EX: Writer’s Toolbox – Sixth Sense Cards

Posted on | March 26, 2009 | No Comments

Carly went out into the blustery cold, on a late Friday afternoon to check the mailbox. I watched her from my bedroom window on the second floor. I was thankful to have such an advantageous view, as it helped wile away the hours that I was stuck at home doing nothing. I envied Carly, my sister was five years older than I and had Papa’s permission to go outside and visit friends. I, on the other hand, still had another year to go before I was deemed old enough to watch after myself without constant supervision. From my window seat, I saw the wind snatch the mail from Carly’s bare hands and she raced after a lone envelope down the drive. She caught it before too long and then she turned and raced back into the house, deciding best to no longer dawdle. With the slam of the front door, I knew that was my signal to venture down the stairs, leisure-like so as not to convey my interest in what made Carly take so long in returning from such a mundane task.

Upon entering the kitchen, I noticed the letter sitting at Papa’s place at the table. With a quick glance, I noticed the return address at the top left corner stated Amsterdam and that the stamp on the opposite corner looked weird as well. Before I could comment on the unusualness of the letter, Mama and Maisey — our partime helper — started to set food on the table.

“Elizabeth, be a dear and go retrieve Papa from his study, and tell him supper is reader. If he asks, tell him we’re having roast chicken and rice with a chicken gravy, homemade biscuits and green beans. I’m sure that will tempt him out of his hole,” she said as the baskets of steaming hot biscuits was placed nearest Papa’s plate.

I nodded my head at her and took off to the back of the house, the heady scent of roasted meat filling my nose and making my mouth water. I did as my mother bade me, and I also threw in that a letter had come for Papa all the way from a place called Amsterdam.  His head jerked up in surprise and his eyes were wide in astonishment. I couldn’t wait to see what the letter was about now.

When we all finally gathered around the table and Papa lead us into grace, I kicked my feet and waited impatiently so I could ask what the letter was about and who it was from. I sighed and twisted in my seat as the food was passed around the table; Iwatched Papa all the while as he tucked the letter into his pocket instead of opening it. Papa’s expression was dark and Mama noticed. She laid her hand on his starched shirt sleeve.

“Honey, what’s wrong? Do you fear it’s bad news?”

Papa looked up at her, and I watched as his expression smoothed out. He was hiding something from me, from us. “I’ll tell you later, Sweetheart.” I noticed his eyes shift and dance first to Carly, then myself. Mam frowned as well, and looked as if she was going to say something, but Papa turned his hand over and squeezed hers, and she was instantly silenced.

With a silent sniff of being frustrated, I let me curiosity die down for the moment and turned my attention to the food before me.

As the evening passed and it was time to be in bed, I had almost completely forgotten about the letter. A chanced glance out into the hallway let me see Carly sneaking quietly back into her room. I hissed at her from my bed, and then once I had her attention, motioned for her to come into my room.

“What are you sneaking around for? You should already be set for bed.” I noticed the frown of Carly’s face and I could tell something was very wrong. She was always a smiling, carefree girl.

“I was curious. Just as curious as you were at dinner, in fact. So I went down to Papa’s study and listened at the door. The letter…” she paused and looked back out into the hallway, I assumed to make sure no one else was near by before she said anything more. After several seconds of silence, she continued, “The letter was from Papa’s first wife.”

My jaw dropped in shock. Papa had been married before? Did Mama know? Was she upset by this news? So many questions raced through my mind.

All that came out was, “Papa was married before Mama?”

“I guess so. He told Mama that he’d met, married and then divorced this woman five years before he’d even laid eyes on Mama. That their marriage had lasted all of two months, because she couldn’t stand the idea of leaving Amsterdam and her family after his tour of duty in the Army was up. She’d written to tell him that she was dying and that she’d had a child by him. Her own family was gone and she wanted someone to look after her boy.” As Carly had continued her recollection of the overheard conversation, my head began to spin with all the new and unexpected information.

Papa had a son, apparently one he had no idea about and that meant I had an older brother, one that was probably more than ten years my senior. Surely that meant he would be finishing school soon, so why bother coming across the ocean and leaving all his friends behind. I assumed he would have friends, especially if he were anything like Carly — who was popular, pretty and outgoing among her own friends.

Before I could remark on this, I heard voices and footsteps on the stairwell. With a stifled gasp, I watched as my sister dived off my bed and into her room. I pulled my bedcovers up over my head and decided to pretend being asleep; I knew Mama and Papa would check on me before they retired for the night. They did so every night together. It was a ritual of sorts in our family.

My thoughts whilred around on what a scrap of paper could do to a family. One odd stamp and a few written words had changed my life forever.

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