MISS CALVERT
Chapter One

February 24, 1945

Sarah Calvert strolled down wet Philadelphia streets. The sky above was gray and overcast. Her lazy golden curls had now matted themselves against her face. The cold winter rain was chilling her to the bone.

She was in Philadelphia visiting a teammate and friend of hers. Sarah was the center fielder for the South Bend Blue Sox and the only batter in the league that stood an easy chance against Racine pitcher Kit Keller. And for that teammates and fans called her Lucky Thirteen.

During the off-season she spent time with her family and traveled when she could afford to. Last year, since she lived in Indiana, she went not far to Cedar Rapids and visited her old neighborhood briefly. She had vague memories of the old house she and her family had lived in. It was small and crammed and they moved when she and her younger brother were still toddlers. When she saw it again it looked even smaller.

But today she was in Philly: a big and exciting city. Her father had grown up in New Jersey, not from New York City. Sarah had spent most of her childhood years in Maine, so to her Bar Harbor seemed crowded. And this city, Philadelphia, was where her mother had grown up.

She wanted to look for a house, but she had no idea where in the city her mother had lived, no address, not even a clue as to what area it might be in. Oh well.

Where am I? she thought. She searched for a street sign. East River Drive. This street was full of old, elegant houses and far from the center of the city. This was definitely not where Ann lived. But she had time to spare. She didn’t have to be at Ann’s until dinner.

She brought her new camera with her and promised her brother, Charlie she’d take pictures of Independence Hall and the Liberty Bell. And her mother told her to go see Fairmount Park, a favorite place of hers as a child. She hadn’t done any of those yet. But she had managed to get a few souvenirs for her family and friends, including a Cab Calloway record for Charlie.

Charlie was brilliant piano player and a music expert. He was the authority on jazz, which, along with baseball, was religion to their parents. Charlie was also the biggest Cab Calloway fanatic she had ever known. The only record of his he didn’t have was Get With Cab. When she saw it in the window of the record store she went in and got it for him. She had everyone on her list checked off except for her mother. She needed to get something extra special for her. It was her birthday today, her fiftieth in fact.

I should really find myself a map. I might be lost. Just then Get With Cab flew out her hands and rolled through a gate of one of the old houses. She reached for the record as she put her arm through metal bars. The gate creaked open with the pressure of her arm and swung out towards her.

She went through and picked up the record. Fortunately, it wasn’t damaged. Only the paper bag was soaked, but the cover was a little wet. She really shouldn’t have been carrying it in her hands. How foolish of me. She stuffed it into her bag.

After that she stepped back a few feet back on to the sidewalk to get a better look at the property. It was old and run-down. It hadn’t been taken care of in years, but the house was so grand and stately it must have been, she supposed the most beautiful estate in all of Philadelphia in its heyday. But it seemed no one occupied it now. It couldn’t hurt to take a peek. I wonder who must’ve lived here. Before re-entering she looked at the sign outside on the wall. Property of Hockley Steel Co. She lifted it up to find another sign, one engraved in gold. DeWitt Bukater. She felt the letters, letting her fingers dance over the words.

Sarah entered through the gates once more. Instead of walking into the house she instead went around into the yard.

The yard seemed to open up before her. There was an adventure to be had here. She was the intrepid explorer and she had discovered the lost city. The flowers and the bushes in the gardens left unattended had taken over the entire property like a great forest in fantasy book. Yes, a fantasy book. This must be what Neverland looks like on a rainy day. Or The Secret Garden. Her mother had read her that book countless times. Now she had discovered her own secret garden. In the distance, to her left she could see the old carriage house.

And all around her, majestic gardens, stone pathways, ornate gazebos, tall trees, a river at the land’s end, and the beauty of lives and loves long since forgotten. It reminded her of her mother in a way. Her presence was always accompanied by some great joy or great sadness. Sometimes both.

She flung out her arms and ran through the yard, as if in the climax of some Broadway musical. She felt free. There was magic here, it liberated her. She found some nameless solace here. There was no more war, no more spring training, no more of Mom and Dad heckling her to go back to school, no more responsibilities, worries, no more waiting for her childhood sweetheart to propose and it was about time too, she was twenty-one and he was twenty for Pete’s sake. And definitely no more having to be an adult.

When she came to end of her romp she stopped at a wall of bushes separating the main yard from that of the carriage house. She found an open hole into the bushes and crawled through.

It was not just hole, but a room almost. She could fit herself comfortably inside, but she gathered it was meant to fit several small children. She stayed there for several minutes and then emerged. Instead of going to carriage house, she meandered over to a majestic and grand weeping willow by the river’s edge.

Its branches hung like curtains concealing the enclosure within. She separated the dangling branches and entered.

This was an estate of its own. Nearly the size of her house back in Maine. Some of the limbs dipped into the water making a section like a pool. She gazed at her reflection in the water. She looked very much like the old pictures of her mother when she was younger, except Sarah was blonde with brown eyes.

Hanging from a thicker branch was a swing. Above the swing something caught Sarah’s eye. It was white. She climbed up to reach.

She touched it. A wet taffeta bow that was tattered and worn by age. It was also slightly disgusting, probably from being weathered on for years. It was also obscenely large, most assuredly meant to be worn by a child, but it was very big and imposing. Strangely enough it had not been torn off. It appeared to have been strategically placed there and shoved in one of the hooks holding up the swing by some little girl who did not wish to wear such a gaudy thing.

Sarah laughed when she pictured a little girl doing such a thing, quite understandably, but still amusing all the same.

Next she climbed back down and went to the swing. She wanted to try it out, but she feared it would break. She moved it carefully. No creaks or cracks. Then she began to sit down, gingerly at first, and then put her full weight on it. It still held strong after all these years.

This was a most extraordinary swing. Perfect and smooth in the air. When all the way back she touched one side of the tree’s branches, when all the way forward she touched other.

"Wee! I’m flying!" She giggled. And she continued to swing back and forth above the earth.

After a long time she finally brought it to a stop. It was the longest time she had spent on a swing in years.

Now she was really starting to get cold. She grabbed her bag and left the tree.

She headed for the house now. She walked up through the gardens and pathways again and through the patio and on to the back porch, which stretched the entire backside of the mansion.

She entered the house quietly and crept through. It was warm inside. Someone had a fire going not long ago. She wandered through several rooms until she got to the center. It was a large front room with an enormous crystal chandelier and an even more enormous curving grand staircase. This room was at least twice the size of her home in Maine.

"Holy Smokes. Look at this place. It’s absolutely titanic." As if on impulse she clapped her mouth shut just after the words left her mouth. Something was stirring upstairs. She was not alone.

Did someone still live here? She was trespassing. Or was it some other trespasser? Someone dangerous? She pondered leaving, but decided against. Something was keeping her here.

She resolved to go upstairs and find out. So what if there was some escaped criminal hiding up there waiting to take advantage of her? She could take him. Let’s see him play double headers, play with broken bones, bruises, and strawberries, and get hit with fly balls and still stand.

So with that Lucky Thirteen herself marched up the long flight of stairs. She reached the top and veered right. She tiptoed down the hall. "Hello?" Her voice faltered. No answer.

There was a light at the very end of the corridor. She crept towards it. Once she was close she stopped. The door was open wide enough for her to see in at an angle. It was a nursery. There was a little cradle, a rocking horse, and a doll carriage with a little doll sleeping peacefully inside. That was all she could see so she walked to the door and peered in.

A figure in the far corner of the room sat in a lavish armchair in front of the fire. She moved her body closer to the entrance. The door creaked and the figure’s head slowly turned to look.

The red-orange flames danced off of young Sarah’s face illuminating her physiognomies. Sarah could not see the strange being in the chair, it still hid in the shadows.

"Oh I um..." Sarah uttered trying think of some sort of defense or excuse.

"Rose…?" Whispered an old woman’s voice.

Chapter Two
Stories