This is the prologue for a short story I wrote. I think you'll find the subject apropos to Big Week. See the Big Week General Discussion Forum for Part II, etc.
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The Attic
by Sabre
Prologue:
Danny was frustrated. No, not frustrated, really; just bored. He was a skinny 10-year old blond kid, with glasses and ears that stood out to far from his head. He had been at his grandparents’ house four days now, and was absolutely out of things to do. It was late in August, and summer vacation was fast waning. His parents had dumped him here so they could go to some dumb convention at Lake Tahoe. They had dropped him off here in Denver on the way from their home in San Antonio, TX. They hadn’t even stayed the night before moving on.
His grandparents lived in an old two-story house, in an even older neighborhood, and there were no other kids his age in the area. Heck, he thought, there wasn’t even a park or a shopping mall or anything to go hang out at. The precious last two weeks of summer vacation wasted!
His grandmother was a soft-spoken, kindly old woman in her late seventies. She had a kind of strange accent, sort of like Mary Poppins, or Mrs. Doubtfire, and was silver-haired and a bit on the plump side. She spent a lot of time baking in the kitchen and sewing quilts in the what she called the sewing room. Oh, she tried her best to entertain him, teaching him some card games and taking him to the store with her.
His grandfather, on the other hand, hardly said anything at all to him, preferring to read out on the sprawling front porch, or in the his library. Most of the time, he barely acknowledged Danny’s presence. Occasionally, he was downright gruff, telling Danny to “go bother someone else for a change.” When he wasn’t reading, he spent his time at some establishment down the street, where other old men seemed to hang out. The sign on the outside said VFW.
This particular morning, Danny decided to wander around the old house some more. The house was fascinating, in a spooky sort of way. He started his rounds this day in the basement, rummaging around through old boxes of clothes and magazines. He found a paper shopping bag full of ancient comic books, and these kept him busy for almost an hour and a half.
Eventually, he got bored with them; his literary tastes ran somewhat deeper, for all that he was barely past fifth grade. He headed to the library. This was one of his favorite spots in the house. His grandfather had been a history teacher before he retired, and had a huge collection of leather-bound books. The musty smell of old leather mingled with the semi-sweet aroma of pipe tobacco. Danny’s favorite pastime was reading, and he wanted to finish a fantasy book he had found in the library the other day. It was titled “The Hobbit.” He wondered whom it belonged to. After all, his grandfather didn’t seem like the fantasy type.
The door to the library was closed, and Danny put his eye to the keyhole to see if it was empty. He saw his grandfather sitting in an ancient high-backed chair by the big bay window. He was a thin, gray-haired man of 78, dressed as usual, in loose tan pants and a thread-bare cardigan sweater. His unlit pipe rested loosely in one hand, and he appeared to be sleeping.
“Well, that’s that.” Danny sighed to himself. If he went in to get the book, he’d wake his grandfather for sure – the doors in the house squeaked like banshees. He looked in on his grandmother in the kitchen, but she was busy baking something. He wasn’t sure what, but she was smashing bananas with a fork.
He next wandered up stairs, exploring the bedrooms, and was about to go back down to find the comic books again. Then he noticed a door he hadn’t opened before. He had thought it to be a linen or coat closet, but for the first time noticed it had a keyhole. Closets don’t have locks, he reasoned, and decided to take a look inside. Opening the door, he saw a dimly lit staircase, narrow and winding and ascending into semi-darkness. There wasn’t any light switch that he could see, so he groped his way up into the gloom.
He found himself in an attic, surrounded by dusty old furniture, a dressmaker’s mannequin, and all the assorted odds and ends that seem to be the measure of a lifetime’s worth. There was a window to his left, covered by colorless curtains, and Danny went up to it and pulled the covering aside to let in some light. The gloom was suddenly shattered by sunlight, dust motes swirling in the bright shaft of sunshine. Danny turned around and saw the shaft had come to rest on an old, pale green chest of medium size. Pale white letters, gone yellow with age, were stenciled on the front. Leaning closer, he saw a row of numbers, and underneath was…his own last name! He was intrigued, so much so he couldn’t resist the urge to peek inside.
He undid the latches and lifted the cover. Inside, he found an odd assortment of paraphernalia. There was a stack of old black and white photos in one corner, and an old leather jacket in the other. The jacket had some kind of soft fuzzy lining; it reminded Danny of a sheep’s coat, like ones he’d seen in petting zoos. It had a name sewn on the jacket.
“Rojo?” he said. “Who’s Rojo?” Something colorful protruded from the right pocket. He pulled on it, and found it to be a scarf of some kind. It was about three feet long, was covered in a green and pink paisley pattern, and felt smooth and cool to the touch. Holding it up to the light, he could almost see through it. Danny stuffed it back into the pocket.
Lifting the jacket part way out of the trunk, he noticed a small green felt covered box beneath it. He set the garment to one side, lifted out the box, and opened it. Inside was some kind of medal. It was round and about the size of a silver dollar. It was attached to a thick ribbon, which was light blue with little white stars on it. He set the box on the floor beside him.
Next, he picked up the photos. The top one was of a pretty young woman, perhaps 20 or 25 years of age. She was wearing some kind of uniform, with a tight fitting, waist-length coat. The girl had large almond shaped eyes, shoulder-length hair, and a sort of sad, wistful smile.
He shrugged and slipped the photo under the next picture. This one was imminently more interesting to the youth. It was of a group of young men in uniforms, standing in front of an old warplane.
“B17. Cool!” he breathed. Danny, like many young boys his age, loved airplanes. And the types of planes he liked most were World War II warbirds. He could name most of them by sight. The plane had a picture of a young woman in uniform, and the lettering beside the woman said “Queen of the Rockies.” Danny noted the woman painted on the nose of the bomber had a passing resemblance to the girl in the first photograph. The 10 airmen in the picture were wearing strange-looking vests over their leather jackets. The way they stood together suggested friendship and camaraderie.
“I’m the one in the middle.” Came his grandfather’s voice from behind. Danny whirled around, embarrassed to be caught red-handed going through someone else’s things. The old man stood at the top of the stairs, stooped with age and supporting himself with the cane he carried. He walked with a limp, and was never without the cane.
“I’m sorry, grandpa.” he stammered. “I didn’t know what was in there, honest!”
His grandfather waived his hand in dismissal, as he stepped forward into the light. “That’s all right, boy. Kind of expected you’d find your way up here eventually. Surprised it took you so long.” The old man tried on a lop-sided grin, to show he wasn’t really angry.
“You were in the War, Grandpa?” The young boy looked again at the photo, trying to match his grandfather’s wizened face with the shyly smiling youth in the picture. The younger version had his cap on at a jaunty angle, and wore a lop-sided grin not unlike the one his grandfather wore now. “You were a flyer?”
The old veteran squared his shoulders and stood a little straighter. “That picture was taken in the spring of 1943. Just before my 24th mission…My last mission.”
“What was it like, Grandpa?” he asked, still hardly able to believe this hidden facet of his supposedly dull grandfather’s past.
His grandfather lowered himself carefully down in front of the trunk. “Well,” he said, “if were going on a journey to the past, you must be dressed for the trip.” He wrapped the leather jacket around Danny’s shoulder. Then he picked up the photo, and his face took on a dreamy look; he began to speak.
To be continued...
