The Number 7 Read Free

wouldn’t think about it, but I did.
    â€œLike Mom.” I chewed on a piece of bagel.
    â€œLike Mom,” he sighed in agreement.
    For a moment, I thought about the oak tree against the stone wall near Mom’s plot. This late in the year, the cemetery would be ablaze with color. I closed my eyes, visualized Mom’s headstone, and envisioned its inscription.
    Dismiss whatever insults your own soul
    And your very flesh shall be a great poem
    Walt Whitman, Mom’s favorite. Memory 4. I’d already decided that on my eighteenth birthday I’d get it tattooed. I just didn’t know where. My wrist? My ankle? Somewhere I could see it every day. I slowly exhaled.
    â€œSo what’s the game plan for today?” I fingered the cuff of my pajamas, eager to think about anything else.
    â€œI was going to have you start with the attic, and I was going to work on packing up the kitchen.”
    â€œAnd I thought it couldn’t get any worse,” I moaned.
    But Dad was undeterred by my cynicism. He poured himself more coffee from the pot on the counter. “Later, we can take a walk around the property. We own ten acres.”
    â€œI didn’t realize we owned anything. ”
    I watched him as he ran his hand through his salt-and-pepper hair. He was getting grayer by the day, but it looked okay. I wasn’t ignorant of the fact that my dad was handsome. I remembered how single moms reapplied red lipstick at the lunch after Mom’s memorial. They munched on cucumber sandwiches, drank Sweet’N Low coffee, and talked in hushed whispers, smiling hopefully at my dad. He never noticed them, but I did.
    The wind blew outside the kitchen window.
    â€œDespite everything, this is a good house,” he said to himself, staring intently into his cup, but I, of course, had no idea what he was talking about. Despite what , Dad? “Be sure to take a jacket; I don’t think there’s any heat up there.”
    My grandmother’s attic was a mausoleum. A lamp with a mosaic shade rested in a corner. An old, foot-powered sewing machine sat to one side. I casually opened the lid of a cardboard box and found it packed to the brim with red-and-gold glass Christmas ornaments. Loose gray puffs of rock wool insulation burst along the walls as if the house were a teddy bear splitting at the seams. I spelled “Louisa” in the dust atop an organ with yellowed keys and then blew it away. Walking to the far end of the attic, I shoved a circular dormer window with my shoulder and it fell open with a deep sigh. This house needed to breathe fresh air just as much as I did. It would be redundant to say everything in the attic was old. In a large rolltop desk stained with inkblots I found stamps from 1957 and a disintegrating typewriter ribbon. Tucked in one of the letter slots was an unstamped postcard. The picture on the front was an old photo of the Liberty Bell in Philadelphia. I could vaguely make out the handwriting.
    Tänker pÃ¥ dig som alltid. Kan du förlÃ¥ta mig? Du mÃ¥ste glömma mig.
    â€”G
    The postcard had never been mailed. I snapped a photo of the script with my cell phone, pocketed the card, and tried to open one of the desk drawers, but it stuck. I shook the drawer, struggling to get it to open, but the harder I tugged, the less it seemed to give. I carefully sat on the dusty floor and propped one foot beside the edge of the drawer. I wrapped both hands around the metal ring and pulled violently. The drawer slid out easily, as if it hadn’t been stuck at all. A black, vintage telephone tumbled to the ground with a loud thud. It was a beautiful antique with a gold cradle and a white rotary. The frayed cord hung limply to the side. Too bad it’s missing a plug , I thought, placing it on top of the desk. It would have been cool to use.
    Dad started playing a new record downstairs; I could faintly make out “La Vie en Rose.” Mom used to sing it to us. She