He Bought an Attic for $50,000—Twenty Years Later, Neighbors Shut Up

The summer of 1998 in Boston brought sticky evening breezes that carried a mix of gardenia and sewer smell through every alley of the Starling Court row houses. Walter Lawson had just signed a contract. It was only a few thin pages, but it had cost every cent he and his wife, Susan Lawson, had saved. Fifty thousand dollars. It bought a run-down attic that nobody else wanted, perched on top of the three-story building at the far end of the court. "Oh, come on, Walter! Have you lost your mind?" A grating voice rang out behind him. It was Dennis Bradley, the neighbor who lived downstairs. He held an enamel mug whose white had gone yellow, with the red words "Proud to Be Union" still printed around the rim. "Fifty grand! Here in Boston, that's enough for a down payment on a one-bedroom. And you go and blow it on a pitch-black pigeon coop? You'll roast in the summer and freeze in the winter. The rats live better than you're going to!" Dennis had a booming voice. Half the court leaned out to watch the show, pointing at Walter, every face grinning as if they were looking at a fool. "He's right, Walter. That wasn't a smart deal." "That attic doesn't even have its own kitchen or bath. You'd have to go downstairs just to empty the chamber pot. What's the point?" Walter said nothing. He only tightened his grip on the purchase contract, which still smelled of fresh ink, until the edges of the paper began to crumple. Facing the pointing and laughter of the entire court, the man who had just turned thirty quietly turned around and looked at the narrow, steep wooden staircase that creaked its way up to the attic. He chose to climb it. That climb lasted twenty years. A month earlier, Walter had never imagined he would have anything to do with an attic. Back then, he was still a technician at a state-owned machine-tool plant in Boston, and Susan worked at a textile mill. They rented a hundred-square-foot room that the plant had assigned them. Money was tight, but the bankbook holding fifty thousand dollars was the most solid hope they had for the future. Their plan was to save for another year or two, then buy a one-bedroom place of their own. Then an urgent letter arrived from his hometown in rural Maine and shattered every plan they had. His younger sister had written it. Their mother had suffered a sudden brain hemorrhage and needed money for surgery right away. Otherwise... her life was in danger. That night, in the tiny room, husband and wife never slept. "Walter, this is everything we own..." Susan's eyes were red and swollen from crying. "If we send all the money back, what happens to Jake? What happens to us?" Walter crouched on the floor, chain-smoking cheap cigarettes one after another. Through the haze of smoke, his face flickered between light and shadow. On one side was the old mother who had raised him. On the other were the wife and son who had suffered alongside him. Either way, he would be cutting into his own flesh. At last, he stubbed out the cigarette, his voice hoarse. "Susan, she's my mother. I can't just stand by and watch her... go without treatment because there's no money." Susan said nothing more. She buried her face in the blanket, her shoulders shaking without a sound. The next day, Walter went to the post office and turned the bankbook that held all their hopes into a money order, which he mailed back home. Bad luck never came alone. Just as they had emptied out everything they had and couldn't even be sure of next month's rent, the landlord issued a final notice. The plant was taking the room back to give to newly hired college graduates. They had two weeks to move out. Two weeks, with a five-year-old son, in a city as big as Boston. Where could they possibly go? Walter went to every relative and friend he knew. The answers were always the same. Either they truly had no room to spare, or they sighed and told him he'd be better off going back home to make a living. Just when he was close to despair, he spotted a handwritten sale notice on a rusted bulletin board at the entrance to the court. "Starling Court top-floor attic for sale. Clear title. Price negotiable. Must sell fast." Without quite knowing why, he dialed the number. The owner was an old man preparing to move his whole family to Canada. He arranged to meet Walter in the attic. The attic was even worse than Walter had imagined. The low, slanted ceiling kept anyone from standing up straight. The walls were covered in water stains and mold, and the only dormer window was so thick with dust that it barely let in any light. "I'm in a hurry to leave, so I won't ask much," the old man said, seeing how cornered Walter was. "Fifty thousand, take it or leave it. The attic's run-down, but I hold both the house deed and the land deed. It's private property, free and clear." Walter hesitated. Fifty thousand was exactly the amount he had sent his mother for surgery. Right now, he didn't have a single cent. As if he could read Walter's mind, the old man sighed, patted him on the shoulder, and said something that Walter would remember for many years. "Young man, you strike me as an honest sort. Let me tell you the truth. This attic may look shabby, but it's clean from the ground to the sky. Remember that." The ground and the sky? Walter didn't understand. He assumed the old man was just saying something mystical. The only thing he knew for sure was that if he bought this place, the three of them would never have to pay rent again, and they would never have to worry about being thrown out at any moment. He gritted his teeth and made a decision that would change his life. Swallowing his pride, he went to every relative and friend a second time. This time he wasn't asking for a place to stay. He was asking for money. He scraped it together a little here and a little there, talked himself hoarse, and endured every cold look there was, until at last he had fifty thousand dollars. When he told Susan, the woman who had always been so gentle lost her temper with him for the first time. "Walter Lawson, you're out of your mind! That's borrowed money, money we might need to survive! You're spending it on a dump like that? What about our son's future? How are we supposed to hold our heads up for the rest of our lives?" Walter looked out the window at the thousands of lit-up homes, not one of which belonged to them, and said quietly, "Susan, at least we'll have a home. A place no one can throw us out of. That's what a home is." Home. In the long years that followed, that word felt more like a prison to Susan. Life in the attic was far harder than she had imagined. In summer, the sun baked the slanted roof until it was scorching, and the whole attic turned into a giant steamer. Their son Jake was covered in heat rash. In winter, the northwest wind howled through the cracks in the dormer window, and the cold seeped all the way into their bones. Worst of all were Boston's long spring rains. When it poured outside, it drizzled inside. Walter had to rig a makeshift "rain shelter" from plastic sheeting across the rafters. Underneath it sat small basins and buckets, and the plink and plunk of dripping water could go on all night. It was on one such rainy night that Susan finally broke down. She watched her husband stand on a stool, again and again stuffing towels into the leaking cracks. Water ran down from his hair, and there was no telling whether it was rain or sweat. Their five-year-old son, Jake Lawson, was so frightened he burst into wailing sobs.