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Authors: Christina Baker Kline
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good. But it kind of feels nice to nurture
her resentment, to foster it. It’s something she can savor and control, this feeling
of having been wronged by the world. That she has fulfilled her role as a thieving
member of the underclass, now indentured to this genteel midwestern white lady, is
too perfect for words.
Deep breath. Smile. As Lori, the court-ordered social worker she meets with biweekly
always tells her to do, Molly decides to make a mental list of all the positive things
about her situation. Let’s see. One, if she can stick it out, this whole incident
will be stricken from her record. Two, she has a place—however tense and tenuous at
the moment—to live. Three, if you must spend fifty hours in an uninsulated attic in
Maine, spring is probably the best time of year to do it. Four, Vivian is ancient,
but she doesn’t appear to be senile.
Five—who knows? Maybe there actually will be something interesting in these boxes.
Bending down, Molly scans the labels around her. “I think we should go through them
in chronological order. Let’s see—this one says ‘WWII.’ Is there anything before that?”
“Yes.” Vivian squeezes between two stacks and makes her way toward the cedar chests.
“The earliest stuff I have is over here, I think. These crates are too heavy to move,
though. So we’ll have to start in this corner. Is that okay with you?”
Molly nods. Downstairs, Terry handed her a cheap serrated knife with a plastic handle,
a slippery stack of white plastic garbage bags, and a wire-bound notebook with a pen
clipped to it to keep track of “inventory,” as she called it. Now Molly takes the
knife and pokes it through the tape of the box Vivian has chosen: 1929–1930. Vivian,
sitting on a wooden chest, waits patiently. After opening the flaps, Molly lifts out
a mustard-colored coat, and Vivian scowls. “Mercy sake,” she says. “I can’t believe
I saved that coat. I always hated it.”
Molly holds the coat up, inspecting it. It’s interesting, actually, sort of a military
style with bold black buttons. The gray silk lining is disintegrating. Going through
the pockets, she fishes out a folded piece of lined paper, almost worn away at the
creases. She unfolds it to reveal a child’s careful cursive in faint pencil, practicing
the same sentence over and over again: Upright and do right make all right. Upright and do right make all right. Upright
and do right . . .
Vivian takes it from her and spreads the paper open on her knee. “I remember this.
Miss Larsen had the most beautiful penmanship.”
“Your teacher?”
Vivian nods. “Try as I might, I could never form my letters like hers.”
Molly looks at the perfect swoops hitting the broken line in exactly the same spot.
“Looks pretty good to me. You should see my scrawl.”
“They barely teach it anymore, I hear.”
“Yeah, everything’s on computer.” Molly is suddenly struck by the fact that Vivian
wrote these words on this sheet of paper more than eighty years ago. Upright and do right make all right. “Things have changed a lot since you were my age, huh?”
Vivian cocks her head. “I suppose. Most of it doesn’t affect me much. I still sleep
in a bed. Sit in a chair. Wash dishes in a sink.”
Or Terry washes dishes in a sink, to be accurate, Molly thinks.
“I don’t watch much television. You know I don’t have a computer. In a lot of ways
my life is just as it was twenty or even forty years ago.”
“That’s kind of sad,” Molly blurts, then immediately regrets it. But Vivian doesn’t
seem offended. Making a “who cares?” face, she says, “I don’t think I’ve missed much.”
“Wireless Internet, digital photographs, smartphones, Facebook, YouTube . . .” Molly
taps the fingers of one hand. “The entire world has changed in the past decade.”
“Not my world.”
“But you’re missing out on so much.”
Vivian laughs. “I
her resentment, to foster it. It’s something she can savor and control, this feeling
of having been wronged by the world. That she has fulfilled her role as a thieving
member of the underclass, now indentured to this genteel midwestern white lady, is
too perfect for words.
Deep breath. Smile. As Lori, the court-ordered social worker she meets with biweekly
always tells her to do, Molly decides to make a mental list of all the positive things
about her situation. Let’s see. One, if she can stick it out, this whole incident
will be stricken from her record. Two, she has a place—however tense and tenuous at
the moment—to live. Three, if you must spend fifty hours in an uninsulated attic in
Maine, spring is probably the best time of year to do it. Four, Vivian is ancient,
but she doesn’t appear to be senile.
Five—who knows? Maybe there actually will be something interesting in these boxes.
Bending down, Molly scans the labels around her. “I think we should go through them
in chronological order. Let’s see—this one says ‘WWII.’ Is there anything before that?”
“Yes.” Vivian squeezes between two stacks and makes her way toward the cedar chests.
“The earliest stuff I have is over here, I think. These crates are too heavy to move,
though. So we’ll have to start in this corner. Is that okay with you?”
Molly nods. Downstairs, Terry handed her a cheap serrated knife with a plastic handle,
a slippery stack of white plastic garbage bags, and a wire-bound notebook with a pen
clipped to it to keep track of “inventory,” as she called it. Now Molly takes the
knife and pokes it through the tape of the box Vivian has chosen: 1929–1930. Vivian,
sitting on a wooden chest, waits patiently. After opening the flaps, Molly lifts out
a mustard-colored coat, and Vivian scowls. “Mercy sake,” she says. “I can’t believe
I saved that coat. I always hated it.”
Molly holds the coat up, inspecting it. It’s interesting, actually, sort of a military
style with bold black buttons. The gray silk lining is disintegrating. Going through
the pockets, she fishes out a folded piece of lined paper, almost worn away at the
creases. She unfolds it to reveal a child’s careful cursive in faint pencil, practicing
the same sentence over and over again: Upright and do right make all right. Upright and do right make all right. Upright
and do right . . .
Vivian takes it from her and spreads the paper open on her knee. “I remember this.
Miss Larsen had the most beautiful penmanship.”
“Your teacher?”
Vivian nods. “Try as I might, I could never form my letters like hers.”
Molly looks at the perfect swoops hitting the broken line in exactly the same spot.
“Looks pretty good to me. You should see my scrawl.”
“They barely teach it anymore, I hear.”
“Yeah, everything’s on computer.” Molly is suddenly struck by the fact that Vivian
wrote these words on this sheet of paper more than eighty years ago. Upright and do right make all right. “Things have changed a lot since you were my age, huh?”
Vivian cocks her head. “I suppose. Most of it doesn’t affect me much. I still sleep
in a bed. Sit in a chair. Wash dishes in a sink.”
Or Terry washes dishes in a sink, to be accurate, Molly thinks.
“I don’t watch much television. You know I don’t have a computer. In a lot of ways
my life is just as it was twenty or even forty years ago.”
“That’s kind of sad,” Molly blurts, then immediately regrets it. But Vivian doesn’t
seem offended. Making a “who cares?” face, she says, “I don’t think I’ve missed much.”
“Wireless Internet, digital photographs, smartphones, Facebook, YouTube . . .” Molly
taps the fingers of one hand. “The entire world has changed in the past decade.”
“Not my world.”
“But you’re missing out on so much.”
Vivian laughs. “I
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