The Underside

Author: Suzanne

E-mail: suzanne.moore8@verizon.net

Rating: PG

Summary: Nick cleans out Burton's attic.

Author's Notes: A "Scratched Coffee Table" Story

Many thanks to Romantique, my mentor and beta-reader.

~*~*~

"I'm going to need your help on Saturday, son," Burton Fallin said. "The
attic needs cleaning out, and I can't negotiate the stairs with my damn
eyes."

Nick nodded reluctantly, not really wanting to spend his down time this way.

On Saturday morning, Burton was preparing breakfast when Nick arrived.

"Nicholas. I see you are dressed for attic duty."

Nick was wearing ratty jeans, boots, and a long-sleeved T-shirt.

As they ate, Burton told Nick what needed to be done in the attic.
"Bring everything in that back corner down. Stack it here by the kitchen
door for the Salvation Army." He paused. "Of course, you're welcome to
have any of it you want, son."

"Thanks," said Nick guardedly, "but my house is pretty much set."

After breakfast, Nick climbed up the attic's rickety folding stairs. The
smell washed over him, reminding of his childhood. He pulled the string
on the bare light bulb and looked around. This wouldn't take long. Just
some old furniture, clothes, rugs.

Nick navigated down the stairs carrying a pair of funky '70s lamps.

Burton chuckled. "Remember those? Your mother bought them for the den.
Never liked them myself. Awful, aren't they?"

Nick cringed and said nothing. He hadn't really expected cleaning the
attic would be a trip down memory lane.

He walked back upstairs quickly, unwilling to awaken these memories. But
every time he came back with another load, Burton reminisced about each
battered end table and tattered rug that Nick lugged down.

Nick was almost finished when he unearthed an old scratched coffee
table. He chuckled.

/I had fun with this./

He remembered throwing a sheet over the coffee table and spending hours
playing under it. This tattered piece of furniture reminded him of
happier times in his life. He ran his fingers across the scratches that
covered half the table.

/I got in big trouble because of those scratches. My Hot Wheels race
track messed it up./

Nick lugged the coffee table downstairs and set it aside.

"Dad, if it's alright with you, I'm going to take this."

"That old ratty thing? Why would you want that, son?" Burton slowly
shook his head, wondering about Nick's taste.

Nick answered with a shrug and a sigh. His father would never understand.

He finally brought the last load from the attic and picked up the coffee
table to take to his car.

"Nick," said Burton, "do you need a phone number for a furniture
restorer? I use Eric Wilkerson off of Colby Street. He'd do a good job
removing those scratches."

"No, no. . .I don't think I need one. Thanks anyway, Dad."

They said their good byes. Nick left his father's house, with a slight
smile on his face.

He put the coffee table in his car's back seat, top side down. Nick
grinned to himself. Heavily scratched on the underside of the table in a
young child's scribbling were the words, "Nick Fallin, Pittsburgh, 1979."

/No, Dad, I'll never get this refinished./

The End