Posted: Apr 28, 08 7:43am

TESTAMENT

By lostmutt

I picked up the unexpected package from Aunt Edna at the post office on a Thursday, the same day I found out she died from a heart attack suffered earlier in the week. I brought the package into the house, tossed it on the dining room table under the hanging Tiffany lamp and poured a small glass of Merlot. As I sat down in the captain’s chair at the head of the table, I bent forward, sliding the package closer to me.

I took my time with it, examining it closely: A large bubble-padded envelope with no bulges, but a very slight weight to it. It was postmarked the day of her heart attack, wavy-lined cancellation marks on the vintage stamps, not enough for delivery, shrouded in the faint lavender fragrance of Aunt Edna’s favorite perfume.

The package was addressed to Mr. Thomas Bartlett, written in lovely legible cursive with dark violet ink. I felt old; she always called me Tommy.

When I was kid, I used to visit her two or three times over the summer for days at a time. Going to Aunt Edna’s was like a mini-vacation. We were always running around in her teal and white Sunbeam, usually to the beach for the day, lathered in sunscreen before we left.

Mornings at the beach, we were ankle deep in the surf, building sand castles, walking the shore looking for shells or digging up sand fiddlers. In the afternoon, Aunt Edna would take me to the nearby arcade to try to win a giant stuffed animal. We never did, but we had fun trying.

Since Aunt Edna didn’t cook much, we ate in restaurants most of the time. She liked variety; one night could be Mexican, another Indian, the next Chinese. I was unwillingly exposed to many different cuisines for the first time with her. I even liked some of them.

When we didn’t eat out, there were bags of Ruffles, loads of sour cream and Lipton onion soup mix, spaghetti and sauce, and an endless supply of deli sandwiches made with real Italian meats and cheeses laid on onion buns coated with mayo and stone ground mustard. And large bottles of Wink and ginger ale to drink (Mom and Dad didn’t buy sodas).

I used to call her my one-eyed aunt. I never knew how she lost her right eye; she didn’t tell me and I didn’t ask. She wore those classic curvy black rimmed glasses with her glass eye and a patch over her right eye whenever her glass eye wasn’t in its socket. The elastic of the patch clung to her bee hive hairdo, looking like it was holding the high rise coif in place. The patch had a large glass sequin in the center that sparkled in the light. When all the pieces were in place, she looked like some magical cartoon character.

As I grew older, Aunt Edna became sidelined from my life. The frequency of my visits diminished, the substance of our relationship marginalized to holidays and other family gatherings.

She still greeted me each time with affection, curiously asking questions about what I was doing, how I felt about it, and what was next in my life, encouraging me and wishing me well.

I last saw Aunt Edna at Dad’s funeral a year ago. I barely recognized her: Cheeks once flush with color and form now hung without definition from her pasty face, her hair completely white and unkempt. She wore the old curvy glasses, dusty and smudged, with her glass eye.

After the graveside service, she stood alone next to the casket, leaned down slightly and whispered something. The lips on her stoic face barely moved. It was the only time in my life I saw her speak to her older brother.

I sipped the Merlot, gazing at the surprise package on the dining room table. I finally opened it, pouring out the contents. A small bronze key and a note card stumbled onto the table. I saw a letter inside the envelope and pulled it free. It was written on fresh linen paper in Aunt Edna’s familiar violet handwriting, scented with her lavender perfume.

Dear Tommy,

I am so proud of you and what you’ve done with your life. You’ve always been such a joy.

With everlasting love and affection,

Edna

Her warm words flowed inside me. I put the letter on the table and saw the note card had the address of a bank written on it in my aunt’s handwriting. I downed the remaining Merlot in one last gulp.

The next day, I took off work and drove to the bank. After showing the package and its contents to the manager and explaining what happened, he made a few calls and had me taken to the safe deposit vault. I was ushered into a plain narrow room with a thinly padded heavy metal chair tucked under a wide stainless steel shelf attached to the back wall. I felt like I was in an oversized telephone booth without the phone. The safe deposit box was placed on the shelf delicately, like placing the flag from a soldier’s coffin in the hands of the surviving spouse. I was left alone with it.

I struggled with the weight of the chair when I pulled it out from under the shelf. As I sat down, I figured out the lack of comfort was meant to expedite these visits. I turned my key in the box and lifted the long lid, exposing the contents to the flickering fluorescent lights above me. Inside was an old beat up plastic photo viewer from the beach, a tarnished silver baby rattle and a small envelope. No stocks or bonds, no jewelry, no gold coins, nothing else in sight.

I removed the small gray photo viewer and held it up to the fluorescents. Inside the magnifying viewer was a faded image of Aunt Edna and me when I was seven or eight, both in our bathing suits, standing in the shallow surf holding hands, Cheshire grins on our faces. I didn’t remember the photograph, but I did get goose bumps seeing the cold foamy waves surrounding our lower legs.

I picked up the darkened baby rattle. The small barbell shape was a perfect fit for a newborn hand. It had a soothing sandy sound when I shook it. I could barely make out the initials “T.A.B.” engraved in fine script along the grip, hidden in the tarnish. Those were my Dad’s initials; I didn’t have a middle name.

The faded envelope had no writing on it and was unsealed. Inside was a photostat of a birth certificate, folded to fit the envelope. The mother was 17 year old Edna Mae Bartlett, the father unknown. The child was a 7 pound 8 ounce boy named Thomas Anthony Bartlett, born on my birthday.

I sank back into the chair. It offered no comfort.

I sat for hours rolling the tarnished rattle between my coarse thumb and fingers. I could almost smell the sunscreen and hear the sea gulls calling above the surf.