As my truck rumbled down the back roads of Akron, Ohio, everything looked the same. I hadn't been down these roads in years, but the familiarity of my surroundings rushed back. The large oak on the south side if Ira road was somehow still standing, although scarred and blackened from the lightning strike the summer I was 12. That was one hell of a storm, I thought as I made a right hand turn onto Akron Peninsula Rd.
Only a few more minutes until I'm there, I mused, while absorbing the multitude of color on all sides of me. Both sides of the road were enshrouded in forest, with some farmland peppered throughout. To the west was the winding Cuyahoga river, only a few hundred feet from the road, at times snaking right up to the edge of the road itself. To the east was the Neitenbach Farm, sitting about the same distance off the road as Poppy's place, however, Poppy's place was just a stone throw south, and on the opposite side of the street.
I pulled into the gravel driveway, first having to get out and unlock the gate barring unwelcome visitors from gaining entrance. It was nothing more than a wire strung through a large piece of PVC that connected the two 4x4's cemented on either side of the path, but it worked well. That, and the NO TRESPASSING sign affixed to both wooden columns, worked as an excellent deterrent. Not that it was really needed in this quiet town, but Poppy was a very private individual, and if these minor dissuasions eased him of any anxiety, who was I to question it. Unlocking the gate, I crossed the driveway, gravel crunching under my feet as I hooked the wire to the opposite board. Although I was happy this provided reassurance for my great grandfather, it was definitely a pain in the ass, because now I had to get into my truck, drive forward about 20 feet, get back out, and relock the gate.
The narrow driveway was quite long, winding through the wooded property, and ending at a clearing at least 400 feet from the main road. Parking alongside the barn, I hopped out and went to shut the door behind me, and was rewarded with a long, loud, slow creak. I really have to oil these hinges I said to myself as I closed the door with more force, this time successfully completing the simple task. Turning around, I readied myself to see Poppy, not fully sure why he asked me to come and visit. Yes, his birthday had just passed, but he was not the type to be concerned with seeing family for birthdays. He was getting along in age, quite a bit older than most people I have ever known, and I feared he asking me to visit as his time was near.
Walking up to my great-grandfathers house, I stopped on the broken walkway and took a deep breath. Before me stood the two-story farmhouse I had spent all those summers at, and the sight took me by surprise. Not quite dilapidated, but not the home I visualize when reminiscing about the lessons Poppy taught me all those months I spent with him. As the smell of autumn snuck up on me, I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply. This season of decay always fascinated me, everything dying, only to come back to life, after the cold, harsh purgatory of winter.
Why Poppy and I got along so well, no one ever knew. He always treated me more favorably than anyone else, yet no one had any specific reason or understanding why. I was the only great-grandchild to stay the summers at the farm. It wasn't a large farm; Poppy kept chickens, a few goats, a handful of pigs, and no more than 10 cows. Poppy couldn't handle the work butchering and packaging more than 10 cows entailed in his advanced age. I hadn't held a cleaver in my hands in over 3 years, but I could still feel the weight of the heavy stainless blade pulling my arm down with each swing as I helped Poppy butcher the cows each summer.
My shoulder ached with a longing that felt unfamiliar, but I brushed it off as I started up the wooden steps to the screen door.
Entering the house, I found Poppy sitting in the recliner, wearing a pair of overalls with his signature brown and tan plaid flannel shirt underneath. I let out a laugh when I saw the big, fluffy slippers he was wearing; being so out of character for the strict man I have known my entire life. Walking quickly, I bent over and embraced the man that had such a large impact on turning me into the person I am today.
"Happy birthday Poppy, sorry I'm a few days late," I said as I hugged the man. "So, finally eighty now, how does it feel?"
"You know damn well I'm a hundred and two now Mattie," he managed to wheeze while trying to catch his breath.
See, that is something I never understood, because my name is definitely not Mattie, nor is it close to it, but that's always been my nickname.
His age had finally caught up with him. Before leaving for college, this man was still running circles around most men half his age, but these last few years haven't been kind to him. Although I was only a few hours away, I hadn't come to visit in a few years and I'm glad I made it out to see him, because this may be the last time I see him alive.
"How have you been Pops? I hate seeing you like this." I stammered. "Is there anything I can do to help? How are the cows? Who is taking care of butchering them for the customers?" The questions poured from my mouth as the floodgates opened. "When was the last time you had visitors? Why has no one helped keep up the house?"
"Enough! I don't know how much time I have Mattie, and I need you to see something," he exclaimed with an amount of force that shook me to my core, a conviction no one could expect of a man in his condition. "Something that I have never shared with anyone else. You are special Mattie, you are like me, and it is time you know the truth about your heritage, about where you come from."
Unsure of what he meant, I just sat there, staring at my great-grandfather. He seemed frantic, with a look in his eyes that I had never seen before. Was it excitement? No, this didn't fit excitement. It was something more, almost bordering on fevered expectation. Not moving, I waited for him to continue, but all I received was a wild, unblinking stare. I began feeling sorry for my great-grandfather, his mind was obviously slipping away.
"What is it you want to tell me, Poppy?" I inquired.
"Go to the closet off the hall. Under the rug, there is a rung in the floor. Swing it open, 44-18-37."
Having no idea what he was going on about, because I knew every inch of the house, I realized he was just slipping further away. Knowing nothing was there, I still humored him. No need to cause him undue stress if he is in as bad of a state as I believe him to be. I walked down the hardwood hall, noticing the floors needed to be refinished severely. This place was always such a beautiful home, and it bothered me more than I expected it would to see it in this condition. Turning the corner, I grasped the crystal doorknob and turned. The door stuck, but with a good pull, it popped open, just as I knew it would. Like I said before, I know this house, and all it's ins and outs. There is nothing under the rug.
After taking shoes, a broom, and dust pan out from the closet, I then pulled the rug. Just like I expected. Solid floor. There was nothing there. No rung. Shaking my head, I could only feel pity for my great-grandfather. This man was always so strong, so firm, and to waste away mentally is, in my opinion, a fate worse than death itself. Sighing, I slid the rug back into the closet, when it caught on the floor. Puzzled, I bent over and saw one floorboard that was slightly raised from the others. I ran my palm over the floor, and could clearly feel the singular board over the rest. I shakily picked at the edge of the floorboard with my middle finger, when it finally caught, and I slowly pulled up.
Fuck me! I thought. Poppy wasn't lying!
Staring me straight in the face was a round metal rung on a swivel. I grasped it and pulled, but nothing happened. I tried pulling harder, but still nothing. Standing up, I got my feet below me, and crouched down. Grabbing the rung with both hands, I pulled with all my might and the floor shifted. Slowly, the trap door opened on hinges, swinging inward to the back of the closet. Below was something I couldn't have expected, nor believed. What would my great-grandfather be doing with a safe hidden in the floor in the closet? Shaking off the disbelief, I tried recalling the numbers 44-18-17. Turning the dial to the right, 44. To the left, 18. To the right, 17. I reached for the handle, hesitant to what I might find. What did he mean, who I am? What was I going to find in there?
Turning the handle, nothing happened. The handle was stuck. No matter how hard I tried, I could not open the safe. I walked back out front and told Poppy that the safe wouldn't open.
"What was the combination you used, Mattie?" Poppy questioned me.
"Well, just like you told me, 44-18-17" I answered simply.
"Damn it kid! Pay attention! This is important. 44-18-37!" he grunted, and I hurried back down the hall to open the mysterious box.
I'm such an idiot. 37, not 17! I thought to myself as I hastily turned the dial. And then I heard it, the click! I opened the safe, to only find a small journal. Not really sure what to do, I took hold of the journal and walked back to the living room, sitting in the blue arm chair opposite the aging man.
"So, what is this Pops? All I found was a journal.." I trailed off while examining the front and back cover of the journal, noticing the wear in the binding and the greasy marks left behind from being opened and closed an untold number of times.
"Mattie, this is an accounting of who I am, and therefore who you are. Go ahead, open it up and read it!" he exclaimed with almost a crazed excitement. Which is exactly what I did, slowly, unsure of what I was going to find.
But nothing prepared me for what was on the first page, and without moving my head, I glanced at my great-grandfather who had a smile across his face that chilled me to the bone. I quickly flipped through each page, faster and faster, until I realized the entire book was filled with the same thing, page in and page out. I turned back to the first page, and allowed myself to absorb and comprehend the words of the first line-
Journal entry – Thursday, 12 September, 1935
I just finished washing the blood from my hands. Eddie brought this on himself. How could he have done this to me? What am I becoming? The only thing I know for sure is he can never hurt me again. I'll miss him, but the good part about keeping his head is I can see him anytime I want to.