I give a half roll of my eyes, but chuckle this time.
“What’s in those boxes?” he asks, pointing to a stack in the corner.
I move closer to inspect them. “These would be the Christmas decorations. Mom didn’t celebrate much, but occasionally decorated for her gatherings. Believe it or not, I think these were my grandmother’s.”
“So I take it your grandma was more into the festive season?”
I shrug. “I never got to know my grandparents. I was too young to remember them before they were gone.”
I open the top box and find neatly wrapped ornaments in tissue paper. Beneath them is a woodennativity set, each figure carefully carved and painted. I lift a shepherd from the box, surprised.
“Looks like the handiwork of a craftsman,” Fletch says, hinting that my dad may have made them.
“I’ve never seen these, but I’d say you’re probably right.”
He peers over my shoulder. “They’re remarkable. Your dad was talented.”
“He must have been working on them before he got sick.” A swell of emotion rolls through me. Would things have been different if he’d lived longer? I turn away, not wanting Fletch to see the tears stinging my eyes.
Sometimes I feel like a piece of lost luggage, wondering what could’ve been had my parents been different. After a beat, Fletch’s hand touches my shoulder lightly, warming me through in this drafty and musty basement. “We should take these and use them this year.”
I nod, eager to leave the questions that I’ll never be able to answer down here. A sudden noise from upstairs breaks the moment—a thump, followed by scratching.
“What was that?” Fletch asks, instantly alert.
“I don’t know. Maybe a squirrel got in through the attic.”
“Sounds too heavy for a squirrel.”
We climb the stairs cautiously. The scratching sound seems to be coming from the kitchen.
Fletch moves ahead of me, protective in a way that makes me feel more at ease than I would if I were here alone—or maybe even with anyone else.
The scratching comes again, echoing through the mostly empty house.
In the kitchen, we find a medium-sized dog with light brown matted fur, nosing frantically through a cabinet it’s managed to open.
The dog freezes when it sees us, then backs away, tail between its legs.
Fletch crouches down and softly says, “Hey, buddy. It’s okay. We’re not going to hurt you.”
The dog looks half-starved, ribs visible beneath its dirty coat. There’s no collar.
“Someone must have abandoned it. Left it here knowing the property is unoccupied,” I suggest.
He moves slowly toward the terrified animal, hand outstretched. “Do you have any food here?”
I shake my head. “The place has been empty for years.”
The dog must feel lonely, rejected. Like I did for most of my life. I imagine the dog healthy and thriving, getting belly scratches and treats from Fletch … and me.
“He’s so thin.” Fletch manages to get close enough for the dog to sniff his hand. After a tense moment, the dog’s tail gives a hesitant and tiny wag.
“We can’t just leave him here,” I say.
“You’re right.” Fletch looks up at me, a question in his eyes.
“We’ll have to take him.” The words come out before I can think them through. “Just until we find his owners.”
