Secrets at Dillehay Crossing - Chapter 9 - Into the Attic

At dawn the following morning, the first hint of sunlight penetrated Nick and Lilly’s bedroom window rousing Lilly from a heavy slumber. She slowly pushed off the blanket, her brain stuttering for a moment before she remembered crying herself to sleep. She reluctantly uncovered her face; stretched her arms above her head; and stood up, sluggishly making her way to her vanity table.

Lilly sat down and stared at her reflection in the mirror. Her ponytail was ragged, loose hair falling over her features. Her eyes were bloodshot and her eyelids were puffy, as puffy as they were years ago when she learned her beloved Nana Dulce had passed.

She picked up the sterling silver hairbrush from the vanity table, the one Nana used in brushing the tangles out of Lilly’s hair, and began brushing out her own hair. One, two, three…she hadn’t counted the strokes since Nana did it for her as a child. “Oh how I’ve missed you, Nana. You were the only one who truly understood me. I wish I could somehow talk with you.”

The room suddenly chilled, and Lilly felt Nana’s familiar soft touch on her shoulder and heard her soothing voice whispering in her ears. “I can see your silvery tears, the ones on the skin of your heart. I see you’re hurting, sweet love. Remember, you’re a special soul, an angel, one who sees not with the eye of her body or the eye of her mind. You see with the eye of your soul. Be yourself even if no one understands you. That’s the bravest thing you will ever do. Promise me.”

“I promise, Nana,” Lilly said, sensing Nana’s presence leaving the room.

Lilly smiled slowly, a calm feeling enveloping her. She went to the bathroom sink and did what Nana always did for her after a long cry and splashed cold water on her face and swollen eyelids. She dressed, drinking in the rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee wafting through the air. She heard Nick’s and Granddaddy Dave’s low, husky voices coming from the downstairs kitchen and waited until she heard the front door close. As soon as Nick’s truck pulled out of the driveway, Lilly sprang into action.

She retrieved the keys she’d hidden inside her jeans pocket; climbed the narrow staircase that led to the attic; and approached the door with an uncomfortable uncertainty, apprehensive about the possible backlash and scorn she might later face. Her curiosity got the better of her. Lilly turned the lock and stepped inside, the floor creaking beneath her feet. She fumbled her way across the dimly-lit attic toward a nearby dormer window and wiped the grime from it, letting the early morning light stream in.

Cobwebs hung off the walls, their owners nowhere to be seen, and dust lay over every surface like dirty snow. Stacked all around her was a maze of broken furniture, forgotten toys, rolled up rugs, dirty paintings, sealed boxes, and idle suitcase—the abandoned odds and ends that had once been used and a part of the everyday life of the people who once lived in the house below.

Lilly inched her way toward a boarded-up window, her throat tightening at the thick dust floating in the air. Sunlight slipped through the cracked boards covering the window, illuminating a child’s wooden rocking horse sitting on a tattered rug. The wooden seat was worn smooth, coated in dirt, and cobwebs matted the corded mane and tail; and the initials JH, JM, WM, and NM had been carved into the horse’s hind quarter. The air shimmered, and a young boy flickered into view. Lilly watched his pale hands grasp at the mane, pulling himself onto the seat. Slowly the horse began to rock, and the ghostly rider squealed. “Watch me!” he said, his eyes beckoning her to come closer. Lilly tiptoed in his direction. “What’s your name?” she whispered, but he vanished before answering her. A shiver ran like a ghostly touch over her skin, and Lilly struggled to make sense of what she’d just seen. Did I really see the spirit of a little boy? Nick and Grammy would say I didn’t. ‘Your eyes are playing tricks on you’ they’d say. But he seemed so real, and something about him seemed familiar—like someone I’d seen before. But who?

Lilly sat down on the floor, drew in a calming breath, and released it before returning to the task at hand. She rummaged through the attic touching the stuff once used by the people she’d never known and peeking into their world. She removed the lid from a crumbling, dilapidated shoebox revealing a red leather bound journal. Although it was cracked and dried with age, it felt soft and delicate as Lilly ran her fingers over its fragile binding. The thin volume smelt faintly of lavender with an overlying hint of mustiness, and what remained of the book’s original stitching was barely holding it together. A faint scrawl on the title page declared that the journal once belonged to Francine Hirsch. Lilly was giddy with excitement as she turned through the journal’s flimsy pages. They were soft, pink and powdery under her fingers, like the papier-poudre that her Grammy used to buy in booklets for taking the shine off her nose. Maybe Francine wrote something inside her journal that will assist me in helping John. But the faded scribbles and words on the pages made it almost impossible to decipher any helpful details.

Lilly laid the journal out of the way and scoured through another box where she unearthed the Mason family Bible, generations of birth and death certificates, a withered-looking scrapbook, and an envelope filled with an assortment of tattered black and white photos, many covered with dust and age. She thumbed through the fragile photographs, attracted to the picture of an elegant-looking woman wearing a 1930s cloche hat. Lilly’s eyes met hers, and she immediately felt a deep, enigmatic connection to her. She surveyed the woman’s face; it was stern, but her large brown eyes held kindness, intelligence, and serenity. She recognized those features, for they were the same ones Lilly had seen on Nick’s face and hypothesized the photograph was of his mother. Lillie turned over the photograph hoping to confirm the woman’s identity. The woman’s name had been scrawled on the back but wasn’t discernible. She turned the photograph toward the light and distinctly saw the words Helen Louise Mason, 1935, downtown Dallas written on the back. Lilly rubbed at her chest trying to ease the ache in her heart. I wish I could’ve know you Helen. I think I would’ve liked you. I wish I could’ve known my own mother. I think she would’ve liked me, but I’ll never know.

Lilly picked up the antique family scrapbook, immersing herself in its brittle pages searching for additional clues and answers She scrutinized the journaling inscribed on each page and gently lifted each picture from its corner tabs, reading what was written on the back. The pictures were like a time machine that took her back in time making it possible for Lilly to piece together a sketchy story about Nick’s parents and his childhood. Nick’s father worked in high-rise construction and met his mother one day while visiting a construction site in downtown Dallas. She was eating at a neighborhood café that he frequented. He struck up a conversation with her and instantly fell in love with her.

“Love,” he wrote in a letter to her, “you are the sky and the clouds. You are the gentle river and the birds that sing. You are laughter and hope. You are the one I love, and the one I want to share my life with. I knew that the moment we met. I could never wish to go back to even a single day before that. You are the greatest treasure of my life. You are the one, the only one.”

Within weeks of their first encounter James and Helen wed at the same church where Granddaddy Dave and Relda had married. They moved into the home that once belonged to Dave and Relda, the same home where Nick and Lilly now live. Two years later, Helen gave birth to Nick, their only child. Lilly continued flipping through the scrapbook pages captivated by Nick’s boyhood pictures. He was a friendly-faced, good-looking little boy with spunk and joy in his eyes. He and his dog, Buddy, were inseparable, and early on Nick definitely loved riding horses and being outdoors. Of all the pictures she looked at, her favorite picture was one taken of Nick on his tenth birthday atop his very own horse, Majestic. She clutched the picture close to her chest wishing she’d known Nick when he was an innocent little boy who’d not yet known heartache and pain.

By mid-morning Lilly had sifted through the entire scrapbook without finding a single photograph or piece of memorabilia about Francine or John. Her heart sank as she realized that the Masons had clearly disavowed their existence. But Lilly did find a picture of Relda with her younger sister, Rose, and smiled, acknowledging the closeness and sisterly bond the two of them shared, wondering how having a sibling and being close to her might have felt.

Much to her surprise, Lilly located numerous scrapbook pages devoted to Rose, her husband, Charlie, and adopted Cousin Willie. Willie was a handsome boy with straight, dark hair, rich like mahogany, and Lilly was struck by his eyes—large, bold, and angelic looking framed with thick lashes. Even when he was a tot, Cousin Willie wore overalls and some type of hat. Like the ghostly little boy on the rocking horse, there was something strikingly familiar about him that she couldn’t quite put her finger on.

The other scrapbook pages included photographs and journaling documenting Willie’s and Nick’s adventures along Dillehay Creek and gave credence to what Relda had told her about them. Most summer days the boys played as if every drop of daylight were sacred—fishing together from the pier at Hawkes Pond, building a makeshift raft, playing marbles, and camping out.

Lilly set down the scrapbook, stood up, and walked around the attic to relieve the stiffness she felt in her legs from having sat on the floor too long. Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted a piece of furniture tucked into a corner with a white sheet partially draped over it. She stepped over relics strewn across the floor, ducked her head to avoid the low beams, and pulled off the white sheet. Beneath it was a mahogany bureau with two large draws and a drop down front that turned it into a writing desk. Lilly pulled the front down exposing cute cubbyholes and a secret drawer inside. She tried opening it, but the drawer was locked. Lilly fumbled through her jeans pocket until she felt the small key Relda had given her hoping it would unlock the secret drawer. She carefully inserted the key into the lock and slowly turned it. The lock groaned ever so slightly then clicked, releasing the locking mechanism.

Lilly felt a fluttering of nerves in the pit of her stomach as she pulled out the drawer and gently took off the lid. The first thing she saw was a vintage handkerchief box containing a collection of handkerchiefs monogrammed with the initials “SM,” and she surmised that the handkerchiefs and box once belonged to Nick’s great grandmother, Stella. She picked up one of the handkerchiefs and came upon a Mason family photo taken in front of the old farmhouse long before it was abandoned.

The caption on the back read “Mason farm circa 1912,” with names scribbled beneath it: Dave and Relda Mason and son, James David. Robert Hirsch with son, John Francis. Lilly touched the photograph slowly tracing her fingers over the individual images sensing the Mason family spirit. The lines on Dave’s and Relda’s faces etched the story of a hardscrabble life on the Texas prairie, and she was drawn to their serious, silent features. James had a tall, lanky body, and his youthful face exuded happiness and confidence. Robert, on the other hand, looked older than his real age and appeared to be a man who’d given up on life. Lilly’s eyes fixed upon John’s face. It was drained with a gaunt, expressionless stare, and his eyes were angry underneath a thick thatch of dark hair over brushy eyebrows.

At the bottom of the box was a discolored photograph of a little boy atop a rocking horse, his fingers tightly gripping it’s mane. That’s impossible! Lilly’s eyes blinked rapidly. He looks remarkably similar to the boy I saw flicker into view earlier this morning. She turned over the photograph. The inscription read, Willie Mettner, age 2, riding his make-believe horse into town. She stared at the young boy’s photograph. His expression was pleasant with an inkling of wistfulness in his eyes, and there was something hauntingly familiar about his button nose and chubby cheeks that dimpled when he smiled. Lilly set aside the photograph pondering Why do I feel as if I already know you?

Lilly turned her attention to a trinket box, lifting the lid and unearthing a collection of jewelry including a cameo brooch, hat pins, bangles, earrings, a single strand of pearls, and a 1920’s flapper style feather head band. She draped the scarf around her neck and placed the head band on her head, imagining that she was once again dancing around in her Grammy’s attic wearing one of her shimmery flapper dresses.

She poured the box’s contents onto the top of the desk, attracted to an oval-shaped pendant. One side depicted a haloed Virgin Mary and bore the words O Mary! Conceived without sin, pray for us who have recourse to thee! The flip side revealed a cross sandwiched between the letter “M” with two miniature hearts at the bottom with the words Sisterhood of the Children of Mary engraved around the edges. The pendant was probably Catholic in origin. Yet as far as Lilly knew no one in the Mason was Catholic by faith. She placed it inside her jeans pocket deciding to ask Relda about it later.

Lilly also found a tiny blue envelope. Inside was a card adorned with bluebirds, baby rattles, and a pair of blue baby shoes. When she opened it, a picture of a newborn baby boy fell out. She picked it up and imagined sliding her pinky finger into his open hand and watching as his fingers curled around it. She even felt his soft breath and heard him softly cooing. She couldn’t believe how teeny new humans are, how vulnerable and awe inspiring they are. Inside the card was a birth announcement that read “Proudly announcing the arrival of our son, Willie Mettner, born on August 15, 1936,” signed Charles and Rose Mettner. She sighed and all but sobbed when she realized the pain Charles and Rose must’ve felt when Willie died from the rabid racoon bite.

Hidden underneath a rather colorful, hand painted silk neck scarf Lilly noticed a folded up piece of paper. She gingerly unfolded it and discovered a charcoal drawing of a young boy sitting on a beach, the ocean waves lapping at his feet. He held a starfish in one hand and a bucket in the other and sat proudly next to a sandcastle he’d built. Written in minute letters in the bottom right-hand corner was Relda’s signature. Was the boy in the drawing someone Relda knew? Lilly asked. Or was he just an image she created in her mind? Nonetheless, the drawing must’ve been important to her, or she wouldn’t have stored it inside the trinket box for safekeeping.

In one of the cubbyholes Lilly came across a sealed manila envelope. Her hands trembled as she reached for it hoping it held valuable secrets that would assist her with her quest in finding and helping John. She laid the envelope down on the desk, carefully running her fingers under the flap and gradually loosening it. Lilly thumbed through the papers finding numerous boxing programs, bout cards, and bout sheets all of which included facts about John Hirsch. Inside one of the programs was a number of washed out photos including an autographed picture of a handsome young fighter with a glint of innocence in his eyes. His face was dark, impassive, and deeply scarred bearing witness to the bouts he’d fought both inside and outside the ring. He’d autographed the picture as Mad Man John, whom Lilly believed was John Hirsch’s nickname.

Within the pages of another program Lilly found a tattered and yellowed newspaper article. Lilly sat down in a rickety-looking bentwood rocker and poured over the words, immersing herself in the story and allowing it to transport her back in time to the evening of one of John’s fights.

With each advancing paragraph she smelt the sweat on the men’s bodies and saw the dust and cigarette smoke swirling in the air above the boxing ring. With every punch she tasted the blood oozing from the fighters’ mouths, felt the pain coursing through their bodies, and shared the agony of John’s ultimate defeat. She placed the boxing photos and memorabilia aside, perplexed as to why a man would choose to fight another man and face injury or even death.

Lilly was about to close and lock the desk when she saw a dilapidated cardboard box sitting atop a stack of children’s board games thrown haphazardly across the top shelf of a decrepit-looking bookcase. She walked towards it, the box begging for her attention. The box was labeled “Francine’s things,” and her heart filled with anticipation as she raised the lid, peeked inside, and saw several items that were individually wrapped in old newspaper. A rush of delight rippled through her body as she removed the newspaper unveiling a variety of fragile, expensive bisque porcelain figurines. Lilly examined each figurine, marveling at their craftsmanship, puzzled as to why a poor, young farmer’s wife would’ve owned such expensive knickknacks. Perhaps they were a gift, or maybe Francine just needed a touch of beauty in her rather stark life here on the Texas prairie.

She re-wrapped each figurine, carefully placing each item inside the box and sealing it. Lilly lowered her eyes, and on the bottom shelf discriminately hidden from view was a Cuesta-Rey cigar box. When she picked it up for a closer look, the box tumbled from her hands, spilling its guts onto the floor. She bent over and one-by-one picked up the pieces of paper, surprised to find Robert and Francine’s marriage certificate, John’s birth certificate, Francine’s will, and her obituary. She fiddled with the documents, learning that Francine bequeathed the old farmhouse, barn, and surrounding land to her son, John Francis. She wondered why it and the other documents hadn’t been placed inside the family Bible as was the tradition at that time. Lilly speculated that their omission was intentional. But why? she pondered, as she leaned over, picked up the overturned cigar box, and saw two pieces of crumpled up newspaper lying on the floor.

She was about to put them away without looking at them, but instead followed her instincts, flattening the pieces of paper so she could read them. Goosebumps rose on her skin as she began reading a story published in the local small-town paper, The Parker Tribune, relaying the story of a local resident, John Hirsch, who allegedly killed a man and his girlfriend near Los Palomas, New Mexico. He hopped a freight train and escaped to San Antonio, Texas, where he was later arrested, convicted, and sent to prison, only to escape a few months later, disappearing without a trace and avoiding the law.

The other newspaper article, also from The Parker Tribune, revealed that Hirsch had gone to California and had been working as a postal clerk at the Ferry Station Post Office in San Francisco, California, for 10 years taking miniscule sums of money from letters he handled. He was trapped during routine questioning of postal clerks about a $40,000 mail robbery after money disappeared from the San Francisco Federal Reserve somewhere between the Ferry Station and the Bank of America branch.

During his interview with FBI agents, John boasted about making newspaper headlines as he confessed to the robbery. He also admitted to the 1927 New Mexico murders of a man and his girlfriend.

Lilly cringed when she looked at the mug shot of the much older John pictured in the newspaper article. Her eyes fixed upon his face. Gone was the boyish look she’d seen in his fight photos, replaced with a hardened, and distant look. His eyes were ominous, bulging with anger, and filled with enough hatred that he’d extinguished his soul. Perhaps Granddaddy Dave was right, and John was a bad seed. He certainly looked like one. Lilly remembered Francine’s plea to help John and her resolve to find him. But when she thought about the possibility of actually encountering John, her heart felt as if it might explode inside her chest and her desire to continue exploring evaporated. The air inside the attic suddenly became warm, and she could barely breathe. I have to get out of here! She gathered up an assortment of family photographs, the antique family scrapbook, the oval-shaped pendant, Cousin Willie’s birth announcement, Francine’s will, the newspaper articles, pictures and documents about John, hurriedly placing them inside the cigar box. She scurried across the room, grabbing Francine’s box of figurines on her way out. She felt light-headed as she descended the staircase, her legs wobbling beneath her.

Lilly tossed the antique family scrapbook on the coffee table then hid the two boxes on the upper shelf of her closet and showered, hoping to regain some composure before driving over to Grammy’s to have lunch with her. She quickly dressed and on the way to Grammy’s, she drove past the old abandoned farmhouse, the photograph of it during another time still fresh on her mind. Lilly believed that abandoned houses weren’t empty. Rather, they were sacred places full of presence, and the souls who once lived there still had an attachment and affinity to the place. The family spirit she’d seen in the photograph had faded within the house’s walls along with the memories of its birth and with the hugs and laughter that were once its colors. Although not visible, the spirit of the house and the people who once lived there remained only visible to those who knew it still lingered there. That is the way of spirit, Lilly thought as she left the Mason property and entered the main road out of town.

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