The latch by the monogram was already opened, leaving the two on each side. “If these are too corroded to open, I’ll get a saw,” Gibbes said as he reached around to the undamaged side. After a brief pause, he twisted the latch. It stuck at first and then, with a grinding pop, stood in the open position.
Merritt held down the unlatched side as Gibbes moved to the other end of the suitcase. The latch on the damaged side was harder, and Gibbes was about to resort to a saw when they heard the pop for the second time.
Merritt moved her hands from the top, letting them hover above the front and side latches like an indecisive bee.
“Ready?” Gibbes asked.
She nodded and together they lifted the lid.
Loralee coughed and held her hand over her face. The smell of rot was strong, reminding her of the cellar of the house she and her mama had lived in during their brief stay in Tuscaloosa. The discarded lives of previous tenants had littered the space that flooded each spring and fall, the forgotten boxes and piles of clothing slowly turning to mush.
When she looked back at the suitcase, neither Gibbes nor Merritt had made a move to touch anything. A coating of green and black goo covered the top layer of what had once been clothing, a mosslike growth crawling upward across the sides and top like tiny fingers looking for an escape.
“I’ll go get the dishwashing gloves,” Loralee said as she made an attempt to stand without using any of her abdominal muscles.
Merritt leaped up. “You stay there—I’ll go get them.” She ran into the kitchen, then returned with the pair of yellow rubber gloves. “I only have one pair, and they’re small, so I guess I’m going to have to do the honors.”
Gibbes shifted backward to give her more light. “Try to remove the top layer—there might be less damage farther down.”
She nodded and, with her lips pressed together, began lifting out limp and soggy button-down shirts, still folded as if waiting to be worn. “My mom used to pack my dad’s suitcase this way—with the folded shirts on top and all the small items tucked beneath, so that if it ever opened up he wouldn’t be chasing rolled-up socks.” She leaned back on her haunches, tilting her head to the side. “But his toiletries kit was always tucked right in the front, so that if he ever needed anything out of it, he could grab it without having to open the suitcase the whole way.”
After the ruined garments had been placed on the ground, the rest of the items could be seen better. The undershirts and slacks were still folded, but the creases were crusted with mud and mold, the elastic of the boxer-style underwear bleeding streaks of red and brown.
Gibbes reached inside a pair of black wingtips and pulled out a tie that had been neatly rolled into a ball. The silk was stained with moisture and spots of mildew, but the navy background with light blue diagonal stripes was still visible.
Loralee leaned forward and reached out her hand. “I’ve seen that tie before.”
“It’s a pretty common one, I think,” Gibbes said. “I probably have one in my closet.”
“Yes, it’s called the Eton tie, I’m pretty sure,” Loralee said, feeling a surge of nausea wash over her that had nothing to do with her being sick. “And I could be wrong, but . . .”
“But what?” Gibbes prompted.
Loralee swallowed. “One of the passengers in the model plane up in the attic is wearing the same tie. He’s the one with the dopp kit glued to his lap.”
A tic had started in Gibbes’s jaw, the sound of the garden’s insects somehow quieter, as if somebody had lowered the volume button so the three of them could think. “I’ll check that out as soon as we’re done here.”
Wanting to know where the red staining the underwear was coming from, Loralee moved closer and lifted a corner of the small stack of undershirts, revealing two wilted and yellowed linen handkerchiefs, with a bold red monogram in the corner of each. She pulled them out and turned them over. “Definitely done with a machine.”
“What is?” Merritt turned away from her search of the side pockets and stopped suddenly, as if she’d just put a Popsicle in her mouth and was suffering a brain freeze.
“The handkerchiefs,” Loralee said, holding one up. “They were done with a machine—that’s why all the stitches are so perfect.”
“What’s wrong, Merritt?” Gibbes asked, noticing that her face no longer seemed to have any blood in it.
Merritt reached over and took one of the handkerchiefs from Loralee and held the monogram close to her face, stretching the fabric taut, staring at it as if she were waiting for it to change.
When she looked up, her eyes were dark. “I’ve seen one of these before.” She slowly dropped her hands into her lap and turned to Loralee. “I told you about it—when you gave me the sewing machine. I told you how my grandmother and I loved to make things together.” She stopped, her chest rising and falling as if her lungs were too busy struggling for air to let her have enough to speak.