Grandma's Legacy

The worst thing about the attic wasn't the smell: it was the oppressive heat. Jakob had been prepared for the stench of old, rotting things in his grandmother's attic; but not the heat.

Why did they have to sort through all of this old junk? Why not either just give it away to Goodwill, or burn it!? He didn't see the point to sorting through things that hadn't seen the light of day in centuries.

But it wasn't like he had a choice. A parental mandate was above questioning (at least, it was, when your mother had fallen to pieces over the recent loss of her own mother, and wasn't in the mood for your complaints) — so . . . a perfectly good Saturday wasted sorting old, rotting garbage was inevitable.

The 32-gallon Rubbermaid garbage bin was a tempting receptacle for all contents of every box he touched; but he knew better. His mother was weird that way, and would just "know." {sigh}

So, he dutifully reserved that privilege for only the boxes that were either water-damaged beyond recognition, or had fallen prey to the nesting habits of various vermin. At first, his mother had protested over the latter; but upon his insistence that Hanta Virus was a real concern, she had relented, and agreed that anything overly infested with rodent leavings could be resigned to the gaping maw of the 32-gallon receptacle.

Blessedly, the end was in sight: only a handful of boxes remained. The one he had just grabbed struck him as overly odd: a banana box, wrapped in some sort of clingy plastic. WTF!? None of the other boxes had been wrapped like that. But then, none of the other boxes had pre-made holes in them! What kind of moron created a box with holes in it? Reminded him of the jeans you saw that already had holes/fringe. What some people wouldn't waste money on.

After he had removed the plastic wrap, he noticed that everything in this box was in much better shape than the rest of the boxes' contents, and even smelled better. But at first glance, none of it seemed to be any different: just random papers, books, etc. — in a word: junk. At least to his young eyes.

Sure, some of the books in this particular box were O-L-D -- as in, they might be able to sell them on eBay for a pretty penny. (His mother had a box already set aside for such treasures: Grandma had been a collector of old books, and many of them were worth a month's rent!) But several of the other boxes had been similarly laden. So . . . why the plastic? Maybe it was the many hand-written journals in Grandma's own handwriting? He was sure his mother would want to keep those.

At the bottom of the box, he found a strange-looking black leather-bound notebook, nondescript save for the gold lettering on the front: "EXISTIMUS."

Oddly, the book itself was individually wrapped in the same plastic wrap that had covered the box. None of Grandma's other journals had been individually wrapped; so this one must be really special.

But when he un-wrapped and opened the book, it was full of nothing but blank paper. A few pages at the front of the book had been torn out — maybe 5-10 sheets. But the remaining pages were 100% blank. Again, he found himself asking "WTF!?" He knew Grandma had been an odd duck; but . . . ?

Ah, well: he re-wrapped it in the plastic wrap, and tossed it into the "Journals" box. (Grandma had been prolific. Not quite graphomania-level; but close.)

If only he had investigated a bit more closely; the time and anguish it would have saved him. But life's lessons are all too often taught slowly, as he was eventually to learn...

20 years later

Jakob was feeling like the Biblical figure "Job" on this less-than-fine, damp, gray morning. After a more than 10-year battle with lymphocytic leukemia, his mother had finally succumbed.

As he waded through the boxes of accumulated debris in the all-too-familiar attic of the family estate (his grandmother had been quite wealthy, and upon her death, the estate had passed to his mother), he couldn't believe what he saw: the same now-ancient plastic-wrapped box that he had re-packed for his mother oh, so long ago. A mere teen at the time, he was now pushing 40, and was slightly less dismissive of his mother's "keepsake" mentality. When her mother had died, the contents of those moldy old boxes in the attic were all that she had left of her own mother. And now, some of those same boxes were all that he had left of both his mother and his grandmother.

But that old, plastic-wrapped box of his grandmother's nagged at the back of his mind. After all these years, had his mother really not even bothered to open it? He recognized his hasty re-wrap job, even all these years later. And something urged him to re-investigate its contents.

As he un-wrapped the box and began to sift through the debris, he remembered what his mind now remembered as The Book. Yeah; that bizarre gold-lettered cover with the weird inscription. At the time, he had not yet studied Latin. But now, he recognized the word "EXISTIMUS" as "Existence." But, after all these years, his reaction still remained . . . "WTF?" (Old reactions, evidently, die hard.)

He searched through the box to see if the torn-out pages were shuffling around the bottom: anything to shed some light upon that bizarre title; made all the more bizarre now that he (vaguely) comprehended the meaning of the inscription. But alas; no rent pages. {sigh}

Ah, well: best to just wrap it all up, and move on.

But as he was about to re-wrap what would now forever be thought of in his mind as The Book, the light from the high-intensity LED lantern (something that had not even existed 20 years ago!) reflected oddly across the first page of the (journal?) as it lay open on top of the lid of the banana box; and he could swear that he saw writing on that page!

But when he grabbed the LED lantern and moved it closer, the impression of writing disappeared.

Wait: impression! He remembered some old black-and-white detective movie he had watched with his mother — so long ago! — where the lead character had discovered an important clue on a pad of hotel stationery by rubbing a pencil across the top sheet left behind after someone had removed the page with the actual writing. Could it be that simple?

The Book in-hand, he rushed downstairs to see if a pencil still existed anywhere in the house. Grandma's house was vast, with altogether too many drawers and cabinets: he was sure there must be an actual honest-to-goodness pencil somewhere in the place!

Alas, no: naught but scant few pens and multiple iPads in various states of charge. But fortunately, his mother had been an artist: and in her studio, there were ample rectangular blocks of charcoal in a variety of pastel colors. For sake of readability, he chose the basic traditional black stick (worn round though it may have been on the formerly square ends), and proceeded to rub it lightly across the top sheet of The Book.

The message that (agonizingly slowly) appeared on the formerly blank page caused him to collapse into a nearby wingback chair: "Write it, then burn it. This has been the source of my wealth, and it is all that I can leave you. Take great care."

He hated it when his thoughts turned redundant: but he once again came back to "WTF!!!???"

He knew his grandmother had been a prolific writer, filling journals almost to the point of clinical graphomania; but she had never been diagnosed as a schizophrenic. Maybe this had been written close to the end of her time, and dementia had set in?

And yet . . . those missing pages. He couldn't help but wonder.

His grandfather had died when Jakob's mother was very young — back before the wealth, even. All of his grandmother's financial success — beginning with a minor lottery win, then compounded via a series of shrewd stock market picks and other investments thereafter — had been what allowed her to buy this estate, and live comfortably for the rest of her life. What if . . .

Nah. Nothing but stupid Twilight Zone stuff there. But then, what had she meant by "Write it, then burn it."? Assuming she wasn't crazy . . . ?

Well, there were plenty of blank pages left in the journal, even after the one that was now covered in charcoal. He tore that one out, and carefully set it aside. But, what to write on the next blank page? Sure, he'd like to have his all-too-recently-deceased mother back: but he had seen enough Stephen King movies to know how that story ends! No; he had to think of something less macabre than that.

What about the tax bill? Sadly, his mother had not had the knack for investing that his grandmother had. By the time she died, years of living expenses and medical bills had consumed whatever inheritance his grandmother had passed down. Everything but this house was gone. And now the county demanded $20,000.00 in back taxes if he wanted to keep the old place.

Sure: why not? He carefully wrote: "Need $20,000.00 to pay back taxes" on the notebook's topmost page, then tore it out and raced downstairs to the first available fireplace. (This sprawling mansion had many!)

As he set fire to the corner of the page, he felt utterly ridiculous. How could be believe something like this could actually work? But as the old paper quickly disintegrated in flames, the die was now cast. Let the chips fall where they may.

He stood there feeling like a fool for several minutes. What, did he think $20,000.00 was just going to fall from the ceiling? He snorted out a laugh, and said aloud: "Well, what were you expecting: really!?"

As he continued to laugh at his brief flight of ridiculous fantasy, he decided to call it a night. Locking the front door behind himself, he retreated to the rental car, and made his way back to the local hotel where he had checked-in earlier that week. (Staying at The House had never even been considered as an option. Just too creepy for his tastes.)

Tomorrow was another day. He would get back to the cleaning first thing, and have this all sorted in a day or two. No more diversions.

"Best-laid plans," as they say.

-----

The next morning, on his way back to work on cleaning the sprawling mansion, he checked the mailbox. Mostly junk, but there was a rather high-end-looking linen envelope from his mother's favorite art gallery in town. Her dabblings in art had never amounted to much financially; but it had kept her busy and happy, so what was the harm? He wondered if she had died owing them money for studio space or some such. Just what he needed: more bills to settle. But when he had conquered his mounting dread sufficiently to brave opening the envelope, he found, not a bill, but a check. A check for — you guessed it — $20,000.00. Evidently, one of his mother's paintings had sold, and this was her share after the gallery had taken their cut. Not $19,000.00, or some other odd number: exactly $20,000.00, to the penny! What were the odds?

He couldn't quite bring himself to accept that his little paper-burning ritual last night had actually worked. It was probably nothing more than an amazing coincidence. Nonetheless, he was definitely going to explore that little black book a bit further...