Attic Secrets

The stairs gave the familiar creak as Billy ascended to the attic. The smell of leather mixed with spices wafted on an imperceptible draft.

A sneeze exploded from Billy before he could cover his mouth. "Glad I'm alone up here." He muttered and peered into the dimly lit corners of the large room. "I think I got everything." He began a tour around the walls. The rafters ended a couple of feet from the floor on one side and a good six feet on the opposite wall.

It had taken him and his relatives three weeks to remove everything from the attic to sell in the auction. They opened every door, drawer, and curtain to make sure nothing of value had been left unseen.

The house had been sold, and he was leaving the family home for the last time. He'd only lived here for the first twenty years of his life and the last ten. Still, even in the missing years, he returned with his family to partake in the family dinners.

The two arched windows let in sunbeams that danced on dust notes. He smiled. His cousins had explored the attic for treasure they had never found. When his grandmother Emma heard them crawling around, she'd hollered for them to come down, admonishing them they might get hurt. They hadn't, but they pretended to obey, only to be careful and move quieter.

Billy sighed and continued his tour. When he reached the short wall side, he noticed a piece of wood had slid over a lower piece. He bent and lifted it back into place only to find it came away in his hands. The slat below it had also fallen out of place, landing flat on the floor.

He frowned and squinted at the narrow, exposed opening. It wasn't empty. Lowering himself with effort, he could see the smooth sides of a box. Curious he managed to wiggle his fingers along the edge of the box but it sat behind the lower frame. No amount of wiggling or pushing the box freed it.

With a grunt of frustration and sore fingers, Billy stood and headed down the stairs, one at a time, due to a recent knee replacement. In his truck, he located the tool bag and returned to the attic. His cell phone rang, a lilting tune indicating his wife.

"Hello," he wheezed.

"Billy! Are you okay? What are you doing?" Sophie's concerned tone caused his hearing aid to screech. He held the phone away from his ear.

"Honey, I'm fine. I found something we'd missed, and it's stuck in a space under the eaves."

"Leave it. Let someone else dig it out."

Billy grimaced. "I'm fine. It will only take a minute, and I'll leave. The closing isn't until tomorrow. I still own the place, and I'm not leaving anything that might have value."

He heard her snort. "We didn't find a secret stash anywhere on the farm. We did make good on the auction. Don't be long, or I'll have to come over and haul you out by your heels."

Billy laughed and disconnected the call. Pocketing the phone, he continued up the steep, narrow stairs.

Lowering his body to the floor and extending the new knee next to the opening, he took two long screwdrivers from the bag. He lifted the box over the two-by-four and pulled it toward him. The box fell from his tenuous hold, and he dropped one of the screwdrivers.

Sitting flat on the floor, he set the box on his lap. He used his sleeve to dust the cobwebs from the top and around the sides.

"What is this thing?" He muttered.

He found a lock after turning it to look at all the sides.

"Of course, it's locked. Nothing is easily opened." Billy chuckled to himself. He tried to open it using whatever he had in the tool bag. With all his tools spread across the floor, he pulled a narrow ice pick from the bag and dug into the hole. The sound of a click and the lid moved a fraction of an inch.

Prying the lid open, the hinges squeaked in protest. It opened like a clam shell and one of the wood covers fell out, revealing faded blue paper and envelopes.

Billy inspected the box and found a name etched on the edge with black ink. Gemma B 1960; his sister's name was Gemma. She was his oldest sister. At eighty-nine, she'd been moved from this house to an adult care center.

He wondered if she had written the letters she'd sent him in the service on this writing case.

Twisting a small metal clasp and pulling on the leather handle, he lifted the leather-covered lid from the opposite side of the box. Under the lid, he found yellowed envelopes—three to be exact. The top one had a courthouse address from Salem, Oregon. The next envelope had a return address from Dallas, Oregon. The last envelope had the return address handwritten. It was the address to the house where he now sat.

All of the envelopes had been addressed to Ms. Gemma Ballentyne.

Should I take them to Gemma to open? he wondered. He couldn't stop his fingers as they lifted the torn edge and pulled the paper out.

What he saw as he read the faded typewritten letters between the form rectangles froze his fingers to the parchment.



Mother: Gemma Mae Ballentyne Father:

Grandmother: Emma Ballentyne Grandfather: Stephen Ballentyne.

Billy's gaze moved quickly to bypass the address lines to the box with the name William Ethan Ballentyne, born June 16, 1952.



Billy dropped the paper. A cloud passed the window blocking the sun. He shivered and stared down at the paper again. Was he reading this wrong? He reread the name of the birth mother. The empty space where a father's name should be. He didn't have to do any math, he already knew his older sister's age and that she was seventeen when he was born. She'd taken care of him most of the time after she came home from school.

They had always had a special bond. He thought it was because she cared for him and spoiled him. His other siblings. "Change that to aunts and uncles, " he chided. They had treated him as if he were their youngest brother.

Steve had told him his mother had brought him home after she had visited her family with Gemma that year.

Now, as Billy stared at the page, it was all a lie. Had Steve, Greg, and Shelly all known the truth? Had they all lied to his face all these years?

He pulled the paper from the next envelope. This was a letter from a lawyer. It read: "By Gemma signing the enclosed paper and returning it, she would receive a check for three thousand dollars, and she would never contact the party listed."

Billy looked at the back of the letter. It was blank. Had Gemma signed the letter and returned it? She must have, or the pages would still be there. He wanted to crush the paper into a ball and throw it as far as he could, but that wouldn't solve anything. He folded it and had trouble sliding it back into its envelope. His hands shook, and he dropped it into the space from which it came.

The last envelope revealed a handwritten letter. He recognized the script. It was his mother's writing, he corrected himself. It was his grandmother's writing.



Dear Gemma,

As you have received the letter from the lawyer with payment details, we need to make our agreement official. Your father and I will raise the baby as our own. He will be called William Barton Ballentyne.

You will be responsible for caring for him any time you aren't in school or working at some job. You will not tell him or anyone the circumstances of his birth. Everyone will be told he is Steven and my child. We will take all responsibility for his care and education until he graduates from high school. You will be known to him and all others as his older sister.

You will turn over to us any money or compensation you receive on his behalf.

Billy read the signatures. Emma, Stephan, and Gemma signed. His hands still trembled as he placed this letter into its envelope.

His phone rang. It was his wife. He ignored the call. It went to voicemail.

Scenes from his childhood raced through his mind—happy times he'd spent with his sister. She had taken him to hockey practices, listened while he'd practiced his horn for the band, and laughed at all his jokes. He'd loved Gemma. Had it been their special bond now that he knew she was his mother?

Heat rose in his cheeks as he thought of the times Emma and Steven reprimanded him. He hadn't been a bad kid but he did tend to choose the wrong sort of friends.

"Spare the rod, spoil the child," had been their motto. He'd learned at an early age his parents were tougher on him than they were to his siblings. Had they punished him for more than his miss deeds? Maybe for who he was? The idea ruminated in his head.

He heard a door slam somewhere in the house. "Billy! Billy! Where are you?"

He tried to move to join his wife. He'd been sitting on the floor too long, and his joints resisted the demand to move. He groaned as he twisted to a crouched position and tried to stand.

"Where are you?!" The tenor of her voice rose in desperation.

"I'm in the attic, " he shouted toward the stairway. In answer, he heard her running up the stairway and down the hall toward the door to the attic. "Soph, I'm fine."

She stomped up the attic stairs. He could hear her heavy breathing as she stopped every couple of treads to breathe. When her head popped above the last step, she stared at him. Their eyes met. She sighed and started to laugh. "What are you doing down there?"

Beside him, she grabbed his arm as he tried to raise his body to a crab-walk stance. He fell to his good knee, and between the laughs and groans, the two lay on the planks of the attic floor.

"What is it?" Sophie asked, rubbing his chest.

"You are never going to believe this, " he said, turning to see her look of concern as tears leaked from the corner of his eyes.

"What?"

In the quiet afternoon, as the sun moved to behind the mountains, William Barton Ballentyne told his wife about the writing case and the lie he'd been told all his life.

Billy and Sophie entered Gemma’s room at the healthcare facility the next day. She turned to greet them with a broad smile on her lips. She held out her hands to him. “Billy.”

Then she saw what he was holding. Her arms dropped to her lap. Billy saw fear in her expression. “Where did you find that?” she asked.

Billy sat facing her, his arms resting on the writing case. “I found this under the eaves in the attic. Did you put it there?”

Gemma looked at the case and then away.

Billy opened the case and removed the envelopes. He reached out to set them on her lap. She recoiled, holding her arms against her chest, her fists clenched under her chin. The envelopes fell to the floor.

Billy picked them up, holding them on top of the case.

“Mother?” He whispered.

Gemma turned her head as if it were mechanical. Her eyes met his in fear. “I’m sorry,” her voice barely heard.