The Truth about Mary Rose Read Online Free PDF Page B

Grandma, what happened to the box?”
    “I saved it.”
    That was when I could hear my heart beating up in my throat. I didn’t want to ask her. I was afraid to ask her. Just in case she didn’t have it anymore. I wanted to hold on to that thought I was thinking for as long as I could. I wanted to go on thinking that maybe, maybe ... oh please ... maybe there was something that Mary Rose had touched, had looked at, something that had belonged to Mary Rose, and would now belong to me.
    Finally I asked her, “Where is it now?”
    “Upstairs in the attic.”
    “Oh, Grandma, please, can I see it? Please! I didn’t know there was anything left, Grandma, and I’ll be so careful.”
    “But, darling, there’s nothing really in it. Just some magazine pictures, and maybe some samples. Things she played with. Nothing special.”
    “Please, Grandma. I’ll be careful.”
    “Why sure, sweetheart, as soon as I can get upstairs, I’ll find it for you.”
    “But, Grandma, it may be weeks before you get up the stairs. Can’t you just tell me where the box is? I’ll be careful. I promise not to upset anything. I wouldn’t hurt anything that belonged to her.”
    “Don’t get so excited, darling. I just don’t exactly remember where it is. It might even be in the basement. After Ralph died, there were so many papers and things to go through, I just dumped everything upstairs until I could stand going through them. And then, when the Jacksons sold their house, they asked if they could store some of their things in the basement until they got settled, and you see, they’ve never come and picked all that stuff up. And now, with all your family’s things, I really don’t remember ... But honestly, Mary Rose, there’s nothing important in it. I don’t know why I’ve saved it all these years. There’s nothing in it.”
    “Grandma,” I said, “could I look for it? Please! I’ll be very careful. Just tell me what the box looked like.”
    “It’s a shoe box,” my grandmother said, “and now that I think of it, maybe it’s up in the storage closet, behind those boxes of curtains. You’d have to ask your father to move them for you because they’re too heavy, and they’re up too high.”
    I said OK, I would, and then my grandmother started talking to me about my father. We talked about him a lot. Next to Mary Rose, I guess we talked about him more than anybody else. My grandmother loved to talk about my father.
    “I don’t get to see him very much,” she said. “I don’t know why, but he’s always out.”
    “He’s looking for a studio, and then he’s got to get set up at school, and he’s got Philip and our other relatives to see.”
    “I suppose he’s always out a lot. Right, Mary Rose? They say artists are always going to parties ... and places ... things like that. Is that right?”
    “No, Grandma. At home, in Lincoln, Mom always said he was a stick-in-the-mud. He never wanted to go out at night. Just liked to stay home and watch TV and go to bed early.”
    “Well, most artists I hear about, aren’t famous for being family men. Artists are supposed to be very temperamental, and they have mean tempers. Is your father like that, Mary Rose?”
    “No, Grandma. Daddy never loses his temper, but Mom does lots of times.”
    “She never did when she was a girl,” said my grandmother. “But then I guess she had no reason to. I suppose she has lots of housework to do when she gets home. She must really be exhausted by the end of the day. Right, Mary Rose?”
    “No, Grandma. Everybody pitches in to do the housework and the shopping on Saturday. And Mom never does the cooking. Nobody can stand it when she does the cooking. Sometimes I cook—I’m not too bad, but most of the time my dad cooks and bakes because he’s the best. If Mom makes dinner, it generally comes out of cans or it’s those frozen TV dinners. You know—she’s been cooking since we got here, so you see what I mean.”
    “There’s not