The Trunk

The trunk was hardly bigger than a large suitcase, and old. The floral covering had faded from age, certainly not from light, it had been in mother’s attic for decades.

Cassie had put off its opening until she was ready. It was not that she was afraid of what she would find; she assumed it was full of interesting, but relatively unimportant, old treasures. Perhaps there is enough there to piece together some inkling of what was really important to mother, deep down or maybe conjuring a story or two.

There were, after all, other demands on her time. She had put her own writing projects on hold and the "celebration of life” was behind her. Now her attention focused on estate priorities and deadlines, answering all the condolences, receiving the visiting relatives and close friends; not to mention one’s own grieving.

Mother was to be buried in the family area of Old Memorial Cemetery in Cambridge. For her final act of defiance she had chosen cremation. Cassie guessed that she wanted to give her mother one last spin in her grave, father would not have cared.

Cassie was not completely sure why she and her mother had so many lasting issues. Grandmother had passed away eons ago, yet mother seemed still to have wounds that festered from time-to-time. Perhaps Saint Peter has assigned them to different clouds, if they took the upward path, just to keep order, she thought.

Mother also had said, several times, that cremation was far more sensible and easier on everyone. It is a good deal cheaper too.

Cassie had spent mother’s last days with her, talking, remembering. She could feel mother’s life ending. Mother was beyond reconciled to it, she was welcoming, ready. She prepared Cassie as best she could, not enough of course.

They were holding hands, listening to music on an old vinyl record, when mother’s eyes closed, their vivid blue gone forever. Cassie sat there gently cupping mother’s hands between hers, in a timeless, peaceful place, eyes closed, feeling the warmth of her spirit slip away.

She called the paramedics, who, in turn, called the police. Cassie had been told all this was necessary. While she waited she thought of all the things mother had seen. When she was small horses and carriages were the principle conveyance in America. During her life she had witnessed many wars, genocides, persecutions, and prejudices; the worst side of humankind. She had also seen humans take wings, conquer diseases, extend their lives, create and advance all forms of art, walk on the moon, and invent technologies once only imagined by science fiction writers. What a time to be alive, she thought.

Mother had meant a lot to so many people. Besides friends and associates, her "family," as she called them, readers really, were legion and truly felt close to her. They loved her for the pleasure her thoughtful stories had brought them and seemed to be deeply saddened to lose her and the promise of more of her.

Her last book, "Benson Creek Wisdom," or “forty-nine” as she called it, had been released only a few weeks before she passed. It seemed as if she had put off dying to see it finished and in her “family’s” hands. They loved it and it seemed to be bringing lots of new people into the fold.

Forty-nine, “a good number” mother said, had entered the world on the “Best Seller” list, thanks to prepublication orders and some effective publicity. Mother’s advanced age limited her promotional work to a few television appearances and special events. Her remaining obligations were cancelled.

Her publisher had been told, in no uncertain terms, to treat her passing with appropriate dignity and restraint. “This is not to be exploited,” mother decreed through Cassie, “let sales be what they may.” The publisher had completely agreed and promised to comply; they also quietly ordered an immediate second printing.

Thousands of beautiful thoughts and remembrances filled the cards and letters that overflowed from the grey canvas mail bags the post office had delivered. It had taken months. Cassie had cried over their words and wrote personal note to each of them. Her mother would have liked that; no, insisted on it.

Thousands more had posted their feelings on mother’s Facebook page and in emails to her published address. These were answered with a Facebook post or an automated reply email expressing the family’s gratitude.

Mother loved real paper and thoughtful well constructed prose. To her, writing with forced brevity on a machine and somehow sending it through an unknown nothingness, were void of both and, surely, a lesser craft. She would have appreciated the thought, however, and probably realized that this is the reality of 2007 and beyond. “At least they are writing,” she would mutter.

The last group of accolades and condolences Cassie personally acknowledged came from the powerful and famous; the President, various heads of state, the political elite, noted scholars, captains of industry, celebrities and the like. They came last because mother wanted it that way; she had made that clear to Cassie. “Family first,” was her mantra and she included kinfolk, close friends, and her “family” of readers in that grouping. So the “big shots” would just have to wait.

The Challenges of being both mother’s only heir and the executor of her estate are numerous and complex. A mountain of legal matters, business affairs, and financial obligations had been conquered and, while not completed, had been turned over to the professionals; lawyers, judges, and accountants. Cassie’s activities as executor and trustee had reduced to waiting for the next progress report, court action, new or forgotten signature requests, or bills needing to be paid.

There seemed to be no end to the parade of paper that crossed her desk. It had blurred into a stream with no origin nor end, just the relentless flow passing by, with an occasional leaf or bug, capturing her interest for a moment, then disappearing with the current. She had gotten numb to it. If the envelope was addressed to Cassandra Louise Thomas, she assumed is was part of the stream.

Cassie, however, was experienced in such matters. Her husband of thirty years, William Scott Thomas had suffered a fatal heart attack in 2004. He and Cassie were on an airplane to London when it happened. William’s affairs were a mess and took several years for Cassie to settle them. Mother’s were easy by comparison.

Last month, January 2008, Cassie moved from her apartment on the upper east side of Manhattan back home to mother’s in Brooklyn Heights. This house had been in the family for almost a century.

The neighborhood, Remsen Street, near Columbia Heights, was old and historic. It was quite grand and fashionable in 1900 when the house was built. Like other parts of Brooklyn Heights, it had gone through phases of diminished grandeur and, as did the Phoenix Bird, had risen again.

When Cassie’s grandfather bought it, in 1925, his plan was to move both his business, publishing, and the family residence from Boston to New York City. For reasons unknown to Cassie, the move did not happen and Boston remained home.

The house was kept for family use when visiting the city and as a base of operations for her grandfather’s frequent business visits. Mother made it her permanent, lifelong residence in 1931, two years after grandfather passed away.

The original living area included five stories plus a full, finished basement. During one of the several remodelings, an elevator was added. The last renovation was in 2000, mother’s gift to he house on its 100th birthday. It took almost six months, which she spent in Tuscany, writing.

Mother did not use the entire fifth floor. During the last remodeling she had the windows removed and replaced with a facade that looked like windows from the outside but were actually solid walls. Enhancing security was her reasoning. The fifth floor is now referred to as the “attic” and used as such. The original attic seems to have lost its identity.

Having settled in her old room, Cassie had decided to leave mother’s suite, the entire fourth floor, alone for now. Baby steps, she reckoned.

Now, at last, there is time to start the process of going through mother’s things; starting with what looks to be the oldest of the trunks in the attic. The one marked “1929,” ten years before Cassie was born.

The basement room she had made her office was chilly; her morning coffee seemed to be more steamy than usual. Holding the cup felt good, warming. She sat in her chair, both hands clutching it close. Brought down by the movers, she stared at the chest, imagining the contents, anticipating the discoveries to come, learning of mother’s youth, and touching her objects, her memories.

“Well, let’s see what Emma Louise Harden thought important enough to keep for almost eight decades,” she said to no one as she put her cup on the desk, rising to confront he mystery of the trunk.

Locked, the circular lock was closed and there was no key in place. She tried to pull the lock open with her fingers, it would not budge.

“Where is the damn key,” Cassie thought. The only keys she had found were in an old cotton bag, with a drawstring, and the word “Keys” hand printed on it in black ink. There were lots of keys inside, but none fit this old lock. Prying it open with knife or a screwdriver crossed her mind.

Before she could decide what to do something caught her eye; a small, almost invisible lever was protruding from the side of the circular lock. She gently pushed it inward. The latch popped open with unexpected ease.

Cassie bent down and slowly opened the hinged lid with her left hand. In her right she raised a section of yesterday's Times, rolled and ready to strike. If there were spiders or other creatures awaiting freedom, today would not be their liberation day.

But creatures were not the first surprise. What struck Cassie was the neatness before her. It was as if there was a specific order of discovery that mother had in mind. Yes she was always neat and organized, as Cassie had observed growing up, but this was clear evidence that it was lifelong.

In the center of the neatly labeled and wrapped packages and boxes, there was a bundle of envelopes tied with a ribbon. Cassie felt her mother’s direction — "look at this first," mother seemed to be saying.

Each envelope had a date neatly written, where a stamp would go, in now faded black ink. This was obviously well planned and precisely executed. Uniform envelopes, dated with amazing similarity, about a month apart.

The first date was March 23, 1929. Cassie carefully opened the unsealed envelope and took out the neatly folded letter. The brittle papers came open with a fragile reluctance, cautioning her.

Emotions swirled, an anticipation both fearful and exciting, like the feeling she had when the restraint bar of a roller-coaster tightened against her lap and she felt the first jolt of movement. As the writing appeared, a sudden emptiness, a feeling of profound loss, overtook her. Struggling to focus, she began reading through the unexpected tears.

“My dearest children,” mother wrote, and Cassie’s ride had begun.

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Note: This is the opening of a novel in progress. The working title is Emma Lou's Letters. This is not the first draft but should be considered "in process." CLThomas.

© 2017 CLThomas