I am a part of a writing group called "The Writing Circle" here in Ashland, and we've been involved in a continuing project in which one member of the group chooses a word for the week (some past examples are "heart," "loss," and "speak") and to which we all respond. Our responses may be non-fiction, where we simply discuss the word and what it means to us at the time, or fictional. The stories we write don't have to include the word at all, and we've had some interesting and vivid writings spring up from the strangest inspiration. I've been trying to write more fiction, and sometimes the word inspires me in a completely unexpected way.
This week, for instance, the word was "sweat." The other members of the group wrote some very interesting and thoughtful responses, while the only thing I could think of was an attic, stuffy and warm. This story emerged from that image. It does not have a title, but it is a tribute to the stories my mom used to tell my sister and I growing up, a tradition I hope somehow continues. I can only hope that my memory serves, and does my mom's incredible imagination and storytelling justice.
"She pulled on the thin rope carefully, afraid the attic staircase
would come toppling down onto her head. But with an even movement, and
one momentary tug, the rectangle of ceiling opened, and with her free
hand, Annie reached up and pulled the staircase down. Dust peppered her
face and she squinted, shook her head, sneezed. Then, looking up, she
climbed the staircase slowly and cautiously, periodically changing her
footing to adjust to the shifting wood.
A billow of hot air ballooned around her head as she peeped into the
attic, and, panting, she pushed herself up the final few steps and
stood, dusting off her jeans and sighing. With hands on hips, Annie
glanced around the attic. It was less cluttered than she expected, and
in fact there was simply less there than she remembered. The wooden
floorboards stretched across the large space, leading her to the
circular window that faced the street. She followed their direct path
and peered out of the window, greasy with grime and age. Annie sighed
again, and turned back to survey the room.
It would not be difficult to clear out the space and turn it into a
nursery. There wasn’t much to go through and move, and they could
probably sell what they or her sisters didn’t want. It was a surprise to
no one she inherited the house, along with all her grandmother’s
possessions, to divide as she chose. They had all spent many a summer in
the big Victorian house, tromping through the gardens and running up
the stairs, but it was Annie who spent the most time with their
grandmother, sharing stories and reading aloud when her mother’s
mother’s eyes grew weak. And it was Annie who spent the most time in the
attic, imagining strange and fantastic adventures among the forgotten
detritus of normal life.
Though now she wasn’t really sure why. It was stiflingly hot up
there. Annie lifted her hair and let the stuffy air cool the back of her
sweating neck. She absently rubbed the inside of her elbows, wiping the
sweat onto her jeans. They would definitely have to get some sort of
air conditioning up there. She glanced at the ceiling and wondered
vaguely if they should install a fan.
She sighed. Nothing had to be decided right away. She was on a
reconnaissance mission, and they would figure out the details later. All
she needed to know now was that the project was feasible. Later on they
could decide if it was practical. Coughing lightly in the hot air,
Annie moved back toward the stairs and the fresh, cool air that flowed
through the lower part of the house.
As she turned, she saw out of the corner of her eye a trunk. She
paused mid-step, then rotated so she was facing the trunk head-on. As
the shape became familiar, she rushed forward and knelt in front of it,
gently moving aside a large cardboard box that rested on top. Annie’s
breath caught as she lifted the lid, thrilled to find it unlocked, and
rather uncertain of what she would find inside. As she recognized what
she instinctively sought, her eyes lit up with childlike delight, and
she reached into the trunk with reverent hands.
A top hat. Resting simply on a pile of loose papers, worn with time
and affection, the hat seemed to remember her hands as Annie carefully
lifted it from its place. Though it had been years, her body remembered
more than her mind, and she automatically flipped the hat so she was
gazing down into its cylindrical bowl. Unconsciously wiping away the
sweat that brushed her brow, Annie lifted the hat to her face and closed
her eyes, inhaling deeply. Fresh air, sunshine, earth, flowers, water,
joy. All these scents and a thousand others Annie felt rather than
smelled in the lining of the top hat. She bowed her head and moved to
place the hat on her head…
And paused. Perhaps it would no longer work. Perhaps the magic faded
with time. Or perhaps she was too old. Like Wendy she had grown up and
could no longer travel to the strange and distant lands she had visited
as a child. Moving with a decision she had not entirely made herself,
she completed the action and gingerly put on the hat, now barely fitting
on her grown-up head. She closed her eyes, and for a moment she
imagined she was growing smaller, shrinking until she was enveloped by
the velvet of the hat and sent spinning into another land. Images, fuzzy
with memory, passed before her darkened eyes. In one, giant stalks of
grass and insects larger than she. In another, a talking dog. And once,
darkness and momentary fear. But as she opened her eyes again, Annie saw
she was still in the attic, kneeling painfully on the wooden floor, the
only smell the twinge of mothballs.
Disappointed, far more than her rational adult mind would allow, she
reached up and took off the hat, feeling pain as it clung to a few
errant strands of hair. She sighed, and placed the hat back in its
former resting place, trying unsuccessfully to keep it aright on top of
the papers. It leaned casually, and for a moment Annie imagined she saw a
glimmer of gold shining on the black velvet.
She moved to close the lid, and again paused. Looking down at her
belly, still flat, she nonetheless placed a hand there, feeling the life
that would soon grow and kick and bother. A smile inched its way across
her face, and Annie glanced once more at the top hat, resting, waiting.
She slowly closed the lid and allowed the smile to linger. She rested a
hand tenderly on the trunk, then with both hands pushed herself up. She
straightened, once more brushing the sweat from her temples. She smiled
again, then turned, and softly, mindfully, walked to the attic
staircase. She descended into the cool air, and with a final,
sentimental glance at the trunk, she left the airless room for tomorrow."
