I hold my breath and stop movingso I can hear if I woke up Annie or the dog. When I hear nothing, Ispread my arms out in front of me and sweep the floor, trying tolocate the small flashlight. I’m in the darkest part of the roomwhere the pantry room light can’t reach. I hope to hell there’s nodead rats or anything up here, and I pray my hands don’t hitanything squishy or furry.
Finally, my finger touchessomething. It’s the flashlight. Grabbing it, I sit up and turn iton.
I shine the light slowly aroundthe room. At one end are stacked totes and a few boxes. At theother end, an old picnic table umbrella and a rolled-up plasticthing that looks like our old inflatable boat. Man, I haven’t beenup here for years. Dad never installed a ladder from the pantryroom, so the few times I’d come up here I’d done it the same astoday, by crawling on the shelf. Usually, my mom had lots of smalljars of jam and other things loaded on it, so I’d knock stuff overwhen I was climbing—hence the reason I was never allowed uphere.
I shine the light on my hands.They’re covered in dust. Next, I point the light at the floor.There are many footprints in the dirt leading from one end of theroom to the other. I can’t tell which are my brother’s and whichare from the cops when they were searching up here.
As I continue to shine the lightaround the room, I see that one of the boxes is open. Maybe Dennywas rooting around in stuff. I don’t blame him if he was. He musthave been bored senseless.
I set down the flashlight andgrab the sleeping bag to roll it up. As I roll it up, I feelsomething small and firm inside. I stick my hand between the layersand pull out a square thing that feels like leather. When I shinethe light on it, I recognize it right away—it’s Denny’s wallet. Mydad gave it to him when he turned eighteen. Stamped into the suppleleather is a dragon with Denny’s initials under it. I can’t believehe kept it for all these years. But why would he leave itbehind?
Maybe he panicked when he heardthe police downstairs talking to Annie. Maybe he left the wallet inhis hurry to escape when he had a chance. But if he doesn’t havehis wallet, how could he get off the island?
I stuff the wallet in my pocketand finish rolling up the bag, then crawl over to put it in thecorner next to the open box. When I set the roll down, my eyecatches something behind the box. I shine the light on it. There,propped against the wall, is Dad’s 22 rifle. As far as I know, henever shot anything with it. He just thought that a gun issomething real men owned.
I hate guns. I’ve never firedone and have no interest in having one here, in my home, especiallyif Denny’s around. The last thing he should have access to is agun. I put the gun beside the hatch so I don’t forget it when Ileave. I’ll give it to Tim or turn it in. Anything to get it out ofhere.
My attention refocuses on theopen box. I crawl back to it and peer in.
A reddish-brown photo album sitson top. I take the album and cradle it with one arm while I rummagethrough the box of old records, greeting cards and a recipebook—nothing else interesting. I take the album and sit in front ofthe hatch for light, dangling my feet into the pantry. Opening upthe album, I see tons of pictures of my parents in the early daysof their relationship. My mom’s hair is exactly how I remember itback then; long and brown, with the sides bereted back. I hadforgotten how beautiful she was back then. Her face had so muchlife in it and she was always smiling. At that point in her life,she had no way of knowing just how bad things would get under thedictatorship of my father. As for him, he looked tall and proud,shoulders back, a strong stance. A real man.
I turn the page and a large 8x10picture takes up a whole sleeve. My father and me.
We were at the mall and Santawas there. I remember it well. I was five and full of piss andvinegar with excitement. Dad stood in line with me so I could get apicture with Santa, but when it was my turn to sit on his knee, Ichickened out. Dad stepped up and told the photographer that hewould sit with Santa and me. Children in the lineup screamed withlaughter while Dad and I got our picture taken. When we werefinished, I grabbed my father’s hand and marched right past theother kids. I didn’t feel embarrassed at all. I felt proud.
A tear rolls down my face. Idon’t think I’ve ever felt as close to anyone in my life as I didto him back then. We were inseparable. We did everything together;fishing trips, car shows, even poker games with his pals. I’d siton his knee and hold his cards. My mom once told me that when I wasborn, he cut the umbilical cord, then held me up and announced,“She’s my precious little gem.” He had named me Jade.
The image of the burgundycolored coffin at the front of the church comes into my mind. Moretears run down my face and fall to the pantry floor.
I bled for that man. I tried sohard to win back his love and nothing worked. So many nights, Icried in my bed, wanting my dad to just look at me once like heused to. It never happened. Now, I’ve lost him twice. My mother wasalways kind and made sure that we had all the necessities, butthere was something untouchable about her. When I hugged her, itfelt like she was under glass.
I guess that’s why I need Annieso much. If I don’t have her, I don’t have any love at all.
Grabbing the gun, I lower itdown until it sits on the shelf. I wipe
