daughter mary pt. 2

yes this story has already been posted... i know. this afternoon i sat down and revised it a good bit though, for some local writing contest. so its different... and better i think. i still hate it sometimes though. tell me what you think, leave a comment, something. cant hurt you know.

daughter mary...

Nasty light filtered through the crud smeared windows illuminating the larger dust particles meandering in three dimensions through the stagnant air in Mary Bivins’ father’s attic. Beetle shells and strings of dirt caked spider web littered the sill and stuck to the glass in quiet and reverent imitation of their recently departed father. The air, though stagnant from years of malnourishment from the world outside, seemed more of a living thing in itself. Warm and heavy it sat on cracked floorboards old but frozen in place through static eternities of disuse.

For two weeks it sat, the dust pristine and glowing brown sitting atop, around, and utterly permeating every relic in the room. Glowing in a manner that transcended its dirty roots because, given a bit of light, a casual soul passing through might say it resembled morning dew crowning blades of grass. Two weeks no different than the last ten or fifty or two hundred because no one cares to keep track of such things. The only difference was the slight lack of rustling that creeps up through those static floorboards; replaced by a silence more fitting for such a rustic environment.

And into such a glorious artifact steps Mary. Miss Mary Anne Bivins, who had shunned the house and all its contents since her father had passed two weeks earlier. There was no way to run from this, though, as all parents must die and their disowned possessions and earthly baggage must be taken care of by someone. She made it a point to think as little as possible about anything but figuring out a way to move her fathers belongings - this junk from the attic and out to… well she hadn’t decided where yet but somewhere. Because it had to be done.

Quiet places demand reverence. Mary found herself unable to utter a word upon crossing that threshold. Being alone, she had no reason to speak anyway, but to spite the situation and the attic herself she forced out a meek but resounding, “hi…”. The very sound of her own voice, though expected, shocked the poor woman and, though she wouldn’t admit it herself, scared her too. This is the kind of place souls live.

I hate this place. This is the kind of place ghosts come to die. God, this would be so much easier if Mom were still here. Mary, pull yourself together. One step at a time. Ugh, the dust is so thick it glows in the light… like dew littered on grass. The stairs don’t even creak. I can’t even hear my own feet for the dirt muffling my steps. Kind of feels like I’m floating.

Mary, in a red dress, tenderly but mechanically drifts up the steps, around the corner and into that room, softly tugging on the fabric over her thighs to keep from tripping herself. Suddenly blinded by the filtered light, she takes a long pause at the top step, waiting for some stronger man to carry her across this last threshold, to do this damn dirty business for her. Her senses collected, she moves quickly past the banister – can’t tarry now, must not let the room get a jump, let the nerves settle - and meanders across the room allowed to move only by small dusty areas of open floorboard segregated by a rusty bed frame and bags of old clothes never donated to charity. Disgusting, she can feel the maverick grime lifting and floating on an invisible rope, drawn toward her olive skin – the color pulled to the surface – by her static cling apparel. Dirty just being there, everything is so dank and brown and lacking of vivacity or life.

For the first time, she stood still a long moment and took stock of her surroundings. For the first time, letting her guard down, nerves slack, and taking in the aggressive tone and attitude of the room. There was a turbulence there, like some isolated energy – a storm? – had twisted and swirled through the room, buckling, breaking, beating, and toppling the unanchored, letting the dust feed on the remnants. Gave the eerie sense that some impoverished survivor was always lurking over her shoulder, though invisible to her strained eyes.

What am I going to do? My heart’s racing, great. Just what I need, to be freaked out by a damn room. I am not afraid of you! Hah – Mary – does no good in your head. Going crazy, kid. Sigh, there’s so much junk in here – ah – beds and mirrors, bags of clothes, boxes of old magazines. Jesus, this place is a damned mess. Slow, take it slow now… that’s better. I should just burn the entire fucking stock. Heh, yeah, dad would love that…

In such a setting, a perverted still life, it’s not uncommon for the mind to make things difficult. Kid turns right and is startled by – what? – nothing more than a stack of old briefcases. Normal except that she really should have noticed them before, they didn’t just appear, not here. On an old coffee table stacked crooked; a snail’s pace game of Jenga for gravity. Caked with the standard grit and grime and all. Seemed like everything in sight had formed a close attraction to it.

Why? This is ridiculous; of course it was there. Been there the entire time, you know it, now, no doubt. Wonder what’s in it? Not like the old man is here to stop me anymore. Don’t hesitate; it will kill you before long. Go now… I am forgiven. Thing’s not even locked…

Carefully Mary lifts the ratty old suitcase without creating a scene, turns a tight semi-circle on her heels to lift the plastic off an old floral printed ottoman, and sits down. Mustn’t break the tension. Wraps itself around the rust, ready to burst, to avalanche forth. Waiting for a little provocation, that’s all. Wary of her Sunday – bloody Sunday, I don’t have to do this anymore - painted fingernails, she slowly, but with effort, pops each sticky flip-lock and lifts the top.

Oh… my God look at this. Bleh, it’s just a collection of crap. Must be Dad’s old things. Wow, this must have been here for years. What’s this? Patch from the war, picture of Mom… ah, that must have been taken in the seventies. Why keep all this hidden away? I don’t get it. Most of this is just trash. A leaf… wow – why did he keep all this? More pictures of Mom. Wait no, that’s not Mom… is it? Strange, this is all so strange. Why haven’t I ever seen this briefcase before? He never mentioned it to any of us. Never brought it down, hell, he hasn’t even come up here in God knows how long.

It may be impossible to keep up appearances in such a place. As if Mary was suddenly comfortable with her surroundings, the damned place commiserated. No survivors, still plenty of secrets. Something shifted and she noticed the unnatural weight on her thigh. Unzipping this newfound, bulbous compartment on the inside of the lid, the air agitatedly escaped her lips. No less appropriate either.

What are all these pictures for? Stacks of them… Gasp! My God… oh! It’s me… He had a picture of me in here. But I never thought… I never thought he cared that much about me. He always paid Matthew more attention and John was the baby but me…. Just the middle child. I must be about seven – no eight – no this is my seventh birthday party. Ah – this is unreal. Why wouldn’t he show me this? Aw… what’s this? Where’s my little velvet box dammit? This is so cute, I bet it was for Mom’s engagement ring. Let’s see if anything’s in here. Shall I? Ah – come on. Ow! Damned thing is stuck. One more time. Here, it’s… a ring? Shit, it’s perfect. The dust can’t find it in here. Why here though? I don’t understand…

At a loss for thought fingering the jewel just as she was lost for speech arriving, Mary sits. For a short while time will cease in that dank enclosure and Mary will stay. Regaining a certain amount of composure, she will dry her eyes and sit up straight. Slowly close the case, lock it both sides, and carefully place it back with the others. She will pad softly back towards the stairs, over rusted bed frames and around bags of old clothes never donated to charity, wherever there is a space of old hardwood. She will stop at the top step and wipe her eyes, take a sniff and a glance at that lovely molding room and descend. Not thinking of her father, not thinking of anything at all for fear that it would all become too difficult too fast she will open the door, rest her forehead on it for a second only, breathe out, and close it tight. Walk away with a hand on her mouth and fingering some new revelation in her slick palm.