'The Box in the Attic'

I am seeking a publisher for my memoir, 'The Box in the Attic'. Film rights to this book and my published mysteries The Tornado Struck at Midnight, and What Women Know: Smitten (Epiphany) are also up for grabs.

My memoir,'The Box in the Attic': 

During the courtship of my high school sweetheart, Catherine, she withholds any sign of affection until, in desperation, I volunteer to die in the skies over Germany. Then it's too late for declarations of love. Our flaming passion is confined to paper. Come fly with me to war. Hear shrapnel pelt the sides of my turret like hail on a tin roof. Watch bombs fall from the bomb bay and destroy targets in Nazis Germany. Take shelter in underground subway stations during buzz bomb raids and chat with local Londoners. Fly through skies black with flack; feel my terror when, while on the bomb run on our 10th mission, flack knocks out one engine on our B-24 bomber. Watch the engine tear free and tumble 20,000 ft to the ground. Watch as our comrads fly away, leaving us stranded, alone, three-hundred miles from home . . .  in a sky full of Jerry fighters. Live our harrowing trip across Europe to Normandy, where we crash on the Juno section of the Normandy beachhead. Feel our jubilation when we survive the 'wheels up' landing, unharmed. A few minutes later feel a different elation when Harry and I bump into two sexy French girls who (equally elated) show us their gratitude. Return to Britain on an LST and stroll through London wearing flight gear and hear passersby mutter 'God-Bless' as one 'grandmother' runs up and plants kisses on my cheek. A few moments later, enter a London PX and rejoice as every salesgirl flocks round to hear our  thrilling story with its delightful end. On later visits to London feel my joy as I strut through London escorting a gorgeous English Lass to all the London nightspots. Between D-Day and Christmas eve, 1944, I flew 35 missions with the 493rd bomb group stationed in Debach, England. After my combat tour, sail home with me on the SS Uruguay and dock at pier 19 in New York on February 12, 1945; later climb my high school sweetheart's doorstep and ring her doorbell. Relive all this and more.

My published novels The Tornado Struck at Midnight (Pub - Oct 14, 2002) and What Women Know: Smitten (Epiphany)  (Pub - May 12, 2008) tell what happened . . . sorta . . . after the war. See these on Amazon The poster (below) shows highlights of my thirty-five missions with the Eighth Air Corps. The man in uniform is me when I volunteered for combat in 1942. Also below are pictures of me and Carmen as we were during Trinidad's first postwar Carnival in 1946. Named Queen of the Carnival, Carmen later became Rita Hayworth's double in the film Gilda. I was a member of Carmen's troupe.

Below these find Chaprer 1 of 'The Box in the Attic'.

 

 

                                                                                                

 

                                                               And when the thousand years have expired, Satan shall be loosed out of his prison, and shall go out                                                                 to deceive the nations which are in the four corners of the earth, Gog and Magog, to gather them to                                                                     battle: the number of whom is as the sand of the sea. (Revelation 20, 6,7)

 

Chapter I

 

 

 

On 21 MAY 1935, a cock's-crow roused Winfred C. Grant from a fitful slumber. His dog Nip, a black and white mix of boarder-collie and a half-dozen other breeds, lay beside him. Winfred stretched his lean athletic body and rolled out of bed.  The scar where a hunter's stray bullet grazed his forehead showed white against his young, sunburned face.  Stepping to a window, he looked eastward.  A low-rumble and bright flashes on the horizon, like distant gunfire, quickened his pulse.  Quickly pulling on a pair of cutoff trousers he slapped Nip on the rump, and said, "Come on, old-buddy,  It's time to get moving. A storm is brewing off Atlantic City."

 

At that exact moment, halfway round the world, Adolph Hitler glared down at the German Reichstag.  Pounding his fist upon the lectern, he raved, "Whoever lights the torch of war in Europe can wish for nothing but chaos."

This was the Biblical prophesy come true. From that day forward, sixteen-million American boys put their private lives on hold.  It would be ten years before the world would find peace, again. Fifty-five million lives were lost in the war that followed, plus another 11 million Gypsies, political prisoners, homosexuals, blacks, Jews, mentally and physically disabled, and just about any human that Hitler did not deem worthy of living, were exterminated in the gas chambers of Auschwitz and other Nazi concentration camps throughout Europe.

But . . . the true number of casualties . . . were as the sands of the sea.

 

 

With Nip at his heels, Winfred hurried downstairs and out into the warm spring air.  He jogged across a cow pasture, hurdled a stream, and reached the top of a small mound that folks in these parts called Molly Pitcher Hill.  Blood had spilled on this soil.

Shielding his eyes from the sun, he gazed at a hawk swooping low overhead.  The hawk's shadow, like a swastika, panned across his face and sped over the ground.  A shudder rippled down his spine as though he had stepped on his own grave.

Looking around cautiously, he withdrew a knife from its scabbard. As he tested its edge against the stubble on his chin, a trickle of blood ran down his neck and chest. He grimaced and pressed two fingers to the wound as he wiped the blade on his trousers.  Fearing a snake was nearby, he barked a curt command.   "Nip, heel."

Winfred returned the knife to its sheath and marched grim‑faced down the narrow trail, leaving just the imprint of his toes and the balls of his feet in the dust.  No sound marked his passage, a habit formed from solitary years spent in the woods with Nip as his only-companion.  Not yet fifteen, he looked every-inch-a-man, his sunburned-torso-and-legs offering an image of an Indian warrior stalking his foe.

Winfred's schooling had begun early. While only three, he had broken his toy and was on the verge of tears when he heard  his father's voice, like the voice of God, booming down from above.

"Winfred, be a man.  Men don't cry."  

Winfred didn't cry. . . . He was too terrified to cry.  He never cried . . . not even on this frightful day.

 

 

Upstairs, in Winfred's home, his sisters, Ann and Beth lay in bed whimpering.   A year and two years younger than Winfred, respectively, they had blue eyes, milk-white skin, and the prim, well-scrubbed look of young girls from a Jane Austin novel.   The bright yellow, daisy-covered wallpaper on their bedroom walls contrasted with their mood.

"We may as well stop crying, Beth, there's nothing we can do about it."

Red eyed, Beth said, "But gee, shouldn't Mom and Dad have told us what was happening?"

Ann looked disgusted."Why?  So we could worry about it for six months. Look at us, for gosh sakes, we're dressed in cast-off rags from our cousin's trash. We've been on Relief, eating nothing but boiled potatoes and pork rinds for two years. If we had half a brain, we could have figured it out for ourselves."

Beth looked puzzled. "Tell me what's going to happen now.  I'm not much good at figuring things out."

Ann walked to the window and raised the sash, letting in the spring breeze. "What Mom and Dad said.  Everything will be sold at an auction to pay off our creditors." 

"What are creditors?"

"Oh Beth!  People we owe money, like the grocer who fed us for a year before Mom applied for Relief."

"Why did he do that?"

"Because he's a nice man and knew Dad would pay him someday, . . . I guess.   Gee-whiz, how-the-heck-do I know?"

(Beth knew all this but she was frightened now that it started happening.)  "Where will we go?"

Ann was exasperated. "Mom must have a job. She's been at Aunt Baby's for the last month. We were so busy playing house, we never wondered why. After Dad lost his job in Kalamazoo, it was up to her.  We'll move to New York City, what else? "

"Didn't Winfred know?  He runs things around here."

"Winfred! . . . hah.  He's in a daze half the time. Never know if he's playing Tarzan with Nip, or writing one of his poems.  I'd like to kick him in the slats, to wake him up."

"Why is Dad acting strange, sitting around every night with his head in his hands, while we-kids clean up and put ourselves to bed?"

"Dad was a 'big wheel' before the Depression hit.  Golly, we had servants and everything.  Now look at us.  Pop has been everywhere looking for work.  When Mom applied for relief, it really hurt his pride.  He's worn out and humiliated.  I heard Uncle Roddy say he's lost his manhood, whatever that means."

Beth walked to her bureau and got out some clean underwear.  "Glad I'm not Winfred.  Why didn't he let Dad do it?"

"Yeah, poor guy.  Guess he figures Dad has enough problems; he has to be a man, and do it himself. At least we get to cry."

 

Downstairs, in the billiard room, a Churchillian head sat atop a blacksmith's shoulders.   This was Percy Grant, Winfred's father.  He was the picture of John Bull, a picture that did not deceive.

Born a Cockney, within the sound of Bow Bells, he had communed with spirits since he was a child.  Though only a corn-chandler's son, he had read all the classics. By the age of eighteen he was a self-taught engineer determined to become a country gentleman. 

In 1925, Percy purchased a small homestead called, Bide a Wee Cottage, located on twenty-acres of land halfway between Spotswood and Jamesburg, in New Jersey.   Then with hand tools and a missionary's zeal he transformed the cottage, brick by brick and joist by joist, into a modest Manor House.  Filled with the wonder of creation, Percy never slacked his pace.  He sang hymns while he worked and greeted each day with his favorite ballad.

 

                                    (Author unknown)

Oh me father is a backer and he slaps along with me

Each morning in the wintertime he has to rise at three

And as he stands a'shiverin', a'puttin' his trewsers on

I bobs me head beneath the clothes and I begins to hon

 

Oh it's nice to get up in the morning,

When the sun is beginning to shine,

At four or five or six o'clock

In the good old summertime.

 

But, when the dew is dewing

And it's murky overhead,

Oh, it's nice to get up in the morning,

But it's better to lie abed.

 

All this while Percy spoke to the spirits and their guidance made him an irresistible force.  By 1929, the Gods had smiled on him.  He had made a fortune and was able to hire servants to care for his estate.  Fancying himself The Great Gatsby, he began throwing lavish weekend parties.

His prosperity lasted six-months at most.  First the stock market crash in '29 wiped out his fortune.  Then, after fifteen-years as Chief Mechanical Engineer at the Diamond-Electric Corporation in Elizabeth New Jersey, he was jobless and penniless.  When the electric company shut off their power, they were reduced to kerosene lanterns, fetching water from a spring and using an outhouse.  Percy tried to carry on, traveling to the far corners of the nation to find work, and living out of a suitcase for months at a time but, it was his wife, Rose, who delivered the coup de grace.  Percy withdrew her letter from his inside coat pocket and read.

4 May 1935

Percy,                                                                         

You may be happy to sit by the window communing with spirits and remembering your past triumphs while the house falls down around you, but I can wait no longer for you to recover your manhood.

I'm tired of living in the wilderness a mile from the nearest neighbor and three miles from a grocery store.

I'm tired of walking to town to call the doctor when the children are ill or wasting an entire day traveling to the dentist in New Brunswick whenever someone has a toothache.

I'm tired of fetching water from a spring, heating it on a kerosene stove, and hauling it upstairs to fill the tub for each person's bath.

I'm tired of washing clothes in a galvanized tub, drying them on a clothesline, summer and winter, and of ironing them with a flatiron heated on the coal-stove.

I'm tired of making beds, preparing meals, cleaning house, burning trash, and feeding the animals.  I'm tired of canning vegetables, of gathering berries, and of baking bread, pies, and cakes.

I'm tired of killing chickens, plucking feathers, and removing their heads, feet, and innards to prepare Sunday's dinner.  Sit and mourn if you like, Percy, but I'm tired and I'm moving to New York with the children.

Rose.

 

Percy blew his nose on a freshly laundered handkerchief.  Returning the letter to his pocket, he gazed wistfully out the window.  Tears were leaking from his eyes as he surveyed the scene taking place out on the front lawn.

He murmured, "The vultures are gathering.  They've come to pick my bones."

           

Several horse drawn wagons and a few cars were parked under the maple trees on the front lawn: The Dukes' brand-new 1935 Chevrolet, Mrs. Derby's old Model T, the Walters' 1930 Model A.  Children spilled out onto the Grant estate, followed by their parents, everyone eager to see how far the mighty had fallen.

A green-ribboned-sunbonnet said, "Mr. engineer ain't so high-and-mighty now, him with his hoity‑toity accent, showin' off - buying sodas for all the riffraff hangin' 'bout at Kumka's Creamery."

A chin-high starched collar said, "Came plumb from New York by taxi.  They'll not be leavin' that way."

Exhaling a cloud of smoke, Corncob pipe wheezed, "Weren't 'portant enough for their parties or playing on their tennis court.  Strictly for their New York City guests."

Corncob junior said, "Looked out back Paw. Cain't find the tennis court no-more.  All covered with chickweed and crab-grass."

Sunbonnet huffed, "Those weekend guests with their Pierce Arrows, Stern's Knights, and Essex town cars are just memories now."

Mariners' beard scratched his chin.  "Shouldn't gloat, but we farmers can still put vittles on our tables." 

Parrot nose said, "His Mrs. never fitted in here.  Hear-tell she was raised in some South American country with servants and all.  Sure got her comeuppance when she applied for Relief."

Sunbonnet said, "What else could she do?  Had three younguns to feed."

Mr. Sunbonnet, cleared his throat and said, "Now, give her, her due, Maw.  That Mr. of hers was too proud to apply for charity."

"Sunday-school-teacher said, "Felt bad seeing that old man with his crooked leg pushing wheelbarrows full of cement on a WPA road gang.  Hardly seemed fittin' for such a dignified gentleman."

Handlebar-mustache laughed.  "Whatever he gets, 'tain't exactly charity.  When all is said and done, he's not earnin' five-cents an hour on the WPA."

High-collar said, "Hold on there.  May-be slave-labor, but we're paying for it.  My taxes jumped to twelve-dollar and twenty-three cents last year."

Mariner's beard said, "Thinks he's a Senator or somethin', always struttin' round in a three-piece suit and tie, even when he's pushin' that wheelbarrow."

Train-conductor said, "Sakes alive, give the man credit.  Only man with book learnin' in these parts.  Went door to door getin' signatures for that petition.  Stopped Penn Rail cold.  Would be no trains in this town a'tall, otherwise.  No one could've done it 'ceptin' him."

Black Derby looked pensive. "Felt real sorry for him last Christmas Eve.  Was clumping home on that gimpy leg through two foot snow drifts, carrying an axe and dragging a small spruce for their Christmas tree.  Looked plumb wore out."

Derby took off his hat and wiped the sweat band with his red kerchief.   "Gave him a lift.  When I dropped him at his front door, he thanked me and asked if I'd give him three nickels for his pocket watch.  Wanted his kids to have something Christmas morning besides the string of popcorn his wife decorated the tree with."

Sunday school teacher said,  "They're precious chiren.  Memorized their catechism like little angels.  Earned their Bibles for perfect attendance at Sunday school. " edited

 A purple dress with a large brimmed hat placed her hand alongside her mouth and whispered, "Hear-tell they're devil worshipers."

Anxious to confirm the rumor, parrot-nose said, "My Ambrose followed them home from church one Sunday.  Peeked through a window and saw them sit round a table, join hands, and sing hymns with their eyes closed.  The table began a'rockin' and Mr. Grant started speaking to the dead.  My Ambrose skedaddled right home, white as a ghost."

 

Ducking under the limb of an oak tree, Winfred entered a small clearing in the surrounding wilderness.   Mr. Schmidt, Red faced and dripping with perspiration, was chewing tobacco and cutting logs into two‑foot lengths with a buck-saw.  He said, "Looks like somethin's frettin' you, Winfred."

"Need to borrow your twenty‑two, Sir, if I may?"

Mr. Schmidt placed another ten‑foot log on the sawhorse, and continued his long, easy strokes with the buck-saw.  Menfolk often cut wood over the summer months.  It took five cords of oak and a cord of pine to see them through the winter.  They worked outdoors from sunup through mid-afternoon.  The New Jersey mosquitoes owned twilight. 

Mr. Schmidt ejected a large, black stream of tobacco juice, and wiped his lips on his shirt-sleeve.  "You're no hunter, Winfred.  Gunter asked you pheasant huntin', onced.  Claimed 'twas 'gainst your nature to kill a livin' creature, not even vermin."

Winfred made no response.  Nip flushed a rabbit and gave chase.  Winfred's sharp whistle brought him back quickly.  Reaching down, Winfred grabbed Nip's muzzle playfully, and said, "Good boy."

A newscaster's voice cackled from Mr. Schmidt's huge radio, powered by two six‑volt automobile batteries propped on a sawhorse, nearby.  Reaching for the volume knob, he muttered, "Damn noise." He turned off the voice prattling on about Franklin Delano Roosevelt's latest Fireside Chat.  Giving Winfred a knowing look, he said, "Anythin' I can help you with, Winfred?"

Winfred grimaced.  "No Sir.  Its my duty."

Mr. Schmidt laid his saw aside and unlocked the shed.  "Sure you don't need the twelve‑gage?"

"No Sir.  Couldn't use a shotgun."

Mr. Schmidt opened a chest filled with ammunition boxes and guns of various sorts.  Withdrawing a twenty-two-rifle, he ran his palm down the barrel.  After checking the magazine, he handed Winfred the empty gun.  "How many shells?"

"One, Sir."  Winfred held out fifteen cents.  "I can pay."

Mr. Schmidt ignored the money and handed him the shell.  Winfred jammed the shell into his hip pocket next to the fifteen-cents Mrs. Brush had given him.

"Thank you, Sir."  Winfred marched off with the gun cradled in the crook of his left arm.  Yesterday, before sundown, he had earned ten-cents for stacking a cord of wood for Mrs. Brush.  She liked Winfred and always gave him an extra nickel, saying, "Winfred, promise you'll save this for college." 

Mrs. Brush wrote short stories for Collier's and read all Winfred's poetry.  She felt he should be a writer.

As he entered a cornfield, Winfred recalled the first time he stumbled into that magic place. I was four and we'd just moved to Spotswood.  Corn-silk perfume filled the air and a gentle breeze rippled the corn-stalks.  The swishing blades whispered a song to me.  Sunlight filtering through created hypnotic patterns of dancing light and shadow on the undulating hills and furrows of my enchanted land.

Mother had just read us Alice in Wonderland and I felt I had walked through the looking glass.  Then I happened upon a grove of pumpkins and was sure of it.  Can still feel the thrill as I selected the largest pumpkin I could carry and lugged it back home.  Couldn't wait to see Mom's face when I gave her my treasure.  Mother lauded her brave little man.  I was in heaven.

Winfred laughed.  Then, God lowered the boom.  There was a loud banging on the front door and an irate farmer, Mr. Lurch, demanded payment for my thievery.  I plunged from heaven straight into purgatory.  Felt I'd committed a mortal sin.

He charged a king's ransom for my innocent blunder.  It was unjust of Mother to make me pay the farmer's demand from my meager hoard.  Mom said I was being taught a lesson.  Some lesson.  She got the pumpkin and I was branded a thief.

                                               

Winfred's mother, Rose, sat in the potting shed, gazing vacantly at the broken flowerpots.  She had the proud look of the aristocracy.   Her diminutive stature, delicate features, and sleight build belied her strength, stamina, and iron will.  Her swarthy complexion, dark brown eyes, and black hair reflected her Portugese-Madeiran ancestry.  Rose fretted, thinking how easily duped she was.

When I met Percy, he seemed my dream come true.  He took me everywhere by taxi: the museums, the Metropolitan Opera, Carnegie Hall, and all the Broadway plays.  We dined at the best restaurants, and he tipped lavishly including the head waiter and the Maitre d'.   With his cultured British accent and free spending ways, he charmed me and my entire family.  But, after our three children were born, he deposited me here in the wilderness so he could realize his childhood dream.  We worked like Coolies.  The hard work finally paid off and we became the envy of Middlesex County.  It was wonderful. 

But, when the stock market crashed, we were plunged from luxury to poverty.  Too proud for charity, Percy kept up appearances by going into debt.  We lost everything. I had to find work or we would starve.  Going into the city, to find work was terrifying.  Thank heaven ladies in Trinidad learned to make their own clothes.  Ten‑dollars a week isn't much, but we'll get by until Percy gets a job.

Rose got up and looked out the window.  She sighed as she thought about her predicament.

The children  know nothing of city life.  Hope they ill be all right.  They've never even seen a newspaper, except that one Percy brought home from the city about Lindbergh flying the Atlantic.  Winfred still has it tacked to his bedroom wall.  Says he'll soar like an eagle, one day.  Poor dear, he's such a dreamer.

Rose put her hand to her forehead as she continued to reminisce.

The girls have one-another, but Winfred is on his own.  Sometimes I feel we push him too hard.  He's so tall and grown up I forget he's just a child.  With Percy only coming home on weekends, Winfred has been the man of the house.  He's been my little-man since he was six.  I don't know what I would have done without him.  Ann says he's so serious, his classmates call him grandpa.  That can't be good. Breaks my heart that he wouldn't allow Percy to do it.  Oh well, tomorrow we'll be in New York and he'll get a new start on life.

 

Winfred bounded through a field of golden, knee‑high wild rye. Whirling around quickly, he hugged Nip to his chest and rolled about in the hayfield, playfully.  When Winfred released Nip, the old dog ran around like a puppy, he was so happy.

Entering a small forest bordering the West side of the pasture, Winfred closed his eyes and  breathed in the musky smell of oak and pine and decaying vegetation.   This is my favorite wood.  I grew up among these trees beside this river.  I came here to dream and to pray.  After today I'll never return.

Winfred dug the shell from his pocket.  He inserted the shell into the magazine and propped the gun against a tree.  Shrugging off his gloom Winfred turned and watched Nip roll about on the turf, scratching his back.  Nip was a wild dog, a creature of the forest.  He recalled how he and Nip became friends.

"I chased you  many times, boy, but you always vanished, like a ghost."

Winfred looked pensive.  "I began believing you were a ghost, perhaps an ancestor who came to watch over me."

He scowled.  "Then one day, on this very spot, I found a ball of black and white fur, covered in blood. A hunter had shot you full in the face with a load of buckshot and left you for dead."

He slapped Nip on the rump, playfully.  "Nursed you back from the dead, didn't I fella."

Nip looked up and licked Winfred's hand.

"No need to thank me, boy, you've repaid me a thousand times.  You're my true friend, aren't you, boy? sitting in the middle of the road every day, waiting for me to return from school."

Nip wagged his tail.

"Since that day you've never left my side, except to chase every car that happens down our road.  Thought I'd lost you that day you got ahead of yourself and let that fool-car run you down.  But, you're a tough little bugger, . . . you pulled through."

Winfred got up and brushed the seat of his trousers.  "You just lie there, Nip, and take it easy.   I've got work to do."

Winfred took his hunting knife and loosened the soil at the base of the tree.  He dug deep, scooping out the soft, loamy earth with his hands.  Carefully, he lined the bottom of the pit with twigs and  moss, making a soft bed.  When he finished, he said, "OK Nip, help me find some rocks."

Winfred picked up an eight‑inch bolder and set it on the ground in front of Nip.

"Help me find this kind."

Nip sniffed at the rock.  Then they ran along the riverbank and gathered a huge mound of boulders and piled them alongside the pit.   Winfred was ready. 

  Winfred sat at the base of the tree with Nip on his lap, and poured out his lament.  "Oh, God, will I ever learn to expect nothing but pain in this life?   Mom raised us on fairy tales and Bible stories.  Filled our heads with sugar and spice: . . . the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, . . . they lived happily ever after, . . . Santa Claus will come on Christ's birthday and reward all good little children.  Nothing seemed too far‑fetched, to us kids.  If Christ fed the multitude on two fish, surely Santa could zip around the world on Christmas Eve and fill the stockings of all good little girls and boys.

"When I was six, I tried so hard to be good.  For months, I got up at dawn and did my chores: hoed weeds in the garden, . . . cleaned the rabbit hutch, . . . left them fresh water and carrot greens, . . . fed the chickens, and checked the outhouse for toilet paper.  Then I sat here, by the river, with you, Nip, and the Sears Roebuck catalog, dreaming of baseball bats, outfielders' gloves, and electric trains."

Winfred laughed. "They call it the 'wish book,' Nip, and with good reason. What does a six-year-old know of depressions and breadlines and such?  My parents tried so hard to protect us-kids from all that.  If wishes were horses . . .

"But, Christmas morning it came through loud and clear.  I dashed downstairs with my heart full of hope.  When I saw the Christmas tree, decorated with Mom's popcorn streamers and candy-apple ornaments, my heart sank.  Poor Mom.  She could see my disappointment when I opened my present and found a white handkerchief . . . and an orange."

Winfred patted Nip on the head.  "And, that's not the half of it old friend.  The bank has repossessed our home.  We're moving to the city.  You wouldn't know what to do in the city, old friend, any more than I will.  You're a wild dog, Nip.  You'd never be happy there. . . . This is your Christmas morning, Nip.  Our fairy tale is over and we have to say goodbye.  I have to set you free."  

As Nip looked up with his trusting . . .  blind eyes, . . . Winfred placed the muzzle of the gun on Nip's temple, . . . and sent a bullet crashing through his skull.

 

 

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