The Attic

2023

It was morning. I was thankful. I am best in the morning. The sunlight streams into the parlor and it reaches the darkest corners of my mind, where the memories are locked. Not just memories of moments but of words, places, and time. Like Tuesday. The sunlight tickled the part of my brain that knew today was Tuesday. If you had asked me yesterday evening when the darkness started to surround me with that cool-pink tint November sunsets have, I never could have said what day it was.

Then the doorbell rang.

That could not be Debbie. Debbie had a key. Was I expecting company? I did not think I had been. Besides, it’s awfully early for company. I pull back the edges of the soft, white curtain to peer outside. A man in a white uniform is standing on my porch. A matching white van is parked in the driveway. “Pest Experts” is written in stark black font on the van with a telephone number underneath. A bat with open wings forms a logo. The doorbell rings again.

My nieces keep telling me I have to be careful about who I open the door for. “People run all kinds of scams,” they tell me. “They pretend to be electricians, plumbers, new neighbors⸺they’ll pretend to be just about anything to get inside your house.” I had just decided not to open the door for this pest expert when the sunlight reached the corner of my mind and unlocked the memory of the bats.

Two bats were swirling around my parlor⸺the fancy parlor⸺late last week. I chased them out of the house with the fire poker and stood on my porch shaking long after they had flown away into the night. My neighbors, the Westons, came to check on me. They said that they had also experienced a problem with bats earlier this year and gave me the telephone number for this supposed pest expert who now stood at my door. I ought to let him in. Rabies can’t be a good thing to add to dementia. How would I remember if I was exposed and needed a shot?

I open the door. At first slowly, and suspiciously. The gentleman in uniform raises a curious eyebrow at me. I don’t know why but it makes me open the door wider, more confidently. As if to say "You are the curious one Sir, not me."

“Mrs. Julia Harrington?” he asks, politely enough.

“Yes, I am she.” I stick my chest out proudly. The Harringtons are a wonderful family and I was lucky to marry into it. I have flashes of weddings and funerals, small freckled faces, and countless Christening gowns. I wonder where all those children are now?

“You called about bats in the house?” he asks me. As if he expects me to remember.

“Yes-it’s Tuesday,” I tell him. There he goes again. Raising his eyebrows.

“Is there anyone else here with you, Mrs. Harrington?” he asks. If he is a scammer trying to steal my treasures, he’ll be sorely disappointed. Firstly, I have no treasures. Even the china in the fancy parlor was purchased at Filene’s in the 1980s. Secondly, I’m not alone. Not entirely.

“Debbie. Debbie is with me.” I pause. “But she’s not here right now. She’s only here on Tuesdays and Thursdays,” I inform him.

“Today is Tuesday,” the gentlemen in uniform reminds me.

“Oh, that’s right,” I say. My cheeks start to flush. I knew the day earlier. “She’ll be here around 9.”

The man looks at his wristwatch. “It’s just about 9 now. Would you like to wait for her? To see about the bats?” I stare at him blankly. I don’t see what Debbie has to do with the bats. She sets my meals up and cleans around the house twice a week. My nieces pay her wages, but I’m always sure to give her some candies for her purse so that she knows that she is appreciated.

“No, no,” I say, standing aside from the door so that he may enter. “Let’s get started now, she’ll be here soon enough.”

He nods and enters the house. “I’m Charles, by the way,” he says as he extends his hand to me.

“Mrs. Harrington,” I reply. Had I already said that?

“Right. Can you show me where you first saw the bats?”

I walk him into the fancy parlor. “This is where I first saw them,” I explain. “I was sitting right there,” I point to my favorite armchair, “and they just…appeared! Seemingly out of nowhere.”

“And you said it happened in the evening, is that correct?”

“Yes, I…I think so.” I remember the cold air on the porch; shaking while I stared at the ink-black sky. “Yes, yes it was evening.”

Charles’ eyes dart all over the room. He plays with the fireplace a bit but doesn't seem to find the answer that he is looking for there. “They must have been roosting somewhere in the house. They’re not getting in through this room. But don’t worry, we’ll have a look about and we will figure out exactly how they are getting in. Do you mind if I walk around the exterior of the property?” I waived my hand to indicate that no, I did not mind at all.

I watch Charles, the pest expert, as he walks around the house. Every now and then he holds up a tablet and takes a picture. I start to get nervous. Maybe he is a scammer. Why else would he need pictures?

“Good morning Julia!” Debbie’s bright voice pierces my nervous thoughts.

“Good God Debbie! You can’t sneak up on me like that!”

Debbie just smiles and joins me at the window. “What are we looking at today?”

“The pest expert,” I reply. His name seems to have slipped my mind. As if the term summoned him, he returns inside the house.

“You must be Debbie,” he says, shaking her hand. “I’m Charles with Pest Experts. Mrs. Harrington, I believe I have figured out how the bats are getting inside the house.” He holds up his tablet for me and zooms in on a picture of my roof, near the attic “See this piece of wood? It’s rotted and there is a hole right here, which is how the bats are getting inside the walls. Bats are protected this time of year, but, as a solution, we can seal up any passages inside the home that they may be using to enter the house. I’d have to get into the attic and take a look around for any baseboards, things like that.”

“NO!” I scream the word. Charles drops his tablet. Both he and Debbie look at me, shocked. “You mustn’t go in the attic!” I declare, quite firmly.

Debbie starts to address me in what I know is her soothing tone. “Julia, Charles - Charles is it?” He nods in affirmation. “Charles has figured out that the bats are coming into the house through the attic. You don’t want bats in the house.” I shake my head no. I most certainly do not want bats in the house. “Right. They could bring diseases and all sorts of things. You do not want bats in the house. Charles here can stop them, but he needs to get in the attic in order to do so.”

“NOT THE ATTIC!” I yell again, with more desperation.

Debbie smiles at me and speaks again in her soft, soothing tone. “Why can’t Charles go in the attic?” she asks me. Charles looks at me with wide eyes, desperately trying to appear nonchalant.

I would love to explain why Charles can’t go in the attic. Debbie would understand. The problem is, I can’t quite remember why.

1955

The church steps feel like clouds underneath my feet. Our families flank the steps and throw little grains of white rice into the air. Their smiles look as wide as mine feels. I gaze over at my new husband. Jack’s family had come over from Bantry Bay with nothing. “Nothing but eight mouths to feed,” his mother would remind me whenever she had the chance. All eight of the children had worked hard. But especially Jack. He was the first in the family to go to college, followed by law school. Now, he was the newly elected mayor of our city. And I would be the mayor’s wife. It all felt too glamorous for words⸺after all, everyone had expected that I would become a secretary, and perhaps marry a factory manager if I was lucky. But here I stood as the new mayor’s new wife. Jack raises my gloved hand to his mouth and kisses it, gently. I giggle as his blue eyes sparkle above his rosy cheeks. I love his rosy cheeks, they always make him look so boyish.

It would take me a year of marriage to realize they were rosy because he had always just been in the gin.

2023

“Yes, he’s determined that they are getting in through the attic, but your aunt will not allow access to it,” Debbie whispered into the phone.

“I have dementia, not hearing loss,” I told her with a glare. I softened my eyes quickly, though. Debbie was nice. I’d have to give her extra candy today. It’s not her fault that the bats are coming in from the attic. And it’s not my fault I can’t remember why we can’t go in the attic.

I stand by the kitchen window, basking my face in golden sunlight. Perhaps new corners of my mind will be unlocked today. Ones that have been locked for God knows how long.

“Your niece is headed straight over, Julia. She’ll help us to figure out what’s going on with the attic.”

“Which niece?” I ask.

“Anne.”

“Well, how is she going to help? She’s just a child!” I scold Debbie with a stern look. How would a little girl know why we couldn’t go in the attic if I couldn’t remember?

Debbie smiled at me with sympathetic eyes. “Anne is not a child. She’s 62 years old now. She hired me to be with you two days a week. Remember?” The momentary shock of this statement wears off quickly. I have flashes of memories. No, not quite flashes, more like shadows. Moments of life, of a child growing. I’m not quite sure it’s memories of Anne, but I am wise enough to know I cannot trust myself on such matters anymore.

“How quickly they grow,” I respond to Debbie.

Anne arrives at the house shortly after her phone call with Debbie. She has snow-white hair and is one of those lucky women who look quite glamorous with it. I pull at my own gray hair, unruly and witch-like.

“Aunt Julia. Debbie,” she greets us each with a polite nod.

“Is that pest expert still here!?!” I ask, somewhat alarmed that I have forgotten a stranger was possibly in our midsts.

“He said he would return this afternoon,” Debbie reminds me. “He gave us time to straighten out this mess with the attic.”

The attic. I gulp loudly and my heart begins to race.

Anne walks over to where I am seated and gently grasps my hand. “Now, Aunt Julia. What is all this about the attic?” she asks in a kind and patient tone. She seems wonderful. I wish I could remember her growing up.

My heart is still racing. I struggle for words. For memories. For a reason. There are dark shadows and whispered secrets. Promises made and rosy cheeks.

“Your Uncle Jack,” I tell Anne. “Your Uncle Jack is why we can’t go in the attic.”

“Uncle Jack?” Anne stands suddenly, dropping my hand in surprise. “Uncle Jack? Who has been missing since 1962?”

I nod. “That’s the one.”

1957

The gin was cold. The flowers were pink. And the oysters were on ice. I folded the cloth napkins carefully and placed out silver trays holding my best culinary delights. Soon, Jack would be downstairs, in his smartest suit no doubt, ready to charm the crowd that would arrive shortly.

We could expect Richard and Patty Sullivan, the Carneys, and Tom and Catherine Murphy. Jack would want to talk to them about judge appointments, campaign funds, and new plans for the growing commercial district downtown.

Michael and Caroline Connelly will be in attendance as well. As would the Kellys. Jack would want to talk to them about their guarded connections in Boston, and their more informal contributions to society. More…dubious contributions to society.

As the mayor’s wife, I had learned that there was the right crowd and the wrong crowd. There were the Sullivans, the Carneys, and Murphys. People like them were considered good Irish stock. Monuments of society. Players to watch. But there were also the Connellys and the Kellys. They found their way in this world through different avenues. Darker avenues. For whatever reason, we hosted both crowds. And to tell the truth, I had awful fun with both.

2023

Anne, Debbie, and I walk upstairs. Dread pulls my feet down on each step up the staircase. We mustn’t go in the attic. The notion pulls at my limbs until I feel ready to break apart.

“I know you’re nervous Aunt Julia, but everything will be fine,” Anne tells me, sensing my dread that covers the stairwell with its dark cape. “And then we can stop the bats from coming into the house.”

That’s right. The pest expert. The bats are coming in through the attic. The attic. Oh Jack, what did you leave me in there?

The entrance to the attic is through my old sewing room. I loved sewing. Unlike most women of my generation, I never bought a machine, I sewed everything by hand. I stitched patterns onto pillowcases and patched torn garments with carefully selected cloth. The movement of thread and needle through my fingertips always felt cathartic, like a penance paid for an act I can’t remember anymore. Slowly, I forgot the movements that made different stitches and I abandoned the room as the memories started to abandon me.

The sewing room feels like a tomb. Cold and dark. Bobbins of red and black thread are lined like poppies across my old desk where I would work as if they were a memorial to the lost craft. Without ceremony, Anne opens the closet to reveal the attic door, which, to my surprise, stands slightly ajar. The dark interior of the attic projects like a spotlight into the quiet, forgotten sewing room.

Silently, we enter the attic. Anne pulls a string from up above to turn on an overhead light. I hold my breath, not wanting to see what it contains. Not remembering what it contains. But, slowly, I take in the space. And realize how normal it is. There are stacked boxes made of cardboard, old suitcases, and empty garment bags. Cobwebs glisten in the corners from the light of the lamp. Anne and Debbie are still, but scanning the space. Everyone is quiet. And it seems to me, a bit…what’s the word?

“Disappointed,” I say out loud.

“What’s that?” I hear Debbie ask.

I open my mouth to explain that I was just trying to remember the word and said it out loud by mistake when I realize that Debbie is not talking to me. She is pointing towards the back of the attic, at a small door handle that is almost hidden within the dark wood of the wall.

1962

Jack was pacing in our kitchen. His perfect blond hair was disheveled matching his suit as it wrinkled more and more from nervous sweat. His fingers bounced a lit cigarette up and down frantically.

“I’ve made mistakes,” he tells me.

I sit at the kitchen table, only moving my eyes to watch him as he transverses the space. “I would say so, darling. The Irish mob and the police both want you.” Our hosting of the right and the wrong crowd had caught up to us it seemed.

Jack grows agitated and his reasoning comes out defiant. “I was just trying to get ahead! To take care of our people, that’s all.” He begins to pace faster, drawing desperately from his dwindling cigarette. “Most people still think that the Irish are rats, you know.”

I did not point out that he was acting like a rat. It would do no good. From what I could understand, Jack had devised an elaborate kickback scheme. But now both the government and the mob had found that some funds were unaccounted for.

“I just need to lay low and think for a bit,” Jack said, more to himself than to me. It was 2 o’clock in the morning. That is when our plan was formed. Nothing good is ever decided at 2 o’clock in the morning.

2023

I scream as Anne pulls open the hidden door. But once the door is open, I realize there is nothing to be scared of. Not really. It just reveals a small room. A small room, inside a small attic, with a small bed, a mirror, and a nightstand with a lamp. The room smelled musty and still; and like gin somehow.

Anne faces me with a sweet smile as she reaches up to brush my unruly hair behind my ear. “Aunt Julia,” she says kindly. “Was Uncle Jack living in this room? Is this where he stayed after the police said he was wanted for questioning?”

Yes! He was staying here. This was our 2 o’clock in the morning plan! But it wasn’t just the police, was it? No. The mob was after him too. The Connellys and the Kellys. Their Boston connections. “He was just trying to take care of his people,” I explain. “That’s all.”

Anne nods solemnly. Her eyes scan the room again, taking in the thick layer of dust that seems to cover everything. “Do you know where Uncle Jack is now?” she asks me.

“Yes!” I exclaimed, excited to recall so easily, “He’s under the hydrangea bushes.”

***

“We have to confirm that it is him, Mrs. Harrington,” a police officer tells me. The statement has an edge to it like he’s explained this to me before several times. My nieces and Debbie never get that tone with me.

But, in all fairness, I had been yelling at the group of police officers. They were digging up my hydrangea bushes.

***

Later on, I had to go to the police station. I sat in a quiet room on uncomfortable chairs. They asked me all kinds of questions about my Jack. “You’re not in trouble,” they told me. “We just need this information to close the case.”

They were lucky it was early, and that the sunlight was still working even in this back room without windows to wake up my memories. I could still see his rosy cheeks. There were darker memories, of course. But I chose to let those go entirely and focus on his rosy cheeks, the smell of gin on his breath, and how he kissed my hand on those church steps in 1955. The rest simply faded into the darkness with the memories I let go of unwillingly, all fallen like rose petals at the end of summer.