My Grandmother's Attic

My Grandmother's Attic

It was raining, again, and it was cold out, too, and there was nothing to do.

“Watch TV,” my grandmother said.

“Done that to death,” I muttered.

“Read a book,” she suggested.

“There's nothing here,” I snapped.

She glanced up from her book and gave me a hard look over her bifocals. “Well, well, April May.” My name is April but Gran calls me April May for a nickname, only it isn't shorter. “You're looking for something new to do.” She carefully placed the bookmark I'd made her in Kindergarten, the one with a big lopsided purple-coloured heart on it—I'd first made it blue and then had to go over it in red to make it right—then set her book down on the side table. “Have you ever been up in the attic of this old house?” she asked. I shook my head, beaming at her. I knew she'd come through; Gran always does.

She led me up the stairs. There were three bedrooms opening off a square hallway; my Gran and Gramps' room, the guest room, which was mostly mine because I was the only one who ever stayed there, and a tiny third room which Gran used as a closet. We made space by pushing boxes and piles of books out of the way and Gran pointed to a rectangular cutout in the ceiling. “A lot of times in these old houses, the attics are just a space with no floor so they can't be used. But Walt finished the floor ages ago because we needed the extra storage.” Walt was my Gramps. Gran was hunting around amidst the boxes and, behind some old coats, she found it, a step ladder.

“You ever throw anything out, Gran?” I asked.

Gran laughed. “Listen to you. Don't you sound like your Mom. Yes, dear, I've thrown lots out but when you get as old as me there's that much more you want to keep, too. Here now.” She set the ladder up and carefully climbed up, with me holding onto the ladder and keeping a hand out in case she fell, although what that was supposed to do if she did, I don't know. Gran's a big woman but not stiff. “These old limbs are still limber,” she'd say, patting her big leg, and my Mom would always roll her eyes.

A cloud of dust fell through the hole when she pushed the trap door aside. We both coughed and waved our hands about. “It's been a long time since anyone's been up here,“ she said. “I don't even remember what's here.” She climbed back down. “You can be a big help to me, dear, if you'd take a pen and paper up with you and write down what you find. With Walt gone now I might just take it all to a flea market.” She found a pen and paper in the top drawer of an old desk shoved into one corner and piled high with books. She had a gleam in her eye as she handed them to me. “That should keep you busy for a while. I'll be downstairs if you need me.”

The attic was like the rest of my Grandmother's house, in both size and clutter. I could stand, once I'd pulled myself up through the trap door, but could only turn and look at the piles of boxes and various bits of furniture. The roof sloped from a peak in the middle, where I was, right down to the floor. It was hard to know where to start so I picked right in front of me. There was a beat-up dresser with only one drawer and the space where the other drawer was supposed to be was filled with papers. I pulled open the top drawer and found photo albums stacked inside. I sat with them on my lap and flipped through. Mostly they were full of people I didn't recognize until the third album where there were lots of pictures of a chubby little baby that suddenly turned into me, except I was hanging on to the wrong parents. I'm always told I look like my mother, and I guess I roll my eyes, because I didn't know they meant I look like mother when she was my age. Me and the girl in the pictures could be twins. Weird.

My mom didn't have any brothers or sisters. “Not for lack of trying,” my Grandmother would laugh, shaking her belly, and my mother would glare hard at her, whispering “shhh,” and her face would go all red. Anyway, there were a lot of pictures of my mom. I especially liked looking at the ones of her all dressed up for Hallowe'en.

I guess she knew what she wanted to be when she was real young because she's an art restorer now and works at the University. Gran told me Mom's the first in the family to graduate University. She says I'm to be the second. I don't know about that. I want to be a writer and can't see how University would help me. The How To Be A Writer sites online all say I need to read a lot. So that's what I do, and write, too, of course. Only I don't tell my Gran that; she has her heart set on me going to University.

One picture of Mom showed her sitting in front of a large frame with brown paper in it that she was painting on. She was about seven and looked just like I did a couple of years ago. She was facing the painting holding a homemade pallet and a brush, wearing a smock and a French-style beret set on her head. She was looking back over her shoulder at the camera with a big grin.

The papers stuffed into the bottom of the dresser turned out to be my mom's old paintings and drawings from school. She seemed to like writing her name real big on her work. I wrote down as neatly as I could: dresser; photo albums, paintings.

I started to shove them back into their spot when I noticed one painting was on thicker paper, like a real canvas. I know about those things 'cause of my mom's job. I unrolled it and was surprised to see it was a picture of a beautiful little dog, with big black eyes and the cutest little bell on his collar. My mom's name wasn't on this one; I couldn't make out whose it was but it started with an R and looked like it ended with a z. At my school we don't learn cursive writing any more. We print or else sign stuff with a picture made of our initials. Like, I use a small 'a' with a big 'S' around it to look like a flower with petals. I had to show this painting to Gran. We'd both been working on Mom—Gran and I—trying to get Mom to get me a puppy. Mom always said no, she had enough work as a single parent.

“Look, Gran,” I called, clambering back down the ladder. “Gran!” I shouted, running down the stairs.

She was back in her chair, with her book open in her lap, but I know she was sleeping because she jerked her head up and snorted real loud.

I had to shout a couple more times 'til Gran woke up a bit and got what I was saying. She looked at the painting and sat up and pulled it closer and looked again, frowning. She put her glasses on and looked at the picture over the lenses, through the lenses, and every which way. “What is it, Gran?” I asked.

She shook her head. “I'd forgotten about this, I really had. And it's very important.”

She looked at me thoughtfully for a long time. Then she stood up and headed into the kitchen. She put the kettle on for herself, though she always asks me if I want a cup. She set a big bag of cookies on the table and pulled the whole tray out. She watched me eat one, then poured me a glass of milk. I ate a whole row of the tray before the kettle boiled. I'd eaten a few more before Gran sat back down with her tea. But I hadn't forgotten her reaction to the picture. I think maybe she thought I would.

“So?”

“So what?”

“Gran, ” I sighed, “you said that picture was really important. Why?”

She looked at me over her teacup. “I guess I'll tell you, April May, because I think you're old enough and smart enough to understand. Lord knows your mom won't agree and would tear a strip off me for telling you this, but she doesn't know anything 'bout it either so you just need to keep quiet, okay?”

Gran had never spoken to me like this before. I brushed the crumbs from my mouth and nodded seriously.

She set the picture on the table between us and tapped it with her finger. “This picture is important because it tells me who killed your grandfather, Walter, may he rest in peace.”

I stared at her, waiting for her to give a big belly laugh like she does but she just looked at me and nodded. “The problem, ” she continued, “is that I don't know how I can use this information. It tells me who done it but it's not proof. ” She tapped the picture some more, frowning as she thought.

Since I want to be a writer when I grow up I knew she was dragging the story out on purpose. I waited but she was thinking. Finally the suspense was killing me. “Gran, you've got to tell me what happened!”

“All right, I said I would.” She poured me some more milk and herself another cup of tea.

“You know Walter was a carpenter and handy man? ” At my nod she continued. “One of his clients was Mrs. Braithwaite. She was an old lady, living in a big house all by herself. She had children in town but they weren't much help to her so Walter did all the work around the house. She paid well or else he wouldn't have gone near her, ” Gran chuckled. “He used to complain about how she'd treat him, the terrible things she'd say but worst of all for Walt was she always put down his work. She was paranoid that everyone was out to steal her money and take advantage of her. Now, Walt, I don't know how much you remember him, dear, but he would never take advantage of a little old lady, even if he hated her, and anyways I always made him go help her out.

So one day she calls and the tap in her bath tub is leaking again, the one Walter had fixed the year before. She starts on him about how she doesn't see why he has to fix it again if he'd done it right the first time.

“'It's an old house, Mrs. B., needs a lot of care,” Walt told her. That's what he always called her, Mrs. B..

“And you get to charge me twice for the same job,” she said. “Everyone thinks because I live in this big house I must be rich and they can take advantage.”

“Who’s everyone, Mrs. B.? Are you telling me I’m not your only handyman?'

“Walter was only joking with her, but humor was lost on that woman.

“'I always have someone check your work, Walter,” she told him and Walt insisted she cackled so hard she had a coughing fit.

“What did you say?” Mrs. B. demanded sharply when her fit had passed. “Don't swear, Walter.'

“Now when Walt told me that I laughed so hard that he even laughed a bit, too, even though he didn't really think it was funny.”

Gran started to laugh at the memory, shaking her head and jiggling her belly. I felt a strange feeling in my heart, kind of sad and kind of mad at the same time. Tears pricked my eyes. “Grandma, why are you laughing when you're talking about Gramps? He's dead!”

Gran looked surprised. Then she pulled my chair towards her and put her arms around me. “I remember and miss him every day. But part of remembering is thinking about all the times, good, bad, and funny, that we shared. That's how I keep Gramps alive, in here.” She pointed to her heart. “And telling you stories about Walt will keep him alive in here, too.” She pointed to my heart. “It's not disrespecting Gramps to laugh remembering him. Do you want me to go on?” I nodded.

“Walter was upset and he wrenched the faucet off the old tub with unnecessary force.

“You’ve got a problem, Mrs. B.” Walter said with a perplexed frown.

“Oh yes, it’s my heart. Those kids of mine…”

“No, Ma’am, I mean over here,” Walter pointed to the tap. “You know I just took that off but I’d forgot to shut off the main. There should be water pouring outta here. When’s the last time you used this tub?”

“Look at me. Do I look like I can use this tub? I’m too old to get in that big thing. I had a shower put in downstairs six months ago.”

“Not by me,” Walter snapped. Walter stared at the decapitated, non-leaking pipes and wondered why he was even here. He even thought of walking out right then but he knew I would be some upset with him for leaving an old lady's pipes like that.

“Something strange is going on around here,” the old lady muttered, “and it’s not just taps. I’m not senile yet, you know, and they’re trying to drive me crazy.”

Still examining the non-functional taps, Walter mouthed “Yeah, yeah,”

as the usual rant about her kids began. She’d start on workers next.

“…then there was a chimney sweep, there’s three fireplaces, you know, and in the same day a roofer was by to reshingle a patch at the back, so he says, but I didn’t see anything wrong. Then the next day a man came to clean the furnace and ducts and someone came to clean out the hot water heater. I’ve never even heard of that. Walter, are you listening to me?'

"A surprised Walter glanced over his shoulder and saw her frowning at him. He automatically hitched up his jeans... "

“Gran!” I grinned.

She winked at me. “Well, it's true. Anyway, then he heard what she'd been saying.

“'Did you say someone was here to clean your hot water tank?”

“She scowled at him. “It’s fishy isn’t it? I knew it.”

“Well, now, it’s unusual. Probably explains why the water isn’t running here.'

“At his request, Mrs. B. led him down to the furnace room. Walter was surprised by the condition of the room. There was an open bag of garbage spilling dust and a bucket full of water sat beside the hot water tank which had layers of pink insulation lying all around it.

“'New tanks don’t need that,” Walter told her. Naturally she thought he was trying to talk her into buying a new tank.

“Did he actually empty the tank and clean it?” he interrupted.

“He started to, but I came down and demanded to know who has ever heard of a tank getting cleaned. Did he think I was senile, I said. I’m not, I said, and told him no one was going to take advantage of me. I’m no one’s fool, I said.”

“And he ran out screaming,” Walter said under his breath.

“What was that, Walter?”

“Tell me about all these workers again, Mrs. B.” And she was happy to oblige in detail."

Gran sat back and ticked them off on her fingers. “There's the roofer, for the shed, mind you, a chimney sweep, a furnace and duct cleaner and the hot water tank cleaner all came by within a couple of days. And Mrs. B. was surprised by all the workers in her house. What does that make you think of, April May?”

Another cookie helped me think. “I've never heard of a hot water tank cleaner.” I raised my eyebrows at Gran and she nodded. “And if she didn't call for the workers then it looks like someone was trying to get into her house?”

“Smart girl.” Gran smiled.

“Casing the joint,” I added eagerly.

“Kinda. What I got out of it was those were all places where someone might have hidden something. So I sent Walter back the next day and told him to tell Mrs. B. he thought she was right and there was something fishy about all these workers and he was going to check it out for her. And I told him to check all the places she said the workers had been and especially the hot water tank because she'd interrupted his work.” Gran took a sip of her tea.

“And?”

“He found that.” She pointed to the painting of the dog. “Rolled up inside the insulation that was still wrapped around the water tank. He showed it to Mrs. B. and told her he thought the workers were looking for this. Mrs. B. told Walt to take it home with him, that he could have it, and that should stop her being bothered by those people.” Gran had a faraway look in her eye.

“What, Gran?”

“I was just thinking of how Mrs. B. never seemed to worry about who was sending all those workers to look around her house. She must have known who it was.”

“So who killed Walt, I mean Gramps?” I asked.

“Do you remember when Grandad died?” At my nod, she continued, “We had gone to your house for supper and your Mom wanted to borrow a circular saw from Walt, 'cause she was planning to lay new wood flooring. Walt had forgotten and he came back home to get the saw. He didn't come back for the longest time so we got worried and rushed home, only to find him lying dead on the kitchen floor. Heart attack, they said.”

“You don't think it was a heart attack?” My heart was pounding just thinking of it.

“Oh, it was. But I always had a feeling something wasn't right that night. I found things had been moved and just had a feeling someone had been going through the house. Nothing was stolen, though, so what could I do? And what with the funeral and missing Walt…” Gran took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I forgot about it. Until you showed me this picture. I remember that Mrs. B.'s youngest son had been by to tell us that Mrs. B. had died, and when the funeral was, and that she had left some money to Walt. He asked me if his mother had ever given Walt anything, like a painting. Now, how we came by that painting was strange enough so I said no.”

“And you think he came back and killed Grandad to get the painting,” I gasped.

“Not exactly. He may have just been looking for it and surprised Walt so's he had a heart attack or maybe he confronted him and caused it.” Gran shrugged. She sat back, staring at the ceiling and sipping her tea. I waited as long as I could.

“So, let's call the police!” I finally shouted out.

Gran shook her head. “Like I said, it ain't proof. I wonder what's so important about this painting? It's just a picture of a dog.”

“It's a cute dog, really cute,” I said.

“You don't break into a man's house for cute,” Gran mused.

“Let's Google it,” I suggested.

“Do what now?”

“On the computer. Jeesh, Gran.”

“Language, dear. I have a TV and that's enough for me”

I knew she meant it. She still had an old phone, too, the kind you had to stick your finger in and roll the disk. It took forever to call anyone. Gran said it worked fine and why should she replace it when it worked fine?

My big Christmas present this year was a phone. My Mom thought I was too young, when I asked for it. I told her all the kids in my class had one and I was left out of the texting. She started on the whole “if everyone jumped off a bridge, would you, too?” I said having a phone wouldn't make me stupid. She said, “Watch your tone, young lady, you sound just like Gran.” I said it's a safety thing, I could call or text her whenever I needed her, like if someone tried to get me to help find their lost puppy, for instance. That swayed her, the safety thing.

So I laid the painting out, with books to hold the corners down, and took a picture with my phone. Gran had asked me not to mention it to my Mom so I didn't show her the picture when she picked me up after work. I should have, probably. It would have saved me and Gran a lot of trouble.

Instead I Googled “dog's head painting” on my laptop at home. Turns out it was a famous painting by a famous painter, Renoir. I thought maybe it had been stolen, because why else hide it in an old lady's house? And then I thought why steal a famous painting anyway? It's not like you can hang it on your wall for everyone to see. You know how Google is. You ask this or that and get links to all sorts of things and next thing you know Mom is yelling at you to turn off that darn thing and go to bed or she'll take it away for a week.

I found out people don't steal famous paintings to sell or to hang in their houses. They steal them to make copies and sell those. I lay awake in bed a long time, thinking. It bothered me, that my Grandad maybe died over a stupid painting, I don't care how famous it was.

It bothered me all the next day at school, too. Mr. Grant, my teacher, said he had to be extra patient with me. Just because I couldn't find my math homework and he had to wait while I checked in my backpack and desk before I remembered I had left it on the kitchen table.

And it weighed on me still when I got off the school bus at Gran's house after school. Gran had the usual cookies and tea set out on the table. I asked for a glass of milk, like always. “You know I don't drink tea, Gran,” I muttered.

Gran raised an eyebrow. “Cranky today?”

“How can you act like normal? Knowing maybe Grandad was killed? Over a stupid painting?” I burst out.

“Oh, dear.” Gran sat down with her tea. “I shouldn't have told you any of that. That's just an old woman's foolish rambling. I didn't mean to upset you, April May. There's nothing to that silly story.” She reached over and patted my hand, looking worried. I could tell she was thinking I'd say something to Mom and get Gran in big trouble.

What she said didn't make me feel better, even though maybe she was right. Detective stories are my favorite. The heroes always lure the perp somehow and catch him. I had an idea how I could draw out Gramps' “maybe killer.” I opened my mouth to tell Gran then shut it again. There's no way she'd go along with my plan. So I'd just do it myself.

After Mom picked me up, I went straight to my laptop and used Paint to make a poster. I blew up the picture of the dog's head painting and wrote in white block letters “YARD SALE” across the top, with Gran's address underneath. I put Saturday's date on it. I honestly thought the perp would wait 'til Saturday. And that's why nine-year-olds shouldn't play detective, which is what my Mom said afterwards.

I told Mom I was going out to see Pam, my friend who lives just down the street. She said it was good for me to get off the computer and to be back when the streetlights came on. I knew where the old Braithwaite house was so I ran all the way over and stuck the posters around on the telephone poles. If Mrs. B's kids were still around they'd see them for sure. The streetlights were just blinking on when I got home. I slept better that night feeling like I was doing something about Gramps' death.

Pam's mom was working late the next day so Pam was coming to Gran's house after school with me. I told her about the painting and what Gran had said. Pam wanted to see it because we'd been talking about what kind of puppies we would get if we were ever allowed. I told her, too, what I had done to draw the perp out.

“My mom tells me what you read or see on TV isn't real, except the news, maybe. You read too much,” Pam said.

“There's no reading too much,” I said.

Gran wasn't waiting when we stepped off the school bus. Pam and I were talking puppies again so I didn't notice. That is to say, I noticed but it didn't exactly click in my mind.

Gran never used her front door. It opened right into the living room and she liked to keep her living room pristine. Mom always said Gran would cover the living room all in plastic if she could. Gran lived in the kitchen, where it was okay to make a mess, and the door we used was up a stoop on the side of the house. The door was open a little and that's when it clicked.

I set my backpack down and crept up to look in. The kitchen was empty. A cup of tea sat on the table, steaming, alongside a bag of cookies. Two glasses, ready for milk.

“Hello,” Pam called.

I whirled around, pressing my fingers to my lips to shush her. A crash from the living room shook the floor. Pam's eyes got wide.

“Go,” I shouted, giving her a push back out the door. “Call 911.”

Gran stumbled into the kitchen. A man charged in behind her. Gran was holding the rolled up painting. She threw it towards me and I caught it. “Run” she yelled.

The man gave her a shove and she fell. As she fell she pulled a kitchen chair down in his way. Then she started crawling toward the stove, reaching for the drawer at the bottom.

When she fell, I automatically ran to her . When she said to run I turned and tried to run back out but the man had come around the table and grabbed my arm. He gave me a shake to make me drop the painting but I held on. My other arm fell onto the counter and there was the phone. I grabbed it by the space in the back, spun, and beaned him in the head as hard as I could. One thing you can say about those old phones is they are heavy.

The man staggered back, his hand on his forehead. Blood spilled between his fingers. By now Gran had got her frying pan out of the drawer of the stove and she reared up and clocked him from the other side. He went down, all limp. By now the sweet sound of sirens was singing down the street.

My Gran's a toughy. We stood over the guy, her with her frying pan, and me with the phone, ready to pop him again if he moved.

“Is he one of Mrs. B's kids?” I asked.

“The youngest,” Gran said.

“Why didn't you just give the painting to him, Gran?”

“Huh,” she said. “He didn't ask nicely.”

“I should call Mom.” Gran and I looked at each other. She sighed.

“Guess you'd better.”

Mom had lots to say. She was real nice to the police officers who came to drag the thief away, especially one who introduced himself as Detective Brown, but as soon as they were gone she started in with Gran first. Then I said it was all my idea to lure out the perp and she started in on me. Mostly along the lines of “Just what were you thinking? Gran could have been hurt—Pam, too. And you…” She clutched me to her bosom.

The waterworks were going to start so I interrupted her by showing her the painting. “Is it the real one?”

Mom pulled herself together and looked it over. She shook her head. Told me about colors and what was available at the time and such. “It's a good copy,” she said. “There's been a rumour around about a group that produces high-quality knock-offs like this but I never thought it was true. It takes a lot of knowledge, not to mention skill to make a copy this good.”

“It's too bad he was a bad egg,” said Gran.

While Mom was expounding on the merits of the painting, Pam had been looking it over. “That is a really cute dog,” she whispered to me.

“Right?” I whispered back. I didn't think we were any closer to getting puppies; Pam's mom was likely going to be pretty po'd, too.

What I did think was that Gran and I, we made a good team. I wondered what else she had up in her attic.