textfiles/stories/lil

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LETTER TO LILLIAN
  by Gay Bost
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  "Oh! Look! Mama! A tr-u-nk!" Childe bounced in exaggerated 
abandon, fluffy tangles and curls, mop-top that might have been 
in eyelet and satin, rather than denim and little else. Childe had 
discarded sensible outfit after sensible outfit in favor of her 
brother's denim coveralls, no shirt, no shoes and no decorum at all.

  "Hush. You'll wake the rest of them and I don't want sticky 
boys before I've had a chance up here . . . in relative peace." Lil 
glanced meaningfully at Childe, wishing her to settle, softly, if at 
all possible. "Now, let's have a look. Open it."

  "Oh! Mama!" Delighted, Childe pounced upon the slightly domed lid 
of the old trunk, its wooden braces still structurally sound, metal
hinges and  attachments time pitted but unrusted. It would, more 
than likely, survive Childe's attentions.

  Lil pulled a dubious looking chair from its canted exile and 
tested the seat. She sat, gingerly, secretly smiling at Childe's 
attempts to free the locking mechanism. Slipping her hand into her 
apron pocket, noisily patting the key ring within to attract Childe's
curiosity, she waited. Not long, the waiting, with this, her youngest
issue and only daughter. Childe's bright eyes flashed with shared
mischief, catching the mother at play. Like a wild kitten she leapt
at Lil's lap, batting at the larger hand and claiming the rather 
large, old fashioned key ring.

  "Wicked Mama!" Childe laughed, rattling the keys above her head,
dancing about the front of the trunk, bending industriously to the
task at hand.

  Lil had a momentary flash of hidden memory, an imposition of 
short term over long. When the house had come to her at her estranged 
father's death she'd rejected, immediately, the idea of possessing it
or anything it held. But the keys had come from the lawyer, boxed,
quite ridiculously, as if they were a precious jewel, in a brass case 
shaped like a book. Copper strips bound the "book" as old school 
books had once been bound by leather straps. Two copper "buckles" the
closure.

  Then, as now, a face, framed by silken mahogany brown curls, wispy 
as Childe's, had peered down at her. She shook her head, cleared 
ancient cobwebs from unseen corners, as she supposed she must, soon, 
in this attic.

  "Mother!" Childe said, adult and perturbed at the ripe old age of 
three-going-on-four, "You'll simply have to assist me."

  "I think the smaller brass key, my love," she said.

  Childe separated said key from the others and held it aloft, 
quite suddenly the image of pained patience. Lil wrapped her fingers
around the small hand and guided the key into the lock, her cheek
brushing against Childe's hair. "Now . . ." the key fit snugly, 
turned as if thirty years of abandonment had never passed "so!" the 
latch popped loose. "Voila!" Lil lifted the lid and set it back on 
its hinges for Childe. "Carefully," she added in a whisper.

  "And WHO does this trunk belong to?" Childe wanted to know -- 
now that the treasure had been breached, the lace and satin freed. 
Morning light mixed with silent melodies, dancing with attic dust 
in narrow beams which fell from window to floor, as if the opening 
of the trunk had somehow altered the quality of illumination.

  "I think perhaps this attic will make a fine sewing room, once 
it's had a good cleaning." Lil brushed a strand of her own honey 
brown hair away from her temple and looked about the room. "Yes, 
and perhaps a little girl will learn to be a little girl here." She 
had her doubts, well founded, but she could dream. Brothers coming
before could alter a young lady's life before it had begun, 
especially if the young lady was, at three-going-on-four, already 
a match for boys of 5 and 7.

  "Mama!"

  Her attention demanded, Lil bent double over her own lap and 
leaned her elbows on her knees, peering into the trunk with a 
Childe-like interest of her own. "Carefully, one item at a time. 
Lay them outside the trunk neatly. This is our treasure and we 
don't want it tattered anymore than time has already done."

  Childe lifted a lace edged hanky, long tapered fingers, scruffy 
but clean, slipping beneath the damask, lifting oh so carefully the
feather light and age fragile relic. "What is it?"

  "A hanky."

  "It is not!"

  "But it is, dear." Lil accepted the thing, laid it on her apron 
and spread it upon her knee.

  "One good honk and it'd fall apart!" Sane eyes, reasoning with 
an irrational concept, demanded the world be set right, indignantly.

  "Ladies didn't honk into their hankies, Childe.

  "Mama!"

  "Ladies didn't scramble over fences and fly from trees into 
rented dumpsters, either."

  Childe searched for something else of interest within the trunk, 
a sudden convenience to distract a reproachful mother. She produced 
a dresser scarf, tiny faded pansies the edging, presented it regally 
to her mother and awaited explanation, all innocent expectation.

                               *  *  *

  Half way into the right side of the trunk, after numerous 
discussions on the fine details of life in "the old days" with
explainations of such things as dressers, scarves, hand mirrors, 
perfume atomizers of cut lead crystal, silver filigree letter 
openers and matching wax seal stamps -- a tousled head appeared 
at the top of the stair.

  "Oh neat!" Thundering footsteps, a temporary retreat in search 
of backup, pounded away. The scout had found the women encamped on 
prime real estate.

  "Childe," Lil said. "It is time we took our stand." She stood, 
took her daughter's hand in her own, led her to the head of the 
stairs and bent to whisper into her ear. They two placed themselves 
across the threshold and awaited the invasion.

  Not long in the coming, two sets of hooves approached, expensively 
shod in the finest synthetic substance available. Nikes advanced, 
matched in stride. Two heads appeared. Two sets of eyes looked up, 
two boys, advancing. 

  Childe squared her shoulders, stood tall and announced, herald 
of the bright morning,  "We claim these heights of Womanhood!"

  Lil bit her lip, stifling a loose giggle, released a stage 
whisper from the corner of her mouth, "That's `We  claim these 
heights *FOR* Womanhood'."

  "But Mom!" their arms crossed over their chests, as they whined, 
in unison.

  The boys advanced a step upward. Childe advanced three, 
instinctively realizing the advantage of established occupation and 
glared at them. Lil mirrored the glare, her head cocked a tad to the 
right for emphasis. "Done deal, boys."

  A larger head appeared, a stouter foot upon the bottom most 
steps, advancing. A dark head, furrowed brows, soft eyes which, 
thankfully, the children shared, lifted, assessing the silent scene. 
He winked at Childe, clapped a hand on each of the boy's shoulders 
and bent to murmur between their heads, "What stands before you, my 
sons, is the unmovable, the inevitable, the reason for your very 
existence." He stood erect, patted each shoulder firmly and added, 
"Looks like Cheerios are on me this morning."

  "Bill?"

  "Yes, Beloved?"

  "Nut n' Honey." She winked back at him. "We're out of Cheerios."

  "It's ours?" Childe asked. She knew a too-easy win when she saw 
one.

  "Well, Love, with diligence and an ever watchful guard, it will 
be."

                               *  *  *

  "What *is* it?" Childe wanted to know. Lil blinked, trying to 
count off the times her daughter had bounced and bobbed, her face 
up-turned, expectantly demanding, cheerfully yet another explanation.

  A tidy hand had covered a wooden cigar box with padded fabric, 
trimmed it in lace and tied it off with satin ribbon. Lil's fingers 
worked at the knotted bow. Something, many somethings rattled within. 
Childe's hands twitched, nearing. Lil gave her a warning look and 
smiled.

  "Patience. Patience is a virtue," she said, a rote recital she'd
performed as a child.

  "No she isn't. Patience is a Moore. Her mommy always said she 
wished she had more patience and then when she had a little girl she 
named her Patience."

  Another rote recital, Childe style, her father's playful 
attitude forever imprinted upon the name of a playmate. The ribbon 
came undone, at last. Lil lifted the lid and peaked inside, teasing.
Childe's hands came up, imploring. Lil chuckled and handed her the
box.

  "Buttons!" Childe exploded, jiggling the box recklessly. "Oh, 
Mama! May I count them?"

  Lil nodded at her daughter's retreating back, a bit relieved to 
see Childe perch on a quilt-piled day bed near a window. 
"Don't . . ." she began.

  "Oops!" The first button had found the floor. Childe scrambled 
after it.

  Lillian returned to the trunk. Beneath the button box was 
another fabric covered cigar box, less securely tied, which held 
short lengths of lace, twists of ribbon and a pincushion. She set 
that aside, having uncovered an off-white piece, soft satin ribbon 
edging a tiny yoked bib. She inhaled sharply as she lifted it, her 
throat tightening with the caught breath. By size for a smallish 
child, the long skirt meant to brush the tops of patent leather 
shoes, a dress sewn for her too many years ago.

  There was so little memory left of the soft hands that must have
started this gown, sewn this ribbon into the piping, gathered 
these sleeves. She laid her cheek against the fabric, ignoring the 
slightly musty smell time had imparted to it.

  There had been Aunt Clarinda, but she'd never sewn. Lil 
wondered, her eyes gone distant focused. On the day bed Childe 
murmured, having stilled long enough to fall asleep, the button box 
held tightly against her chest, the ribbon hopelessly knotted by 
inexpert fingers.

  Lil smiled at her sleeping tomboy, the two of them somehow 
caught up in a world of lace and old buttons, a world she herself 
had rarely seen as a child and wished to capture for her own sleeping 
angel. There were rhinestone covered buttons in that box, ceramic and 
bone. She'd wager very few were of plastic. She shook the dress
lightly, preparatory to refolding it. A dry rustle slipped from the
hanging folds of the skirt and fell into the trunk.

  Slow, frozen for a moment, she looked from Childe to the piece of 
paper and back. The attic room was silent, Childe's breathing even,
shallow, barely discernible. Outside a bird chirped. Another joined 
it. They'd probably discovered a lazy long haired tabby sitting in 
the pantry window, watching them.

  "Never fear," she consoled them, her hand reaching for the 
fallen note. "Mr. T. Tom would rather dream you than actually chase 
after you."

  Shadow grew across her wrist and forearm as the edge of the
trunk cut off the sunlight coming through the window. Soon the sun
would warm the room. In summer curtains would need to be drawn to
reduce the heat.

  She watched her own fingers open the folded paper, things separate
from herself. For a moment the dark lines refused to come into focus.
Reading glasses occurred. Her eyelashes fluttered as she realized she 
had none to her name. The line cleared.

  "My Dearest Lillian; " it began, a flowing scrawl cut short. The 
rest of the page was blank. The aged paper had been wrinkled and 
smoothed, folded a bit unevenly and slipped into the skirt of the 
gown.

  She folded it and unfolded it, her fingers pleating the ancient 
crease over and over again.

  "My Dearest Lillian," she whispered.

  From the small day bed Childe spoke. "I would have written pages 
and pages, but your father found me and tore me away. They said I
was unfit. They said I was crazy. Sent me away to a Rest Home where 
I rested little. I loved you, my sweet baby. I love you still."

  Lillian rose slowly, quietly, so not to awaken Childe, if indeed 
the frail pale lashes were lowered over the lively eyes, if indeed 
she was talking in her sleep, again.

  Bending over the sleeper, wistfully marveling at the dreamer in 
denim and scuffed elbows, she whispered, "My Dearest Lillian," her 
breath touching the hair above Childe's delicate ear.

  The lips moved, "They took my house. They took my baby. I was 
too "flighty", they claimed, to raise a child. But your father was 
too stern. I loved you, Lillian. I loved you." Childe's voice was
deeper, devoid of its usual exuberance, a strange mix of urgency 
and melancholy. Lil fancied she was listening to the adult voice 
that would be.

  Lillian wondered how many of her mother's words could be gotten 
from Childe's dream before the approaching line of sunlight crossed 
the sleeping face and woke her daughter.

  "My Dearest Lillian," she prompted, again --  waiting . . . .

                               #  #  #

Copyright 1994 Gay Bost, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
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Gay is a Clinical Lab Tech with experience in Veterinary medicine. 
From NORTHERN California, she's resided in S.E. Missouri with her 
husband and an aggressive 6 year old boy, since 1974. Installed her 
first modem the summer of '92, has been exploring new worlds since. 
Her first publication, a short horror story, came when she was 17. 
The success was so overwhelming she called an end to her writing days 
and went in search of herself. She's still looking. Find Gay's great 
stories in the best Electronic Magazines.
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