Ernest Wade removed his fedora and covered his mouth against the sand drifts. From the brim, he retrieved the photo of a youthful woman cuddling a baby in a patch of wildflowers. A new farmhouse stood guard in the background. His sharp eyes darted between the house in the photo and the one before him. They looked similar, but most farmhouses of the time usually did. He slid the black-and-white picture back into his hat. So, this is the famous Drycrop she always talked about.
The front gate wobbled open, clinging to its last hinge. Ernest’s feet sank into the mounds of sand as he marched to the house. Pounding his shoes on the first step to shake off loose grit busted the wood and trapped his foot in the cavernous space. I don’t believe this.
A single nail secured each end of the plank, and the two pieces swung outward like barn doors. A tingling crawled up his ankle, and Ernest flicked the centipede that was rushing for higher ground.
He stepped to the porch and knocked. No answer. The knob turned with little effort, but the door felt secured from the other side.
Ernest walked to the edge of the porch and jumped two feet to the ground, overextending his ankle. With a slight hobble, he circled the home’s exterior, finding wood slats dangling from the frame and a roof that appeared uneven.
The desert-like plain extended to the horizon and resembled the sands of Egypt more than a farm. No birds hovered overhead or sung off in the distance. It was a far cry from the lush grounds of the Gardenia Estate, but nothing could ever compare to his previous home.
The back door allowed him entry into the musky, lifeless house. Void of furniture and wall decorations, the home looked abandoned. Still, a plank of wood barred the front door. Why? There’s nothing to steal.
An old Remington double-barrel leaned against the corner of the door. Ernest lifted it. I haven’t seen one of these in at least ten years. He flipped the beaver tail near the stock, disappointed to find it empty. It could’ve been useful to him back home.
Ernest rifled through the empty cabinets. Only two pans remained, and both had lost their wood handles. Tucked under the sink was a single chair. She probably burned the rest of the furniture for warmth.
Mounds of sand dotted the wooden floor and fashioned a trail to the bedroom. The dress on the wall startled him as he entered the room. He grabbed it at the waist and shook the sand from the skirt, remembering his little sister used to wear a similar one, though much smaller.
Time had eroded the memories of his frail sister who’d managed to survive the Spanish flu only to die of hunger. Nearly twenty-three years since her death, her weakened cries never left him in peace.
Sweat dripped from Ernest’s forehead as a vein bulged in his neck. His eyes rolled backward. Slamming onto the metal frame of the bed, the painful sensation eased to a stop. Ernest rubbed his neck, searching for wounds and blood, but found neither.
He flipped open his pocket watch. Seven hours since the last episode. What do they have in common?
With the symptoms gone, he knelt beside the saggy bed and found an old yellow suitcase hidden in the shadows. Ernest pulled it to the mattress.
The fickle lock was ripped from the case and he rummaged through the junk. Tossing the book’s velvet cover, Ernest shook it upside down hoping for notes or letters that might lead him to the heir. Hidden cash would have been a welcome sight.
A familiar fragrance came from the case, and Ernest lifted the letters to his nose. Luck was on his side. He tore off the ribbon and opened the first letter. In black ink was Ms. Catherine’s handwriting.
Dear Sweet Sister,
My hope of finding a treatment for my illness continues. Not only have I hired a chemist but also a chemist assistant to find a cure for my breathing problems.
Please don’t worry that I’ve forgotten you, my darling sister. When the medicine is complete, I’ll come to you and bring a vial. You’ll see, my chemists are the best and won’t let me down.
With Love,
Catherine
Ernest gripped the paper as the guilt returned. His work at the Gardenia Estate would’ve saved thousands if it weren’t for that self-serving magician. Angry, he balled up the letter and threw it across the room. A glimmer of metal caught his eye.
He reached inside the suitcase and pulled out a long, gold necklace with a heart-shaped locket. With the tips of his fingernails, he popped it open. Crammed inside were two tiny pictures. One was of Ms. Catherine and the other her sister, Hattie. Evil flared in his eyes, and he dropped the necklace into the coin pocket of his vest.
Ernest collected the letters and book, fumbling them as he walked back to the fireplace. All but a single envelope was dropped into the ashes. A book of matches with a purple snake on the cover was pulled from his coat pocket.
A red scorch line devoured the corner of the letter and produced yellow peaks of fire. Ernest tossed it into the fireplace where flames shot upward, spurred on by the flammable perfume.
Ernest Wade abandoned the fire. Throwing the front door plank aside, he strutted from the house. She’s in Evenland. Now all I have to do is find her.
The rust bucket of a bus reeked of armpits and sweaty old socks. Queasiness tore through Ernest as chickens roamed the aisles, leaving droppings near every seat. Forehead grease layered the window and blurred the text of the old wooden sign rising from the ditch on the side of the road. It read, Evenland 5 miles.
Bus travel was the worst way of getting around these days. Families fleeing the heartland piled their belongings on their laps and took more space than their single tickets allowed.
At the edge of town, the bus stopped in front of several long metal benches. “Evenland!” the driver yelled.
Weary travelers crawled from their seats to the doors. Ernest let the bus empty before taking his leave. Thanking the driver with a tip of his hat, he stepped onto the dirt road.
With a half-hour walk to his apartment, Ernest tugged the brim of his hat lower and strolled to the paved roads within the city limits.
A deserted homestead, surrounded by a broken white fence, sat like a ghost from his past. A spattering of crops thrived despite the weeds and ant mounds that dotted the landscape.
The first Monday of the month always found the field covered in bed frames and dented old dressers, but also used farm supplies and water barrels. Families within the county swapped for items they needed, and money rarely changed hands.
Two adolescent boys in long, black coats and duck-billed caps struggled to carry bags of grain from the swap meet. Misery blanketed their faces. Ernest turned his gaze to the old Ford sputtering down the road. The last few days had strained his emotional state, and he feared the sight of sickly children might leave him unhinged.
Abandoned by his parents at twelve, Ernest became the sole caregiver and protector of his younger sister, Mona. The orphans lived in a rickety shack deep in the woods. Ernest often went hungry, passing his food portion to his sister. She wasted away until the cold November day she didn’t wake from her sleep.
A stench of uncollected trash piling on the corner of the street signaled Ernest’s apartment. The rectangular entryway had two sets of doors designed to keep the building temperature comfortable. However, two of the four windows were broken and strewn along the floor. Ernest opened the metal door of his mailbox, then slammed it closed. It was always empty.
Ernest shied from the germ-soaked handrail, climbing the metal staircase to the second-floor apartment. The dingy walls were cracked, and raccoon urine soaked into the fibers of the Victorian-styled wallpaper that remained.
Spray paint marked his unit as 21. He placed the key in the lock and entered the room. A mound of cockroaches piled on a ham bone welcomed him home. Fanning his hat across the hordes, the scratching and scurrying of their hairy legs silenced his growling stomach.
As he dropped to his favorite and only chair, a series of deep coughs burst from his lungs, the cause being either the dust flittering from the duct-taped seat or the mold that grew in the sink, perhaps both.
Arguing voices blared through the thin walls, and Ernest stared at the water-stained ceiling. He reminisced about the Gardenia House, where he worked as an assistant chemist. Though paid to heal the mistress’s illness, his real goal was to save the innocents starving in the dark corners of society. Innocents like his sister.
A fist pounded the apartment door, interrupting his daydream. He slouched as his tired feet dragged toward the noise, correcting his posture before opening the door a few inches.
A frazzled woman in pink foam curlers stood just outside. Her hands crossed at her chest. Does this woman ever leave the housing complex?
“What can I help you with, Ms. Haddermore?” Ernest asked with forced politeness.
“This game is old, and I’ve half a mind to kick you to the curb.”
“Yes, yes, I understand.” Ernest turned from her rotten black teeth and foul breath. “I’ll have your rent tomorrow. Goodnight.”
From the inside of the apartment, he listened for the heavy footsteps to fade. Ernest held his arm as a pain shot through it. The thumping of his pulse muffled his hearing. Dropping to the floor, he gasped like a fish out of water. Vibrations of the pounding broom from downstairs refocused his mind, and his heart rate slowed. Two days and eight hours. It’s not a time-related event, that much is true.
Heavy eyelids begged him to sleep, but there wasn’t time for such luxuries. In the kitchen, he searched for the fancy letterhead he’d swiped from the printing shop. He twisted open the ink pen and leaned on the counter. What would compel him to meet me?
Ernest slammed the counter, irritated by his inability to concentrate. Stomping across the floor to open the window had the tenants below banging their ceiling with a broomstick. “You want to hear stomping?” With a grunt, he lifted the chair high above his head and dropped it to the unsteady floor, ready to give way at any moment.
His pulse racing, Ernest fetched his coat and shoved the sheet of paper into his pocket, along with his last envelope. He barreled down the stairs and stepped outside, taking a deep breath of the chilled air. The pleasant days and cooler nights were a stark contrast to the heat and humidity of the south, where he’d lived most of his life.
A street lamp bathed a lone bench in light, making it unwelcoming for the homeless population. Ernest spread his arms along the back of the seat, glaring at a newspaper truck barreling down the road. Those newspapers print what will sell. They don’t concern themselves with the plight of the poor. The papers will write anything to sell a copy, and I know just the story.
His pen scratched across the page, and the smudging of the ink blended several words. Ernest lifted the letterhead and nodded. Yes, that’ll do just fine.
The envelope was stuffed, sealed, and addressed.
Mr. George Cain
Gardenia Estate
Evenland, Minnesota
Ernest jogged north to the seedy part of town where street urchins lined the sidewalks and took odd jobs for money. Studying the men as he walked past, Ernest stopped at one wearing a military jacket and thick, wool socks. “I need a delivery man.”
“What’s it to me? Go find a postman.”
Ernest’s body temperature rose. “The regular mail service no longer delivers messages to this address. I’m paying 30 cents.”
Clutching the metal rails of the fence, he struggled to his feet. “It’d be a pleasure.”
“Just make sure it gets there tonight.”