The Right Kind of Wrong (12 page)

"Well, I'm gonna go nap or something. I'm not used to these early mornings." Vince gets up from the swing.
 

The weightlessness feels sudden. So lonely. He walks toward the door and I pinch myself.
Do it, Kara
. Do it now.
 

"Vince?"

He stops. "Yeah?"

"I know you know I overheard you talking to Grandma. Thanks. You know, for saying what you did."

He gives me a sad smile and shrugs. "It's the truth. I didn't say anything she didn't already know."
 

Then he leaves me, my mouth open, stunned. Since when did Vince, the ruiner of my GPA, the prickly thorn in my side, become the person who seems to understand me the most?

"Somehow, I don't think playing Spit and Solitare is on the list of things to do while we're here."
 

Vince leans back in his chair at the kitchen table where we are sitting with a deck of cards.
 

"I can't believe you grew up here. It's so boring."

"Tell me about it," I mutter.
 

I glance toward the stairs. "We didn’t check the attic yet for my Grandpa's stuff. Let's go up there."

Vince follows my eyes to the stairwell. "Up there?"
 

I pull him up from his chair. "Yeah. Think of it as an adventure."

His face goes white. "An adventure the size of a crawl space."

Oh, yeah. He's claustrophobic.
 

"The stairs are a little narrow. Once we get up there it opens up to a big room."

He pushes me in front of him. "Let's get it over with."

The steep attic stairs creak under my weight, and the bitter scent of mothballs grows stronger as I reach the top. Every step stirs up motes of dust, which shimmer in a ribbon of light streaming in from a tiny window. It casts an eerie glow over the cluttered room.
 

I grope around for the string to the light. "I can't find the light. I know it's up here somewhere."

"Are you sure your Grandma's not hiding any dead bodies up here? It's creepy as hell."
 

"You never know with—" I emit what could accurately be described as a small scream.
 

"What happened?"

“Something brushed my cheek.” I realize it's the string I've been looking for. I pull it and the attic comes to life with light. "It hit me in the face."

Vince shakes his head. "A piece of string scares you? If only I'd known this earlier."

I shove him lightly. "Shut up." I look around at all the boxes stacked to the ceiling. Awkwardly shaped garbage bags sit next to piles of books, toys and decorations.
 

I groan. "This is going to take forever. I forgot how much shit is up here."
 

Vince circles the room, camera in hand while I focus on where my grandfather's army papers might be.
 

"Whoa! Are these real?" Vince stands next to a huge oak gun case, the glass tinged with layers of dust.
 

"No, they're locked in this creeptastic attic because they're fake."
 

"Smart ass."
 

I chuckle. "I think my grandfather brought a couple of those back from the war." I try to open the door, but it doesn't budge. "I don't know where the key is. He was always pretty safe about that stuff. I'll ask Grandma if she knows where it is later."
 

Vince's attention is drawn elsewhere and while he thumbs through old comic books, I rack my brain. If I were a box of army stuff, where would I be? My eyes fall on the closet.
 

"Vince, I bet the box of stuff is in the closet."

He raises his eyebrows. "Um. Okay?"

"That's was your cue to say, 'Sure, I'll go in the creepy looking closet and look for it.'"
 

"Oh, right. Because, I'm so good at reading your mind." But he opens the closet door, disturbing a cloud of dust. Once it clears, he looks inside. "This isn't a closet. It's like a hidden room. Are you sure there aren't any dead bodies up here?"

I roll my eyes. "Just keep going. There should be a box with all of his papers in it. I remember seeing it when I was younger."

He shifts things around, steps inside and moves toward the back of the closet until the unmistakable crack and crunch of glass stops him. "Shit!"

"Are you okay?" I ask in the darkness.
 

"I'm fine. Can you find me a flashlight or something?"

I glance around the room. My grandfather's lantern is wedged between a stack of books. I mess with the knobs until the glass casts a muted amber glow into the darkness.
 

"Here." I shove the light into the closet, hoping to find Vince's hand.
 

"Thanks. Don't come in, I'm gonna see what I stepped on." He brings the lantern to his feet. Seconds later, he holds up a crushed plastic box. "Christmas bulbs. Hope they weren't valuable."

I don't know if Grandma puts up the Christmas tree anymore, but she won't be happy about this. "Awesome. Can you see anything else in there?"

He's quiet while he moves the lantern around the closet. "I think I found something. Will you hold the lantern? I need to pull this thing out." He waits until I'm close enough to take the lantern and then wiggles the sides of a large container. It finally slides out of its place, sending another cloud of dust into his face. "Here, trade me the lantern for the box."

I take the container and set it in the middle of the room. Yes. This is it. Snippets of memory come back. My grandfather pulling out his medals. My grandfather placing a newspaper clipping inside. Vince stumbles out of the closet, his shirt covered in cobwebs, dust and God knows what else. He brushes himself off. "Fucking creepy."
 

His discomfort makes me smile.
 

"You okay?" I wipe the layers of grime off of the box. Indented sets of initials appear and I trace over them with my finger.
 

"I'm fine. Is that what you were looking for?"

"This is it." My breath catches in my throat. Now that I have it, I'm not sure I want to open it.

"You going to open it or stare at it all day?"

I rest my hand on the lid. "I can't."
 

"What do you mean you can't?"

I sigh. "You're gonna have to do it. I just can't."

Vince walks over and his hand covers mine. He guides my hand over the lid of the box and flips it up. Just like that. His hand lingers on mine for a minute longer than I expect before he smiles. "There. That wasn't too hard, was it?"

I shake my head and pull out the beige fabric that drapes the top. Vince's camera is out and I unfold the fabric until it takes the shape of a very wrinkly uniform. I smile and hold it up so Vince can zoom in with the camera. "I told you this was it. Look at how old this uniform is." I bring it to my nose and wish I hadn't.
 

"Ew, it smells about as old as it looks, too."

"Well, duh," he says. "What else is in there?"

A small wooden box is the next item. It's smooth and the varnish and stain tinges the air. I turn the box over to look at the bottom. At the lowest right corner is a small signature burned into the wood.
 

"My grandpa made this. He always signed his work like this." I hold it up so Vince can catch it on camera.
 

"He made that? It's really good."

"He began woodworking when I was little. He made elaborate clocks and cedar chests. He was really talented."
 

He points to the front of the box where a gold lock contrasts with the dark wood. "You think the key for that is around here somewhere?" he asks.
 

"Probably not. I'll have to ask Grandma if she knows where this one is, too."
 

Vince sets down his camera and takes the box. "Your grandma may not even know about the box. Why would your grandpa need to lock it?"
 

"Maybe it's important documents or something he didn't want to lose?"
 

He raises his eyebrows. "Important documents in a locked box, set inside another container? They must be really important." He looks and pulls something out of my hair.
 

"Hey! What did you do that for?"

He smiles mischievously. "I need to borrow your bobby pin for a minute. I'll unlock this and then we'll see for ourselves what's in here. If it's nothing important then we shut it and move on."

He pulls the pliable metal apart. "Hold it up for minute."

I sigh but do as he says.
 

He maneuvers the bobby pin until there's a click and the lid pops open. Vince looks pleased with himself. He brings his camera to his eyes and says, "You can have the honors."
 

I open the lid slowly and the familiar smell of peppermint and cedar oil wafts between us. A leather bound journal tied with a dirty yellow ribbon is the first thing I see. I look to Vince and he nods. "Proceed."
 

I pull the ribbon and the journal falls open. The pages are covered in inky cursive. The loops and lines create a mess of sentences.
 

"What is that?" Vince zooms the camera in. He's so close I smell the light mix of his cologne and sweat.
 

"A journal." I point to the date of an entry. September 12th, 1943. I flip a few pages back and trace the signature at the bottom. It matches the one burned into the box.
 

Holy shit.
 

I clutch the journal like it's a living, breathing replacement of my grandfather. But to hold something intimate of his is comforting. To hold something that fits right into our documentary is a sign. At the same time, part of me feels like I’m betraying him. Like I shouldn't be privy to this portion of his life. But this is what I wanted, right? To delve into the world he never talked about.

Vince whistles. "It
is
your grandfather's journal. I told you we would hit gold here. This is great. A first-hand account of what he went through, even though we can’t interview him. We can compare and add this to our interviews."
 

Vince picks up the next thing in the box while I study the intricate cursive in the journal.

"Was your grandfather a twin?" Vince asks.

I look up from the journal to the picture. "No. Why?"
 

"Wasn't your grandfather's name Wesley?"
 

"Mhmm."
 

Vince clears his throat. "Well, this picture says Wesley and Charlie and it's dated 1922. That would make your grandpa two and the other boy in the picture looks the same age and exactly like your grandpa."
 

I snatch the picture from him. It's a yellowing photo of two boys in what looks like dresses. In the corner of the picture is a date written in tiny handwriting. I shrug and give it back to him. "Maybe it's a cousin or neighbor boy. You know how they were back then, everyone was related to everyone."
 

Vince puts the picture aside. He grabs another from the pile. "Um, you might want to look at this."
 

This photo is black and white with two young boys posing in raggedy overalls. They look at the camera mischievously. One has slightly darker hair but their faces are eerily alike. Again, the bottom is signed in the same loopy handwriting. Wesley and Charlie, 1926.
 

"Okay, they look a like, I can't deny that. But if my grandfather had a twin, I'd know about it. Everyone in this family would know about it. Right?”
 

I grab the next photo in the box before Vince does. My heart does a double flip when I see two handsome young men staring at the camera with identical expressions. I read the bottom aloud, expecting the same three words. This time the loopy handwriting reads, Twins Wesley and Charlie, 1940.

C
HAPTER
S
IXTEEN

"What do we do now?" I whisper so softly I'm not sure I actually say it out loud. But when I look at Vince he makes a move to put his arm around me but I shrug him off. I don't want to be touched right now. I don't know what to think.

"We should probably go talk to your grandma. Do you think she knows?"
 

I shake my head. She couldn't know. There's no way she'd keep something like this secret. "I still don't believe it."

Vince sighs, "You know they say a picture never—"
 

I turn toward him. "If you finish that sentence, I will hurt you. There has to be a mistake because there's no logical reason why my entire family would hide this kind of thing." I stand up and brush the dust off my pants but the sudden motion makes the attic spin beneath me.

"Are you okay? You look like you're gonna pass out or something."
 

I steady myself on the nearest stack of books. "I'm fine. Just stuffy up here. I think we should bring this downstairs and look at all of it a little bit later."

He nods and packs the pictures and journal back in the wooden box and places it in the container. "We should probably air out this uniform. It smells like shit."

"I already said that."

"Yeah, well I wasn't listening. Too busy looking at all this other stuff."
 

I roll my eyes. Typical man. I walk down the stairs, clasping my hand against the railing so hard I'm sure my knuckles are turning white. When I reach the bottom, I smell the distinct aroma of my all-time favorite meal.
 

"Grandma?"

"In the kitchen!"
 

My grandmother stands at the stove, spatula in hand, her ratty apron only covering a portion of her. "We found a bunch of grandpa's stuff, and we're going to take a closer look at it later tonight."

"Oh, good. I hope some of it's useful." I exchange a glance with Vince who raises his eyebrows. More useful than you know, Grandma.

"Are you guys, hungry? I'm making hash and eggs." My mouth waters. I haven't eaten homemade hash in years. I tried the canned stuff but it's nothing like the delicacy Grandma cooks up.