The Attic

Five

            Then there was a folded paper that caught John’s eye. He opened it and the crease was sharp and clean, as if it’d never been disturbed in all this time.

            The top he scanned quickly, and it revealed that the paper was stationery from “Madam Zafora’s Clairvoyant services.”

            He didn’t remember Zafora, but he supposed this had been something from his mystic phase, he might’ve gone to a psychic for a laugh. In his own quick, gruff handwriting he saw a few words jotted down.

            Won’t live much past 40th—inevitable tragedy—Dec 1980.

            John shivered slightly. Surely nothing had happened to him yet.

            There’s still all of December, a nasty voice in his mind whispered.

*   *   *

            “Shit, I can’t take this anymore,” Paul mumbled.

            “What?”

            He jumped, before turning to see Linda. He ran a hand through his hair. “Nothing, love.”

            She frowned. “Please don’t lie.”

            Paul felt an immediate rush of guilt. “I’m sorry. I suppose I’m nervous about this John thing.”

            “I thought you two’d made up?”

            “Yeah… but, I dunno. I can’t shake this… feeling. And somehow waiting is making this even worse,” Paul said, feeling a healing sense of relief after confiding in his wife.

            “You can tell me these things. Don’t let them fester inside of you,” Linda said, taking Paul into her arms.

            He melted into her comforting presence surrounding him. Shit, he loved her. Just not enough.

*   *   *

            John thought about it on the morning of the seventh.

         Why should it matter, anyway? He should’ve just tossed the paper aside and dug deeper for postcards or embarrassing things to giggle over.

         He stared at the paper anyway. What if the inevitable tragedy was for someone around him? Would something happen to Sean, something so terrible that he wouldn’t want to live past forty?

       Fear broiled inside John, and he looked over to his son, who was watching a children’s show on the telly, completely enraptured, and slopping cereal down his front as his spoon kept missing his mouth.

        “Sean, you’re getting food all over yourself, love,” John said, standing up to help him. Sean looked down at his soiled pajama shirt, noticing it for the first time.

       “Sorry Daddy,” he said, trying to scrape off a stray flake of whatever chocolatey shit he ate.

            John led Sean into the bathroom and the five-year-old peeled off his shirt, which John dumped in the sink under the running water. John stepped into Sean’s room to fetch him a clean shirt, and found a t-shirt that seemed acceptable.

            John handed the shirt to his son, who pulled it on, leaving his hair ruffled.

            “Is that alright?” John asked.

       Sean nodded. “Thanks,” he said in parting, before running back to the television.

*   *   *

            Stella was clinging onto Paul’s coat and wouldn’t let go.

            “Daddy…” she whimpered.

            Linda shot him a half-grimace in sympathy, bouncing little James slightly on her hip, and cooing to him. He was too young to really assess the situation, and sucking his thumb placidly. Mary hugged Paul, pushing Stella out of the way. The younger sister let go of her dad only to shove Mary.

            “Hey!” Mary said, and Paul separated the brawl that was obviously about to start, like he’d done so many times in the past.

            “Come on, I’m leaving here. No time to push each other,” Paul joked, and Stella turned to him again, her eyes filling again with tears. Paul mentally kicked himself for bringing that up again, and he stooped down to hug Stella.

            He exchanged a quick kiss with Linda, to which Mary commented “ew Daddy,” and went in to check in his bags, careful not to turn round and see how they were reacting.

            He was sure that if either of his girls were crying, he’d lose all resolve and go right back home.