Peyton walks me up the stairs and down the hall. Photos of his family hang from the walls in thick black frames. His smile must be hereditary because almost everyone in every photo has a big smile on their face. And not the fake, Hollywood grin we all try to replicate whenever someone wants to take a snapshot, but real, genuinely joyous smiles. Even his father, the old stone heart, manages a little grin in a few of the portraits.
Peyton hesitates at the door.
“I haven't been able to be in there very long…it makes me too sad. So it's not as clean as the rest of this place.” Peyton explains sheepishly. “But since you’re here, I thought it might be easier.”
I feel like I owe him this much. I hadn’t been here, not for the death, not for the funeral, and certainly not for Peyton. The little I can do is help him tidy up a room. Not to mention the idea of cleaning something is nice. Even if I can't manage to do the same for myself, I can clean this space and make it presentable again. Maybe in doing so, I will find some secret of how to do it, some nugget of advice from the floors and the walls.
Peyton twists open the door and pushes it open. The walls are painted a light blueish gray with an eggshell trim. There's a bed with a coochy comforter, and plump pillows pushed up against the far-off wall. A nightstand sits beside the bed, holding an elegant tiffany lamp and a stack of bygone books. I turn to the side and find a large ironwood dresser. There’s a signed baseball sitting in the palm of an old mitt. Even if I read the name, I wouldn't know who the player was. Next to the mitt is a ceramic bowl filled with keys in different phases of rust.
"Do these go anywhere?” I ask, plucking one of the keys from the dish.
“No, Gramps just collected them. He said he liked the allure of them. He told me it was like buying little mysteries because you never know what they may open.”
I set down the key and walk over to the bed. My memory of Peyton’s grandfather is even hazier than in high school. We only interacted occasionally, during holidays or picking Peyton up to sneak off somewhere and do who knows what. But I remembered him fondly. I can recall that out of this smiley family, Peyton’s grandfather’s smile was the brightest. He always seemed to have hard caramel candies on him at all times and wasn't afraid to share. He knitted Peyton sweaters every Christmas, and the boys at school would tease him for it. But Peyton never took them off or hid them. Every year, without fail, he would adorn the sweaters with absolute pride and take the insults as welcomed crossfire.
“It’s a nice room, so it would be a shame not to have someone using it,” Peyton says, placing his hands on his hips. “Gramps died over a year ago. I’ve washed the bedding, but the room could use a good dusting off and maybe a mopping.”
“It’s perfect. Thank you. I really owe you for this.” I say.
“It’s no problem. If anything, I’m glad for the company.” Peyton says. “I’m not used to living in such a big space all by myself.”
“Brandon doesn’t visit?” I ask, leaning against the dresser. Brandon happened to be the friend who brought us together. He was the leader of our little rebel group. He had a mustache (little more than a patch of peach fuzz but way more than any of us could grow at the time). He stole cans of beer, walked the train tracks even if a train was coming up behind, and wore a leather jacket. And all of these things ensnared our young minds, making us idolize him as the peak of “coolness”.
Peyton and I were more friends with Brandon than we were with each other. He was the main event, and we were just two of his roadies.
“Nah, we don’t talk much. After high school, everybody got busy with their own lives.” Peyton explains, walking to the window.
“What about Claire?” I inquire.
“What about her?” Peyton asks.
“Weren’t you two dating?” I say.
“...Oh, yeah. We broke up,” Peyton sighs.
“I can’t believe how much has changed,” I say, staring up at the ceiling. Saying it out loud only reinforces the thought deeper into my head. “I feel like an astronaut. Like the ones in movies where they go into space for a long time, and when they come back, everything’s changed because time moves faster here.”
“Well, I’m glad you're back on Earth.” Peyton hums. “And I get it. The stars are alluring.”
“They looked better from far away,” I chuckle.
“Hey, is this just your long-winded way of trying to trick me into finally watching Interstellar?” Peyton teases.
“That is an amazing film, and honestly, it's a sin that you refuse to watch it,” I say matter-of-factly.
“Whatever, nerd,” Peyton teases. “Now grab a broom, and let's get to work.”
. . .
By the time we finish cleaning, the sky outside has turned to a blood orange-red. The sun melts over the cul de sac like butter over a warm meal. My clothes stink of fruit-scented chemicals.
“I think that’s about it,” Peyton says, wiping the sweat from his brow. “I’ll go grab us some celebratory sodas,” he adds excitedly, walking back down the hall.
As I go to take a step, something stabs into the sole of my foot. I stumble back to find a nail sticking up from the floorboard, flat-side up. I kneel down beside it, wiggling it loose from the board.
It’s weird that a neat freak like Peyton’s grandfather would let a loose nail stick up like this. Now that I’m up close with it, all of the nails are loose here. Using my fingers, I wiggle and pry the nails up until the board is completely loose. Peyton comes into the room carrying a can of soda in each hand.
“What are you doing?” he asks, nearly dropping the cans.
“There’s something here,” I say back.
My fingers tingle as I lift the board away, a trail of spider webs coming with it. Hidden beneath the board is a perfectly rectangular, small hole with a wooden box sitting inside.
“What the hell?” Peyton mutters, unable to believe his own eyes.
I lick my lips and hoist the box onto my lap, but when I go to open it, I can’t. Then I spot the tiny golden keyhole.
“It needs a key,” I mumble. In unison, Peyton and I slowly turn out heads toward the dresser. Peyton reaches it first, scrambling for the ceramic dish. He takes a fist full of the keys and begins to lay them out on the floor. We sort through the keys, trying each one into the keyhole, disappointed every time the key won't turn. But finally, I slide an old brass key into the slot, turn, and hear a more than satisfying click as the box unlocks.
I press my thumbs against the sides of the box and push it open. Inside is a photo sitting on top of a stack of old letters. The paper is a faded brown, delicate to the touch.
“Letters? That’s it?” I say, shuffling through the tattered envelopes.
“He never…told me about these…” Peyton says in a hushed, small voice. He plucks one from the pile and looks it over from front to back. “They weren’t even in the will. And he had his toothbrush in the will. Every little detail, every knick-knack, but not these.”
While Peyton scrutinizes the letter, I pick up the photo. It’s only about six inches tall and four inches wide. One of the corners is slightly burned while the others receded naturally. The film is glossy, and the colors are murky, but I can still make out what's happening: There’s an old mustard yellow jeep parked on the side of the road by a thicket. A young woman in a sundress and bandana is facing the camera, sitting sideways on top of the seats. There are two men, one leaning against the hood, the other against the trunk. They both have on colorful, patterned shirts and long striped pants.
“Is this…?” I hold the photo out toward Peyton. He gently trades the letter for the photo and brings it up close to his face. I watch as that same hereditary smile returns, and his eyes soften.
“That’s him,” Peyton hums. “I’m not sure about the other two, though.”
I shuffle through the letters, scanning the dates scrawled across the top of each. I find the earliest one (dated 1975) and pull the folded paper out from the envelope. It’s written in ink, managing to stay legible even after all this time. Slowly, I read down the length of the letter,
“They say there’s nothing more daunting than the blank page. Most of the time, they’re referring to artists or authors, but I think writing a letter is just as challenging. I saw you walking with your friends the other day when we were all heading home after school. You were laughing about something; I had never heard a laugh like that. The sun was bouncing off your golden curls and pale face. I thought you were the most beautiful girl in the whole world, like an angel walking on the earth. So, I’m writing this letter to ask you if you wanted-”
But the next words are all crossed out with angry scribbles. He hadn’t even signed his name at the bottom. I grab a handful of the other letters and pull them all out from their envelopes. They’re all the same, all half-finished and unsent.
“And all written to the same girl,” I mutter. “They aren't just letters, they’re love letters.”
Peyton lifts up the same letter I had read and reads it for himself. His brow crinkles awkwardly, and he looks at me.
“My grandma was a brunette,” he says.
“Maybe she dyed it?” I suggest.
“No, she was a true brunette. Up until it all turned gray.” Peyton explains. “And the girl in this photo must be the one he wrote these letters to. But she’s not my grandmother either.”
“So it was an old fling? My grandpa had a ton of girlfriends before he met my grandmother.” I explain.
“No,” Peyton says firmly. “They were married in 1980. And here is a letter written to the mystery blonde from 1982. And 1990. And 2006. He wrote these all the way up until he died.”
I reel back, slumping against the back of the bed. Peyton stands up suddenly, his fists clenched at his sides. He looks scared.
“I need…some time to think,” he mutters, walking away. I sit for a moment, unsure whether to go after him or not.
Quietly I gather up the letters and neatly stack them back inside the box. I prop the box up onto the dresser and re-nail the board back into the floor. Peyton’s door slams closed from down the hall, and I shudder a little at the sound.
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