Gold Roses

I’ll always remember that apartment on Wilcox. The worked-in sofa that was somehow light and dark green at the same time. The seldom functioning A/C which lead us to prop open the windows and invite in the smell of pastries, fresh or rotten depending on the wind. The ornate-but-chipped ceramic bowl by the front door where Will and I left our keys, loose change and the occasional almond. It had a certain charm you would only understand if you had lived there for two years, like we did.

It must have been a Saturday, because I distinctly recall waking Will as I packed for work. Well, Clarence, our ever excitable English Bulldog did.

“Bro, I’m trying to recover here.” Will groaned. “The 2K tourney went mad late and I have another one tonight. These thumbs aren’t going to rest themselves.”

Typical. To this day I don’t understand what he found so captivating about that game, or video games in general. Why play crouched in front of a 32-inch TV when there are hundreds of blacktops in the city calling your name?

“My ba…” he was already back asleep.

I rushed out the door and strung together a series of “just made its”. Barely squeezed in the elevator, sprinted to catch the bus and ultimately made it to work with a minute to spare. Thankfully no one took notice, it was a particularly busy day.

In a world so upside-down and backwards I hadn’t even attempted to straighten it out, Get Your Kicks was my sanctuary. After high school I applied to every store within a 15-mile radius that sold basketball shoes. Leonard, or “Nerd” as everyone called him, was the only person to give me an interview and he saw my passion from the get-go. Within eight months I was promoted to assistant manager and the accompanying pay raise helped me secure the lease on the apartment. In reality I didn’t need much more than a roof over my head and a pot for mac and cheese; what really captivated my attention was the kicks.

I owned all the classic Air Jordans, each in my favourite colour-ways, and when a timeless shoe was about to be released I was ruthlessly quick to place my order. Today I found myself daydreaming about the one that got away: the LeBron 15 King’s Cloak. A beautiful white mesh shoe with a red green and gold floral design sprawling all over, it always reminded me of that ceramic bowl at our front door. Its release rather unfortunately coincided with the most emotionally stirring day of my life: our parents’ funeral.

“George, you’re going to polish the swoosh right off that shoe! Snap out of it!” I don’t know how long Nerd was watching me aimlessly wipe the heel of that Kyrie 6, but now everyone in the store had their heads turned. I hadn’t thought of the King’s Cloak or my parents in months, and I was utterly engrossed in the feelings it unearthed.

My thoughts returned to the long-buried subject as I returned to our apartment that evening. I was so distracted I almost didn’t see the envelope lying at the foot of the door. It was just so out of place; we had a mailbox in the lobby, and it was written by hand. Who even writes letters anymore? I think Clarence and Will were howling in tandem when I walked in, as they often did, but I hardly noticed. My mind was fixated on the unknown contents of the hand-written letter. When I opened it, the words practically sparkled off the page as I read aloud:

“Dear Misters George and William Soles,

I regret to inform you of the most untimely passing of your great aunt Lady Elizabeth Carroll. You are summoned to Mountcastle Manor on Sunday the Eleventh of May to hear her last will and testament. A car will arrive to collect you at twelve o’clock .”

There was no signature.

I asked Will if he knew a great aunt Elizabeth. He shrugged indifferently. Presently, I couldn’t help wondering if the sudden return of mom and dad’s memory and this mysterious communication were somehow cosmically related.

“Hey, isn’t the Eleventh tomorrow?” Will remarked. I was so caught up in everything that I hadn’t realized. Needless to say, I was not permitted a blink of sleep that night.

After days of ruinous contemplation, twelve o’clock tomorrow finally came. Breakfast was a blur, and the eventual ride to the manor failed to exist as I was so lost in the depths of my past I have no recollection of it. In retrospect, the whole experience was made tougher by our being forced to sport the very same formal attire we had worn at the funeral (it was all we possessed). Sometime between twelve and I don’t know when we reached our destination. Amongst the hundred handshakes and countless condolences, I mustn’t have enjoyed a single moment of lucidity. Until my name was called.

I was brusquely handed a small black leather notebook with a gold rose imprinted on the cover, below it the initials G.S. My father’s name was Gerald (I was told it belonged to him), but I had the sudden impression it was always meant to find its way into my possession. Will received something of our mother’s, a pin in the shape and colour of that very same rose. I promised myself I wouldn’t look inside the notebook until we returned home for I had a suspicion its contents were extremely personal, lucrative, or both.

I suppose I should tell you about our parents.

Will and I didn’t know our parents very well in the later years. One day when I was 9 and Will was 7, they left us in the care of Aunt Mallory without a hint of where they were off to or why. I grew to resent them for this, and so I don’t think of them very often anymore. But Aunt Mallory always assured us they were doing work of the highest importance and would return when it was through. I was finally about to believe her when she called us for dinner one evening and delivered the news of their demise. I regret to say I was hardly affected by that information until the funeral service, but there’s something so jarringly final about watching the caskets lowered and interred. The following week was the most challenging of my young life; I found myself on a carousel of emotions. The horses' names were sorrow, confusion, and curiosity. Now, this little black notebook struck me with an identical curiosity.

By the time we were home at about five, the anticipation had mounted to a ten. I bumped into the ceramic bowl, nearly knocking it to its death, and sat down before it had finished wobbling. The notebook was chock-full of scrawled sketches, coordinates and names I didn’t recognize. It wasn’t until the final page that I was gifted an explanation. Apparently, our parents were prolific archeologists. Their final quest was piece by piece discovering a lost and ancient civilization somewhere in Turkey. According to the note, it was a paradigm shifting picture that challenged all conventional notions of the timeline of humans on Earth. They called it the Gold Rose Project, and it was in the middle of this ground-breaking venture that they were found dead in a cave, seemingly crushed by fallen debris.

It was a lot to process. Will seemed satisfied with it all, but I craved more. I was convinced there was much more to the story and I had to know, so I decided I’d call Aunt Mallory the following morning.

We agreed to meet for lunch at a nearby cafe. I called in sick and at twelve-thirty headed down with the notebook in the pocket of my coat. After exchanging pleasantries, I cut right to the chase:

“What do you know about the Gold Rose Project?”

“I knew this day would come.” she said with a smile. “I know little more than what you’ll find in that book, sadly. But I think I know someone who can give you more clarity, a collaborator of your parents. His name is Peter Van Horn. Actually, I think he’s at the University these days.”

I can’t bother to describe the remainder of that lunch however lovely it may have been. I rang the university immediately and was somehow able to secure a meeting a few hours later.

Peter Van Horn had a modest office tucked into a dim corner. His desk overflowed with folders and loose papers strewn about in a way that looked as if he was constantly pushing and pulling them without ever stacking one deliberately on top of another. He interrupted my observation quickly:

“Child! You’ve finally come to unlock your history!” I wasn’t sure if he recognized me or if he said this to every unsuspecting visitor. Soon it became evident he really did know me. The mad archaeologist took me on a journey of a story; the three of them had met in their twenties and participated in some of the most prominent digs of the time. Gerald and Wanda fell madly in love and my conception forced them to retire from their pursuits. But when Van Horn told them of the site in Turkey, it was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to change the world as we know it.

He reassured me that their deaths were purely accidental, he had been witness. I believed him; he had no clear motive and their dear project could not be continued after the fact. Alone he lacked the resources to see it out and in his opinion none of their peers were brave enough to challenge the field’s experts. But it was clear he hadn’t given up.

My intrigue sated, I asked Van Horn if he could tell me about mom and dad, you know, what they were like. He divulged many stories including some of their most valuable finds. He even told me of a rare artefact worth $20,000 they refused to sell to any museum. A ceramic bowl decorated with red and gold roses which served as the inspiration for naming the Gold Rose Project. Finally he said with a sigh he never found out what happened to that bowl.

I thanked Peter Van Horn for his time, hopped on the bus and headed home. It was a cold, damp evening, but I felt a renewed sense of comfort as we pulled up to my stop.

Walking through the door to the apartment my shoulder bumped the bowl again. The bowl! I hadn’t made the connection before but it perfectly matched Van Horn’s description. We had been using a $20,000 bowl for loose change and almonds! I thought of all the kicks I could buy with that money, and gaming equipment for Will.

But then I had an even better idea.

It took a little convincing, but Will eventually agreed. The reward was used to restart the Gold Rose Project, including recruiting a new wave of archaeologists passionate about its potential. Van Horn would lead the expedition with revitalized promise.

As for me and Will, we were happy knowing our parents’ dream could live on. And I was reminded of that every time I walked through the apartment door.

Perched where the bowl once stood with its unmistakeable floral look, a mint condition pair of LeBron 15 King’s Cloak shoes.