Aunt April’s viewing brought in relatives that Sarah hadn’t seen in over a decade. Great uncles and another great aunt had all flown in from as far away as Ft. Lauderdale. Scores of her mother’s cousins huddled in the rows of chairs recounting memories of fonder times with their departed relative.
Sarah took refuge in a quiet corner away from the gathered mass of family and friends. She never did well with grief and loss. Seeing the people she looked up to in misery gave her little hope for herself.
“There you are.” Her mom sat down next to her. Karla had two black dresses in her repertoire: a form-fitting cocktail with scalloped frills around the hemline and the plain Jane formal number she wore to occasions such as these. “Come on,” she helped Sarah to her feet, “let’s go pay our respects.”
Sarah trailed behind her mother toward the polished mahogany casket. A large reprint of Aunt April’s senior year photo sat on a brass tripod to one side.
“She was so pretty.” Sarah studied the picture with moistened eyes.
“That she was,” an older man said, coming up beside her. He had a clean-shaven face and lean physique. He examined the reprint of his memories with his stern blue stare.
“Hi, Uncle Max.” Karla rubbed the old man’s back. “This was all so sudden.”
Max scratched his thinning white hair. “She never mentioned anything about her blood pressure, cholesterol---nothing like that.”
“She was a wonderful woman.” Karla shuffled over to the casket and laid her hand on April’s.
Aunt April wore one of her favorite lavender springtime dresses. Her thin gold-framed glasses rested on a peaceful face.
“For the longest time,” Max said joining her, “she was my mother.”
April clutched her worn Bible at her breast in her left hand and a small black and white photo beside it in her right.
Sarah leaned in to get a better look at the worn photograph of the seven children. “Which one’s Gram?”
“Well, let’s see.” Another husky man waddled up next to Sarah. His potbelly sagged over his big silver belt buckle. His black cowboy hat and bushy white beard hid his features. “Max,” he patted her uncle’s shoulder.
Sarah studied the new arrival with a skeptical eye. He looks like the twisted offspring of Santa Claus and Johnny Cash.
“Morty.” Max did little to acknowledge him.
“Good to see you twins on speaking terms again.” Emma hobbled up next to Sarah.
“Twins?” Sarah compared the two men. For every trait Max possessed, Morty conveyed its polar opposite.
“Hard to believe it by lookin’, I know.” Emma said. She gave Sarah a peck on the cheek.
“The youngest one there,” Morty pointed to the toddler on the right side of the photo, “is your great Aunt Patti. The slightly older girl next to her is your Grandma Emma.”
“This must have been taken in the spring of ’32,” Emma said, “right after we helped Pa seed the fields.”
Sarah studied the twin boys in the picture. Both sported the same mop of unkempt curls and freckled faces. “You really were identical. How did great grandma Eleanor tell you apart?”
“By our temperaments,” Max said chuckling.
“Maxie always was the level-headed of the two of us.” Morty scratched his shoulder-length white locks. His big belly jiggled under its black vest and matching jacket. “I tended to keep momma on her toes.” Morty laid an arm around his twin’s neck. “There’s more ways to tell us apart these days, eh, Max?”
His thinner twin smiled. “Fate had a hand in that.”
“What do you mean?” Sarah clasped her hands behind her back.
Max turned his hurt gaze to his deceased big sister. “We were sent to a poor farm not too long after that was taken.” He nodded to the worn picture. “Pa took Noah into Lost Creek to catch a train. Never saw him again.” Max dropped his head and wiped away his tears.
“Once when momma and I were alone,” Morty said, “she told me why it all happened.”
The elder twin turned his moistened stare into Morty’s bushy white eyebrows. “Momma told me that she sent you with April,” his bearded jowls collapsed under the strain of his emotional quake, “because she knew you’d survive.” Morty broke down into quivering fits of anguish. “I prayed, Max. I begged God every night to bring you back to me.”
Max took his younger twin in a tight embrace. “I believe you, Mort. I do.”
“Who are the other two in the photo?” Sarah clung to her Gram.
Max regained his composure and pointed to the eldest daughter. “That one there was your great Aunt Ina Jane. We lost her to cancer a long time ago.”
“The oldest one of our bunch,” Morty drew in a nervous breath, “is November.”
Sarah’s brows furrowed.
“He went by Noah,” Max corrected, “but his given name was November Greene.”
“Like Max said,” Morty added, “pa took him to catch that train and we never saw him again.”
“What was he like?” Sarah homed in on Noah’s picture. “Do you remember much about him?”
Max’s moistened gaze found his eldest brother’s picture. “He was always coming up with some sort of adventure for us boys to go on.”
Morty popped Max’s arm with his elbow. “Remember how he used to read Treasure Island to us every night before bed?”
Max let out a hoarse chuckle. “He always fancied himself as the next Stevenson, or some big adventurer.”
“Noah would lead us out on a crazy treasure hunt around the farm.” Morty sniffed away the remnants of his loss. “Remember that time momma got after him with her ole spoon?”
“How could any of us forget?” Gram sat her hand on Morty’s arm.
Sarah’s eyes scanned the group. “What did he do?”
“Noah had decided that we were gonna go hunting for treasure on the back side of the barn,” Max said. His big blue eyes glazed over and fell deep into the dusty memories of their better times. “Noah sent Morty and me over to the creek bed to gather up some sandstone to use as the gold. He went at took momma’s egg bucket from out of the barn and dug a hole in the ground.” Max broke into a fit of chuckles. “The trouble all started the next mornin’ when momma went out to gather eggs from the coop for breakfast.”
“Boy,” Morty said, allowing a bellowing laugh to escape his chest. “I’d never seen her face get as red as it did that morning!”
Max concealed his expression behind a shaking hand. “Momma chased him outa bed and around the homestead with that wooden spoon for the better part of thirty minutes.”
“She tried her damnedest to lop his arm off with that spoon of hers.” Gram hunched over in a laughing spasm.
“Yeah, she did.” Max said.
“Wonder what ever happed to Noah.” Gram’s stare fell to the floor.
“April got closer to solving that riddle than anyone.” Max rubbed the cold skin on April’s wrist. “She worked on his journal from the day she got it.”
Sarah sensed the cold hollow hole that ate at their souls. “Is Uncle November still alive?”
Max shrugged. “Might be. All we ever got from him was the journal he kept of his adventures across the country after he left us.”
“He finally got his chance to be Stevenson.” Morty removed his hat. “Wonder if any of us will ever get to see him again before we go.”
“Lord,” Gram said, “I hope so.”
After the funeral service and its swirling storm of activities came to a close, April’s estate attorney called them all into his office for the reading of her will.
“Thank you all for coming in this afternoon.” The attorney’s tone was flat.
Sarah did her best to take in all of the office’s magnificence. Towering shelves of legal tomes stretched up to the full height of the nine-foot ceiling in Mr. Loomis’s office. Sarah’s mom sat beside her in the other black cocktail dress.
“If there aren’t any questions,” Loomis said, scootching in behind his executive desk, “we’ll get right to it.”
The young Loomis pulled the lone page from a folder and sat it on his desk’s polished surface. April’s surviving siblings, Karla, and Sarah all sat in silence awaiting the business at hand.
“Skipping along to the meat and potatoes,” Loomis said with a nervous giggle. “To my husband and children, I leave my share of the home and all of its belongings. To Max and Mortimer, I leave my photo albums from the old homestead. To Emma and Patricia, I leave my collection of quilts and sewing machines. Lastly, to Sarah Daniels, I leave my brother’s journal. Like you, he was lost and alone. You’ve got our family book and live closest to the old farm. Maybe you’ll be the one to do what the rest of us couldn’t.”
Loomis handed a large mailing envelope over the desk to Sarah. “There you are, Ms. Daniels.”
She whispered a ‘thank you’ and backpedaled to her seat.
“There you have it.” Loomis returned the will to its file. “Any grievances or disputes to the will need to be filed with me within the next 365 days.” He stood up and extended an open hand to the door. “Lisa will escort you back out. Thank you again for your time.”
Sarah strode out of the office filled with a renewed sense of purpose. He was confused and alone, too. Finally, someone who understands me!