Mr. Turner still wasn’t sure when he planned to sell. He was sixty-five, and told Earl every time they visited that he wasn’t able to do as much as he had five years earlier. It didn’t matter. Earl could wait as long as he wanted. The World War I veteran was an honorable man whose handshake was as ironclad as any written contract. The agreement was already worked out. Nine thousand dollars for sixty acres, a dilapidated but livable farmhouse, and several outbuildings. Earl would pay thirty-five hundred up front with Mr. Turner accepting the rest over five years, at an interest rate lower than any bank would offer.
Mr. Turner hadn’t met Vestal. It seemed best for now. Even the people at Howland didn’t know, except for Chandra. They couldn’t risk it. He still remembered the look on Russell Travers’ face when he spotted them together at the Big Star Supermarket three years earlier. Russell Travers was the last person Earl could imagine running into at a neighborhood grocery store a few blocks from home. The following Monday, Earl was summoned to Joe Moxey’s office at the processing plant and fired without explanation. Russell Travers was watching as he left the plant. Earl had helped Travers learn the ropes of butchering beef. Now he was taking Earl’s job.
Pulling into the driveway, Earl expected to be greeted by the smell of baked ham wafting through the open windows and mixing with the dinner smells coming from the neighboring duplexes. In the ten days since Cora left, life had returned to a normalcy that included baked ham on Thursday nights.
Tonight there were no familiar aromas.
“Hey Manning, you used to work on jeeps, din’t cha?” Johnny Dawson lived in the duplex next door. He was one of the few people with whom Earl shared more than a passing hello. He was bent over the motor of an Army surplus jeep; a vehicle Earl knew well from his time as an Army mechanic. Fifteen minutes later the jeep was running and Johnny Dawson was on the way to his night job at a pork and beans plant.
Earl wiped his hands on one of the old rags he kept inside the back door, then headed for the kitchen.
Empty.
“Vessie?”
No response. Earl wandered through the empty living room to their bedroom.
When he saw her crumpled on the bed, he knew.
###
It was the third time, but the devastation on Vestal’s face was the same.
He comforted her as best he could. When words fell short, and for Earl they almost always did, he held her tightly.
She shed no tears. Those had come earlier, probably while he was outside working on Johnny Dawson’s jeep. She was quiet, shuddering occasionally in his arms. Time passed. Minutes became hours. Neither spoke. They didn’t have to. This was familiar terrain.
The room was dark when Vestal rolled over and faced him.
“Sorry not to have supper for you. You want me to—” He placed his fingers softly on her lips. They remained that way for several minutes before she spoke again.
“Dr. Labatt said we should keep trying. There’s nothing wrong with me that he can find.”
Her words were meant to convey optimism, but Vestal’s eyes betrayed her. Earl could learn anything he needed to know by looking into her brown eyes. Today they communicated loss and the fear of enduring more heartbreak in the future.
A more eloquent man would tell his bride that it didn’t matter. Certainly he dreamed of sharing the farm in Bonner Springs with a son or two, but the person who would always mean the most to him was curled up in his arms. He wanted to tell her how his life was on a slow descent to nowhere before they found each other, and while a child could complement their love, it could never deepen it.
But Earl Manning was not an eloquent man. Life had seen to that.
So he did what he could. He lay close to the woman he loved more than life itself and held her tight, hoping she knew these things.
THIRTY-SEVEN
Things changed at Howland after Cora’s visit. Now aware of Earl’s proximity to someone he perceived as a Washington insider, Dr. Howland gave his handyman a raise and increased responsibilities. Some of those new duties, like shopping for groceries and couriering paperwork to the courthouse in Independence, were enjoyable. Others, not so much. There had been three instances when Earl was asked to transport tiny boxes to a discreet undertaker in Olathe, Kansas. It ripped at his heart to think of the tragedy and sadness the little boxes represented.
The larger paychecks meant more money going toward the farm. The balance in the passbook was now a hundred and sixty dollars short of the down payment. Earl had considered a night job to close the gap even further, but leaving Vestal alone four or five nights a week was out of the question. Her sunny disposition had finally returned following the miscarriage. They never spoke about it, but Earl worried that losing another child might be more than his wife could handle.
Through the sanitarium’s open windows, Earl heard the large clock in the foyer chime ten times. The girls’ usual chatter emanated as he hung a new light fixture over the large front entryway referred to as the public entrance. From 29th Street, some fifty yards away, Howland resembled many large homes dotting the Kansas City landscape. Visitors ascended the large front steps of the Victorian-style structure to a set of double doors centered on a wraparound porch that was never used. Enjoying the southern breezes from the dozen or so rocking chairs was prohibited, a fact that saddened Earl as he dusted the unused chairs each week. The girls’ outside activities, other than Saturday trips downtown, were limited to the tree-enclosed rear grounds. Back there, the Victorian beauty of the home gave way to a barracks-like addition hidden from public view.
Occasionally, when he was sweeping the front sidewalk, Earl would hear laughter and cutting comments from passers-by. Most who lived and worked in this area knew about the large house on the corner. A few, typically teenage boys, took sport in raucously expressing their disdain. Fortunately, most of what was said on the street was drowned out by other city sounds before reaching residents’ ears.
“Good morning, Mr. Manning.”
Chandra’s first appearance of the day was later than usual, and Earl noticed a strain in her voice. From his perch on the ladder he gazed down at her, standing inside the screen doors of the large entryway, trying to remain inconspicuous to those passing by on the street.
“Hey Miss Chandra. You doing okay?”
The girl sighed. “I feel different, Mr. Manning. Dr. Howland thinks it might be time.”
Earl stayed busy putting the light fixture into place, trying to mask his sadness. He had grown close to Chandra, closer than any of the others who had come and gone. He would miss her friendship and their daily conversations.
“That’s wonderful, Miss Chandra. I know you’re looking forward to your baby getting a good home.”
“I am indeed, but I’m kinda scared too.”
Earl recalled a conversation he had overheard between Chandra, Vestal, and his mother. He pretended to be immersed in driving, but it was impossible to ignore Chandra’s worries about childbirth. Mama had done what she could to allay her fears, but Chandra was still a child herself, struggling to cope with the adult-sized issue of having a baby.
“You’re going to be fine, Chandra.” Formality would have to be put aside. This child needed reassuring.
“I wish Miss Cora were here,” she said quietly. “It would be so much easier if she could be with me. Or Miss Vessie. They’re both so nice.”
“Dr. Howland will take good care of you, and Nurse Lucinda will be there. You like her, don’t you?”
Chandra leaned heavily against the doorframe.
“She’s very nice, it’s just... there’s something I haven’t told nobody, Mr. Manning.”
Earl wanted to come down from the ladder and sit with her in the big rocking chairs, allowing her the chance to tell him something that was obviously troubling her.
But that wouldn’t be appropriate.
It could cost him his job.
Or get Chandra in trouble.
But somebody had to.
/> Earl started down the ladder. “Chandra, come out and sit with me—”
“I’ve been looking all over for you, young lady.” Lucinda, Dr. Howland’s nurse, came up behind her, her sunny demeanor in stark contrast to the concern on the girl’s face.
“Dr. Howland wants to see you for a quick checkup.” Lucinda glanced out the door at Earl and winked. “It’s just about time.”
###
For most people, four-thirty is too late for lunch and too early for supper. It was, however, the perfect time for drinking, and each of the South Street Tavern’s fifteen barstools was occupied.
Most of the men were regulars, fresh off the eight-to-four shift at Adair’s American Shoe plant and looking to quench their thirst before heading home. Last night’s St. Louis Cardinals’ win over the Dodgers dominated the conversation, but politics and local gossip were also permissible. Few if any of those gathered noticed the three men sitting in a booth in the tavern’s dark recesses, talking quietly out of earshot.
“You really think it’s him?” The man who sat alone on one side of the table wore a white long-sleeved dress shirt, very much out of place in the heat of late May. He kept his left hand in his pants pocket, even while seated. Polio had robbed him of its use at a young age, and anchoring it in his pocket kept it from swinging about like a pendulum.
“Pretty much has to be, based on the description.” Grover Petty took a slug of beer, belched, and continued. “Still had a piece of rope around his belt. Fish musta chewed through it, elseways he’d still be at the bottom of the channel.”
“Yeah, but all the way down at Cairo? Seems a long way.”
Petty downed the last of his beer and signaled the tired-looking waitress for another. “That river current’ll push anything, don’t matter how big.”
The man in the white shirt turned his gaze to the small man on Petty’s left.
“You think it’s him, too?” The man nodded.
“Think they’ll ever identify him?”
The man shook his head.
“We took care of that,” Petty interjected. “Leaving his car at the St. Louis airport threw everybody off.”
The white-shirted man pulled an envelope from his pocket, pushed it across the table, and stood up.
“We’ll be in touch,”
When he was gone, Petty moved to the other side of the table and opened the envelope. He whistled, then pushed it across the table. His actions brought a look of annoyance to Levi’s face.
“Don’t flash that around.”
“They ain’t seeing nothing ‘cept the bottom of their beer mugs.”
Nodding toward the door, Levi said, “I’m getting tired of working for him and the rest of ‘em. They took what I started and shut me out.”
Grover reached across the table and playfully punched his arm. “You’re thinking about it all wrong, Levi. We ain’t being left out. Take a look inside that envelope. There’s plenty of reasons to believe you’re still doing good work.”
Levi stared at the table, saying nothing.
“Your old lady made the paper again.”
Levi flushed. Not this. The last thing he wanted was to hear another story about Cora. She’d robbed him blind, her and that no-account sissy kid. Over the past decade her face had appeared regularly in newspapers and magazines. Grover Petty never missed a chance to let him remind him.
“I know you ain’t reading the papers. Who told you?”
Grover laughed. “Guys down at the roller mill, said her picture was in the St. Louis paper with Old Man Truman at his new library.”
Levi rolled his eyes. That gnawing in his gut was back. Who would’ve guessed that ugly woman could do anything more than cook and clean house?
“Old Cora’s getting pretty big for her britches, don’t you think?” Grover didn’t know the half of it, like the time he’d tried to find Cora in Washington, or the time she threw him off the train. Some things were best kept quiet.
“Wouldn’t take much for us to track her down, maybe take her down a notch or two. Woman like that needs to remember her place.”
Growing weary of Grover’s incessant banter, Levi pulled himself from the booth. Though not yet sixty, he had the stooped posture and sluggish manner of a much older man. Used to these sudden changes in mood, Grover watched wordlessly as Levi ambled out of the bar into the late afternoon sunshine.
###
Earl was putting away his work tools, planning to be home by six-thirty, as he had promised Vestal. She was frying chicken, using the recipe his mama had given her soon after they married. He was locking up the supply shed when he heard footsteps. Chandra perhaps? He hadn’t seen her since that morning. He turned expectantly.
It was Howland’s nurse, Lucinda. She appeared grim.
“I know you’re on your way home, Mr. Manning, but Dr. Howland was hoping to see you for a moment.”
Earl started to follow her toward the house, but she stopped him.
“Stay here. He’ll come out.”
Earl checked his watch several times while he waited. It would be impossible to make it home by six-thirty now, but if his boss needed to see him, he wasn’t about to leave.
When the doctor appeared, he was carrying a basket. Perhaps some leftovers from lunch, Earl thought. The courtesies extended to him by Dr. Howland had increased in recent weeks. But still, why make him wait so long, and why was the doctor’s countenance so grim?
“Mr. Manning, I have a rather... delicate request to make of you.” The doctor gazed at him across the bed of the Howland pickup.
“Yessir?”
“I know you’re on your way home, and I was just wondering... I mean... would you consider dropping this... package off at the Paseo Home for Expectant Mothers?”
Earl remembered seeing the Paseo Home. It was similar to the Howland Sanitarium, but for colored women.
“Certainly, Dr. Howland. Is it some leftover food or—”A muffled cry brought him up short. He saw a slight movement, then a tiny hand came into view and disappeared just as quickly.
“It’s a mulatto, Mr. Manning. Miss Chandra’s baby. I certainly have nothing against any baby, but our prospective parents would never accept...” The doctor grew quiet. Earl was unsure of what to say either.
“Mr. Manning, I don’t know you all that well, other than as an employee.” Dr. Howland’s tone was tentative. “If you have any qualms about handling a... well, I’ll understand.”
“Oh no sir,” Earl responded quickly. “I don’t mind.” He walked around the pickup and took the basket, carefully placing it on the front seat. “I’ll make the uh... delivery on my way home.”
Dr. Howland smiled uneasily. “Your work here is greatly appreciated, Mr. Manning. When you get there, drive around back and tell them who sent you. They’ll know what to do.”
The doctor headed for his Cadillac, pulling a set of keys out of his pocket as he walked. Earl crawled into the pickup and turned over the engine. Careful not to jostle the basket, he allowed the pickup to begin rolling slowly. As he drove past, Dr. Howland waved for him to stop.
“One more thing, Mr. Manning.”
“Yes?”
“Bring back the basket.”
THIRTY-EIGHT
“Miss Manning on line two.”
Earl looked up from his work for the first time in hours. It had grown warm in the cramped office. Cindy, his secretary, would undoubtedly be asking if they could turn on the new window air conditioner he had installed the week before. He’d tell her to open the windows, that late May was too early to be spending money on something as unnecessary as air conditioning.
He reached for the phone.
“Hi honey. Everything okay?”
“Everything’s fine, and I especially like being called honey!”
“Oh, Mama... sorry, I thought...” Earl was glad a wall separated him from Cindy. She found humor in his blushing at the smallest things.
“Don’t worry about it,” Cora laughed. “The b
ond between a mother and her son never frays. How’s work going?”
Earl smiled. “Really good. Since I brought on Spencer and Tatum I almost never get called out of the office. We just picked up Avila College, down south. They’re using us for a lot of their routine stuff, mainly electrical and carpentry.”
“Wonderful!” Cora’s enthusiasm might have come off as artificial to some, but Earl knew better. She was the rare person in Washington who could find success on a large scale, yet still celebrate the small victories of others.
“I’m really proud of you. How many men do you have now?”
“Nine, and there may be a need for more if some of the calls we’ve gotten turn into contracts.”
“Keep up the good work. You’re probably getting close to having the down payment on that farm.”
“Actually Mama,” Earl lowered his voice, “I’ve got more than enough to pay the full amount. We’re probably going to close the deal next fall. Mr. Turner wanted one more harvest before moving to town.”
What Earl had thought would be two years had stretched to five, as Mr. Turner struggled to walk away from his farm. A recent heart scare finally pushed him to hang it up.
Earl chatted with his mother a few more minutes before an operator broke in.
“Please deposit twenty-five cents for three more minutes.”
Earl heard the sound of change being fed into a pay telephone.
“Earl, all this good news made me forget why I called. I’ll be passing through Kansas City day after tomorrow. I’d like to stay a couple days and celebrate a special someone’s birthday. Have you made any plans?”
“Nothing that can’t include you, Mama. It’s been too long.”
He heard a train in the background.
“Where are you?”
Harvest of Thorns Page 17