Furnace Mountain: or The Day President Roosevelt Came to Town

by Rebecca Patrick-Howard

  “Nobody does dear,” Nancy sighed. “It was hard for all of us. But the Walters struggled before everybody else. They were the first. There were problems with Sam when he was a baby. They spent a lot of money in Lexington having him looked at. By the time the hard times come around here they were already in dire financial straits. I think our mayor can relate to that. It took a long time for the bad times to hit us but when it did, it hit hard. I reckon a man can only take so much.”

  “But Sam’s–”

  “Fine now,” Louella interjected, sending Nancy a stern look. She might have co-chaired committees with her but she should know when to stop. “It was taken care of years before. Nobody knows what goes on in a man’s mind. Men have troubles they don’t share and what afflictions the Walters’ family have is none of our concern. What is our concern is that they are not alone any longer.”

  And that was pretty much the end of that.

  Chapter TWENTY-Five

  ALICE LIKED TO THINK OF EACH day as its own universe. For her, even though some days felt monotonous, no two days were ever the same.

  How could they be?

  As she sat on her porch enjoying her yard in the early morning hours, she delighted in the light fog that nipped at her bare feet and sent chills up her legs. Just a few hours before, her yard had been dark. The mountain in front of her had been a black shadow against the night sky, illuminated only by the occasional flashing bulbs of the lightning bugs. The grass had been silver in the moonlight, her porch long and shadowy and plagued with crickets and tree frogs calling out to one another. It had been a veritable orchestra of nature.

  Now, the grass was growing bright green as the sun burned away the last wisps of the dirty fog. The mountain was a brilliant swirl of greens, pinks, reds, and browns. There was movement in the trees as birds flew from branch to branch and squirrels scampered down tree trunks to meet the day. The porch was wide and bright, the dusty boards still damp.

  Later, the twilight would change things again. The sunset would make the ground pink, the sky orange. The deer would come to the edge of the yard again, as always, and challenge her garden fence. The mountain would grow murky as it wished her house goodnight and faded into the darkness to turn inwards to take care of its own.

  Every day was different. It was never the same world.

  Alice liked this idea. She was fine with change, as long as it was change that she was used to. She liked change that she could count on.

  More and more, though, she had been thinking about a change with Nicholas. She could feel the time closing in on her and while she had been fine with the way their friendship was for a long time, she’d started having designs on changing it. The way she figured, if she didn’t do something about it now then she would never know.

  As much a dreamer as a realist, there were two parts to Alice as far as Nicholas was concerned: the part that knew he was never going to love her the way she wanted and the part that hoped he might. The part that knew he wouldn’t saw things the same way she saw the daylight hours–clear and crisp. The other part had a nighttime view–murky and shrouded in mystery.

  Alice was not a romantic by a long shot. In fact, romance scared her a little bit. She preferred books about pirates and adventurers to love stories. Alice wasn’t completely convinced that she even believed in the kind of love people wrote about. She had only seen her parents through the eyes of a child. Miss Casteel was the only true adult in her life and she lived alone. Other folks in town were married but they weren’t anything like the couples in the books: they fought and bickered and ignored one another and sometimes didn’t even appear to get along. There was little passion and devotion–at least from what Alice could tell. As for the other girls her age, well, they were children. They might claim to be in love but it changed so frequently.

  None of them exemplified the feelings she had for Nicholas. If anything, what she felt had only intensified over the years.

  Alice had studied every move he had ever made. She knew him better than he would ever know himself. And she knew, deep down inside, that he was meant for her. He would always be hers.

  She didn’t know what to do with that information.

  “Maybe I ought to be reckless and proceed with wild abandonment,” she giggled. Nearby, a tree frog let out a high-pitched croak and Alice snorted–a very unladylike sound.

  She didn’t feel reckless, though. She felt scared.

  “You’re being silly,” she scolded herself. “Surely if he shared my feelings he would have acted on them by now.”

  True, she hadn’t exactly encouraged him but, as the gentleman, wasn’t that meant to be his area? Instead, she had politely listened as he’d spoken of his fascination with every girl their age. She had patiently attended to him as he moaned over his broken heart and encouraged him in his furtive attempts at trying to convince himself that he had no time for romance. She was a very good friend. She took things from him that he wouldn’t even take from her.

  She was tired.

  If Sam, at his age, could take a chance and write the president then shouldn’t she be able to take a chance with Nicholas? And did that make her frivolous? Weren’t there other things to worry about?

  “It’s now or never,” she said at last. “It’s time to move on with my life so that he can move on with his.”

  ***

  Ruth felt terrible.

  Dinner had been pleasant for a while. Homer and Marianne had amused her. Louella always made her nervous and Nancy Lewis was not someone she was accustomed to socializing with, but the meal was wonderfully prepared and it was nice to see Sam so proud of her.

  But now…

  She didn’t want to get out of bed.

  Her legs hurt from the walking, her mouth hurt from the smiling she had forced herself to do, and her head hurt from analyzing everything she had said and done and worrying that it hadn’t measured up to others’ expectations.

  On top of that, her body ached from joints and muscles that weren’t used to being used so regularly. Even her hair hurt. Ruth did not think she was cut out for that kind of amusement.

  “I am glad I went,” she assured her pillow. “I did it and I survived.”

  If her bedding was impressed, it didn’t tell her.

  Ruth had no regrets; if given the chance, she would have done it again. And Homer walking her and Sam all the way back up the mountain was a pleasant experience. He had talked to her about Sam and the old days with the Gingerroot Festival but their idle chitchat had been simple. She was glad of that. And to see Sam so happy was wonderful. He’d danced in front of them on the road, still riled up from being around so many people who showered him with attention.

  But Marianne had looked so polished in her dark blue dress and stylish hair. She had laughed and smiled and not in that dusty, forced way that Ruth felt. Homer had looked at Marianne with genuine pleasure in his eyes and while Ruth certainly felt no jealousy of any feelings that the mayor might entertain toward the schoolteacher, she did wish she could have at least felt Marianne’s ease. The fact was, she didn’t think she had ever felt that way. Ruth had always been somewhat reserved and awkward. Except with her husband, of course. With him, she’d been safe.

  And then, on the walk home. The three of them, with Sam so happy. If you’d looked at their shadows and nothing else, they might have been a family.

  The thought tariffed Ruth.

  Ruth decided that it was, indeed, a good day to remain in bed.

  Fifteen minutes later, however, she was still tossing and turning. She was bone-tired, but she couldn’t sleep.

  “What’s wrong with me?” On most days, she’d drop off like the dead. Not even Sam would be able to wake her. But not today.

  For several minutes, Ruth deliberated. Should she just get up? Using all the energy she could muster, she considered her options. If she got out of bed, what could she do?

  She could work in the garden. Oh, but those poor vegetables. She hadn’t done anyt
hing to them in…well, she couldn’t remember. The horrible guilt made her almost double over. If they weren’t tended to then they would die and then they wouldn’t have food to eat and they would starve and–

  Ruth cut herself off from her thoughts. No, she scolded herself. I won’t think like that.

  She could work in the kitchen. Surely it needed a good cleaning. But then she would see the table and chairs and be reminded of how she didn’t cook breakfast for Sam and how he was now responsible for everything.

  She couldn’t look at the kitchen.

  She could start in the front room. She could dust, perhaps. But then she would see the drawings that Sam had made and that would remind her of how she used to do things with him, fun things they both enjoyed. Or she would think of Jonathan and the drawings he once did. She couldn’t bear to be reminded of those things.

  Everywhere she looked there were reminders of the person that she used to be, the person she wanted to be again. It was much easier to force herself to stay in bed. In sleep, there were no demands. Or guilt.

  Once again, she praised herself for getting out the night before. Then, she pulled the quilt up to her ears, ignoring the heat and welcoming the weight, and made herself go back to sleep.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  HOMER WAS CURIOUS.

  He stood in the Choo Choo Park– nothing, really, but an expanse of lawn with two benches, and he surveyed the grounds. They could certainly use some cleaning up. The train yard in the distance gave the park its name but the word “park” was stretching it. The children played in the school yard where there were swings. There weren’t enough trees here to warrant a picnic when it was hot. It didn’t have any hills for sleigh riding when it was cold. Its flatness was ideal, however, for celebrations that required the use of tables, booths, and a dance floor.

  Like the Gingerroot Festival.

  For years, the festival had been the annual mid-summer event. The town had put it on since before Homer was born and not a year went by throughout his childhood that he didn’t look forward to see it coming.

  There were booths filled with pies, games to play, lemonade stands, cotton candy, and crafts for sale. He’d won many a pie in the cake walk and once took home a beautiful agate in a musical chairs’ competition. He still had that agate; it was on his mantle. One year, they’d even had a Ferris wheel. He had been seventeen. He remembered that year in particular, not just because of the Ferris wheel he’d been too afraid to ride on, but because he’d won a pie that Ruth Walters had baked. He’d eaten on it for three days, hoping to savor it for as long as possible.

  Of course, they didn’t have the festival now. It was too bad, really. What in the world did the children look forward to anymore?

  In the distance, Homer could see the Furnace Mountain School. Donald Maynard sat in the one of the swings, slowly pushing himself back and forth. He looked gaunt. Sad. His color was better than the first day Homer had seen him but even with all his troubles, Sam Walters looked healthier.

  Homer smiled a wry grin. So they must be doing something right in their town if even the worst of the families could produce a child that didn’t look as though he’d been starved and forgotten.

  ***

  Robert Johnson took an unsteady swing at a block of wood and come near to slicing his foot off with the ax.

  “Damn it to hell!” he shouted at the blade. Angrily, he spat at it and it sparkled in the sunlight, mockingly.

  Again, he lifted the ax and brought it down hard. This time, the wood splintered in half. That was six pieces of wood now. Come late fall, he hoped to have enough to get them through the winter. He figured if he started now they might be alright. He wasn’t as young as he used to be, though. Now, it hurt every muscle in his body to raise the ax up over his head and it made his teeth rattle when he slammed it down.

  Robert hoped nobody had noticed but he’d slipped into town the day before and watched them work on the depot. They were working on the schoolhouse too–slapping some dark red paint on it. He thought it looked real good. He’d studied some of the work they were doing around the depot’s staircase and figured it could be better, more solid, but nobody wanted his opinion. If the banister was looking crooked and the railing could use a might more reinforcement, well, that was none of his concern. He was the town drunk.

  Next to the school, someone had gone off and left a bucket of paint and a brush. Probably taking a break. He’d looked at that brush for a long time, considered picking it up and doing something with it. They’d come back, though, and returned to work and he’d felt foolish for even thinking about it.

  A few days before he’d been walking back from town and a car full of old boys had driven by. They’d slowed down, stuck their heads out the window, and hollered at him. “Stinkin’ drunk!” one of them had cried. “You smell like an outhouse man!” came another. They’d all laughed and laughed before throwing dust up in his face.

  He was a joke, alright.

  But seeing everybody working had made him think of the wood. He’d thought about going right then and getting his ax, but first he’d stopped at the pool hall. A few of his friends were there and they didn’t turn down a thirsty man. It was dark by the time he left.

  “Didn’t mean to stay so long,” he mumbled now.

  As soon as he’d awakened, he’d headed to the woods. He might have been peaked, but his pounding head wasn’t nearly as strong as the urge to do something. The wood shed was far from the trees but he’d worry about that later. He was never one to plan very far ahead.

  Robert liked chopping wood, despite his cursing that said otherwise. It reminded him of when he liked building with wood. Cutting the wood now gave him time to think. There was a time when he thought he didn’t have enough time to think. When he had the shop and Alice was little and there were lots of things to be done. Somebody always wanted something. He got tired of all the things that needed doing, most of them not his ideas.

  Then, Martha had died. Things had got real quiet after that. There was lots of time to think–too much.

  The fact was, even in the old days when they’d come down to the shop and brought him lunch or begged him to take them for ice cream he’d not been real happy about it. He didn’t like being interrupted. Those incidents sometimes made him physically upset. Once he got invested in something he didn’t like to be taken away from it. Maybe there was something bad wrong with him. He’d even snapped at them, made them cry. Felt bad about that and bought them extra scoops of ice cream or made something for them. By then, though, they had moved on to something else and it wasn’t the same–just another black mark against him.

  Now, of course, it was different. He’d given just about anything to have those times back. He didn’t know that he would have handled them any different, but he’d try.

  He knew that was why he bossed Alice around like he did sometimes–because she didn’t ask for nothing. She had given up on him a long time ago. If he didn’t make her do things then he had no purpose in her life. And if he didn’t have a purpose in her life then he didn’t have much of a purpose at all.

  ***

  Sam stood in the middle of the street and watched the men at work. The depot’s roof was beautiful. In the sunlight, it actually sparkled. He didn’t pay any mind to the automobiles that dodged him and the heat rising from the ground to soak through his shoes. This was the best view of the building and he wanted to get it.

  Whistling, he turned back around and headed to the storefront he was working on. It used to be a feed store. That was a long time ago, though, before he was even born. It was dirty inside and he could see the dust and garbage through the grimy windows, but right now he was busy painting the outside a cheerful yellow. The yellow paint might have been bright, but someone had donated it and while it might not have been his color of choice it would at least hide the building’s dinginess. He liked the fact that the stores were getting painted, even if they were empty.

  Someone had come
up with the idea of taking the empty stores and opening them up for other things–like a place for meetings and such. He thought that was a grand idea. Even if they didn’t have real businesses in them, Mr. Roosevelt could see them and see that the town wasn’t so bad, not really.

  Of course, other people thought that Mr. Roosevelt should see how awful the town had got.

  “He’s coming here to help us, to save us,” they’d argue. “If he sees us looking good, he won’t know anything’s wrong. Let him see all the bad!”

  Sam didn’t agree. He thought the president must be a pretty smart man and he would know that things weren’t well off even if he did see some stores that looked like they might be open.

  “Don’t he want to see us trying?” Sam asked aloud. “Isn’t it better for him to see us with hope?” Wasn’t hope always better?

  Of course, Sam always hoped that when the president saw Furnace Mountain, things would change. He wasn’t yet sure how that would happen, or what their leader would do, but it had to be something. It just had to.

  The yellow paint ran down his arms and fingers when he wasn’t careful with it but he didn’t mind. Sam was already speckled with red paint from helping with the school. A few more drops and he might have a nice shade of orange going on.

  People smiled at him when they walked down the sidewalk and some stopped to say hello. He reckoned he was a celebrity now and while it had made him bashful at first, now he was enjoying it. It felt nice for people to know who he was.

  Oh, he knew that they knew who his daddy had been and that a lot of folks knew who his mama was, but that was different. Some of that was for bad stuff, too. He liked the feeling of being known for something good that he had done and not because of who he was born to. This was a good kind of being known and it felt a whole heck of a lot better than being known for getting in trouble or something.