Grandma Tilley

Meg knelt in front of the steamer trunk, its worn brown leather felt smooth under her hands and hinted at the secrets that lay within. The brass fittings and name plate gleamed in the early morning light declaring that it belonged to Margaret Tilley, her grandmother whose namesake she bore. Grandma had died a few weeks ago and now her children were sorting through her things. Everyone wanted Meg out of the way, so they suggested she take a look in the attic and see what she could find up there.

Meg was eighteen years old, with long brown hair and freckles splattered across her nose. She had been in a funk for the last few weeks because while she had applied for college, and had been accepted, her parents didn’t have the money to send her. Depression had hit her hard after she argued with her mother about it. She had no idea what she was going to do with her life.

She played with the lock, her long delicate fingers deftly searching until they found their purchase, a button underneath the latch that opened the lid. Grandma Tilley had taught her the secret of the trunk when she was a little girl. She held her breath as she lifted the lid.

There inside the trunk lay a treasure trove of love letters wrapped in pink satin ribbon, clipped newspaper articles, a pipe that still smelled of tobacco, old lace, a dried up bottle of fancy perfume and small black notebook. She unwrapped the love letters and read some of them, surprised at how passionate her grandmother was, expressing an undying love to someone not her grandfather. Who was this man her grandmother referred to as My Darling Charlie? Meg reached into the trunk and shifted through the pictures. She uncovered an old photograph of her grandmother and a strange man standing in front of a Model Ford.

Excited she had found a mystery, Meg reached next for the black notebook. She opened it up and found inside pressed flowers and her grandmother’s perfect, small, feminine script. Turning her back to the trunk and leaning up against it, she started to read. Her grandmother described a life living in the hills of Kentucky during the Great Depression, a life of poor people, of bootleggers. The man in the photograph was her childhood sweetheart, someone she had known her whole life growing up. They were inseparable and got into all sorts of trouble. This life, did not jibe with the grandmother Meg knew. Margaret Tilley was straight-laced and somewhat stern at times, a church-going, pillar-of-the-community, not this woman who had dreams and a childhood sweetheart.

Soon her mother came knocking on the attic door and called out to Meg to come down for lunch. Meg left the journal open on the floor and ran downstairs to grab something to eat, wolfing down her food as quickly as she could. She wanted to know what happened next. Before long Meg was back upstairs, hunkered down leaning up against the chest with the journal pressed up against her nose.

The day passed quietly as Meg read about tales of adventure from her grandmother, swimming down at the creek, chasing dogs and slipping out at night to meet up with Charlie. About half-way through the journal, she read something that completely took her by surprise. Her grandmother’s tone had changed. She was more hurried, more anxious as she wrote about a harrowing experience. Margaret and her sweetheart got caught running moonshine across state lines. Grandmother had joined him that night, leaning against him on the front seat as they talked about the future. This was their money, their big chance to leave the holler and make a new life for themselves. They wanted to elope and get married. But the law had been waiting for them at the exchange and began chasing them all the way to the state line. They got away that night and Charlie drove to her house, where he begged for Margaret’s help. He needed her to hide the money. She took the bag and he ran.

Fearful of the law, Margaret buried the bag under the rose bush of her family home outside. Two days later, Charlie had been caught and sent to jail. The trial for her lover was quick and justice was swift. The judge said he had one of two choices, go to prison or be sent away over seas. It was World War II and her lover had been drafted. Charlie asked Margaret to wait for him so they could be married upon his return. She agreed.

Together, they dug up the money from the rose bush, emptied the bag and put the money in a lock box. He added all the money he had, and gave the box back to Margaret for safe keeping. They couldn’t put in the bank, it would just be confiscated. She never knew how much was inside, and she never asked. Fearful of the law, Margaret buried the box again and refused to dig the money back up, putting it out of her mind.

Months had passed, winter had given way to spring, and her grandmother received the news, her Darling Charlie had been killed in action. Margaret waited for his body to be returned and attended the funeral. She didn’t want to see her love laid out in his uniform in a casket, but she put on a brave face and went anyway. She wept and was inconsolable for months. Finally, one day, Margaret was done grieving and decided to move on with her life. The law had stopped watching her because her lover was dead.

Time passed, she met Meg’s grandfather and they got married, had children and settled down for the long, joyous and upstanding life her grandmother was known for. But what became of the lock box? Margaret had dug it up from her family home and took it with her to her new home. She had decided that it was time to move on with her life and she wanted to rid herself of the past, but couldn't let go enough to get rid of the box. She didn’t think her new husband would ever understand Margaret's past. Maybe someday, they could dig it up and laugh about her adventures. Until then, she buried it in her flower bed, underneath the old fashioned pink rose bush that climbed over the trellis every year.

Meg closed the journal. She wiped away tears that had formed from reading about Charlie's death. And then a thought slowly started to form in her mind. Could it still be there? Could the lock box still be buried underneath the old rose bush? Meg wanted to find out. She ran through the house and down the stairs, out back to the old potting shed and grabbed a shovel. She didn’t want to killed the rose bush so she very carefully started to dig. She could hear the sounds of her family inside the house, could see people walking in and out and all the while she dug.

It started to rain. She didn’t pay the rain any mind. In fact, it helped with her digging as it made the ground softer, if not incredibly muddy. Before long, the spade hit something with a tinny thud. Meg got down on her knees, feverishly digging out the dirt until she could grab purchase on the box. She pulled and pulled and after slight resistance, the box gave way and released from its flowery grave.

Meg looked at the box in her hands. She turned it over and over examining it. Sure enough, it was still locked and pretty rusted. She set the box to the side and carefully put all the dirt back so as not to kill the rose bush her grandmother had loved so much. She patted the earth down with her shovel and then picked up the box and ran inside into the kitchen. There, she was greeted by her frowning mother. “Margaret Brown, where have you been? You were supposed to help me with dinner." Her mother tutted over her daughter's appearance. "Look at you! You’re a mess!”

“Mom, stop, look at this! I found something in the rose garden! Check it out.” Meg turned the box over in her hands.

“What on earth have you got there?” Her mother looked curiously at Meg’s prize.

“I found grandma’s journal in the attic and she wrote there was a box under the rose bush,” Meg said excitedly. “Can I keep it? Is it mine?”

“Well, you found it. I don’t see why not. It’s awfully dirty. What’s in it?” Her mother scrunched up her nose.

“I don’t want to say, in case there’s nothing in there. But I think it might be treasure.” Meg said excitedly.

“Oh Meg. Your grandmother? Have treasure? What an imagination you've got.” Her mother reached out and tussled her dirty hair. “We need to get going anyway. It’s time for dinner. We are going home and the first thing you are doing is taking a shower.”

Safely at home, Meg went into the bathroom and bent over the tub, turning the water on. She ran the muddy box under the faucet, rinsing and rinsing until it came clean. She set it on a towel and took a shower herself. Once she was clean, she changed into fresh pajamas and sat down on her bed, fiddling with the box. She doubted it had a secret button like the steamer trunk.

Meg got a letter opener and started picking at the lock, all to no avail. She went out to the attached garage, retrieving some tools. She pounded on the case with a hammer, used a chisel and hammer on the lock, tried using a saw on the box itself, all to no avail. Finally, it got dark enough and she had to give up and go to bed.

The next day it was the same routine. Go to grandmother’s house to sort through stuff and Meg found herself back in the attic. She sat down beside the old steamer trunk and started to rifle through it. She looked through papers, she checked out the black journal, and then she started emptying the steamer trunk of all its contents. Finally, as she got to the bottom of the trunk, there taped to the front side of the trunk was a small key. Meg grabbed the key and the journal and ran downstairs excitedly.

“Mom, I need to run home for a minute,” Meg said. “I have something I have to do real quick.”

“Well, all right, but hurry back before lunch.” Meg’s mother kissed her on the forehead and off she sped. She took off through the neighborhood, down the sidewalk, and cut through a neighbors yard. Visions of her grandmother’s daring escape flashed through her mind as she ran. She got to the house, ran up to her room and reached under her bed to grab the box. She said a silent prayer and looked up to the heavens above asking her Grandma Tilley for help. She took the key and put it to the lock, holding her breath, hoping it would fit.

The key slid into the lock, and she felt excitement run up her spine as she turned it. The lock clicked and the lid popped open. Meg lifted the lid and her eyes grew wide. There, inside the box, were neatly stacked and tied one hundred dollar bills. The case was full of them. Meg slammed the lid shut. Then she opened it again, checking, just to be sure. She slammed the lid shut again and locked it, shoving the case back underneath her bed. She squealed with delight and plopped back into her bed, hands covering her mouth as she giggled. "Thank you Grandma Tilley, thank you." She finally had the money she needed to go to college.