Sophie Mae Bastrop stood in the doorframe and cocked her empty shotgun. The beggar wandering on her front porch wasn’t the first, and wouldn’t be the last, to cross the sixteen-year-old’s path.
“Get lost!” she commanded.
The beggar’s hands sifted through a busted planter at the end of her porch. Loosely wrapped bandages covered his wounds, but splotches of dried blood told of his hardships. The odor of trash and urine from his clothes lingered.
He leaned against the house, turning his weak gaze to Sophie Mae. “I haven’t eaten in days. I’m starving, miss. Do you have anything? I’ll take whatever you can spare.”
Sophie Mae blew a strand of curly hair from her eyes. Fear kept her grip tight against the stock that hid her quivering lip. “I have nothing for either of us. Get moving, or I’ll shoot.”
Discouraged, he pulled a yellowed scarf from the collar of his jacket. He wrapped it around his nose and mouth as he stumbled down the porch steps. The tail end of a dust storm thrashed the front gate against its post, and as he passed through, the haze of drifting dust enveloped him.
He’s gone, Sophie Mae, Grandma Hattie’s voice surfaced in her mind. Now put the gun down.
Sophie Mae slunk into the house and shut the door behind her. Her arm fell under the weight of the weapon as she leaned against the weathered door. Covering her face, she stopped the tears before they turned the sand on her cheeks to mud. I’ve no time for crying.
Sophie Mae lifted the heavy plank of wood off the floor to bar the entry. Wax-dipped linens crammed between the wood slats of the walls didn’t stop the sand from advancing into the house and coating the floor and mantle.
Memories of the carefree days before the drought rushed back. Once, the long, front porch had four rocking chairs where Grandma Hattie and the neighbors talked for hours until the lightning bugs emerged from the trees and sparkled in the night.
For the two years since her grandma’s death, Sophie Mae had survived alone on the failing farm, enduring the red dust storms plaguing the land. Living conditions were unbearable. Most days, she managed to hold herself together, while others left her frightened of strangers and starvation.
Sophie Mae trudged the gritty floor to the second of the two rooms in the small home. Next to the bedroom door hung her favorite knee-length dress. She’d had worn it to church on Sundays, where her fingers traced the tightly woven threads of the pink, embroidered flowers. These days, the dress only collected dust as the church had long abandoned the wasted city of Drycrop, leaving the faithful that remained to fend for themselves.
Three rows of small hand-drawn rectangles graced the wall just under the dress. To keep her sanity, Sophie Mae had created her own calendar just after Christmas of 1933. She couldn’t afford to lose track of time and fall into madness like so many in her community. Picking up the nub of a pencil from the floor, she crossed out the day’s date, August 8, 1935.
Sophie Mae collapsed on the straw-filled mattress and curled under the patchwork quilt. The last rays of sun poured through the damaged roof, and its light skimmed the far wall like a sundial.
Her eyes shut tight, and she mustered the energy to create a positive thought. Tomorrow will be a better day. I bet Martha Hen will lay an egg first thing in the morning. I’ll have a scrambled egg and three pieces of toast, with a side of orange juice.
Sophie Mae tugged the itchy blanket under her chin and sighed. One of these days, I will eat until my stomach begs me to stop!
The off-key, fractured crowing of the largest hen awakened Sophie Mae. Kneeling to the side of her bed, her knees scraped along the sand-covered floor. Her hand searched underneath the bed for the mustard-yellow suitcase, which held all her most personal belongings.
The coarse tail of a rat sprang past her hand. Sophie Mae pounced for the rodent, but it scurried out the bedroom door. She slumped back onto her calves. It was all skin and bones, anyway.
The lock on the case had rusted long ago and required a fair amount of tinkering to pop it open. She lifted a group of letters tied in a simple pink ribbon and the floral perfume from the paper drowned out the musty scent of the case.
The letters belonged to Grandma Hattie and were written by her older sister, Catherine. As Hattie’s health failed, the messages in the letters grew more desperate. Catherine wrote of her love for her sister, offering an escape from her illness.
Sophie Mae returned the letters and her heart ached as she reached for the tattered book wrapped in green velvet. The yellowing paper fluttered as she searched for the corner folded over twice. It flipped past her thumb and she turned back to the sketch on the page.
A youthful girl in a large, rounded skirt had her hair braided and pinned tight to her head. Standing in a formal bedroom dripping in lace fabrics, she balanced with one foot firmly placed on the floor while the other entered a rippling mirror, a portal of sorts. Sophie Mae traced the girl’s skirt with her finger, envious of her adventure.
She grabbed the pencil and turned to the blank pages at the back of the book. Her cursive handwriting, smaller than newspaper print, scribbled across the fibers of the paper. The phrases detailed her darkest fears in an attempt to release them from her mind. Food shortage, strangers, keeping the hens alive, and maintaining her sanity on the deserted plain was repeated hundreds of times.
The daily ritual of digging through the suitcase grounded her as the isolation began to take its toll. Seclusion kept her safe and shielded her from the judgmental eyes of those who’d equate her outward appearance with her mental stability.
Grandma Hattie’s voice raced through her mind. Now, dear, if you keep your eyes focused on where you’ve been, you’ll most certainly trip and hurt yourself. Time to get a move on.
With the morning growing late, she repacked the suitcase and traded it for the work boots that she’d long outgrown.
The cracked, rough skin of her fingers pulled the broken laces that shrunk with each passing day. The mid-calf boots laced to just above her ankles and rubbed her skin raw.
Sophie Mae walked out the back door and headed to the hen house. The supply of chicken feed stank of mold, and soon she’d have to dump it and find more. The general store sold her the last bit, but she doubted they were still open for business.
The gate of the chicken coop screeched. Sophie Mae searched through the hen’s grassy nest, rewarded with two warm eggs. She cradled the white hen in her arms. “Well done, Martha Hen!” She turned her attention to the second hen pecking the ground. “Now, don’t fall behind, Ethel. I can’t feed you if you don’t feed me.”
Two scrambled eggs and half a jar of pickled carrots, long expired, made an excellent breakfast. She untied her apron and dropped it on the counter, flinching as a deafening trumpet echoed through the house. Was that an…an elephant?
She crept to the front door and removed the plank of wood. She grabbed the gun from the corner, throwing open the door. The skin of her third knuckle split and bled under her tight grip.
It was quiet. She stalked down the front steps and circled the house. Nothing. Her heart raced in her chest. Something was off. Frightened, she bounded up the steps to the front door, tripping on a box sitting where the welcome mat once resided.
A sapphire-and-gold box glinted in the sun without a single speck of dust. One last glance around for trespassers and she carried it to the kitchen counter.
The six-inch-square box stood on brass feet shaped like lions’ paws. A piano hinge ran the length of the lid and moved smoothly as she peered inside.
A simple gold ring held a rolled document as light and thin as the pages of her Bible. The perfectly fashioned handwriting gave it an air of authority.
I, George Cain, being charged with informing
you, Miss Sophie Mae Bastrop, of your position
as the heir and beneficiary of Ms. Catherine
Jean Gardenia of Evenland, Minnesota. Please
find your way to the home and surrounding
acreage to take occupancy.
If you cannot find suitable transportation,
please make use of this box.
*Madrosa*
Sophie Mae’s face scrunched, unfamiliar with any of the names on the document. Catherine Jean… maybe Aunt Catherine?
Grandma Hattie rarely talked of her sister, who’d left for Hollywood at a young age and graced the big screen for two decades until illness gave her bouts of vertigo. Moving up north, Catherine hid from the shame of failure.
Sophie Mae didn’t recall visiting Minnesota. The journey would have been hundreds of miles from the farm and something easily remembered. She scratched her head at the idea of using the box as transportation. How could a small decorative box take me to another state? Should I sell it and use the money for a train ticket? There are no buyers left in Drycrop.
Lying flat on the bottom of the box was an old Brownie camera print. Sophie Mae pulled it close to her eyes. A woman held a baby in front of an enormous brick home. She looked closer, but didn’t recognize the people in the photo and dropped it back into the box.
The last word of the document intrigued her, and she wondered about its pronunciation. Is it Ma-drosa, or Mad-rosa?
“Madrosa,” she blurted.
An intense light burst from the box and filled the entire house. Small beads of sweat glistened across Sophie Mae’s forehead as her body warmed and disappeared from the ramshackle farmhouse.
Sweat dripped from her chin as her left hand shrank faster than her right. Her arms and legs also shortened, along with her torso. Surrounded by the white porcelain walls, she stood inside the box where the rolled-up document appeared as big as an old-growth tree. Her eyes darted. Her heart pounded.
The document faded, and the inside of the box transformed into the dusty road that passed by the farmhouse. Sophie Mae rushed to the gate, finding it locked. Harsh winds announced the sandstorm roaring in her direction along the barren plain. She covered her face and sprinted down the rocky road, looking back several times to judge the storm’s speed.
In the distance, the harsh landscape transformed into a beautiful garden with a sweet fragrance. Sophie Mae stopped running and dropped her hands from her face. That’s it, I’m dead. Those Pearly Gates must be nearby.
A second flash and she screamed at the stretching of her arms and legs, almost fainting at the dimensions of her now tiny head. She slumped to the ground and gathered her legs. The sudden coolness of the earth had her peeking through one eye. Lush grass and tall bushes with pink daisies disguised the horizon. Sophie Mae’s chapped and broken skin eased in the humid air. Setting aside the box, she pulled herself to standing on a path of finely manicured Bermuda grass edged with mounds of vibrant coral bells.
Sophie Mae trembled. Her thoughts scattered like the flames of a bonfire on cleared farm land. This wasn’t Drycrop.
A wrought-iron gate at the edge of the garden swung open, and Sophie Mae raced through, finding a massive brick mansion three stories tall. Rusty-brown bricks covered the entire house, and four chimneys rose from the roof. A drive with an archway was to the left, and white gravel rocks surrounded the structure.
Curious, she hurried to the home and knelt at the basement windows to glance inside. White covers protected the furniture stacked against the walls. No sign of life stirred.
Sophie Mae’s boots crunched loose rocks as she walked to the archway where thousands of shimmering tiles formed a mosaic of the night sky in vibrant shades of blue and gold. The colors are just like the box. Oh! The box! She sprinted back to the basement windows.
With the box in hand, she returned to the archway for another look at the mosaic. Her smile dropped as the tiles shifted, producing a new image. Waves collided against sand dunes on a sunny beach. That picture is moving. Pictures don’t move.
Fearful she might be dehydrated and hallucinating, she slouched against the brick of the house and closed her eyes. I am fine. My heart will hold. My mind will still.
Calmed, she scanned the driveway and the entry to the house. The front door had ivy leaves surrounding a red rose, all created with stained glass. Reaching out to touch a petal, the door creaked open like an invitation to enter.
From the foyer of the home, she peered from behind a long trench coat draped from a hat stand. “Hello?”
Without an answer, Sophie Mae snuck into the seating area and ducked behind a round table. Her large, brown eyes popped just above the surface.
Gold frames glistened along a far wall. She looked around before approaching them. Landscapes of the property made up the bulk of the artwork, but a single portrait stood out. The middle-aged woman dressed in green stared into the distance. Those are Grandma Hattie’s eyes. This must be Aunt Catherine’s home.
A grand staircase rose three floors and upstaged the oil and pastel works. Dark cherry handrails twisted and curled like wild vines along the steps. Sophie Mae padded up the stairs, stopping when the small hairs of her arm prickled. A quick glance found her alone and put her mind at ease.
The second floor comprised a long hallway with several doors on either side. Natural light filled the end of the hall with twenty reclaimed windows pieced together to form a wall. Plants thrived on the small side table and in hanging metal baskets. Sophie Mae pinched the tip of an aloe plant. The slimy goo covered her thumb and dripped to her palm. She pocketed a few ends to treat the sores on her ankles.
A clear glass of water appeared on a small side table. Not a single fleck of dirt drifted near the bottom, unlike water from rain barrels back home. Those usually required fishing out drowned raccoons, leaving the water bitter. Sophie Mae drank the entire glass and stumbled backward when the water line inched back to the rim. That’s not possible!
Pulling her arms tight into her body, she continued to the third floor, which was more of a landing than a hallway. A couple of wall sconces shown on the simple, white tile floor. Seeing only two doors, Sophie Mae mustered her courage and headed for the one with the glass handle.
She peeked her head inside the door. Not a trace of furniture or even a painting graced the room, and it looked bigger than her entire farmhouse. As soon as she entered the room, it began to change. The air grew warmer. A chair with a woven rattan seat appeared in the corner. She recognized it as Grandma Hattie’s favorite rocking chair. Her knees trembled as she wiggled the loose armrest, the result of her tipping from the chair as a toddler.
Knitting a green sweater, Grandma Hattie solidified in the rocker. The travel box slipped from Sophie Mae’s hands and crashed to the floor. The older woman tied off the end row and held the garment high with a proud smile. Sophie Mae’s chest tightened. This happened a decade ago. Now I know I’m seeing things.
Grandma Hattie called for her, but Sophie Mae picked up the box and dashed to the stairs.
Barreling downward, she tripped on the last step and fell to the cold marble, and the box slid under a chair. She crawled over and scooped it up before racing for the front door.
Running through the archway, she moved faster than she’d ever had. Bird calls from the garden muffled, and her eyes clouded. She hid behind an old oak tree growing along the pebble-filled drive and curled into a ball. I am fine. My heart will hold. My mind will still.