Faded....the End of the Short Story Inside
The 1st draft of the end of the short story originally called "Inside" is below. If this is your first visit please read the prior post. I just finished it this morning. Please let me know what you think.
I left the room bewildered. Who was this man? My Grandfather? A painter? An artist? I walked down the hallway and entered his bedroom. Seventies’ vintage furniture, modest but functional, were arranged for ease of use. Lime greens and bright yellows, long out of fashion. At the foot of the bed was a faded green footlocker with an afghan checkered draped over it. I pushed the afghan aside, unclasped the buckles and opened it. The smell of mothballs overwhelmed me.
Inside were the faded remnants of 85 years of life. A government issue .45 in a leather cases placement on top of a folded green dress uniform, gave the appearance of a paper weight on a stack of neat boundless of a life lived. A full breast of medal ribbons hung from the breast of the uniform. More medals that I had ever seen on any General. Now dry rooting symbols of blood spilled on foreign soils.
I removed the top tray containing the gun and uniform and underneath found two near stacks shaped like small pyramids. One stack contained from the bottom up; 3 thick photo albums, loose yellowed black and white photos bundled with a piece of twine, and a bundle of letters held together with a red satin ribbon. The other stack contained four framed diplomas.
My hands began to shake as I removed and tugged at the satin ribbon to release the letters. The first letter envelope had no external markings. I thumbed through the others were addressed to Evelynn Annette Lafayette. They were stamped but not post marked. Two, addressed to T.J. Barrow, were postmarked.
The unmarked envelope was not sealed, so I removed the three faded pages from its home for the last few decades. Confused, I drew the letter closer as I realized that the letter…was addressed to me.
December 12, 1980
Dear Trevor:
I write this to you on the day the jury is to come back with the verdict of my murder trial. You may never get this, but in the hope you do, I would like to explain my life and what lead me to this point . . .
Startled, I heard the back door slam to the kitchen, and then keys jingled as they were placed on a counter in the kitchen.
“Hello?” A woman’s voice called out.
“Yes.”
A very attractive, black woman in her mid-forties, dressed in a business suit came into the bedroom and extended her hand, “You must be Trevor.”
I put my hand into hers and shook it, “Are you the realtor? Did the lawyer send you?”
“Uh, no….” She said as she glanced into the opened footlocker.
“Then you are…?”
“Anne, Anne Williams, please to meet you.”
“Are you the housekeeper?”
“No, um…I am a, uh, was a…friend of TJ, your Grandfather.”
“Friend?”
“Yes, I’ve taken care of this place since your Grandfather was incarcerated.”
“For Twenty-five years?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t understand. His estate paid you to maintain this house for all this time?”
“No, I took no money.”
“But the garden? The paintings? It as if he still lived here.”
“The garden, I attend to, it was his passion, his tranquility, his oasis. The paintings he gave to me when he entered prison, I kept them here because this is where they belong. I left everything as it was in the hopes that he would eventually be released.”
“Why would you do this? Why? Everyone in my family disowned him years ago.”
“He had hard times. He drank. Heavily. But he was a very good man, a kind and gentle man. Talented. Misunderstood. Tormented.”
“How did you meet him?”
“I met him during the murder trial, actually briefly before that, but I got to know him during the trial.”
“So, you worked for the defense team?”
“No, uh…”
“Are you a reporter?”
“No, um, he saved me.”
“Saved you, I don’t…”
“Yes, I was the young girl in the alley. He was drunk and stumbled into the alley with a bottle of booze in his hand. He found me badly beaten and bloody, one man on top of me, the other laughing, waiting for his turn.”
“But the trial. The defense. Why?”
“The laughing man pulled a gun and aimed at TJ. The other got off of me and pulled a knife. TJ fought both of them off. He ended up with the gun and shot them both.”
“But…?”
“Both of those men were white, off duty policemen. He never had a chance in court.” She said. She tried to restrain the tears welling up in her eyes but couldn’t.
“Jesus.”
“Yes, I tried to help him during the trial. I was so grateful to him. It was a racially charged time back then and for a white man to do that for me…well, I was grateful.”
“The letters…?”
“Yes, my maiden name was Evelynn Annette Lafayette. When I got to know him we fell in love. It was a brief but intense affair. He went to prison and I eventually married. But I never forgot. Never forgot what he did for me and the price he paid.”
“The paintings…?”
“He gave those to me. I’ve sold a few to keep the estate funded.”
I didn’t have any words. I couldn’t speak. My fingers went to my lips but I couldn’t utter a sound.
“He gave them to me but I couldn’t accept them. I want you to have them. Look, I have some coffee in the kitchen, why don’t you let me make us some?” She said as she left the room.
I nodded and sat down on the bed. Hand trembling, I still held the letter. I returned my gaze to it, and began to read again:
… War has destroyed this family. Your father was killed in Vietnam when you were a young boy and I was killed - my soul was killed on the battlefields of Africa and Europe. The things I saw and did, changed me forever.
I’ve had many loves in my life. I’ve loved family, gardening, painting, music, Evelynn and you. I am proud you and hope you have a happy and successful life.
As for prison, I feel this is my justice for the things I did in the war. Karma has a way of following you around and paying you back in unexpected ways. I don’t look foreword to it but I will take the punishment without complaint.
Please remember, honor, dignity, and truth are your guiding principles in this life.
Love,
Your Granddad
I didn’t realize, but tears dripped onto the pages as I read those final words. Tears that blotched white stains on the yellowed paper and caused the ink to run lines down the page. Words written twenty-five years ago by a man I had never talked to.
A dusty footlocker and a faded letter, in an all but forgotten house, showed me who my grandfather, the convicted murderer really was... an artist, a lover, and a hero.
THE END
I left the room bewildered. Who was this man? My Grandfather? A painter? An artist? I walked down the hallway and entered his bedroom. Seventies’ vintage furniture, modest but functional, were arranged for ease of use. Lime greens and bright yellows, long out of fashion. At the foot of the bed was a faded green footlocker with an afghan checkered draped over it. I pushed the afghan aside, unclasped the buckles and opened it. The smell of mothballs overwhelmed me.
Inside were the faded remnants of 85 years of life. A government issue .45 in a leather cases placement on top of a folded green dress uniform, gave the appearance of a paper weight on a stack of neat boundless of a life lived. A full breast of medal ribbons hung from the breast of the uniform. More medals that I had ever seen on any General. Now dry rooting symbols of blood spilled on foreign soils.
I removed the top tray containing the gun and uniform and underneath found two near stacks shaped like small pyramids. One stack contained from the bottom up; 3 thick photo albums, loose yellowed black and white photos bundled with a piece of twine, and a bundle of letters held together with a red satin ribbon. The other stack contained four framed diplomas.
My hands began to shake as I removed and tugged at the satin ribbon to release the letters. The first letter envelope had no external markings. I thumbed through the others were addressed to Evelynn Annette Lafayette. They were stamped but not post marked. Two, addressed to T.J. Barrow, were postmarked.
The unmarked envelope was not sealed, so I removed the three faded pages from its home for the last few decades. Confused, I drew the letter closer as I realized that the letter…was addressed to me.
December 12, 1980
Dear Trevor:
I write this to you on the day the jury is to come back with the verdict of my murder trial. You may never get this, but in the hope you do, I would like to explain my life and what lead me to this point . . .
Startled, I heard the back door slam to the kitchen, and then keys jingled as they were placed on a counter in the kitchen.
“Hello?” A woman’s voice called out.
“Yes.”
A very attractive, black woman in her mid-forties, dressed in a business suit came into the bedroom and extended her hand, “You must be Trevor.”
I put my hand into hers and shook it, “Are you the realtor? Did the lawyer send you?”
“Uh, no….” She said as she glanced into the opened footlocker.
“Then you are…?”
“Anne, Anne Williams, please to meet you.”
“Are you the housekeeper?”
“No, um…I am a, uh, was a…friend of TJ, your Grandfather.”
“Friend?”
“Yes, I’ve taken care of this place since your Grandfather was incarcerated.”
“For Twenty-five years?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t understand. His estate paid you to maintain this house for all this time?”
“No, I took no money.”
“But the garden? The paintings? It as if he still lived here.”
“The garden, I attend to, it was his passion, his tranquility, his oasis. The paintings he gave to me when he entered prison, I kept them here because this is where they belong. I left everything as it was in the hopes that he would eventually be released.”
“Why would you do this? Why? Everyone in my family disowned him years ago.”
“He had hard times. He drank. Heavily. But he was a very good man, a kind and gentle man. Talented. Misunderstood. Tormented.”
“How did you meet him?”
“I met him during the murder trial, actually briefly before that, but I got to know him during the trial.”
“So, you worked for the defense team?”
“No, uh…”
“Are you a reporter?”
“No, um, he saved me.”
“Saved you, I don’t…”
“Yes, I was the young girl in the alley. He was drunk and stumbled into the alley with a bottle of booze in his hand. He found me badly beaten and bloody, one man on top of me, the other laughing, waiting for his turn.”
“But the trial. The defense. Why?”
“The laughing man pulled a gun and aimed at TJ. The other got off of me and pulled a knife. TJ fought both of them off. He ended up with the gun and shot them both.”
“But…?”
“Both of those men were white, off duty policemen. He never had a chance in court.” She said. She tried to restrain the tears welling up in her eyes but couldn’t.
“Jesus.”
“Yes, I tried to help him during the trial. I was so grateful to him. It was a racially charged time back then and for a white man to do that for me…well, I was grateful.”
“The letters…?”
“Yes, my maiden name was Evelynn Annette Lafayette. When I got to know him we fell in love. It was a brief but intense affair. He went to prison and I eventually married. But I never forgot. Never forgot what he did for me and the price he paid.”
“The paintings…?”
“He gave those to me. I’ve sold a few to keep the estate funded.”
I didn’t have any words. I couldn’t speak. My fingers went to my lips but I couldn’t utter a sound.
“He gave them to me but I couldn’t accept them. I want you to have them. Look, I have some coffee in the kitchen, why don’t you let me make us some?” She said as she left the room.
I nodded and sat down on the bed. Hand trembling, I still held the letter. I returned my gaze to it, and began to read again:
… War has destroyed this family. Your father was killed in Vietnam when you were a young boy and I was killed - my soul was killed on the battlefields of Africa and Europe. The things I saw and did, changed me forever.
I’ve had many loves in my life. I’ve loved family, gardening, painting, music, Evelynn and you. I am proud you and hope you have a happy and successful life.
As for prison, I feel this is my justice for the things I did in the war. Karma has a way of following you around and paying you back in unexpected ways. I don’t look foreword to it but I will take the punishment without complaint.
Please remember, honor, dignity, and truth are your guiding principles in this life.
Love,
Your Granddad
I didn’t realize, but tears dripped onto the pages as I read those final words. Tears that blotched white stains on the yellowed paper and caused the ink to run lines down the page. Words written twenty-five years ago by a man I had never talked to.
A dusty footlocker and a faded letter, in an all but forgotten house, showed me who my grandfather, the convicted murderer really was... an artist, a lover, and a hero.
THE END
