Independence Inherited

“Hannah!”

The neatly dressed young woman nearly dropped her binder full of papers, turning to face the bombastic voice that called her name. She shushed her racing thoughts, internally scolding herself for being so obviously spooked.

Mr. and Mrs. Boseman, owners of the Green River Estate Sales, haughtily rounded the corner, their plump forms plodding along in a rather tacky fashion as they flashed manufactured smiles to the shoppers which promptly disappeared as soon as Hannah was the only person in sight.

Mrs. Boseman shot Hannah a look of surreptitious disapproval as she clumsily gathered a few stray documents and photographs that had fallen, finding herself flustered that they had all come out of order.

“Hannah, dear,” her honey sweet voice dripped. “I don’t recall telling you to put the blue dishes next to the antique phonograph.”

Hannah expeditiously glanced at her notes. Written in bolded letters and painstakingly color coded, she found her floor plan marked with precision. The blue dinnerware was, indeed, supposed to be located next to the phonograph. Mr. and Mrs. Boseman had agreed, against Hannah’s wishes, that the blue dinnerware be placed next to the phonograph because it was, as they had put it, “equally similar in both style and taste.” All these against Hannah’s objections that the plates were from a department store that had gone out of business in the 80’s and the phonograph was a singularly unique piece that deserved a better placement, perhaps next to the grand piano that was for sale.

Looking up from her binder, she made a move to turn her notes for the Bosemans to review, planning to assure them that she’d made every effort to ensure their accuracy. But the hardened look on their faces gave her pause.

“Move them.” Mr. Boseman’s eyes widened, wasting no time on any sort of pleasantry. “Move them now.”

Hannah gulped, “Uh—um…where?”

Mr. Boseman sneered, “The kitchen, of course!”

She would have preferred to stomp off towards the kitchen like a petulant child, but thought better of it. She folded her binder together and let it hit her temporary desk with a slight smack before lightly stamping off to the kitchen.

Mr. Boseman muttered under his breath, “What do we pay her for, anyway?”

Mrs. Boseman smoothed her husband’s lapel and softly patted it into place as if to say “there-there.”

“She’s just a silly girl, Alfred. Silly girls ask silly questions.” Mrs. Boseman cooed.

Hannah steadied herself with a cleansing breath. The sale would be over in a few short hours. Already, most of the furniture was gone. And there was leftover takeout awaiting her in the mini-fridge inside her dorm. She moved the dinnerware in small stacks, making several trips to avoid the possibility of dropping and breaking anything in her uncouth way. Hannah had believed this job would be a step towards owning her own antique shop; but the misery had eviscerated her enthusiasm, and now she felt bound to it like a Gordian knot.

She was put together, ostensibly at least. Her black rimmed glasses were slightly too large for her face and came to little points at the edges of her eyes, inadvertently reminiscent of a domestic cat. Her hair was slicked back into a ponytail; Hannah had always felt that a low bun would give people the wrong impression of stinginess. Nevertheless, every hair was tucked away into its place, and that was how she liked it. Her pantsuit was expertly pressed, though she’d never admit that she couldn’t afford to have it dry cleaned. The white collard shirt was crisp and bright, almost bluish under the light of the sparkling chandelier in the living room.

People buzzed in an excited hum around her, eager to find an oddity or trinket they could add to their already unkempt homes. But for Hannah, these occasions were always rather morbid. No doubt there was a couple upstairs haggling over the former owner’s lingerie and her overpriced, partially exhausted perfume bottles. The way they prattled around made her uneasy, as if the woman of this grand old house had been a Scrooge that deserved to have her most intimate belongings strewn about, even the nearly empty shampoo bottles which had just sold for sixty cents a piece. The previous owner of the home had no family, and the Bosemans were all too eager to snatch the estate for a fraction of its worth to turn a profit. There was no tenderness or care, the kind that she herself felt needed to be taken with beautiful possessions left behind by real people.

When all the dishes had been transported back into the kitchen, Hannah opened the cupboards once more to confirm that nothing else had taken up residence on their shelves, feeling around on one that she couldn't see. Her fingers found a raised smooth surface, and she pulled down a little black notebook, bound and noticeably weathered.

From cover to cover, she could see the imprints of fingers, as if the journal had been gripped by hands that were writing, reading and rereading its pages. 

She started to call Mr. Boseman, but she feared the notebook would surely be thrown in the trash. There was nothing better to do; opening to the first page, she read:

December 18th, 1910

I was feeling rather industrious the other day and suggested to William that he should invest in the latest advents for homes. I’ve been reading on the economics of new devices and found that the washing machine and vacuum cleaner would be of particular use to women like myself, lightening the already burdensome load of menial household tasks. Unfortunately, his father overheard my suggestion and told me I should mind the business of ladies and “what have you better to do than keep a good home.” He asked whether I’d found a new nanny for Evangeline or improved upon my recipe for Shepherd’s Pie. I must admit, I was disappointed that I acquiesced so easily to his objections of my involvement in our finances. William looked apologetic, but he did not stand up for me. I was angry, but I felt it unladylike to behave in such a way that Mr. Penbrooke might perceive as impertinent.

On edge and aware that someone might walk into the room at any moment, Hannah flipped a handful of pages.

November 1st, 1917

William has died. I know no other way to express myself other than to say that I am terribly grieved. Evangeline is only a child, and yet, she knows as well as I that the blood of her father stains the battlefield in France. Whether they will return his body to us, I do not know. William’s father has been of little help financially to us and of less consolation. I must do what I can to care for my daughter. It may mean my correspondence with the Suffragists will have to cease for the time being. But I must not abandon my duty to Evangeline.

She turned the page and read again:

August 19th, 1920

I must write today, for we’ve had the most exciting news! The nineteenth amendment was ratified just yesterday. I cannot help but weep with joy! I think William would be glad; not just for me but for little Evangeline. As we had no son, it is up to her to carry on the family name, which I think she will do with pride and immeasurable grace. And why should she not? Has this not proven that she will be as capable as any young man? She will now inherit not only the estate, but the right to speak on such matters in the public square. Oh, my heart is so happy for her! Though it may be some time before she will be able to sit among other men and be considered their equal in matters of business, her determination is without question.

Voices echoed down the hallway, and Hannah hastily shut the book out of which a letter shot out and delicately floated to the kitchen floor. It read:

February 8th, 1997

Upon my death, whomever is fortunate enough to find this box shall be the keeper of its contents, which are $20,000. It is my hope that the finder of this sum will have great use for it and carry on the traditions of my family that my mother has so lovingly penned in this journal. Should anyone object to this request, the secret clause in my will along with the presentation of this letter and journal should suffice to ensure my wishes are upheld.

“Independence is happiness,” (Susan B. Anthony)

Kind Regards to You,

Evangeline Penbrooke

Enclosed within the letter was a picture of the phonograph which stood precariously on a table in the hallway. Visible was an open compartment on the back where a wooden box was concealed. Inside the letter was also the business card of an attorney, with a name and phone number.

Surely someone will have found the box by now and emptied it, Hannah thought. Moments later, she returned to the room where the Bosemans stood.

“How much do you want for this box?” Hannah asked breathlessly.

Mr. Boseman’s eyes narrowed. “Where did you find that? We never cataloged a box like that, I’m sure…”


“It was with the phonograph,” she replied smoothly. “How much?”

“Forty dollars,” Mrs. Boseman sniffed, sticking her nose in the air ever so slightly.

“It’s falling apart!”

Mr. Boseman straightened. “Do you want it or not?”

Hannah began giggling uncontrollably, reaching into her back pocket for the last of her cash.

The Bosemans, who were still standing pretentiously, looked as if they might have spontaneously combusted with rage.

The wrinkled dollar bills landed with a thwap, including all her spare change which clattered to the floor noisily.

“For heaven’s sake, you imbecile, this is no way to treat your superiors!” he spat.

“Actually—” she replied contemplatively, “—you’re right Mr. Boseman.”

She started into their savagely stunned faces as the side of her mouth pulled into a crooked smile.

“I quit.”