Letters From Squirrels

Grandma Millicent was an eccentric old broad. That’s how she liked to describe herself, and honestly? It was spot on.

I guess growing up I was closer to Grandma Millicent than anyone else, but to say that we were “close” is…a stretch. We hadn’t really talked much these past few years. I haven’t talked to much of my family since I left my parents’ house. We were never all that tight knit.

So, when I got the call last week that Grandma had been found dead in her home after an attempted robbery, and that the house was damaged in a botched attempt to hide the crime, I was shocked. When I received the letter at her funeral yesterday asking me, specifically, to go to the house…I think I was more confused than anything.

But I think I’ve been too numb to be sad.

Grandma’s house was a modest raised ranch with four bedrooms, two baths, and a kitchen upstairs. She hasn’t used it since Grandpa John died, though. She ate microwave meals every night. Even still, she decorated it with the loving touch of a typical grandma; gingham style curtains and tablecloths, the appropriately placed crucifix, and a framed bible verse—but there were also strange things scattered about. My favorite was the squirrel.

It wasn’t a real squirrel, of course; a felt squirrel she made once after befriending the squirrels in her backyard. She wanted to bring them inside, but Dad and Uncle Mark talked her out of it. The next day she went to the craft store and made her own little squirrel friend. She talked to it like it was a person. She named it Maevis, after me. I’m still not sure whether I should take that as a compliment or not.

The squirrel sat on the counter among stacks of junk mail and dirty dishes, its beady black eyes watching me as I assessed the damage of the house.

Grandma Millicent had been in the house alone that night. Two guys, a couple years younger than me, attempted to break in to rob the place. They didn’t realize she was home, and one of them freaked. It didn’t take much to take out an old woman. They killed her— “accidentally”—and tried to hide the crime by burning the house down. Except, for some reason, the house didn’t burn. The fire never traveled much further than the living room.

The house smoldered for a few hours before somebody noticed. No real damage had been done to the property, but the smoke was so strong that it still seemed to hang heavy in the air as I breathed in. The carpets and lower walls were blackened in some areas, but that’s it. Mom and Uncle Mark would be relieved—they could fix it up and sell it, or whatever they planned to do with the place.

After walking through the house, I sat down at the creaky breakfast table and pulled out the letter Grandma left for me. At the end of the funeral, Mom, Dad, Uncle Mark, and I were all brought into a private room where her will was read. There wasn’t much to it. The woman lived off the small savings her and Grandpa John had amassed before his death. She didn’t have much to give. The only notable part was the letter addressed to me, a plain white envelope, the word “Maevis” written in her shaky script on the front. On the back, in neat, clear print, she wrote “Open in private.”

Mom wanted to know what the letter was about. She wanted me to open it up right there, in front of everyone. I refused.

“Grandma wants me to read it in private. You’re really going to ask me to go against her last request?” She relinquished, clearly annoyed and a touch embarrassed.

Mom is… a control enthusiast. I guess that’s a nicer way to put it. She likes to know what’s going on, about everything, every second of every day. She doesn’t like secrets. She also doesn’t like being told she’s wrong. I like my privacy; I don’t like sharing everything with her, and the things I did share made her feel like she was doing something wrong—as a parent or as a person. We almost never agreed on anything. Dad says it’s because we’re too much alike. I think it’s just because she can’t control me anymore.

Grandma knew how Mom could be, though, so she left me that note to give me an out. I was grateful for that.

Now, sitting in her old kitchen, I held the letter delicately in my hands, as if the paper were hundreds of years old and might crumble and disappear at any minute. I don’t know why I felt like this. It had clearly been written recently. Maybe it’s because this was my last handwritten note from my Grandma. Maybe it’s because what the letter contained was special, only for me. I felt like a little girl again, something I hadn’t felt in a long time.

The letter was short and to the point.

"Dear Maevis,

I’ve been talking to the squirrels, to Maevis (my friend) and to Jesus. I’m an old woman, and I know my time on this earth is coming to an end. I feel it in these old bones.

Come to the house when it’s over and look for the notebook. Maevis likes to read it. I usually keep it near her.

Don’t bring anyone else.

Love forever,

Grandma Millicent"

I read it over three more times before carefully setting it down on the table and staring absently at Maevis the Squirrel. How long ago was the letter written? Did she know she was going to die? I mean, she said as much, but we all die in the end. It wouldn’t be such a stretch for her to guess that her number was almost up. And yet, I couldn’t help the knot in my stomach that formed as I imagined her, not too long ago, sitting at this table, writing this letter, and imagining her own death.

For the first time, a hot flash of anger gripped me by the throat. I hated those boys for what they did to my Grandma. I knew that their punishment in the courts wouldn’t atone for their crimes. A life sentence around here was only about twenty years. They’d be in their forties when they got out, with their whole lives ahead of them, their pasts forgiven by the state and forgotten by everyone but us.

Part of me—a small part—wished they would die in prison. Why should they get to live out the rest of their lives when my Grandma had to die?

But I didn’t want anyone to die, not really. It wasn’t my call to make.

Just like it wasn’t their call to make for Grandma Millicent.

Crossing the kitchen in a few short strides, I was now face to face with Maevis the Squirrel. Her tiny, lifeless eyes bore into mine as I squinted. I half expected her to start talking.

There was no notebook directly in the vicinity of Maevis the Squirrel, but there were plates with half-eaten pieces of bread and scraps of paper, covered in that familiar, shaky script. “For Jesus.”

Twenty more minutes went by as I moved the plates of molding bread to the sink, rummaging through drawers and cabinets in the process. Maybe she moved the notebook. I glanced around at the rest of the room, cluttered and dirty. The rest of the house looked the same. It could take days to find this thing.

“Where’d she put it?” I asked Maevis the Squirrel accusingly. She stared back silently. Dejectedly, I sat down on the linoleum tile in front of an open cabinet. I’d take one more look around, and then maybe I’d try another room.

Then I saw it. Now level with the cabinet shelves, my eyes connected with the small black notebook, duct-taped to the top of the enclosure. I carefully pulled it off, holding it like a bomb that could explode at any moment.

Maevis the Squirrel looked down at me expectantly.

It looked like a diary. The pages were more weathered than the letter she left me. It was hard to make out the handwriting at times, but after skimming through I surmised that she started keeping this journal when Grandpa John died. Mostly it was just ramblings about the squirrels and Jesus.

The last few pages were addressed to me, though. In big, elegant cursive, she wrote:

"Maevis,

The squirrels and I have been chatting. Jesus and John, and of course Maevis (my friend) too. I’m just a poor old woman, living off what my husband saved. But John left me with much more than anyone knew. Even me.

The squirrels told me to hide it, and Jesus agreed, and so I did.

I want you to have it when I’m gone.

Behind my bed, you’ll find a weak spot in the plaster. Knock it down. Keep what you find.

Love forever,

Grandma Millicent"

Curiosity gripped me. Maevis the Squirrel and I stared at each other a moment longer, each of us expecting the other to move first. Then I pulled myself from the floor, held her in one arm, and grabbed a hammer from the junk drawer.

In the bedroom, I set Maevis the Squirrel down carefully on the dresser. Pushing the heavy framed bed away from the wall, I revealed—just as she promised—a slightly discolored patch in the wall. When I knocked on it, I could hear it was hollow.

What would she have hidden away in the walls of her bedroom? Knowing Grandma, it could be something ridiculous. Maybe more bread for Jesus, moldy and black. Or—dear god—squirrels; the thought of finding squirrel carcasses was horrifying, but not outside the realm of possibility. Nothing was with her.

I took a deep breath. With one quick blow of the hammer, the wall gave way. I coughed as plaster dust shot up around me. The opening was pitch dark. Cautiously, I stuck my hand inside blindly, praying I would not be met with any dead animals.

Then I felt it. Paper, or something. I slowly pulled it out, revealing a large roll of cash. My throat tightened and I began coughing again, this time choking back tears. The band around the money read “One Thousand.” Carefully, I unrolled it and started counting. One-thousand dollars in twenty-dollar bills.

Eyes wide, I reached my hand in once again, fishing around to see what else I might find. There were no dead animals, no moldy bread. Only another roll of twenties.

And another.

And another.

I dug around until I was sure I’d gotten all of it, then sat back and double counted everything. Twenty-thousand dollars. Grandma hid twenty-thousand dollars in her wall. Because the squirrels and Jesus told her to.

I imagined what I, a college dropout, could do with this money. I could probably move into a nicer apartment, quit that awful retail job I hate and find my footing in the freelance world like I’d been dreaming about for years. Or I could save all the money, invest it—or squirrel it away in the walls of my home like Grandma.

I cried, clutching Maevis the Squirrel close to my chest, with twenty-thousand dollars spread out on the carpeted floor before me.

The possibilities were endless, like they always were with Grandma. She was an eccentric old broad, and that’s what made her so difficult and so great at the same time. She would look out for me, even after she was gone—her and the squirrels and Jesus and her friend Maevis. And the money Grandpa John left her, the money she was supposed to live off. The money she left for me.

Grandma Millicent left me with a world of possibilities.