The Private Room

It was hard saying goodbye to the old house. So many memories were tied up here. Like the time Greg placed the fake rat in the kitchen and scared Mom instead of Molly. Or when Moses dared Megan to run over his foot with her bike. He walked around with a broken foot and didn’t tell anybody until the next day. Or the time we had that huge blizzard. All of the kids climbed onto the roof from the third-story window and jumped off into the snow below. Timmy sank three feet down. We had to dig him out.

My great-grandparents lived in this house. Their children even had some of their weddings here—like the Harold / Nickson weddings. I say “weddings” because Molly and Christian Harold (sister and brother) married Jack and Manny Nickson (brother and sister). It was a double wedding. I wish I could have seen it. My grandparents told me it was beautiful. Black-and-white photos don’t tell the full story.

There was a time when four generations lived under this roof at once. I was only five years old then—the youngest of my father’s eight children. We were stair steps. My oldest sister was thirteen. My father’s sister lived in the house with her four children after her husband died. Father’s brother had three kids—well, he had four, but Charles moved out when he was twenty-one. Grandpa Carl was seventy-five and Grandma Betty was sixty. They were still just as strong and active as when they were in their twenties. Then there was Great-Grandpa George. Everybody called him Ge-Ge. I remember the day he turned one hundred—a full century. That was twenty-three people living in the house at once. Ge-Ge lived to be 120 years old. He died three days before turning 121. Yes, I remembered those days well.

But now, I was forced to sell my old family home. My parents, grandparents, and great-grandparents had all died. My cousins and siblings were all married, taking care of their own families, and didn’t want to be bothered with this old place. I was married, and I had been paying the taxes and upkeep for years. Now the cost was just too much. I couldn’t risk my own house to keep this one in the family. Therefore, I had to sell.

I had come that day to take inventory of the items inside. Maybe some of the old antiques could fetch me a pretty penny. Three floors, fourteen bedrooms, five bathrooms, a kitchen, a dining room, and a living room—there were a lot of rooms to look through. I didn’t even mention the basement or the attic.

I started in my old bedroom. There wasn’t much left—two beds and a dresser. The beds were nothing more than a few 2x4s holding worn-out mattresses. My first thought was to leave everything as is. There was no way I’d get any money for that junk. But people pay a lot for old furniture. I figured I might be able to sell the dressers. As I made my way through all the rooms, I gathered several things that could sell. The attic didn’t have much to offer. Out of all the decades I lived in the house, that was the first time I’d ever been up there. I didn’t think anyone else had either—except maybe a few rats.

Most of the rooms had some pretty nice furniture. I was sure I could get at least $100,000.

I was still waiting for an estimate of what the house itself might sell for. I talked to my siblings and cousins—they were entitled to a share of the profits—but none of them wanted anything to do with the old house. Andre Nickson said it was a dump that needed to be knocked down. He never lived here, so he had no attachment. Nancy Harold said the only thing anyone could get from it was debt. There were twenty-four people who could claim a piece of the pie, but they all freely gave up their claims. I guessed that meant it was all mine.

I made my way down to the basement—Grandpa Carl’s wine cellar. He still had several bottles there. Some were close to a hundred years old. Most were open, but collectors might pay a lot even for the old bottles. Those that weren’t open could be worth a fortune.

We used to play down here often as children, but none of us ever touched the wine. Grandpa Carl always knew when we got too close to it. “Y’all stay away from there!” we’d hear him yell all the time. We didn’t have security cameras back then—he just knew. He felt it in his soul that something was wrong. I always wondered if he thought we’d drink some or knock it down. But as I examined the area now, I no longer believed it was the wine he was protecting.

There was a door behind the wine racks—a door I’d never noticed before.

The door was locked. But I knew exactly where the key was. It had hung on Ge-Ge’s wall for years. I remembered it from when I was a kid. I’d asked him what it was for, but he’d always tell me not to worry about it. Once, he told me it was for his private room. I just assumed he meant his bedroom. I never thought he had another room. Anyway, the key was still there.

I had to call my siblings.

“Y’all remember the key that Ge-Ge always had on his wall?”

“His bedroom key,” Timothy said. “It probably went to a drawer he used to hide his cigars.”

“Why are you still spending money on that old place?” Susan asked.

“You should burn it down and collect the insurance,” Megan said. “You’ll get way more money than if you fix it up and sell it.”

None of them were willing to listen to anything I had to say about the house. I would have liked to share the moment the door was opened with them, but it would have to be something I experienced alone.

The door didn’t open easily. It unlocked with little effort, but opening it took some muscle. When it finally gave way, I found a dust-free room with an old desk in the middle. The air smelled stale, but an exhaust fan automatically turned on, clearing it.

On the desk was a locked chest. I set it aside and decided to look at it later. I opened the first of four drawers and found a photo album. The photos went back generations. Ge-Ge was my great-grandfather, but there were photos of his great-grandfather. There was so much history in that album. I could have spent hours looking through it, but I stopped when an envelope fell out. Inside were ten $5,000 bills.

“Wow—$50,000.” That would go a long way toward fixing up the old house.

Again, I tried to call my family. They didn’t believe me about the money. They all said the same thing: “Listen! Don’t call me anymore about that run-down death trap. We’re not putting money into it and don’t want anything from it.”

I put the photo album in my car and continued to look through the desk. In the second drawer, I found a few film reels. There was an old projector in the wine cellar, so I loaded a reel and saw old footage of my parents with their siblings and cousins. It was amusing. I was about to stop the film when I noticed Ge-Ge sealing a box inside the wall—inside the Private Room. I located the spot, knocked a hole in the wall, and retrieved the box.

Inside were more photos—one of me at five years old. These were pictures of my earliest memories, moments I’d cherish forever. While I wanted to remember all of this, my family seemed to want to forget it.

Also inside the box was $50,000 in $100 bills. I was thrilled. I wanted to call my family again, but they’d already told me not to. They said to burn the house down. Fine. If they didn’t want anything, they wouldn’t get anything.

The third drawer contained a bunch of love letters written by Ge-Ge to his wife, Mary—some from when he was a soldier in World War I. This was a part of his life I never knew. I must have spent five hours reading them. I learned so much about my great-grandfather.

I discovered that he’d been deployed to Cuba and, instead of waiting for a transport to return home, swam the 110 miles back to the States just to see Mary. Another time, when he was in Germany, he carried twenty wounded soldiers to safety, managing to escape unhurt even though he’d lost his shoes. His love for Mary gave him strength. He said he’d have swum through lava to reach her—and lived.

After reading the last letter, I noticed the drawer had a false bottom. Inside was another envelope with $50,000. That made $150,000 total—plenty to start restoring the house.

The fourth drawer contained only a single key. Etched into it were the letters “B4UC.”

That same marking was on a lockbox I’d put in storage. I had already listed it for sale, but it hadn’t sold yet. I quickly left to retrieve it. Inside was another key. Ge-Ge had a strange sense of humor. I was glad it was me working on the house—anyone else would have thrown this “junk” away. They never would have found the Private Room.

This new key, I knew, was for the chest on the desk.

The first thing inside was a letter—addressed to me. It was from Ge-Ge.

________________________________________

Dear Richard,

If you are reading this, it means my life has come to an end. No doubt, it happened a long time ago. As I watched you grow up, I realized you care about this house more than anyone else—you care about it the way I did.

I can’t imagine any of my children, grandchildren, or great-grandchildren wanting anything to do with this house except you. So, if you are willing to keep it, and not sell it, then I’d like to give you my full inheritance. I just ask that you keep it secret until the house is restored.

Yours truly,

George (Ge-Ge) Harold

P.S. False Bottom 4

________________________________________

It was a kind thought for Ge-Ge to leave everything to me, but those who came before had really run the place down. Selling it still seemed my only hope. The money would go toward repairs.

Then there was that postscript—False Bottom 4. The false bottom I’d found was in drawer three, not four. Unless…

I opened the fourth drawer again. Sure enough, it had a false bottom. Inside was another key—a safety deposit box key. I went to the bank and opened the box. Inside were stock certificates dating back decades—at least fifty of them, most for over a hundred shares each. I won’t bore you with the details, but the total value exceeded fifteen million dollars.

I’d like to think I had a decent poker face, because I worked hard to keep that secret while restoring the house. My family kept telling me to give up, but I didn’t.

A year later, the restoration was complete.

Now it was time to put a sign in front. Not a “For Sale” sign.

The sign read: “Ge-Ge’s Bed and Breakfast.”

Greg and Darla drove by, saw the sign, and assumed I’d sold the house. It was the first time they’d been in town in years. Greg called to ask how much I got for it. He was shocked to learn that I was opening the B&B.

I did all I could to keep things as close as they were when I was young. Ge-Ge’s Private Room was now my private room. Maybe one day, I’ll be able to turn it over to my great-grandchildren.