The Attic

Nineteen

            Paul thawed next to the fire, a thick plaid blanket around his shoulders. The heavy wool smelled vaguely like old leather and gasoline, which made Paul wonder what this blanket had been used for before. He watched their last log burn bright red as bits of the bark fell away from the glowing core. After having been smothered in the snow, the other log was now humid and unusable. Paul looked around the room, wondering what they’d burn next. That chair there in the corner? Or maybe that little stool in the kitchen.

            Meanwhile, John was carefully penning a letter on the back of a flyer for the Cavern. He wondered whether he should show Paul the box, but it seemed an immensely private thing by now. Besides, he doubted Paul would remember half the things in there. They had a special significance to John and only to him.

            Who else would understand why he’d want to keep the receipt for a little record shop in Hamburg?

            Dear Sean, (he wrote)

            It’s hard for me to put everything I should’ve said, everything I’d planned to say, on only one piece of paper. It must also be difficult for you to read this. Maybe you’ll only see this when you’re older, and that’s just as well.

 

            What should I tell you about life? Well, do what’s right. You should know what’s right and what’s not, and that’s what you should think about when you make a decision. Don’t focus too much on what everyone else tells you to do. Life your life as your heart and your head tell you.

 

            You’ll do well, I’m sure of that. Make some records and make your old dad proud.

            John paused.

            He had honestly no idea of what to write. Everything he felt for Sean, everything he wanted for him, was too huge to be able to be put into words. But for all he knew, this was his last chance to leave something meaningful behind for his son.

            I love you, he continued.

            “What are you writing?” Paul asked.

            “Nothing,” John mumbled. He put down his paper and left it on the couch. He went to sit next to Paul by the fire. He saw the dark-haired man look anxiously at the various items of furniture, and Paul asked: “Which is less useful, a chair or a stool?”

            “You don’t have to worry about that. You’ll get out,” John said.

            “You will too,” Paul insisted.

            John didn’t answer. He smelled the smoke coming from the fire, a rich yet acrid scent.

            “John!” Paul shouted, looking at the sleeve of John’s jumper.

            The older man turned and saw bright yellow flames dancing on his sleeve. He tugged on it stupidly, and pulled his hand away when he felt the searing sensation of the burn on his palm. Paul tugged at the neck of the garment and John at the shoulder, and finally it was off and flung away from John.

            The palm of his right hand stung and was a raw shade of red, though his left arm, where the fire had been, seemed to be alright.

            Paul examined John’s hand. “Second degree burn,” he declared. A few welts and boils were apparent on his skin now.

            But John was already standing up, and looking away. Paul looked to what had attracted John’s attention, and saw that next to the discarded jumper, the rug was on fire.

            Paul ran to the kitchen, and saw John had already filled a small mug with water. Paul took the container and ran back to the site of the flames. He poured the water, which extinguished some of the flames, though others were still crackling.

            John had already appeared, it seemed he’d found a bucket for cleaning, and he poured its contents onto the rug. The fire sizzled and all that was left was a soggy, blackened mass where the jumper had melted into the fibers of the rug.