma succumbed to cancer. There was nothing written about it or were there any pages missing. This fact surprised me more than the missing pages themselves. Why hadn’t Grandpa put down his thoughts during the most traumatic time of his and Grandma’s lives? Reading the entries, I began to generalize the thought process Grandpa most assuredly had used. He would start out with his usual take on the weather and the mundane chores of the day. Next he would offer an insight or two on events that happened throughout the day. Every entry was patterned to read the same way, as if he’d been going through the motions. I believed he was towards the end. This was not the mystery, so it must lie somewhere else. Where? I had my guess, the locked room in the basement.
Another realization suddenly hit me; the journal I had given Grandpa was not among the ones on the shelf. It was getting late, and I felt the weight of time and trepidation beginning to seep into my consciousness. I could easily drown in the pool of unanswered questions and be carried away if I chose to. I lifted my head to the sky, trying to see through the ceiling into Heaven itself, searching for the face of my grandfather. Once I had his image fixed in my mind, I asked him to help guide me as he’d done so many times before. In my mind, I was rewarded with his smile and a memory from long ago. Grandpa was writing in the fancy journal I had given him, all the while, muttering the word, “answers.” I knew deep in my heart that, inside the locked room downstairs, were the answers to the questions my grandpa secretly guarded.
The phone rang and I nearly exploded from my place on the floor. I could hear the sounds of movement from beyond the walls of the room. I replaced the last journal back on the shelf and tore off the three pages from the yellow pad. Folding them, I tucked them away in my back pocket. Un-tucking my shirt, I let it fall over my pants, concealing the edges of the yellow-pad papers that stuck out above the pocket. I placed the pad and pencil on the little workspace in the corner, by the front window. I moved as silently as I could, afraid to make a sound and be caught looking suspicious without a plausible excuse.
Moving closer to the door, I could make out the sounds of voices, but couldn’t discern the conversation emanating from the kitchen. Cracking the door, I peered out and into the living room. No one was there. Sticking my head out the door I glanced down the hall towards the kitchen and could see Aunt Marcie moving back and forth as she talked on the phone. Looking to my right at the front door, I could see that it was closed and not opened like I’d hoped for. I had a choice, neither of them good. Brave an escape out the front door and risk being seen, or wait out the phone conversation and hope Aunt Marcie would sit back down at the table, just out of sight, before sneaking out of the room.
I chose action over inaction and, as soon as Aunt Marcie had her back to me, I dashed out of the front bedroom. I opened the front door silently and pretended to be walking in. Trying to act normal, I closed it with zestfulness. Turning towards the kitchen, I was not surprised to see Aunt Marcie, still on the phone, looking down the hall at me. She said something to the person on the other end and then hung up the phone, making her way down the hall towards me. I did my best “here I am. Did you miss me?” smile. Aunt Marcie ignored my smile and prepared to give me the third degree. I wasn’t in the mood to answer questions or get into any discussions; I had locked doors to deal with.
I handled the probing questions with the smile glued to my face, and I know my Aunt Marcie must have thought I’d lost my mind. Unable to sidestep the barrage of questions, I told her I’d been to the Dittmers store, saw Allison, had drinks at Bill’s and took a very long walk. Not knowing how to respond, it was her time to be quiet.
I didn’t want her to start down a new path of questions, so I offered my last, best defusing statement. “I think things are going to be okay with me.” I could see the imaginary cloak of dread fall away from her face, and her eyes really did seem to sparkle. There was so much of my mom in Aunt Marcie, or maybe it was the other way around; it didn’t matter. I gave Aunt Marcie a sincere hug and asked her what we were having for supper. She laughed and asked me if I would be interested in Spaghetti, with the works. “Absolutely,” I responded with a perfectly timed growl from my stomach. I shrugged and gave her a coy smile.
She nodded at me and then headed back into the kitchen, saying as she went, “I better get busy on supper.”
Glad that my front door ploy had worked reasonably well, I headed upstairs to think until supper was ready. Grandma and Grandpa’s room was the first one at the top of the stairs and the door was open. I stopped on the landing, listening for any sounds coming from the bedrooms. Hearing nothing, but the usual settling noises from the old house, I went into my grandparents’ bedroom. I didn’t think I would find the journal or the key, but I had to look anyway. A good detective must do the legwork necessary to solve the case. Ruling out which places the key wasn’t, helped reduce the number of possible places it might be. Great Aunt Vicky was staying in their room, and I didn’t want to get caught snooping. I was glad it was she and not I staying in their room. It had to be a sensory overload for her with all the memories of my grandparents lingering there.
The most likely place for Grandpa to hide the key and the journal was in one of his dresser drawers. It felt unsettling to be going through his things, but I knew over the months ahead it would be something I would have to eventually do. I pulled out the top drawer and quickly rummaged through it, nothing...pulling it all the way out I checked the sides of the drawer and the inner cavity now vacated, again, nothing. I repeated this quick check on the other four drawers all with the same verdict. I muscled the dresser away from the wall and searched the back for a hidden key, nothing there. With the dresser away from the wall, I got down on my hands and knees and checked under it for little treasures, nothing but dust bunnies and spider webs.
Pushing the dresser back in place, I surveyed the room. Grandma had her own dresser, a more feminine style to match Grandpa’s dresser. I didn’t need to look there. I knew he would not have used Grandma Sarah’s dresser to hide the key, let alone his journal. I moved to the nightstand by the bed and thoroughly searched it inside and out, even lifting the lamp to make sure the key wasn’t somehow concealed beneath it. Down on my hands and knees again, I looked under the bed. This time excitement made my heart beat faster as I found a long rectangular cardboard box. It was taking up residence under the center of the bed. I reached in, nearly arm’s length, and grabbed at the nearest corner. I maneuvered the box around so I could get my fingers into the slot on the short side, which doubled as a carrying handle.
I had just pulled the box free, from under the bed, when I heard Aunt Marcie call up the stairs, announcing supper would be ready in the next ten minutes. Slowing my breathing down, I raised the lid and peered into the box. I laughed out loud. Inside were more than a dozen rolls of Christmas wrapping paper complete with bows and ribbons to match. I bet Sherlock Holmes never had moments like these. I lifted a few of the brightly colored rolls of wrapping paper, just to be safe. Everything was as it should be in the box, so I put the lid back on. I pushed the box back under the bed and stood up.
I let my eyes rest on the closet and had a momentary vision of the past. I would play, “hide and seek,” with my friends and use my grandparents’ closet as a nifty hiding spot. I would brace my back on one wall and my feet on the other. Concealed behind my grandma’s clothes, my friends never found me or my hiding spot. I smiled at the memory of Grandma, innocently interrupting our game and finding me hiding in the closet one day. I scared the bejesus out of her and she let me know it by her scream and the swat on my bottom as I raced past her.
I needed to head downstairs, but before I did, I opened the closet and turned on the light by pulling the long cord, dangling from the bulb socket. I slid the clothes along the pole both ways so I could see the wall behind them. Nothing looked out of place and no keys were resting on a hook. I stepped into the closet and looked along the doorframe and felt on top of the doorjamb as well. There were several shoeboxes stacked along the floor. I randomly opened a few and they all had what they should have, shoes. The shelf above the clothes rail had stacks of sweaters and nothing else of interest.
With a deep sigh, I exited the closet and closed the door. Sure I had stayed longer than the ten minutes Aunt Marcie had given me, I hustled across the hallway and into my room. I used the bathroom to wash the spider webs and specks of dust from my arms and hands. I splashed cold water on my face and looked at my reflection in the mirror. I looked tired, but more alive than I had in the last few days. I took the sheets of paper out of my pants pocket and tucked them away, under my pillow. I was starting down the steps at the same time that Great Aunt Vicky prepared to shout up at me. Her mouth hung open and then it turned into a smile as she watched me descend towards her.
I followed her and my nose towards the great aromas coming from the kitchen. Justin was already halfway through what had been a large plate full of spaghetti. Aunt Marcie handed me my own plate, stacked almost as high as Justin’s. I grinned from ear to ear and carried it to the table. At least for the moment, the locked room and unsolved mysteries were laid to rest, as I gave my full attention to the large pile of spaghetti before me.
I was nearly halfway done with my plate of spaghetti and reaching for my third piece of garlic bread, when a revelation bit into my brain. The entire time I’d sat eating my supper, I would occasionally glance towards the back door. Just inside the door was the small mudroom, where Grandpa kept his boots and the keys to the car, garage, and shed out back. Holding the garlic bread in my hand, just inches from my open mouth, I looked directly at the small key pegboard securely fasten to the wall. There were six hooks protruding from the pegboard and all but one had a set of keys on it. My mind was racing and my heartbeat pounded so tightly against my chest, I truly feared the others would be able to hear it.