Tools, cans of nails, bits of wood from the projects he’d done around the house, and a tin case of drill bits of every size were all that remained. Should they sell all this or maybe just donate it to Habitat for Humanity? Ali had worked with Habitat over the years. She decided to give them a call to see if they wanted the snow blower, or the circular saw, or the set of wrenches.
She looked around the workshop, built into the narrow length of the garage, and remembered there was an attic up there.
“Ugh, I forgot about that.” She said aloud to herself.
There was a little rope trailing down, so she tugged at it. The attic stairs unfurled. This was where they’d kept old Christmas lights and boxes of magazines Bruce had gotten from their grandpa. He said Grandpa insisted the magazines were “collector’s items,” but Bruce called them junk. Bruce didn’t like junk cluttering up his space. Ali was glad of it now. She’d heard horror stories of Hummels and baseball cards and egg cartons to be disposed of after her friends’ parents passed. This was a gift Bruce gave to her, no clutter.
Ali climbed the ladder. She was going to have to dress in more layers if the attic was packed with stuff. It was freezing in the garage. Toledo in January was no joke, weather-wise.
She pulled a cord in the center of the attic space, and a single lightbulb flickered on.
There were cardboard boxes on top of boxes, but they were all stacked neatly. This was a relief; she could manage these. She could bring them down one at a time.
She scanned the writing on the outside of each box.
Taxes. Halloween Costumes. Bulbs.
Yep, no surprises there.
Each box was clearly marked.
She’d deal with it tomorrow. It would likely take a morning to bring these down, and it would also likely take a dose of Advil to recover from the task.
She positioned herself at the ladder to go back down and then one box caught her eye.
It had no label.
Hmm.
She crouched over to it and on the top, very small, were the lettersJB.
The box was taped shut with masking tape that had gone brittle with age.
Her mother’s initials. Joetta Bowles.
Was this it? Was this the only thing left of Bruce Kelly’s marriage?
And if it was their mother’s stuff, why hadn’t he ever let them see it?
Ali was irritated anew by Bruce Kelly’s stern streak.
She decided to grab the box and bring it down. She’d look through this one box tonight and tackle the rest tomorrow.
It was no easy task, navigating the ladder-like stairs with the big box in one arm and her hand on the ladder itself.
“If I break a hip doing this…” Ali muttered to herself as she made her way down. She managed to set her two feet back on the solid concrete floor of the garage without loss of life and limb.
She was getting cold, though. She wanted to open this box immediately but also wanted to warm up.
“Okay, JB, let’s get inside, get some coffee, and see what’s what.”
She’d tackle this box when the feeling returned to her fingers and toes.
A short while later, as coffee brewed from her dad’s ancient (“It works just fine!”) Mr. Coffee machine, Ali stood at the kitchen table.
She had the kitchen shears at the ready, but they weren’t necessary. The tape peeled off easily, and the old cardboard came with it in some sections.
“Geez, Dad, has this been sealed since Mom died?”
