Free Trophies by J. Gunnar Grey

standing.
    Caren awaited me at the top of the garret
stairs. The door yawned open behind her.
    "Where were we?" I asked as I climbed.
    "Charles, do you really want to do this right
now?"
    That didn't sound good. I'd spent a minute
with my back to the front door, counting to ten and breathing
deeply as the Army shrink had taught me, then relaxing the muscles
in my body from top to bottom. But the bloody exercises never
seemed to work. "What's in there? Skeletons?"
    Her smile was brief. "Nothing, actually, from
what little I can see. It's you I'm concerned about. Are you too
stressed for this?"
    "No, I'm all right." After all that work and
the slap of Patty's rejection, nothing was going to keep me out of
the garret, not even my own squirming conscience. "Well, you might
want to keep that skillet handy."
    I took one last deep breath. It seemed to
shudder going in. Then I stepped into the unrelieved dark beyond
the garret door.
    A wall was directly ahead, a few feet away.
The garret itself opened to the right, above Aunt Edith's bedroom
suite, and it was cloaked in a blackness broken only by the little
light filtering up the dim stairwell. I fumbled on the near walls,
felt rough boards but couldn't locate a switch, so I turned to
fetch the penlight and Caren slapped it into my palm. Of course;
she couldn't have seen to glance around without it. By its narrow
cone I located a string dangling from the ceiling. A tug, and a
high-watt naked bulb lit overhead.
    Caren was right. It was a utilitarian,
working office beneath the roof, sloping toward the rear of the
house, walls of unfinished pine on the other three sides. The air
conditioning system hummed behind the interior wall, so I supposed
that one was merely a partition. Pushed up against it were a large
armoire and an ancient steamer trunk. In the room's center, with
its back to the slant of the roof and facing the other furniture,
was a rolltop desk. It looked very old in the unflattering light of
that naked bulb, and the cracked leather of the rolling chair
seemed no younger.
    "Patty said lunch is in the oven and it's
almost ready." My voice sounded monotone, drained and flat. "You
know, I almost did expect skeletons, or something."
    "If you've been having nightmares about this
room since you were thirteen," Caren said, "I can only
imagine."
    The rolltop was not locked. Inside were the
usual nooks and cubby holes, pencils and Aunt Edith's embossed
stationery, even an old ink well and fountain pen, both dried.
Nothing looked as if it required a six-pin tumbler with serrated
top pins and the anticlimax flattened me. It was so uninspiring, I
didn't bother looking in the drawers.
    Caren opened the creaking door of the carved
armoire and light spilled over a line of clothing on hangers. I
admit the Lewisian possibilities of a wardrobe transfixed me and I
reached through the clothing to touch the back panel. But it was
solid, neither snow nor pine needles within arm's length, so,
feeling foolish and disappointed, I turned my attention to the
contents. Among the out-of-date silks and brocades, glittery bolero
jackets and shirts with removable collars, I found a garment bag
and when I unzipped it I finally saw Aunt Edith's wedding dress:
cathedral-length white silk, still pure, with purple-slashed
princess sleeves and tiny, glistening seed pearls hand-sewn
everywhere.
    "Charles, this is priceless."
    "In her will, Aunt Edith leaves it to
Patricia."
    Caren caressed the bodice. "As soon as she
sees this, she'll find a man to marry and abandon you to your
fate."
    I scoffed. "Not Patty." Although there were
days.
    "I guarantee it." She tugged at the garment
bag. Something within the armoire shifted. "What's that?"
    I crouched down and felt through the dazzling
materials. "Shoes." I set them out, matching the pairs of dyed
satin and cracked leather.
    "What are they, a size two? I couldn't fit my
big toe in there."
    "Tiny, tiny woman. Have you ever noticed, she
always seems larger than she