Sara and The Little Black Notebook

Sara didn’t mean to drop the jar of spaghetti sauce on the floor, but the manager and the nosey onlookers' faces said it all. She did not belong here—in this market or this town. Patience had been growing thin with her presence in this town for a little shy of a year. It had become more difficult for her to smile and bear with the dirty looks and whispers behind her back.

As she pulled out a crumpled dollar bill and the small number of various coins strangled by lint from her pocket, the lump in her throat started to grow with the beads of sweat rolling down her temples. She knew this wasn’t enough to pay for what she dropped and the box of crackers she originally went to the market to purchase. Stretching her shaking hand out towards the cashier, she apologized while placing the odd coinage into, yet another, judgmental hand then offered to stock or bag groceries to pay for the rest. Like numerous times before, Sara was greeted with disdain and told to leave immediately. With a deep breath that always seemed to push back tears, she looked around at the people in line impatiently waiting to share their gossip at checkout. She wished them all a good day before walking out the singular glass door plastered with stickers and signs telling of upcoming community events…she was not welcome to attend.

Once outside and away from the negativity she encountered this morning, Sara was able to smile as she felt the sun warm her cheeks while looking up to the heavens with admiration. She continued on her way, walking past busy coffee shops with intoxicating aromas of Columbian blends and a hint of Chai tea that tickled her nose and brought her back to a life she no longer led. A music store with guitars hanging in the display window was just opening as she walked by. She heard the click of the lock and witnessed the owner hurrying to avoid her gaze. While crossing the street, a woman shielded her small child from connecting with Sara’s warm smile. It was a typical Saturday morning walking to work at the local antique shop where she categorized inventory in the back room away from the customers.

While at work, Sara kept to herself. After given the tasks to complete for the day, the owner, Marie, hurried out to the storefront to greet an elderly couple eagerly waiting for the doors to open. Sara could hear the muffled conversations about prices and delivery times but went back to her tasks of inventory. A few hours later, she was pulled from her own thoughts when she heard her name being mentioned by one of the customers. As she listened closer, she could make out keywords that sunk in her chest and reaffirmed her lack of belonging—atrocity, mongrel, and deviant; to name a few. With her head bowed even lower, she closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and went back to working on inventory.

Carefully placing the remainder of her crackers in her coat pocket, Sara was done working for the day and was waiting for Marie to pay her for her time. The Saturday prior earned her almost enough to get through the week for food and necessities. Sara was grateful for the job one day a week. She had quickly learned that there were no other opportunities in this town for her—employment or otherwise. When Marie had closed for the night, she retrieved money for Sara from the cash register and strolled to the backroom. Small pleasantries were exchanged before putting the money in her pocket without looking at it. She thanked Marie before heading out the back door into the dark alley.

While in the alley, Sara reached into her pocket to count the money she had earned and was surprised to find an extra five-dollar bill included with the crisp one-hundred-dollar bill she had come accustom to receiving. Surely this was a mistake in accounting. She wondered if she should bring it to Marie’s attention. But, before she could turn around, Marie drove off in the opposite direction. Sara looked at the extra blessing in her hands and decided to head home.

Sara still heard the echo of her mother insisting that she never walk alleys at night. She chuckled to herself, wondering if her mother would still disapprove had she known that, given her current circumstances, this was far much safer for her. As she turned the corner and headed up Jackson Street, her reminiscence of better times with her mother was interrupted by Jack, the butcher, while he was taking out the trash behind his shop. Sara acknowledged him with a smile as they exchanged friendly banter. Jack had always been nice to her since her arrival and didn’t look at her with pity or animosity like the other residents. He was funny, kind, and had an attitude that radiated contentment. Whenever he could, he set beef or fish aside for her that would not keep until the next day to sell in his shop. Tonight, was one of those times. Sara thanked him for his generosity and continued on her way home.

As she turned left onto Chestnut Street, her pace slowed while she was wondering what it was like for her mother growing up in this town—in this long-abandoned house at the end of the steep hill. She imagined the Summers being filled with children riding bikes, roller skating, laughing in the sun, neighbors barbequing and being nice to each other. But this was not the case. In this town, her mother would always be the one the residents held responsible for their hometown hero’s death. Sara would always be that reminder. Her mother never really talked about her father, but Sara had heard the gossip and matter-of-fact snide comments from the locals over this past year to know that he was worshipped and honored in this town. The same town he died in at the age of seventeen. Sara visited the local high school once and saw all his trophies in a shrine-like display case. Before she could take it all in and learn more, the janitor kicked her out and told her never to return.

Upon entering the house her mother left her, she made her way in the dark to light the candles, gathered the jug of rainwater from the back porch, then made a fire in the potbelly stove for warmth and to prepare her dinner. After she had eaten, she entered the day’s events in her little black notebook her mother left her for journaling making sure she did not leave anything out. She also made a separate entry reminding her that she owed the grocery store for the jar of spaghetti sauce she accidentally knocked over. With the extra five dollars Marie had given her, she would return to the store in the morning and pay them back for her trouble. When she was done journaling, she walked into the kitchen and put an “X” on the calendar noticing that in 8 days, she would have been living here for a year. Shaking off the memories, she cleaned her plate and headed into the powder room to wash her face and get ready for bed. After adding the last of the small stack of scrap wood to the stove, she grabbed her grandmother’s quilt and drifted off to sleep on the old lumpy couch.

The next week went on the same as the others before. Sara walked four blocks into town to get scrap wood, candles, canned food, and crackers. She repaid her debt, tried to ignore the majority of the townspeople, exchanged smiles with small children, pet a stray dog, and watched the families in the park before heading back to her house to repair…something. It wasn’t until the eighth day that everything changed. Sara received a thick manilla envelope in the mail sent from a law firm in New York. When she opened it and read the letters, she dropped them on the kitchen floor and grabbed the chair closest to her so she would not join the letters on the floor. Puzzled from what she had just read, Sara picked up the letters from the floor and read them over and over again until she understood what they both said:

“ …upon my death, my daughter Sara Walker will inherit the family home….I gave her a little black notebook to journal her time living in this town but did not tell her that it would be used as a determining factor in our real estate transactions a year after my death…she is not to know anything about this deal prior to handing over the notebook to you and in return, you are to release to her Twenty Thousand Dollars ($20,000.00) for her time and hire her to be a liaison for the longevity of your firm in regards to all real estate development transactions….The trust is to be discussed with her along with any land and other investments I have made with your firm on her behalf…”

“Dear Ms. Walker,

We are deeply sorry for your loss and know this has been a difficult time for you. Your mother was one of our most cherished employees over the past twenty-five years. She will be missed. Our thoughts and prayers are with you.

Enclosed you will find our original agreement, the deed to properties, and other useful information to get this trust and release of funds to you promptly. We will need you to supply us with the little black notebook your mother spoke of in our agreement before we can issue you the check and proceed. Please call our office and set up an appointment soon…”

Sara only remembered her mother working as a waitress and various other minimum wage jobs while she was growing up, but nothing long-term. When her mother got sick, Sara had to drop out of college to take care of her. During her remission, Sara knew her mother worked as a volunteer later in life for numerous charities and often did odd temp jobs in real estate offices, but this all seemed to be a mistake. Could this be real? Did they get the right Sara Walker? Looking again at the address label, it was definitely her name and current address. She slumped further back in her seat but still couldn’t believe what had just happened. “What had just happened?”, she thought to herself. She looked at the clock, then the phone, then back at the clock.

“Hello, this is Sara Walker. I need to make an appointment”.

It was hard for Sara to hand over the little black notebook that contained her innermost thoughts and feelings from the past year. Giving it to strangers to read made her feel extremely uncomfortable. Upon further discussion, it was revealed that her mother assisted on a deal with this real estate firm and had been in negotiations with the town for over ten years trying to buy them out and improve the town’s economy. If she lived there for a year, documented the character of the business owners and residents in a little black notebook, that information would be used as leverage. Sara still was not sure why she was used as a major role in this.

The gentleman stated, “Sara, your mother shared with us the hardships she endured from the community after your father’s death. He was a football star in a small community looking to increase tourist revenue. When he was leaving for the championship game, your mother went into early labor with you. He drove to be with her at the hospital when the accident happened. Your mother endured all that she could from the community before she moved you away, six months later. Please understand, You had to be the one to get them to let down their guard”.