My Sweet Annie

38

Ana left around 10:00 so she could check on her cats before work. Our tentative plan was for her to come back that night after she stopped to check on her kitties again. I felt awful—Wencesclaws, Bean Sprout, Gladys, and Jeremy were being neglected, and it was my fault. But they were cats, and at least this time it wasn't my drama pulling Ana back into my orbit. At least, not directly. It was interest in the diary.

I planned to go through more stuff at the house, although I wasn't looking forward to it. I needed to stay busy so that I could manage my own curiosity until Ana's return. Since it was nice out, I figured it would be a good day to take an inventory of the shed outside, which was probably going to be the dirtiest job.

As I was making myself a sandwich for an early lunch before getting to work, I noticed the old cracker tin Mark had found. I'd put it on the counter by the sink, intending to give it a gentle wash, but had completely forgotten it in the chaos that had followed the discovery.

I stood over the sink, sandwich in one hand and my phone in the other, doing some Google searches of the tin to get a sense of whether it really was something valuable. By searching the brand name and checking Google Images, I found similar tins, one of which was listed on eBay for $250.

"Holy shit." I looked at the tin. "Let's clean you up."

My experience in antiques was limited to this very object, and I had no idea how to clean it without damaging it, but by the time I had eaten the last bite of my sandwich, I had found a couple of helpful YouTube videos.

I ran some warm water into the sink, poured in a generous blurp of dish washing liquid, and retrieved a roll of paper towels. On closer inspection, I found that the tin's lid was actually hinged at the back. I couldn't believe that this was how they used to sell crackers. It seemed so sturdy and fancy. I gently lifted the lid, holding the tin away from myself in case an army of spiders exploded into my face.

Instead, I found that the tin contained several envelopes and folded papers, most of their edges brown with water damage. Excitement knocked me in the chest.

I flicked on the lights over the kitchen counter and then took the items out one by one. All of the envelopes were addressed to Royal. Four were from James Haas, my grandfather, addressed from Pontiac Correctional. Three of them were from Anna Elvers on 260 West Second Street in Myrtle. There were also a couple of folded papers without envelopes, which looked like letters, too.

At the bottom of the tin was a wad of fabric. I took it out and gently unfolded it. It was a dark blue sock, but it was lumpy. I slipped my thumbs into the top of the sock and carefully rolled it down, grimacing as the old elastic stretched and crackled in my fingers. There was something inside, something soft that had once been white.

When I had the objects in my hand, I realized they were two tiny crocheted socks, or booties, small enough for baby feet. They were mostly white with faded trim of soft green. In a couple of spots, it seemed like the dye from the blue sock had stained the booties, and there was a rust-colored spot on one of them from the tin.

"What the hell is going on here?" I whispered. I cradled one bootie in each of my palms. They were so small and so beautiful. Somebody had made them with love and care and skill.

They could have been my mother's, or my grandmother's or great uncle's—they had all been babies on this property. Even Tim and I had been babies here. But I'd found them in a cracker tin, secreted away with a bundle of letters meant for my great uncle.

I knew who had made these booties.

It had been Anna Elvers.

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