Sandra's Secret

Sandra’s Secret

Sandra entered the bookstore, dragging a leg. The bell door jingled, leaving an echo that reminded of the merry-go-round of her childhood when she was going with Andra, her twin sister, to the State Fair. She smiled when greeted by the girl behind the counter and walked stumbling to the room in the back, the one with antiques.

She was coming every Tuesday morning to be the first to look into the stuff Chris brought. The bookseller was sharing the same passion for old books, manuscripts, and notebooks. Chris would sort the goods himself before putting them up for sale, keeping the rare and valuable things for himself. But sometimes real gems slipped through his fingers, for his selection criteria and especially his knowledge of antiquities did not match with hers. She would have liked to own and run such a bookstore herself, but she had to stay under the radar all her life.

She dragged her limping leg to enter the large room in the back, walls covered from top to bottom with shelves full of old books. Sandra went to the wall opposite the door, where every Tuesday the fresh antiques were dispplayed on a wooden table. She was the first, as always.

She leaned both palms on her head and inspected the merchandise. It was really not much stuff this time. Some old books, with reddish and brown covers, gnawed by the weather, some withered musical scores, a few folders of sheets of paper and a cardboard box full of notebooks, some diaries, and on the left edge of the shelf, a photo album. Dissapointed, she sighed and pulled a chair, preparing for a few hours of researching all that junk.

The experience had taught her not to treat anything superficially, for often valuable things were hidden either between the pages of an ordinary book or in the inside pockets of the covers. That’s how she had discovered, more than two decades ago, the hidden gem that had secured her retirement, an original photograph of Abe Lincoln, attested to be from April 1865, taken just five days before he was assassinated. She sold it at an auction for $115,000. Being a moderate and thoughtful woman, she had estimated that the money would last her long enough even if she was to live up to a hundred years. Next year she’ll turn 80, but her deteriorating health did not give her too much hope about celebrating her hundreth birthday ever.

She methodically picked up each notebook, analysing each one carefully. They were mainly worthless notes of some high school students and diary attempts. At the bottom of the box, however, she came across a stack of seven palm-sized notebooks, covered in leather, tied with an old, waxed string. Six were brown, and one black. The tight knot and the conditions of the rope made clear that nobody found them before her, and this gave her hope. She tried in vain to undo the knot, realizing eventually that she had no chance without some scissors.

She pursed her lips tightly. She was thus put in a position to buy them all or leave them there. But the intuition told her not to miss them. Somehow, those notebooks gave her a familiar feeling, like wanting to tell her a story from the past. A shiver went through spine, which she could not suppress. She was going to buy them, damn it, especially since the untied knot and string made it clear that they had passed beyond Chris's vigilance.

“Did you find something you like, Jane? Good morning!”

Was this guy a genie or something? she wondered, puzzled. Was it enough to think of his name and he suddenly he appeared behind you?

“Mmmh ...” – she muttered an answer, without turning. “You haven’t brought too much good stuff lately...”

“I'm doing the best I can, dear Jane. It's getting harder these days. These young people, when they move into an old house, they prefer to trash the "old things" rather than taking them to an antique shop. Can you imagine, that box of goodies you’re looking at? It got here all the way from Hammond, Louisiana.”

Sandra's heart stood still. She felt a lump in her throat and made a major effort to swallow it. She opened her lips so that the air in her lungs could exhale faster, feeling suffocated. She had run away for over 60 years, and right now the past would run straight into her, here in Seattle?

“That photo album”, Chris continued, “has items gathered from Texas and Arizona. I feel generous today – you can buy anyting here for half price”.

She turned to him smiling, making a superhuman effort not to bring out the storm that had broken out inside her.

“Thanks, Chris, darling! If you are so generous, then I will do the same and I will spend all the money I brought with me. We both have a good deal!” she added and got up from her chair.

The old man, smiling too, bowed his head and withdrew from the room visibly pleased.

* * *

She took a seat at her desk, pulled the scissors from the drawer, and cut the waxed string that held together the old notebookes. She was impatient, she needed to know. She lined up all seven notebooks in front of her under the yellow light of the lamp. She looked at them for a long while, her heart pounding to break out of her chest. She suddenly remembered the black one, which had the leather of the cover scribbled down to the cardboard in the lower right corner.

With trembling fingers, she grabbed the notebook and opened it. Her twin sister's name, Andra Bloom, was calling her from the front page. They were indeed her diaries.

She took her head in her hands and burst into tears. The whole past had collapsed on her now, leaving her breathless. God, how was that possible?! And the long forgotten story erupted from her memory, making her tremble and sob.

They were only 20 back then. They had a shitty life, and their only goal was to get out of that rathole once and for all, for Ponchatoula was nothing but a dead end where life buried alive the people of color. Andra had been working for a few months at Willkinson's store, the largest convenience store in Hammond, and Sandra was a maid with the Donahue’s.

One evening, Mrs. Donahue wanted to make a cake but she was out of flour. She sent Sandra to the grocery store. When she got there, the store was already closed. However the blinds were not drawn, a sign that the merchant was still inside. She knocked on the window a few times, waiting patiently. Willkinson finally showed up and opened the door, thinking it was Andra.

“You say you want some flour? Come here, I'll give it to you”. He locked the door behind and pulled her by the hand toward the back of the store where he had his office. Sandra could smell the whiskey in his breath. No doubt the old man had his supply of alcohol during prohibition. Willkinson had tried to rape her then. He had wrapped his big hands around her and kissed her on the neck. Bewildered and taken by surprise, she did not fight back. That gave Willkinson enough courage to slip a hand under her skirt. Sandra pushed him then, and the already intoxicated old man lost his balance, falling and hitting himself on the head in the corner of the safe. Frightened, she wanted to run away, but she returned from the door to get the flour she had come for. She glanced at the fallen body again, only to realize that Willkinson was dead. She had also noticed something else – the safe door was ajar. Most likely, the merchant was just depositing the money from the daily sales when Sandra knocked on the door. Giving in to an unconscious impulse, she opened the safe. Even if she didn't know what to expect, to her immense surprise, the safe was full of money. Without thinking too much, she took a large bag of brown paper and put all the money inside. She only left a few bills including a fifty-dollar one, and all the change, then she locked the safe with a random combination. Thus, she had thought, no one would suspect that the grocer had been robbed, and the appearances might lead to the conclusion that he, being drunk, had slipped and hit his head, dying alone. Once arrived at the Donahue’s, she hid the money bag under the bed in a wooden box.

Andra discovered the body the next day and immediately called the sheriff. The police did not suspect at first any foul play. Sandra hadn't said anything to anyone, not even to her sister. When asked by the sheriff's deputy, Tom Mulaney, she confidently answered that the late Mr. Willkinson was well when she left the store, and it seemend like things would end there, the case being closed.

Then the ordeal began. In the store’s cellar, Tom Mulaney discovered several crates of whiskey – it looked that Willkinson was selling booze illegally. Three days later, a car with Chicago plates was seen on the dusty streets of Hammond. The men dressed in black suits with thin white stripes and black-and-white leather shoes were not interested at all in finding out the circumstances of the grocer's death, but, according to the city rumours, they were looking to track down twenty thousand dollars that had disappeared. It was their money from the sale of alcohol. Obviously, they could not make a formal complaint, but they produced a loan agreement for that amount. Now the police had a new lead to follow. The girls were summoned to the police station again. Andra was the most interrogated, Tom Mulaney being convinced that she was aware about the old man’s illegal activity, and she must have known something about that money. In vain did Andra deny any accusation, they still considered her a suspect. Things went completely crazy when one of the mobsters came to her house and threatened her with a knife.

Only then did Sandra tell her sister the truth, and they both decided to keep the money and run away from the city. They were going to take the train to Memphis a day away from each other, to avoid any suspicions. From there, the plan was to go to Philadelphia, where they had an aunt they could stay with for a while, until things calmed down.

It's just that Andra never made it to Memphis. Her sister was arrested the next day, tried and sent to jail, while Sandra bacame a wanted fugitive. For the next decade she had never spent more than a year in one place, until she was hired at an antique shop in Cleveland. There she fell in love with antiques, realizing that she could make a living without too much hard work, all this time hidding her pain deep in her soul.

She had never set foot in Hammond again. She had learned that Andra was released from jail after six years of out of the ten she was sentenced, and died soon after, with tuberculosis. This news had shattered her and she never really recovered. She had carried this burden with her for a lifetime, and no therapy she had tried made her forget her abominable deed.

She wiped away her tears, struggling to cope with the chest pain. With trembling fingers, she flipped through the black-covered notebook to the last written page. Andra's last sentence there broke his heart: "Wherever you are, I think of you with peace of mind, my dear Sandra. I forgive you! Because you are my good sister... ”