CLUTCH

When Grammy was declared dead after going missing for over seven years – I’m guessing because her remaining relatives got tired of footing the bill for my living in her house all this time – it inexplicitly had fallen upon me to clean out the house, including dispensing with what was left of her belongings that hadn’t already been sponged up by said relatives. Which left me the not-so-proud owner of a grand total of one particularly decrepit-looking steamer trunk.

I knew it was there all the time; I was just preoccupied with keeping a job, going to school, sifting through boyfriends in hopes of finding one man semi-human enough to love, support, respect me, blah blah blah. But no such luck. So, before I knew it, seven years had gone by and the ultimatum was delivered – not in person, of course; no one had the you-know-whats to tell me to my face at that point; therefore, registered mail. Thirty days. No excuses. The next day I heard a knock at the door and when I peeked out the front window, a real estate agent’s for sale sign had already gone up, a tacky one at that, consistent with the cheapos I was unfortunately related to.

No job, no boy-o, no current prospects for either, and a crusty old trunk to go through, all while packing up my own crap, most of it I was tempted to leave just to piss everyone off. Color me ungrateful. Guilty as charged. Not that I expected to find anything worth keeping.

I dragged the trunk out of the attic by a side handle, scratching up the hardwood finish in her (then mine, soon to be someone else’s) bedroom. Sitting up against my bed’s footboard, legs spread eagle, I was able to free the two opposing clasps. With no key in sight, I tried busting the locked middle clasp free, first with the palm of my hand then with one of my dress shoes, but it seemed glued tight. Suspected that was why no one had bothered; let the mooch deal with it. I went downstairs to grab a hammer.

Yep, I didn’t have a high opinion of myself but then I felt I had the best relationship with Grammy, at least as far as I could recall. She did seem to dote on me more and more over the years, at least before I went off to college the first time. So it was such a shock when, in the middle of my junior year, my one aunt decided that maybe she should let me know Grammy had gone missing, and had been for over three months. I wanted to scream, and perhaps should have, but turned out the best revenge was moving into Grammy’s house under the dark of night then refusing to move out.

I banged hard on that trunk’s clasp. Again and again and again.

Besides, what could they do? They knew I was Grammy’s favorite and it would be uncouth in the least to kick me out. Yes, at first, they harassed the crap out of me with frequent, unannounced visits to procure items they claimed to cherish, but eventually I grew wise and with what little money I scrounged together from odd jobs at the time, I changed the locks – several times if memory serves me right – finally installing a security system. The one time it was triggered, they never came back.

The clasp loosened. I kept pounding.

Over six years. No calls, no visits, but no bills, no responsibilities. I had admittedly allowed that ease of existence spoil me. Now, I was so close to a nursing degree but no combination of jobs or extra time would put me over the top, financially speaking.

So here I sat, banging on this trunk, tears forming as I remembered the good times before all this. When the lock fell away and the trunk’s top popped open in a burst of musty air, I almost didn’t notice the object perched directly on top on a stack of faded linens.

###

The black satin vintage clutch was quite ornate, studded with a multitude of dark blue beads, sequins and sapphire crystals, wrapped in gold chain, all arranged in a curtained, half-moon, starburst pattern, the entire design emitting from a raised, oval-shaped opal. Mounted above the opal was a flared gold clasp encrusted with diamond-like crystals. It was, quite simply, the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. My first thought, however shallow: where did Grammy get this?

Of course, my first move, after finally breaking my attention away from the clutch, was to open it. But just like the trunk it came in, that was no easy task. Fearing the clasp would snap from too much force, I absently rubbed my fingers over its glimmering gaudiness, my thumb still on the crystal clasp itself, imagining out loud if this was what Grammy wanted me to find, and to have.

The clasp released, the clutch opening without a sound.

Without a thought in my head, I peered inside, and into total blackness. I plunged my index finger into the clutch, rooted around for a moment. Nothing. I started to close it when a tiny but intense burst of light sprang from the bottom, temporarily blinding me. And then, with my finger still inside, the clutch bulged outward, pushing my extended finger up and out,

When my vision returned, I felt something scratching against my fingernail. I reached into the clutch, pulling out a black book the size and thickness of a matchbox. It took a moment’s moment to realize this was just not possible; I knew there was nothing in that clutch before. But now there was.

My discovery in hand, I laid down on my bed, propping myself up with pillows. I turned the book over and over in my palm, trying to imagine what it could possibly contain: an abridged version of WAR AND PEACE perhaps, a fairy cookbook? One’s mind went to strange places when one couldn’t explain the unexplainable. There were no discernible markings, simply a tiny screw and c-hinge holding the book closed. Finally getting some real use out of my fingernail, I slowly turned the screw until the hinge loosened then fell away.

The book expanded in my palm like an accordion, seemingly adding pages as it grew. When the process finally stopped, what would later turn out to be the front cover opened its full one hundred and eighty degrees. On the first page was a hand-printed dollar sign, thick black ink in an unfamiliar font and, as page after page revealed itself, each contained the same script. I lost count of the number of pages; they appeared infinite. I thought to go back to the beginning but I felt myself fading and before another thought could cross over, my eyes closed, no memory of head hitting pillow.

###

And here was where it got really strange: I awoke buried in dollar bills. I pushed my way free of them, quite a task as there were so very many. Stumbling my way into the bathroom, I washed my face, hard, trying to coax myself back to reality. But when I returned to the bedroom, nothing had changed. The bills were everywhere: piled in two heaps on either side of where I had fallen asleep, covering the floor by one side of the bed, even trailing into the bathroom.

I scooped up the cash by the handfuls, placing them on the vanity across from my bed. When I had collected every last bill, I sat down and began to count. And count, and count, and count. It was exhausting and seemingly never ending, but eventually the counting did end.

Twenty thousand dollars.

I recounted, not trusting myself that the final number would end up on the nose. But it did. Twenty thousand, in ones. Exactly twenty thousand dollars.

Only when I had finished did I look back at the bed. The book was gone. The clutch was on the floor, still open, where I had first sat down.

My mind raced, brain brimming with more questions than answers. I thanked Grammy over and over again, a million times over. And I kept asking myself: how did she know I would need this in my life, at this exact moment? Why did I deserve this? What had I done special for her, except ….except, maybe to serve as her favorite?

I stood gazing out my bedroom window and my thoughts flew backwards through time, seeing myself with Grammy, participating in her one great love: gardening. The vision was so vivid, I even saw in my mind’s eye her treasured turquoise ring, a ring she never took off, even when digging in the dirt. And just like that, a memory I had apparently suppressed until just then burst forward like a lightning bolt. In fact, it was a lightning bolt from an approaching storm. I had looked up at that exact moment, watched as if in slow motion as lightning struck a tree limb hovering just above the garden, in the exact spot Granny was crouched, troweling in the fresh loam, planting her impatiens, even as I moved to push her aside, falling on her, willing to sacrifice myself for her.

So quaint sounding when I thought about the memory. But I had saved her life, or I had convinced myself I did. Did I?

A new thought slammed into my head so hard I staggered backwards. My aunt had called those many years ago, told me when Granny went missing. I started to count back the days, then counted again. I cried out.

Granny had gone missing the day after my last visit, the day after the garden, and the lightning---

There was a rattle behind me. I turned.

The clutch on the floor was wide open, shivering across the hardwood. Emerging from the clutch was a hand. And on the ring finger of that hand was Granny’s treasured turquoise.

I don’t know why I wasn’t shocked at my next step but I found myself reaching out to grasp that hand and to hold tight, tighter than I had ever held anything in my life.