Screwdrivered (Cocktail 3)

I threw away and recycled so much so that I now knew the names of the sanitation guys on my route. Threadbare rugs, moth-eaten coats and scarves were pitched; and bag after bag of magazines went into the recycling bin. Boxes of old receipts, calendars dating from the seventies, cassettes, CDs, VHS tapes, DVDs—pitched, recycled, or donated. The eight-tracks I donated to an antiques shop; I knew someone would pay money for those.

Encyclopedias, yellowed with age and warped from water damage under the leaky roof, and sadly with outdated information, were recycled as well. As Clark pointed out, not everything was worth saving.

Checkbooks, TV Guides, ads for local stores that had gone out of business years ago—there was no rhyme or reason to what was saved. And there was no easy way to go through this; you couldn’t just go through bulldozer style and throw everything out. I realized that when a box that I mistakenly thought contained only old coupons had one of the original titles to the land the house was sitting on! And in a box of crappy costume jewelry? An antique brooch with a ruby the size of a marble. A marble!

“A very small marble, maybe, if you squint,” Clark had said when I showed it to him.

“Oh where’s your sense of storytelling?” I’d said right back to him.

I was recounting the story to Jessica one morning when she stopped by to see how things were going. She’d helped out a few times with sorting and packing, taking a carload herself down to the shelter a couple of days a week after her shift at the restaurant.

One afternoon I made her come up with me to the attic. After the initial foray into the basement, I wasn’t too proud to admit I wanted some company; I’d seen way too many horror movies to venture into an attic alone. I promised her dibs on any creepy dolls we found up there.

The attic stairs were at the end of the hallway on the second floor, almost hidden behind the linen closet. Behind a door that you opened with a key, which had made it seem like a wonderland when I was a young girl.

Jessica and I opened the door with a loud creak. The stairs were as steep as I remembered, and creaky, just like attic stairs should be. Turning on a small landing, once you made it around that corner you could see how large it was. The house was truly grand, and it had an attic to match.

Spanning the length of the house, it had the widest plank floors I’d ever seen anywhere, and I’m from Pennsylvania, home of the wide plank. But this was the great wild north of California, and the timber that was milled back then was staggeringly huge. As we crept, quiet as little mice up the last few steps, I saw what I remembered more vividly than almost anything else from my childhood.

I saw miles and miles of unobstructed deep blue ocean. Window after window set into the back of the house, eight panes wide and equally as tall. An attic had no earthly reason to have this many windows, it was a waste of heat and space. But it didn’t matter. Because the man who designed this home knew how important and how utterly unique a view of this magnitude would be. And thank goodness the subsequent generations felt the same way, as it was never walled over.

“Would you look at that,” Jessica breathed behind me.

“It’s stunning isn’t it?” I said quietly. Who knows how long it had been since someone had been up here? The dust motes dancing in the air current we’d stirred up indicated that Aunt Maude hadn’t used this space recently. And it was untouched by the pack rat stacks of crap that had taken over the rest of the house. It was still the attic from my childhood.

Dress mannequins were lined against one wall, like girls at a party waiting to be asked to dance. Some were wearing party dresses that had never been finished, and even after years of the sunlight fading them, the attic was filled with splashes of sugary pink, buttercup yellow, azure blue, kelly green, and ruby red. Sequins, bows, prints, and swirls waited to twirl.

On the other wall? Trunks, stacked four and five high. Travel stickers shellacked the sides with places I’d never heard of as a child, but sounded so exotic. Athens. Siam. Mexico City. Cleveland. Some of the trunks were empty, but others contained treasures. Old hats and gloves for playing dress-up, old-fashioned clunky cameras for pretending to take pictures while playing dress-up. Maps. Letters. Yearbooks full of people who had lived and cried and had babies and died, all before I was even born.

Old furniture, mirrors clouded with age but still reflecting everything that came within sight. Old landscape paintings, some of the sea, some of the mountains, but all massive and framed with ornately carved wood. I once found an anchor behind a full set of bowling pins, and had once launched an assault on the kingdom of Viviana with an army of tiny tin soldiers.

And it was all still there. Better yet, it didn’t look small, as so many things from childhood do. It was still larger than life, and all in front of those gorgeous picture windows. Jessica and I oohed and aahed as we looked through it all, squealing in delight when we found some new shiny thing or perfectly darling bit.

“This is seriously the coolest house ever, Viv.” Jessica sighed, sinking into an old wing chair by the windows.

“I know! I feel like I should be modest, but I so f**king know what you mean. This is the coolest house ever,” I agreed, sitting on a tufted ottoman in front of a window, gazing out over the large expanse of blue.

“I knew there was a reason I always wanted to come and see the inside of this place,” she continued, grabbing an old suntan reflector and making like a film star by the pool in the hills of Beverly. “What do you think you’re going to do with all this space up here? You can’t just use it for storage, it’s too cool!” She angled the reflector to grab some additional rays.