The Chateau des Daniels sat in near abandon once more. Sarah pulled her plastic tray of food from the microwave and plunked herself on the sofa in front of the evening news.
“More plane crashes, factory fires and let me guess,” Sarah forked another chunk of roast beef into her mouth, “the Cowboys won again.”
Most sports had never been Sarah’s strong suit, but around here football was a religion. High school, college-level, and professional all took center stage every August working the natives into wing-munching maniacs. As a result, she became baptized into the House of Pigskin at a young age.
“Pittsburgh might suck this year,” she pointed her fork at the TV, “but my Mounties are headin’ to the Sugar Bowl. Take that!”
Sarah clicked the tube off and cleaned up her dishes. She looked around the apartment double-checking for any stray chores she may have missed. The sink basins sat empty. All of their laundry had been folded and put away. Her blue eyes dropped to the small black leather journal on the kitchen table. Several creases cross-hatched its faded cover. A silent and unbreakable force drew her spirit to the book. Let’s just see what you got yourself into, November.
She plucked the flimsy tome off the table and made a nest on the couch under her favorite fleece blanket. The acrid smell of an age gone by flooded her senses as she cracked open the journal.
“What’s this?” A small slip of folded paper dropped onto Sarah’s lap.
She unfolded the sheet to discover a hand-written note in beautiful flowing script:
‘Dearest Sarah,
I’m sure that you probably have a dozen questions as to why I chose to leave this journal to you. Some of them I can answer and others you’ll have to answer on your own. This is the journal of my oldest brother, November Greene. I received it twenty four years ago in the mail out of the blue. It arrived in plain packaging with no name or message of any kind. It originally was addressed to our old homestead here in town, and the Postmaster, Reggie, tracked me down. The return address was a P.O. Box in Oregon.
I’ve spent the better part of my days researching Noah’s journal and its words looking for any clues that might lead to him. My heart tells me that he wants to be found, but why he hasn’t sought us out is still a mystery. I even went as far as dragging my husband along to some of the places that Noah visited to look for information there. We eventually made it out to California, but came back empty handed. Like you, Noah was lost and alone in the world. It was a fate that life handed to him, not something that he chose. If you can find him I think there’s a lot you can learn from one another. It is my hope that we can one day be a complete family again. He’s still out there somewhere. Don’t give up hope!
-- April C. (Greene) Givens’
The creak of the front door brought Sarah back around from her shifting dreamscapes. Her mom tossed her large leather purse down onto the hardwoods with a burdensome sigh.
“Morning, mom.” Sarah steadied herself on one elbow and rubbed her vision back into focus.
“Hey, kiddo.” Karla unlaced her work boots. “How was your Saturday night?”
“Okay, I guess.”
Karla lumbered into the kitchen and pulled a bottle of soda out of the door of the fridge.
“Mom?”
Karla mumbled an acknowledgment through her mouthful of rejuvenation.
“Do you remember anything about Uncle November?”
Her mom continued through her morning routine setting out a small bowl and filling it up with store-brand flakes. “Only the handful of things that Aunt April and Uncle Max told me. Why?”
Sarah stumbled into the kitchen and poured herself a glass of OJ. “We have to do a history project on someone in our family, and I want to do mine on him.”
Her mom sat down at the table and dug into her breakfast. “I’m not so sure that’s such a good idea, Sarah.”
“Why not?” Sarah spun her glass on the table’s surface.
“Did you guys ever consider the notion that he may not want to be found?” Karla chased another spoonful of flakes with a swig of cola.
“Then, why did he mail Aunt April his journal?”
Karla’s cold brown stare peered at Sarah from over the mound of cereal.
“Why not burn it if he didn’t want anyone knowing where he was?”
Her mom shrugged and took in another bite. “Maybe. I don’t really know much more about him that what’s in our family book in the closet. Aunt April always told me that Momma Greene named him November because it was one of her favorite months out of the year.” Karla set her spoon in her bowl and leaned back in her seat. “Momma Greene loved the colorful leaves and harvest time on the old farm. Your Aunt got her name from Momma Greene’s other favorite time of the year, the spring.”
Sarah took another nip of juice and listened to her mother’s tale.
“My grandma always had a big flower bed under her front windows every spring,” Karla said, finishing off her breakfast. “Aunt April told me that he was forced to leave the family when he was sixteen or so. That would have been back during the Depression, I think. Momma and Papa Greene couldn’t afford to care for all seven kids anymore.” She stood up and carted her dirty dishes over to the sink. “Uncle Max told me that they last saw Noah the night before they were all split up.”
A running faucet filled Sarah’s ears. Karla broke its deluge with her bowl. There’s a small miracle.
“Uncle Max and Aunt April got sent to a poor farm here in town,” Karla continued through the running water, “and Uncle Noah got pushed out to the wolves.”
The sink fell silent and her mom walked back to her seat at the table. “Uncle Max said that Noah promised to come back for them once he got settled in someplace. After that, Max said they never heard or saw from him again.”
Sarah went to the sink and sat her glass in its basin. “Could I look at the family book for my project?”
Her mom got up and strode toward the bathroom. “Doesn’t matter to me, hon.”
Sarah’s eyes lit up to mirror her ear-to-ear grin.
“Just don’t lose the book,” her mom called from behind the cracked bathroom door. “You may end up uncovering more than you bargained for, Sarah. That is if you even have any luck finding anything at all.”