The Ballroom Café Read Free

about Rob, buried him twice over, after everybody had run out of words, she was in the attic looking for nothing or something, filling in time, nudging boxes around corners, when she saw the small one greased with dirt, stuffed under the water pipes. It was sealed with brown tape and a pink label splotted dirty grey was curled up on one side, probably from where the heat of the hot-water pipe had dried it out. She could just about make out the neat handwriting: ‘Baby Bits’.
    She picked up the box, shaking off loose mouse droppings, and made her way carefully to the spare room. Battered old suitcases lay opened and discarded on the red sofa bed. A stack of yellowed newspapers was spilled on the floor.
    ‘Debs, are you finished up there yet?’
    Aunt Nancy thumped up the stairs, swiping the sweat from her forehead with her hand, her breath wheezing.
    ‘Don’t be bothering yourself with all that rubbish, dear. We can get somebody to clear it out.’
    ‘I want to pick a few things.’
    Nancy caught Debbie tight by the shoulders.
    ‘You do what you have to do, sweetheart, but memories don’t hold dust.’
    Nancy kicked at the newspaper stack and stood back, taking the room in.
    ‘Your mother would have a fit if she knew how the place had turned out. Look at the dirt on the curtains: the finest embossed cream silk, she ordered specially from the store in Cleveland. Bert said he would come at five to fill up the U-Haul. Is that everything in the sitting room? It’s very little.’
    ‘Yes, but the rocking chair on the porch as well.’
    ‘Not worth taking, but suit yourself. Let’s have tea. What about the box of baby bits?’
    ‘It’ll fit on the front seat.’
    ‘Your mother was so good with storage. Look at that neat labelling. She really was something.’
    ‘I know.’
    ‘It was a long time ago. This house will have new owners and the unhappiness will fade away.’
    ‘Except in our hearts.’
    The goods train pelted through to Chicago, the clatter of the railroad crossing penetrating the lonely air. Nancy shuffled about the kitchen; Debbie sat tracing shapes on the red Formica tabletop.
    Several days passed in New York before she got around to opening the box. A whoosh of dust punched the air as she pushed the flaps of dirty cardboard to the side, ripping open the top.
    Layers of thin tissue paper sprinkled with lavender were stacked on top of each other. Removing five neatly creased squares of soft paper pressed like a cushion into the centre of the box, Debbie ran her hand along the silk and lace of a christening gown she did not know. As her fingers slipped across the cream silk, whispers fluttered in her ear, words like butterflies blotting away the tears but creating a new, persistent angst.
    Two crocheted bootees tied with narrow pink ribbons were tucked to one side. Gently, she shook the robe so that the musty aroma of stale lavender wafted through the room, wispy ghosts of Agnes coasting about her for a few moments, cushioning her from the ingrained memory of her loss. A battered pink rabbit and an envelope, small and white, half concealed, were at the bottom of the box. Scanning at first, she was not sure what it said and some of the words were joined together so tightly they were hard to make out. Agnes’s sweet perfume surrounded her, now strangling at her throat.
    The letter had haunted her every minute until she came to this place. Would that she had left it, marked it down as a part of forgotten family history.
    A rubbish truck reversing drew her back. She ran her hand along the smooth cold of the stone bridge, her palms fizzing red as she dawdled over to the heavy iron gates, set back to one side of the riverbank. An old house lay half hidden beyond the trees. The driveway was pocked with weeds and tough grass, the padlock on the gate rusted. A jeep bumped across the bridge and pulled in beside her.
    ‘You are out early. Are you looking for somewhere?’
    The man yanked at the lock and pulled