Of Gingerbread and a Key

On my sixteenth birthday, my grandma gave me a little black notebook to “keep track of daily life and to remind me of what I had to be thankful for.” A tiny thing, small enough to fit in my apron pocket and covered all around in black leather. It had a real silk string, too. How she came by it, I couldn’t then guess. Everyday I’d write a little something about what Ma was making for supper or how the crops were growing. Until the day my grandma died, just two short months from when she gave me the notebook.

After the funeral, Ma, Dolly, my younger sister, and I went up to Grandma’s room in the attic. No one, not even Pa had ever been up there. Dolly, being adventurous and hasty, pushed open the door. Ma gasped. I didn’t have any breath for words. Inside of the room was a carefully carved chest, covered in gold leaf and scuffed up like an antique. It was ancient. Ma stammered, “The trunk!” and then turned pale. “I didn’t know she kept it! You girls had better go downstairs and find the old blue apron. It has the key in the seam.”

She then turned her back to us and caressed the worn exterior. As we marched downstairs, Dolly got a wild gleam in her eyes. “I think Ma needs gingerbread,” she declared and ran off towards the pantry. I sighed. Dolly would use any excuse she could get to eat gingerbread. I continued into the kitchen, where I grabbed the blue apron. Then curiosity overcame me and I ran out of the kitchen and up the stairs.

Panting, I reached the still-open door to the room that had been Grandma’s. Everything was as I had left it, though Ma had stopped murmuring. I heard Dolly screaming, “I got it! I got it!” Ma looked up, kind of startled, and then noticed me. “Whatever has your sister got, Emily? I don’t recall asking for anything but the apron,” she wearily remarked. “She’s been getting gingerbread. She said you needed some,” I stammered. Her face went taut and she drew her lips into a line. Just then Dolly came romping up the stairs, carrying a plate full of gingerbread. Both of us gave Ma our respective offerings. She, ignoring the heaping plate, picked up the apron and, with slender fingers, plucked at the decorative stitching in a lumpy place. After a matter of minutes, Ma revealed a tiny bronze key. She inserted this into a little keyhole near the top of the chest. With a click, the top popped open. Inside was...another slot, this one on a plain board.

Ma sighed. “I had forgotten about the second key. We may never find if this chest was ever opened.” I furrowed my brow and descended into the deepest plane of thought. Meanwhile, Dolly had asked what the content was that Ma had mentioned. Ma sighed. “I suppose you two should hear the story of this chest. Dolly,” she said to my sister, who was hungrily eyeing the gingerbread, “you may eat the gingerbread.” Dolly gave a great whoop, blushed, and settled down to demolish the contents of the heaping plate.

Ma began the story to which I have forgotten the words. All I can say is that it was long and wild and beautiful. The afternoon became the evening before it was over. All the while Ma, Dolly, and I went through Grandma’s possessions. It started in a time when America wasn’t a country and our farmhouse hadn’t been built. It told of the Knights Templar and lost fortune. It told of the origin of the chest and the builders of our home. And last of all, it told of a little black book, small enough to put in a pocket, bound in leather, and with a real silk string. Then it clicked.

Grandma had written on the last pages of the book she gave me. She told me not to read it until she was gone. She told me to read every word. I pulled out the notebook, flipped to the last page, and began to read. On the last pages of the book was the same story that Ma had just told Dolly and me. At the very end, one phrase caught my eye. My grandfather had told my grandmother, just before he died, “Just remember, the answer is in your hands,” and handed her the notebook. I felt a flash of inspiration.

I reached my hand over to the box and put the corner of the notebook into the hole. After a matter of seconds, I felt a click and a wider hole opened. Indeed, the whole wooden board split in half and fell into the chest. What we saw made Ma white as a ghost. It made Dolly faint. It made me pinch myself to see if I was in a dream. Inside the chest was money.

Later, Ma and Pa counted it out. Twenty-thousand dollars. Enough to send me to college. Enough after that for Pa to buy more land. Some leftovers to put in the bank. Ma was set that I should go to college and not Peter, my older brother. “After all,” she said, “it was Emily who found the money.” After much persuasions, Pa finally conceded. I, a farm girl from Nebraska, was going to college.

All these years later, things have changed. The chest was sold, the little black notebook was hidden. People travel by cars rather than horses and wagons. But some things were still the same. Pa still farms. Ma still sews her clothes, and I still remember.

I remember Grandma. Her gentle voice, how she always smelled of cats, and how she would sneak Dolly and me presents and gingerbread when we were small. I remember the games I used to play with my nine brothers and sisters. I remember the notebook.

And to this day, gingerbread reminds me of Dolly. She works in a sweet shop now and is happily married with three children. I am unmarried.

Going to college was hard. I had to leave behind the only places and people I knew, and take a wild leap into hidden lands. But it was worth it, and I suppose it wouldn’t have happened without Grandma.