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“What is it?” I asked.
“It looks like photos,” Pam said. “If I wipe the dust off, will you let me take this down the ladder?”
“Sure. Look at this stack of newspapers. New York Times from the turn of the century.”
“1900?” Pam asked, astonished.
“No. 2000.”
“Oh,” she said, and we laughed.
“It’s a fire hazard, all these papers,” I said. “Why would they save their newspapers?”
“Maybe they meant to cut out articles and just never got around to it.”
We worked for two hours, opening boxes and setting aside a few that we’d unpack in the kitchen. Boxes of books and china stacked to the ceiling would be opened in the attic and sorted. I set aside items I’d keep, and the rest of it would go to the local consignment shop or the Salvation Army.
Several boxes of toys and dollhouse furniture were intriguing.
“I had one of these,” I said, holding up a familiar doll. “What’s this?”
“Tiny Tears,” Pam said. “But she’s an old one, probably from the 1960s.”
We came across a soiled pink receiving blanket wrapped around a bundle that looked like it might be a baby doll, and Pam reached for it.
“What is this?” she asked. “It feels like a bunch of sticks.” Then she screamed, jumping back as white bones encased in rotted clothing fell from her hands. The skull of a tiny baby rolled out the attic exit and fell at the feet of Pam’s dogs.
