“No, what’s that between those two boards?”
I stop making the bed and look up to where she’s pointing. There is something wedged in there.
I kneel down. “Here, get on my shoulders and see if you can grab it.”
Once she’s sitting on top of me, she can reach it but just barely. Tugging away a few random pieces of plaster, she manages to pull it out.
“It’s a box!” Teeny sounds like she’s won a prize.
Teeny hops down so fast we both almost fall over and my sore muscles scream. It is a box. A very small box. And it’s old and covered in dust.
Teeny cracks open the lid. There are a few envelopes bound by a faded, yellow ribbon, an old pocket watch–type thing, a piece of fabric, and a small framed picture. Teeny goes for the envelopes while I pick up the frame. It’s tarnished but you can still see the intricate scrollwork that surrounds the image. I flip the small latch on the back and pry the door open, pulling the picture out. It’s faded. It looks like a boy but it’s too damaged to make out any details. On the other side is a single word: Henry.
I glance at Teeny, who is trying very carefully to separate the envelopes. She’s gotten the ribbon off but every time she tugs at a piece of the paper it rips apart.
“I don’t think I can open these without ruining them,” she says.
I hold my hand out and she gently lays the stack of envelopes inside. The front is yellowed with age and the writing is smeared like maybe it’s gotten wet.
The name and address on the top envelope are barely legible. In fancy cursive is the name Henry, but all you can tell from the last name is that it starts with S-t-a. Underneath there is only one word you can read: Rye.
“What does Rye mean?” Teeny asks.
“I’m not sure. It’s probably just some street name or name of a town. No telling how long this has been up there.”
“What kind of weirdo is Henry that he’s got a frame with his own picture in it?”
I giggle and say, “I don’t think this box is Henry’s. It’s got to be a girl’s box of things. Maybe she never got around to mailing the letters.”
Teeny rummages through the rest of the box. The pocket watch stopped working at 6:17—but who knows how many years ago—and the fabric is blue and thick with a raised pattern on it.
“Can I keep this stuff?” she asks.
“I don’t see why not.” I put the photograph back in the frame and close the back. It’s small, barely fitting in my palm, so I take the yellow ribbon and thread it through the scrollwork on the top of the frame.
“Turn around,” I tell her, and then drape it around her neck, tying the ribbon in a knot. “Now it’s a necklace.”
She lies back on the mattress and stares at it in her hand. While Teeny’s interests are with what’s in the box, mine are more on where the box came from.
The boards near the ceiling are old and half rotten. Maybe if I could pry one out, it could be useful. Like beat-Vader-until-he’s-unconscious useful. But how do I get up there?
The card table!
Once everything on the card table is on the floor, I gingerly climb on top of it. It’s wobbly but if I space my feet just right, the table holds still. The ceiling is low enough that I can reach the wood with no problem.
“What are you doing?” Teeny asks.
“Looking for a weapon.”
I can get my hands around one of the boards but when I pull, nothing happens except that I feel like I’m about to fly off this table. I glance around the floor searching for anything that may help.
There’s nothing.
And then I hear it. It’s faint, but there…a scratching noise.
I run to the wall next to the mattress, pressing my ear against it.
“What are you doing now?” Teeny asks.
