Chapter 3 - THE KEY IN THE ATTIC
The judge recessed the hearing for twenty minutes.
Nobody moved.
I remained seated with Grandpa's envelope in my hand.
Dad stood beside the plaintiff's table, staring at the brass key.
Mom kept wiping her eyes.
I didn't understand why.
She had been embarrassed by my uniform five minutes earlier.
Now she looked frightened.
Judge Simmons approached me before leaving the bench.
“Commander Carter, I recommend you don't make any decisions about the property today.”
I nodded.
“I won't.”
His eyes moved toward my parents.
“But I would strongly recommend that you find out what your grandfather was trying to protect.”
That sentence followed me out of the courtroom.
We stepped into the hallway.
Dad caught up with me.
“Evelyn.”
I kept walking.
“Evelyn, please.”
I stopped.
He stood several feet away.
For once, he didn't sound like my father.
He sounded like an old man who had run out of places to hide.
“I didn't steal your house.”
“You sued me for it.”
“I know.”
“You told the court you abandoned it.”
“I know.”
“You claimed you paid the bills.”
“I know.”
I turned around.
“Then what exactly do you want me to believe?”
He looked at the key.
“Your grandfather wanted you to have that property.”
“I already know.”
“No.”
His voice cracked.
“You don't.”
Before he could explain, Mom stepped between us.
“Robert.”
He looked at her.
She shook her head.
“Not here.”
I stared at both of them.
“What happened?”
Neither answered.
Then Dad whispered,
“Go to the farmhouse.”
I almost laughed.
“I haven't been there in years.”
“Go today.”
“Why?”
“Because the key belongs there.”
That was all he said.
I left.
Two hours later, I was standing in front of Grandpa's farmhouse.
The place looked smaller than I remembered.
The white paint had faded.
The porch sagged slightly.
The azaleas had grown wild.
But the old wind chime still hung beside the kitchen window.
I unlocked the front door.
Dust filled the air.
Knox followed me inside.
I walked through the rooms slowly.
Grandpa's chair was still near the fireplace.
His old coffee mug sat inside a cabinet.
A photograph of him and me fishing hung crookedly on the wall.
I touched the frame.
“I came back.”
The house seemed to breathe around me.
Then I remembered the key.
The attic.
I climbed the narrow stairs.
My injured knee protested with every step.
At the top was a small wooden door.
I had tried to open it as a teenager.
It had never moved.
I inserted the brass key.
The lock clicked.
The door opened.
Inside was a small storage room.
Nothing dramatic.
No hidden fortune.
Just boxes.
Old Navy uniforms.
Family photographs.
Tax records.
A wooden chest.
And on top of the chest sat Grandpa's old silver pocket watch.
I picked it up.
The hands had stopped at 4:17.
I remembered that time.
4:17 p.m.
The afternoon Grandpa collapsed in the farmhouse kitchen.
I had been sixteen.
He survived that day.
But he never fully recovered.
I opened the watch.
A tiny photograph was tucked inside.
It was me.
But not the me I remembered.
I was about seven years old.
Standing beside Grandpa.
And beside us was a little boy.
I froze.
I had never seen him before.
The boy looked about four.
Dark hair.
Blue jacket.
One hand wrapped around Grandpa's finger.
I turned the photograph over.
There was handwriting.
My two reasons to keep fighting.
My heart began pounding.
“Who is he?”
Knox whined.
I searched the boxes.
At the bottom of the wooden chest, I found a children's drawing.
Three stick figures stood beside a red house.
Grandpa.
Me.
And the same little boy.
Across the top, written in a child's uneven handwriting:
OUR FARM.
I sat down hard.
I didn't remember drawing this.
I didn't remember the boy.
Then I found another object.
A hospital bracelet.
Small.
Plastic.
The name printed on it made my blood run cold.
MICHAEL CARTER.
My father's name.
No.
Not my father's name.
The date was thirty-six years earlier.
I stared at it.
Michael Carter had been Dad's younger brother.
My uncle Michael.
I remembered hearing the name once.
Only once.
Grandpa had told me he died when he was very young.
I had never seen a photograph.
I turned the bracelet over.
A handwritten number was written across the back.
4-17.
The same time on the watch.
Then I heard the farmhouse door downstairs slam.
Knox growled.
I stood.
“Who's there?”
No answer.
I descended the stairs.
Dad stood in the kitchen.
He looked at the objects in my hands.
His face collapsed.
“You found it.”
I held up the photograph.
“Who is this?”
Dad stared at the little boy.
Then he sat down.
“That was Michael.”
“My uncle?”
Dad nodded.
“He wasn't dead when I last saw him.”
The words barely came out.
I stared at him.
“What?”
Dad looked toward the old farmhouse window.
“My brother disappeared.”
My stomach tightened.
“You told me he died.”
“I was twenty.”
“You lied to me.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Dad's eyes filled.
“Because your grandfather blamed me.”
“For what?”
He looked at the silver watch.
“Michael disappeared on April 17.”
My fingers tightened around the photograph.
“And Grandpa thought you knew where he went?”
Dad nodded.
“He knew I did.”
I took a step toward him.
“What does that have to do with my farmhouse?”
Dad looked directly at me.
“Everything.”
Then he reached into his coat and removed a second photograph.
He placed it on the table.
It showed Michael standing beside a woman I had never seen.
And between them was a little girl.
The girl was wearing the same bracelet I now held.
May you like
Dad whispered,
“That little girl was you.”
