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   ooooo   ooooo  .oooooo.  oooooooooooo       HOE E'ZINE RELEASE #836
   `888'   `888' d8P'  `Y8b `888'     `8
    888     888 888      888 888                     "The Attic"
    888ooooo888 888      888 888oooo8
    888     888 888      888 888    "                  by Rhea
    888     888 `88b    d88' 888       o               9/20/99
   o888o   o888o `Y8bood8P' o888ooooood8
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        "Listen to me, James, listen," rasped Grandmother, tugging on her
 grandson's hand impatiently.  She pulled him closer to whisper something in
 his ear, and her eyes looked into his urgently.

        James leaned in towards her.  He hoped she would relax her desperate
 cling on his hand soon; her brittle yellow fingernails were pressing
 uncomfortably into his skin.

        He gave her a little nod to show he was listening, and Grandmother
 opened her mouth to speak.  But suddenly she erupted into a fit of harsh
 coughs, making James stiffen at the cold drops of saliva which sprayed on
 his neck.  His nose wrinkled in slight disgust before he could repress the
 reflex.  When she finished coughing, he hurriedly wiped the spit away with
 his sleeve as discreetly as he could.

        "Sorry," Grandmother whispered hoarsely, and her lips wrinkled in a
 lazy, apologetic smile.  James tried to smile back.  He thought he
 succeeded, but he wasn't sure.

        "I know I shouldn't tell, but I have to.  I have to let my conscience
 rest in peace.  I need to tell you," she told him earnestly.  He nodded
 gravely, and wondered: would she finally admit that she thought his hair too
 long?  He didn't take the drama of her words seriously at all, even though
 she lay heavily on the crisp white sheets of the hospital bed and even
 though each breath of hers was heavier and heavier.

        "James, my grandson, my dearest.  You're so smart, you could sell a
 million televisions without any trouble.  And you will.  It eases my heart
 to know that you will never be without struggles in your life," said
 Grandmother to him, pulling his hand that she gripped onto tightly and
 placing it on her sullen breast with an affectionate pat.  James was
 suddenly conscious of the strong contrast in color between his hand and the
 grayish sickly tone of her hospital gown.  He wanted to pull his hand away.

        "What do you have to tell me, Grandmother?" he asked gently.

        "It's very important," said his Grandmother, and her face became
 suddenly more serious than he had ever seen it.  Her eyes stared sharply
 into his with a surprisingly fierce intelligence he had never noticed in her
 before.  "It's about your childhood.  You see, James, in the attic
 there's--"

        Her eyes widened with a start and she began coughing violently again,
 gasping while she coughed, "In that attic you'll see a--"

        Then she stopped coughing abruptly with one sharp intake of breath,
 and her head fell back limply onto the white hospital pillow.  The pillow
 didn't look soft at all, James thought.  It must be uncomfortable.

        She was silent, and her grip on his hand, which had tightened
 dramatically during her coughing, slowly relaxed.  James` eyebrows collapsed
 heavily into a frown, and he pulled his hand away slowly.  Grandmother's
 eyelids were closed, sunken into the folds of wrinkled skin that made up her
 expressionless face.  James stood up from the chair beside her bed and
 walked out.

        When he got home, his mother was sitting at the kitchen table with
 her hands massaging her forehead.

        "Mom," he asked, "What's in the attic?"

        She looked up at him sharply, as if she had been so absorbed in her
 thoughts that she was surprised he existed.  "Nothing, really," she replied.
 "Just old things we never got around to throwing away.  Why?"

        James shook his head.  "Just wondering," he said slowly.  He was
 going to tell her that Grandmother had mentioned it, then decided against
 it.

        His mother looked at him carefully.  "You'll be all right, won't you,
 James?" she asked.  "I mean, it must have been tough to have been there when
 she--"

        "I'll be fine," he cut in shortly.  I'm always fine, he thought
 resentfully.  He said to his mother, "I'll be in my room if you need me."

        He lied; he was going to the attic. But going there was in the
 direction of going to his room, so his mother never even guessed the truth
 when he left the kitchen and walked down the hallway.  She went right back
 to staring at the grains of wood on the table and massaging her forehead.

        The attic door was at the end of the hallway, across from the linen
 closet.  He remembered suddenly that in the linen closet was the small
 blanket Grandmother had knitted for his 10th birthday.  He hadn't touched it
 in years, but he knew it was there, and only a curiosity to see the attic
 kept him from opening the linen closet and running his fingers over the
 blanket for a moment.  He began opening the attic door.  His arm felt heavy,
 and he found that turning the knob was very difficult with such a heavy arm.
 He didn't know why his arm was so heavy, but he didn't feel like fighting
 it.  He let it fall limply to his side, and turned away from the unopened
 attic door.  He imagined dusty boxes that would make him sneeze, and a dim
 light that would strain his eyes.  He thought about how long it would take
 to look through all the boxes.  He thought about how he had no idea what he
 was looking for.

        He thought about the blue blanket.  He stepped towards the linen
 closet.  He lifted his arm to open the closet door, and this time it wasn't
 so heavy.  It was still a terrible task to turn the knob, but he managed it
 somehow.  He pulled the cord on the ceiling to turn on the little light bulb
 in the closet.  It didn't work.  He looked up at the bulb; it had the milky
 look that burnt-out light bulbs have.  He sighed, and opened the door wide
 to shine as much light from the hallway in there as possible.

        James rummaged around the shelves, looking for the blanket.  He
 couldn't find it.  It wasn't in the closet after all; it wasn't where he
 thought it had been.  He felt suddenly very sad, and he blinked and saw in
 his mind again the way Grandmother's head had fallen back on the pillow so
 limply.

        James walked slowly back to the kitchen.  "Mom," he said quietly when
 he got there, "where's that blue blanket, the one that Grandmother made me
 when I was little?  It's not in the linen closet."

        His mother looked as if she were pulled away from a dream again, and
 stared at him blankly for a minute.  Then she blinked and said, "Oh, I moved
 that thing months ago.  It's in the attic."

        James nodded slowly.  "Ok," he said dully, and walked back to his
 room.  His feet were heavy, so he walked slowly; his head was heavy, so he
 let it hang down and stared at the gray carpet.  He didn't even look at the
 attic door as he passed it.  He didn't look at the linen closet, either.  He
 just walked.

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 [ (c) !LA HOE REVOLUCION PRESS!      HOE #836 - WRITTEN BY: RHEA - 9/20/99 ]
