by Wes Brummer
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Sara spotted Larry stacking bib overalls. Beside him sat a cart of unsorted work clothes and price tags. She picked her way to his table. “Hello, Dancer. Think we’d cause a ruckus dancing on this floor?”
Larry glanced up. “Hey Gold-digger.”
Uh. She hated that nickname.
Larry Bigger wore a pale blue suit with matching vest, white shirt, and black tie on a lanky frame. A strong chin made him look like a matinee idol, but Larry had ears the size of dipper handles. He parted his long blonde hair down the middle, but no amount of combing could cover those incredible ears.
Larry frowned as he folded a pair of overalls, placing them on a stack. “We could kick off these clothes and dance on this table. By the end of the day, they’ll all be jumbled anyway.”
“Oh, don’t be a crybaby,” Sara teased as she adjusted his stacks. “You fold so well. I can see you washing and hanging laundry. A girl could make good use of you around the house.”
“Thanks. This is my dad’s idea. Next week I’ll probably be sweeping the stairs, or changing the ceiling lights.”
Sara laughed. “Things are tough all over. You’ve got to admit, though. Your father is a shrewd operator. Learning every job in the store will make you a better manager. Keep your eye on the brass ring. And when you change the lights, don’t look down.”
“Don’t tell me you agree with this learn-every-job plan of his. I’m wasting my time. Lifting and moving merchandise is what employees are supposed to do. All I need to do is supervise.”
“Lawrence—”
“Don’t call me that!” His voice was sharp. “I hear enough of that home. You know I prefer Larry.”
Sara sighed. “Your father is simply looking after his business. He wants to leave it in good hands. He’s preparing you for the day you take over. You’ve told me all this yourself.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know. It’s just that…I feel like I’m doing time.” He flashed a broad grin. “I just had an idea.”
“Oh, yeah?” She gathered more clothes and straightened the folds.
“Maybe you can change the lights, and I can hold the ladder.”
Sara stifled a smile. “That’s kind of you, Dancer, but I have a job. Besides, I’d have to wear these overalls. Otherwise I’d be wondering if you were trying to peek up my dress.”
“Just admiring the view, my dear.” Larry made a ridiculous smirk.
Sara took a step back. “Too true.” She set down the overalls. “I have something to tell you.” She paused—there was no way to sugar-coat the news. “I’m going to have a baby.”
At first, nothing happened. Maybe he didn’t hear me.
Then Larry’s face changed. Eyes widened. Brows arched. He retreated, staring at her as if she’d slapped him. “You’re kidding me.”
“It’s true. I just came from the doctor’s office.”
Larry shook his head. “No, no—this is not supposed to happen.”
Is he blaming me?
She stepped in close. “Listen.” She had to see his eyes. “I’m just as shocked as you are. In seven months—next November—I’ll have a child. We will have a child. So, we need to plan. Make arrangements.”
“I get it. You don’t need to pound it into me.” His voice turned irritable. “This news came out of nowhere!”
Sara glared at him. “I seem to recall a particular night in February. After the dance? You were there.”
“For crying out loud, stop with the sarcasm. I need a chance to think.”
“What about?” Sara bit her lip from saying more. Is he going to deny his part in this?
“I need time to decide…what to do.” Larry jerked his arm up as if he was tossing a coin.
“It’s obvious what we should do. We tell my folks. We tell your folks. Then we pick a wedding date.”
“A wedding!”
His shout echoed off the walls. Nearby customers turned to watch the show.
Sara wanted to shake him. “It’s the proper thing to do. The sooner, the better. We could go to a county judge and dance on our honeymoon.” Sara flashed her best smile. “A wedding will turn this little problem into a celebration.”
Larry’s scowl deepened. “I’ll work this out myself—without any help from you.”
Sara resisted the urge to withdraw. “Take the whole day. In the meantime, leave a message at home when you’re coming. I don’t have a telephone at work. Daddy thinks we would be talking instead of answering fan letters.”
He stared at the floor. “Call your house. Got it.”
Sara touched his arm. “Thank you.”
Larry turned away.
Sara sighed. “I’m late for work. See you tonight.” She turned and headed for the stairs. As she took the first steps down, she remembered Gerald’s message. She hurried back to Larry’s work area. The cart still sat half full of unsorted clothes. Price signs lay scattered on the floor. Sara turned a complete circle, glancing around.
Larry was gone.
Chapter Two
The stenciled sign on the frosted glass door read:
Heaven and Earth Mailroom
Pastor Samuel McGurk, Director
Sara and her workers simply called it The Mailroom. The office took up a quarter of the space on the second floor of the Kramer Building, a narrow two-story warehouse converted to office space. Much of the building was empty, though a couple of lawyers, an accountant, and even a bookmaker—the gambling kind—leased downstairs. No other renters on the second floor. The Mailroom was the only office that kept regular hours.
Sara arrived at work around eleven a.m. that Saturday. The bus ride felt relaxing after the confrontation with Larry. By the time she climbed to the second floor, she was ready for work.
Sara breezed in, peeling off her hat and jacket. “Good morning, ladies.”
“Mawnin’, Miz Sara.” Sylvia waved with a handful of letters. The tall, ebony-skinned woman sorted and bundled mail at the heavy oaken worktable in the center of the roomy office along with Gladys. Sylvia was two years Sara’s senior, but looked much older. “Ridden hard and put away wet,” Gladys told Sara at one point. “The rod wasn’t spared on this child.” Sylvia wore a patched dress made from dyed bedsheets. A tightly bound checkered cloth hid her hair.
Marilyn Krieble, a grandmother of four, was already typing at her desk. “Morning, Miss McGurk.” A short wave, a quick smile, and she went back to answering letters. Marilyn had bad knees. Sitting much of the time gave her a dowdy appearance, but Marilyn had the quickest typing fingers Sara had ever seen.
Sara stopped at the big worktable to examine the bundles of letters. Gladys Pickering snapped a rubber band around another stack. “Hi, boss. We were wondering if you decided to play hooky.”
Sara smiled at her old high school friend. “And leave you in charge? No, I had a doctor’s appointment. How’s the mail today?”
Gladys brushed auburn bangs from her eyes. While Sara was tall with straight lines, Gladys was petite and curvaceous. “The word is out. People know your father’s radio program is joining the Alliance. Many are asking why. We’ve gotten some three hundred pieces this morning. No telling what the two o’clock delivery will bring.”
This was the listener mail in response to Daddy’s Sunday program. The show seemed like an extended monologue, laced with a bit of scripture and quotes from dead people. Two thousand letters arrived in an average week. Many contained donations. The job of the Mailroom was to answer fan mail and keep track of donors who sent in money.
Sara retrieved a bundle, running her fingers through the stack. “This is just the beginning. By mid-May, we’ll have letters coming in from all over the country. I’ll need to hire more help by then. Maybe even expand the office.”
Sylvia heaved a dramatic sigh. “We be needin’ the help soon, Miz Sara. We’re jumpin
’ like frogs now.” Sylvia was always respectable, yet surprisingly candid. Sara’s thoughts flashed back to when the gangly black woman approached her for a job. All she saw at the time was a colored woman who could do with a meal. The office needed a cleaning lady, so she hired Sylvia on the spot. Since then, Sylvia taught herself typing and now answered the mail like everyone else.
Sara nodded. “You’re right. We need help now.” She divided the bundles into four groups. “For now, we’ll have to make do. Running behind is the best way to convince Daddy we need more typists. Then it will be a matter of hiring and training the right people. In the meantime, we keep plugging away. So, Gladys, you take the local mail. Marilyn gets the out-of-towners. And Sylvia, you work on the out-of-state pieces. You all know the drill. Keep track of donations and send any problem letters to me. Use the sample letters in your files whenever possible and keep your responses short. If a listener asks an opinion, make it general. Our job is to foster the belief that Pastor McGurk just answered their letter. One last thing, don’t seal your envelopes. We’re getting new leaflets this afternoon, about Daddy’s Church of the South Wind. Those leaflets go in the envelopes as well.”
“What do we do if someone asks about the show joining the Alliance network? We don’t have a standard response covering that.” Gladys handed a letter to Sara.
Sara read through the note. “I’ll work on a sample response today and mimeograph copies for you to use on Monday. The show will remain on Sunday. Carey Salt is still the sponsor. Put those letters aside for now. We’ll tackle them next week.”
Marilyn held up a hand. “Is there any chance that Alliance will drop the program?”
“Not unless something goes terribly wrong.” Sara pursed her lips. “Come on, ladies. Going national is a good thing. It’s steady work for us, and there’ll be new jobs as well. Anything else?”
No one spoke. Sara listed several more instructions, grabbed a bundle of mail, and headed to her desk in the back corner.
Reading the mail was her favorite part of the job. The letters revealed who the listeners were. Their words told the stories of people: of good fortunes and bad, of survival in the city, and of holding onto the land. These were stories that deserved to be re-told. But that wasn’t likely to happen.
Besides KSKN, four other Kansas stations carried Heaven and Earth via transcription discs: Topeka, Hays, Coffeyville, and Garden City. Some hobbyists would re-broadcast the program by shortwave. Once, they received a letter from Sydney, Australia. Daddy boasted about that one on the air.
Sara opened an envelope and took out the letter.
Dear Preacher McGurk,
I heard your radio program a couple of weeks ago. This Hitler fellow sounds like the kind of leader Germany needs right now. He is doing a marvelous job of whipping his country back into shape. Mr. Roosevelt could learn a lesson from him. I agree with you about Europe. Whatever their problems are, they shouldn’t be our problems. We have our own troubles. Let the leaders of Europe work on theirs.
Yours truly,
Calvin Dieffenbacher
Greensburg, Kansas
~*~
Dear Pastor,
My husband and I listen to your show every Sunday. You are one of the few people who understands what is going on. My husband rents land owned by the bank to grow corn. Recently, the federal government passed a law paying farmers NOT to grow crops. They say it will help the farmer by raising prices. That may be true, but it’s not helping us. That taxpayer money will go to the bank since they own the land. And the bank still charges us rent. Today, we’re told not to grow anything. How can we make ends meet if we can’t grow crops to sell? We can’t even grow food to feed ourselves. It is just a matter of time before the bank kicks us off the land. I’ve never seen my husband cry ’til this week. I don’t know where else to turn.
Your servant in Christ,
Elaine Daniels
Eskridge, Kansas
~*~
Dear Sir,
I don’t like your show. It is full of vile rumors and name-calling. If you cannot say anything good about President Roosevelt, then don’t say anything at all. He is doing the best he can. So what if some of his programs don’t work as well as others? Doing anything is better than doing nothing like Herbert Hoover. There was only a single verse of scripture quoted in your program. I’m not so sure you’re a real preacher.
Mrs. Quinton Messenger
Zenda, Ks.
****
As she read, Sara made notes and underlined passages for her response. The farmer-losing-his-land letter was a good one to show Daddy. He liked using examples of government failing to work for the average person. She set the letter aside and reached for another envelope.
A shadow fell across her desk. Sara glanced up to see three faces peering at her. “Ladies?”
“Sara…” Gladys included the others with a wave of her finger. “We have concerns about what’s happening.”
“What concerns?”
“We don’t think the program should go national. Better to keep it the way it is.”
“Daddy’s been working on this show for years. Chances like this don’t come twice. I know there will be more work. I promise to get extra help.”
“That ain’t it, Miz Sara,” Sylvia jumped in. “Those folks writin’? Your daddy started with them. Most write ev’ry week. Just like clockwork. They’re…familiar. They’ll be swallowed up like Jonah when loads of new folk start writin’. It’ll be hawd takin’ on these new’uns and still take care of our friends.”
“We can’t have favorites.” Sara scooted her chair back. Sylvia leaned in much too close. “The number of listeners determine ratings. Ratings determine the future of the show. It means not only keeping our jobs but hiring new people to answer the mail. You move up and supervise the new workers. Paychecks grow as well.”
Gladys turned to Marilyn and Sylvia. “She’s right. We all go up the ladder, and a bigger paycheck is a blessing.” She turned back to Sara. “But there is a problem. Marilyn, Sylvia, and I work together day after day. We’re a team. Being supervisors is fine, but it means we have to split up. And one more thing…”
“Wait!” Sara rose to her feet. “If we’re going to discuss this, then let’s sit out in the open. I’m getting a crick in my neck from looking up.”
They brought their swivel chairs in a tight circle between the worktable and front desks. The short break relieved the room’s tension. At least I can talk eye to eye.
Sara glanced at her crew. “Remember. All of us work for my father, and he is pleased that Alliance picked his program for their network. Airing your feelings is good. But understand this. Nothing will change.”
Gladys shrugged. “We know that.” She sat down, staring at the far wall. “At least listen to what we have to say.”
Sara nodded, taking her seat.
Gladys pursed her lips, leaning forward, “Pretending to the fans that one person reads and answers every single letter is phony. It feels like we’re deceiving the people.”
Sara swept her arm. “It’s our job to help the fans feel that Pastor has read and answered their letter.” Sara paused. “We want them to feel special.”
Marilyn met her gaze with a firm jaw. “I think what we do is important, even though Pastor gets the credit. We can’t always say what we want to, but we provide a personal touch. You’d never know that from listening to his show. What’s truly sad is we end up burning all these wonderful letters. All the words, all the feelings these pages hold—turns to ash. Years from now, people will only remember Pastor’s voice.”
Sylvia looked up with doleful eyes. “It’s a world of hurt, Miz Sara. Hawd times. Folks feel like it’s their doin’. They askin’ for help. I got a letter where a grandmama loses her child and grandbabies. I tells you, Miz Sara. It hurt me readin’ this letter.” Sylvia sniffed. “The pain grabs at you.”
Sara reached out, holding her wrist. Both Gladys and Marilyn gathered close, each ext
ending a hand in support.
“I know we often get sad letters. Some are impossible to answer. Give the letter to me. I’ll take care of it.”
“It is hard,” Gladys said. “People are suffering. They reach out to Pastor—to us. All we can offer are words.”
Marilyn looked to Sara. “Can we send money to some of these unfortunates? Pastor could start a charity.”
Sara shook her head. “We’re not in the social work business. Radio people will tell you what Daddy does is entertainment.”
Gladys’s eyes narrowed, her voice edged with resentment. “You know that’s not true. When people listen to your father, they hear a man of God. To them, he is a symbol of salvation. He can’t be an entertainer and a man of faith at the same time. Isn’t there something in the Bible about that?”
“ ‘A servant cain’t serve two mas’sas. Either he be hatin’ one and lovin’ the other, or devotin’ to one and despisin’ the other,’ ” Sylvia recited. “It’s from Luke.”
Sara bit off a rueful grin. “Sounds like Elmer Gantry.”
Marilyn pointed at Sara. “Folks worry about their homes and families while Pastor speaks of government spending or the country going in debt. Listeners care about the pastor, but Pastor cares little about his audience.”
Sara frowned. “I never heard it put that way before.”
Gladys sighed, “Well, Sara, you live with him. Was he like this when he had a church of his own?”
“I was six when Daddy became a pastor.” Sara closed her eyes, thinking back. “Things seemed simpler back then. It wasn’t until near the end that he became interested in radio. I knew Daddy took long drives and sermonized on some stations. It was a shock when he quit his own church. He had Mother tell them and this got some people angry. I felt humiliated. Daddy didn’t care; he got what he wanted—a radio program. You’d think the pressure would be off with the Alliance adding his show, but now he seems more agitated than ever.”
Sylvia tapped Sara’s wrist. “Seem like we be pickin’ on your Pa. That’s not what we mean to do. It be you we worry about.”