The Attic

Two

“Say goodbye to 1980 in style!” the TV blared out, spewing some kind of jingle.

“It’s not fucking over yet, there’s still all of December,” John grumbled.

“Don’t swear in front of Sean,” Yoko admonished, distracted.

The five-year-old hadn’t even noticed, and was enthusiastically turning the pages of a picture book. John looked at him intently. When he was his age, he’d been taken to live with Mimi. When Julian was his age, John had divorced Cyn.

Shit, it seemed age five was bad luck for father-son relationships.

Seized by a sudden wave of guilt, John turned off the TV and went to see him. “Some brekky, Sean?” I asked.

“No thanks Daddy,” he said, turning another page with chubby fingers.

“You’re not hungry?”

“No.”

“Alright,” John said, stepping out towards the door. “I’m going to look for that book, I’m sure it’s there somewhere,” he called.

“We can also buy another one,” Yoko suggested.

“Maybe,” John said, turning the knob.

He stepped up the old, worn stairs of the building. The attic had private sections for each flat’s storage, and some of the residents had their storage in the basement. He stuck his key into the keyhole of the attic that they rarely used.

He bit his lip, feeling like some kind of criminal. They were his things, and he had every right to look at them, but they were also Paul’s things. Paul’s things that also related to John and their relationship.

And that Yoko could never find.

Well, here he was. Skipping down fucking memory lane. He felt his fingers shake slightly as he moved aside the boxes to find that specific one, buried in the back. He lifted the lid.

Again, there was his letter to Julia, then underneath Paul’s notebook, which he set aside. There was a layer of little notes now, things he’d kept. No one really expected him to be this sentimental, but he kept every stupid little thing Paul wrote me, because he was John’s best friend, and because he’d loved him first.

He picked up a piece of lined paper.

This evening at yours, six.

That was probably a letter he’d shoved under the door like he’d gotten into the habit of doing when they started to be good friends, to arrange times for songwriting.

John picked up paper after paper, some on scraps torn from other things, some on blank paper, and some on old schoolwork.

New chords—tonight?

Come over later tonight dad’s going out.

Sorry for yesterday John I hope you understand.

I wrote a new song, come over to hear it.

Can’t make it to the gig Saturday—got to stay home with Mike.

Mimi told me to tell you that you should study and no excuses.

Meet me at the golf course?

He cleared the layer of notes to look underneath. There were a few dusty scrapbooks, and then letters. Letters, some of them in carefully resealed envelopes, some left exposed, some carefully kept in perfect condition, others visibly worn and stained, the paper supple from all the folding and unfolding.

John opened one.

Dear Stu,

We’re coming to visit so I suppose this letter might even get there after me.

Ta for your last letter, and I’ll make sure not to spoil the surprise. I’m sure Astrid will be very happy! Don’t worry, she won’t find out until the last minute.

I’ve got something to tell you but I’ll wait until I see you, it’s about this—

He folded the letter again. John couldn’t read any more.

He’d never gotten to tell Stu whatever it was, and he hadn’t gotten to surprise Astrid.

            John pawed through the letters, and found one from Paul, recognizing his handwriting at once.

            John,

            Answer your bloody mail.

            What’s going on in Barcelona? Is it something you can’t tell me, because I’m starting to get worried. I’ll be phoning Brian soon if I don’t get an answer.

            Shit, John just tell me everything is alright. I know I was angry in my last letter but now I just want to know that nothing happened to you.

            Paul.

            Directly underneath was a folded paper, with two lines scrawled on it.

            Paul,

            Everything’s fine.

            John sighed. He’d forgotten he used to be such an arse.

            Now he wished he could go back and mend what he’d done, send a second letter full of love and regret, something that’d stop Paul from getting his heart broken by stupid, bumbling John.

            *   *   *

            Paul checked the calendar again, just to make sure, although logically the date would still be the same as when he’d checked an hour ago. December 3rd.

            Six days until his visit to John’s. Shit, he wasn’t sure what he was supposed to be doing there, other than possibly celebrating John’s fortieth-plus-two-months birthday?

            He was filled with a strange kind of nervous energy at the thought of seeing John again, something that reminded him of the flutter he felt when staying the night at Mendips, or when John popped into Forthlin for a quick practice session, when he found out they’d be going to Hamburg; hell, every time Paul was going to be in close proximity with John he inevitably got worked up.

            This time was no different, though he’d had to explain to Linda why he was going to New York to see John so close to Christmas. It had been difficult to say, exactly; especially since Paul had all but invited himself, but he’d promised to be back for the holidays with very special presents from the States.

            Shit, he was a nervous wreck, and he still had days to go before he even set foot on the airport.

            The waiting wasn’t doing Paul any good.