Dust and Roses

by Wes Brummer

  Gladys nodded. “We think you’re under a lot of pressure. You holding up okay?”

  Sara drew out a long breath. “Four hours ago, I would have said yes, but now…I’m not sure.”

  Gladys leaned forward. “What’s wrong?”

  “I might as well tell you. It seems the pastor’s daughter has let her guard down in her wild romance with a certain young man. I’m expecting.”

  Marilyn clasped her hand to her breast. “Sara, this will change everything. Have you told anyone yet?”

  “I went to Larry’s work and told him right away. He didn’t take the news well. I’ll tell my parents tonight. Hopefully, Larry will be there for moral support.”

  Marilyn gripped her arm. “This will shock your parents. Their first instinct will be to hide you. Send you away. You’ll have to quit your work here.”

  Sara drew in a breath. “I’m here to stay. All of you have convinced me of that.”

  Gladys waved her finger to include Marilyn and Sylvia. “We want you with us, Sara. Becoming a mother might be tough at home but it won’t be a problem here. We’ll make it work.”

  Marilyn drew a hand across her forehead. “It won’t matter. Your parents will have the final say. If my oldest daughter became pregnant, I would send her to my sister in Missouri. Her protests wouldn’t matter.”

  Sylvia clasped her hands. “The Lawd will show you the way.”

  “Thank you, Sylvia.” Marilyn’s disturbing comments seemed all too plausible. “I’m not looking forward to this evening, but I’m glad I told you.” She stood. “Half the day is gone. We really should get back to work.” Sara scooted her chair back to her desk. “Gladys, there’s a musical at the Orpheum. Would you like to see it tomorrow?”

  Gladys shook her head as she replaced her chair. “Eddie and I are going to Wellington for a quick getaway. No kids. But I’ll be back Monday.”

  “Maybe later in the week?”

  “It’s a date. I love musicals.”

  Sara glanced at the electric wall clock. “It’s almost dinnertime. Let’s take a short break and restart at twelve-thirty. We can knock off at three o’clock and start fresh Monday morning.”

  By three, Sara completed her second handwritten draft explaining the benefits of moving to the Alliance network. It sounded terrible. She set it aside and peered at the newly arrived boxes of leaflets.

  She opened a container and scanned the flyer. “Give a dollar to The Church of the South Wind, a place that will feel like home.” Those were her words. The cover showed a country-style church blown up to gigantic proportions. The actual church was an empty lot on the north edge of town. It was a lure for more donations. And she was the shill.

  Daddy would demand that she quit. As much as she wanted to shepherd the changes to the Mailroom, it wouldn’t happen. Still, she could talk to him. Convince him to start a charity, or at least learn more about his listeners.

  Sara rose and stretched. “Okay everybody. We won’t be using the leaflets. Too many printing errors. So seal your letters, and we’ll pick up again on Monday.”

  “I got washin’ at home. The extra time’ll come in handy.” Sylvia dashed off one last address, picked up a letter, and carried it to Sara’s IN tray. “This be the letter I told you about.”

  “Thank you, Sylvia.” Sara grabbed an empty box to gather the mail. Marilyn sealed her remaining letters while Gladys helped Sara collect envelopes.

  Sara set the outgoing mail by her desk. “All that’s left to do is postage. I’ll finish up here. Enjoy your Sunday, ladies. Have a good trip, Gladys.”

  Gladys tossed on her jacket—then searched for her hat. Marilyn found it perched atop the Philco radio against the back wall. “See you Monday, Sara.” Gladys waved as the door closed behind the three of them.

  Sara blew a heavy breath, dropping into her seat and savoring the silence. Affixing postage and stuffing envelopes in a burlap bag was quick work. After mailing off the letters, she could catch a bus and be home in fifteen minutes. Going home meant telling her parents. Please come, Larry. Do the right thing. Sara cleared her desk, placing her handwritten draft in a tray. She would type it Monday.

  Her fingers brushed Sylvia’s letter. Sara retrieved it, glancing at the return address, R. R. 3, Elkhart, Kansas. Few letters came from the southwest corner of the state. As she opened the letter, some grit fell onto her desk along with four sheets of tightly scrawled penmanship.

  Dear Pastor McGurk,

  I’ll be leaving here soon. Another duster is bound to come, but I won’t stay for it. I hate this land, and I know it hates me. We live in a world of desolation. There is no rain. No green anywhere. Rabbits and grasshoppers have eaten nearly every surviving plant. It’s as if the wrath of God has descended upon us. I can’t take anymore. My husband is out. I’ll be gone when he returns.

  I keep thinking about joining Trisha, my daughter. She has escaped this place. Joining her and my grandbabies would be paradise.

  Until four years ago, our farm had done well. My husband and son-in-law bought a tractor a few years back. With it, we pulled in record crops of wheat. Even when the price of wheat fell, we made enough to get by. The rains held. Life was good. Daughter Trisha had beautiful twin babies, Thomas and Mary-Beth. I treasured them like my own. Sometimes life here is hard, but my babies made it pure joy.

  In ’31 the rains stopped. My husband dedicated just about every bit of our land to wheat. We still pulled in a decent crop, but wheat prices were hitting rock bottom. Between fuel, upkeep on the tractor, and the cost of seed, we could barely make do. The next year was even worse. That’s when the dusters started to blow.

  For the past four years, we’ve had little rain. Not a week goes by that we haven’t had at least one duster. Some would last for days. The only thing keeping us going was faith and family. Then last year the grandbabies got sick. They started wheezing and coughing up mud, thick as paste. They couldn’t breathe through their noses because they were full of dirt. Finally, the little ones couldn’t keep their food down.

  Trisha tried to keep the dust out of her house. I helped best I could. We taped windows, stuffed rags around doors, and tied wet towels around their little faces. Nothing worked. Trisha tried. I know she did. I forgive her. For everything.

  We took the babies to the hospital in Elkhart. Doctors there said the babies had dust pneumonia. Lots of babies are getting it. Old folks, too. The hospital has a special room where babies can get free of the dust. But it was too late.

  Little Thomas broke his ribs from coughing so much. But it was Little Mary-Beth who succumbed first. She choked to death from the mud in her throat. Little Thomas coughed constantly. It was almost a relief when he died. The twins were barely four years old.

  Five days ago, Trisha must have found out she was expecting again. Or maybe she just guessed. She didn’t tell anyone. Not even her husband. Our son-in-law ran to our place about midnight, shouting about Trisha. She was bleeding, having terrible cramps and screaming in pain. We ran in the dark the half-mile to their home. Trisha lay in a pool of blood. I suspected she miscarried.

  It was far worse. While the men went for help, she told me what happened in between waves of pain. She didn’t want to give up another baby to the dust, so she found a midwife, the kind that knew how to stop a baby. This woman put Lysol in Trisha’s womb. Trisha cried, not just from the pain. She begged me to forgive her. Here she was, dying in my arms, and she worried about how I felt. I kissed her and wiped the sweat from her brow. She died in my arms.

  I held her until the men returned with the doctor. I held her until my husband pulled me away.

  Her funeral was yesterday, and we buried her in hallowed ground. No one knows about the abortion. My husband and son have pledged to stand by the farm. They think the worst is over. It’s not. The gates of hell will open soon, and Satan’s breath will spew black across the land.

  I’m tired. I don’t sleep much anymore. When I do, I sit in a chair. The coughing spells are
n’t as bad that way. Today, my husband is helping with another rabbit roundup. They’re killing the critters with bats and shovels so they won’t eat what little green is left. No shooting. People get hurt that way. My husband’s gun is by the front door. All that’s left to do is put this letter in the mailbox at the crossroad. And then I can see my babies.

  I hear them calling now. I hear Trisha, too. They’re in a land of gentle rivers and green grass, clear skies, and soft breezes. Pray for the people here, Pastor. Pray for my husband and son-in-law.

  I’ll be seeing Little Thomas and Mary-Beth soon. We got some catching up to do.

  Mrs. Jennifer Stotermeyer

  Elkhart, Kansas

  Sara closed her eyes, imagining the life of this woman. The land she and her family depended upon was lashing back, destroying them. With shaking fingers, she slipped the letter in its envelope and placed it and the Eskridge letter in her handbag. Daddy needs to see these messages. He needs to know people are calling to him.

  Silence hung like a shroud. She stood and shuffled to the Philco. It sat on a hall table next to a divan. Sara flipped the radio on and waited for the tubes to warm. She needed music. Once the sound came up, she dialed the tuner knob, finding an orchestra playing a German waltz. That would do. She turned the cathedral shaped cabinet toward her desk and inched up the volume.

  Sara slumped back in her chair, covering her eyes. If each letter was a cry for help, then her father was forsaking the call. Gladys, Sylvia, and Marilyn wanted her to take up the banner, to rally for the listeners and push for a new course.

  They couldn’t have picked a worse time.

  Larry’s behavior was worrisome. What if he didn’t come through? Daddy was harder to defend. An ugly truth festered in her mind. My father is a fraud, and I’m his Judas goat. He wasn’t going to listen to her. It would interfere with his ambition. I’m going to fail…with both fathers. A Bible verse came to mind. Something about the sins of the fathers shall be visited upon the children. How will I pay for my father’s sins? What about my own sins? Can my baby escape? What must I do for my child to break free of this cycle?

  Losing her job was only the beginning. Her life was about to change. All the work she put in helping her father would come to nothing. She’d become a burden.

  Her chin quivered. Tears brimmed in her eyes. A black storm seemed ready to engulf her. For a fleeting instant, she thought about keeping quiet. She had no business telling Daddy what his obligations were. Let someone else fight this battle.

  There was no one else. The Judas goat was about to turn on her master.

  Tears spilled down her cheeks. She bent over her desk, her face buried in her arms. She cried for her unborn child and for the neglected child within herself.

  The music played to an audience of one.

  Chapter Three

  Sara pushed her way through the front door of her home holding a bag of groceries. “Hi Mom! I brought some things from the store!”

  Light from electric wall lamps, as well as pale blue wallpaper, gave the living room a cozy look. In the right corner sat a floor model Emerson radio with three overstuffed chairs arranged in front. On the wall above hung a decorative plate with a drawing of a wedding cake in the center. Gold script circled the picture:

  Sam and Katherine

  July 19, 1910

  “I’m in the kitchen!”

  Sara hung her jacket and hat in the closet, grabbed the groceries and stepped through the sewing room into the kitchen. Daddy was nowhere in sight.

  A wide cupboard trimmed in green and eggshell white stood by the kitchen door. In the center of the room was an oak kitchen table with four chairs. A telephone hung by the screened back door. From the kitchen, a hallway led to a bathroom, her father’s office, and her parents’ bedroom. A closet-sized pantry sat between the hall and back door.

  Sara set the groceries on the kitchen table. “I got a few things from the Corner Market on the way home. There’s a bakery opening. Maybe this Depression is about over.”

  Katherine McGurk peeked in the bag. “Stores come and go. It doesn’t mean a thing.” Dashes of gray streaked her mother’s black curls. Deepening lines appeared around her hazel eyes. At forty-four, time was catching up with the only person in Sara’s life who didn’t seem to age. “Spinach, beets, pickles, and sauerkraut. Your father might eat the pickles. Do you want any of this with supper?”

  “The spinach. I’m having a taste for it. Where is Daddy?” Telling Mom about cravings would be hard enough. Telling her with Daddy walking in would be disastrous.

  Her mother pointed down the hall. “Your father’s in his office working on his next talk.”

  “Is he coming out soon?”

  Katherine shrugged. “I doubt it. You know your father. When he’s writing, he could stay in there all evening if I let him.”

  “What about the boys?”

  “They’re running errands. Getting magazines and newspapers. Your father has become a newshound.”

  “How soon?”

  Katherine glanced at Sara. “Half-hour, I suppose. Maybe longer. If Jason had gone alone, he’d be back by now. With Michael tagging along”—her mother smiled—“It could be a while.” She pointed to the groceries. “Keep the spinach out and put the rest in the pantry. You can help me with supper.” After storing the groceries, Sara tied on her apron. “What are we having?”

  “Meatloaf and mashed potatoes. I’ll mix the hamburger. You can peel the potatoes. We’ll heat the green beans and spinach later.”

  Sara filled a bowl of potatoes and took a paring knife from a cupboard drawer. Her mother placed the meat in a large bowl and added crackers, eggs, and a tin of tomato sauce. “How did work go today?”

  Sara dropped a quartered potato into a pot. “We were busy. More letters are coming in. People are inquiring about the show being picked up by the Alliance.”

  “That’s not surprising. Are you keeping up?”

  “For now. But before the show goes national, I’ll have to ask Daddy for more help.”

  “Your father is a practical man. He’ll agree to that.”

  Sara guided the small blade with her thumb, a strip of potato skin spiraling below her fingers. “That’s the problem. The girls are worried the new letters will bury our regular fans. They are the listeners who’ve stayed with the show from the beginning.”

  Katherine pursed her lips. “It’s the price of success. Something that’s very rare these days. And so we make the most of it. You never know when it could end.”

  Her mother worked the mixture with sure hands. She never followed a recipe or measured ingredients. If she didn’t have what was needed, she made do with something else. All her dishes were unique creations because she never made anything quite the same way twice. And it always turned out right.

  She couldn’t keep her secret much longer.

  Katherine smiled without looking up. “You better finish those potatoes.”

  Sara let out a breath, peeling and slicing the russets into pieces. When she finished, she filled the pot with water and placed the container on the stove. Katherine packed the ground beef in a loaf pan and slid the mixture into the oven.

  With the immediate kitchen chores completed, now was the time. Sara bit her lower lip. “Mom, there’s one more thing I need to tell you.”

  Katherine flipped the oven door shut. “Oh? What’s that?”

  Sara’s hands quivered. A lump formed in her throat. She could barely get the words out, “I don’t think I can do my job anymore.” Sara closed her eyes against stinging tears.

  Comforting arms embraced her. “You’re shaking. What happened today? Ever since you came home, you’ve been as skittish as a rabbit.” Katherine wiped Sara’s eyes with a towel. “Tell your mother.”

  Sara brushed hair from her eyes. “I got some news from Dr. Payton today. I’m going to have a baby.”

  Her mother gasped, then grabbed a chair, pointing to another. “Sit down.” Her voice was heav
y with dread.

  As Sara sank into the chair, Katherine held her trembling hands. “Tell me what you know.”

  Unspoken pain crept into Sara’s green eyes. “I’m due in November. Larry is the father. I told him after I found out. He didn’t take it well. Did he call?”

  Katherine shook her head. “It would be better if you could marry. In any case, you’ll have to move away in a month or two. Have your child somewhere else. We’ll say you were overworked and left Wichita to rest. After you give the baby to an orphanage, you can move back home and live as before.”

  Sara lifted her gaze with cold defiance. “I know that’s the right thing to do, but I want to protect my baby. I can’t do that by giving him to strangers.”

  Katherine’s eyes darkened; her voice became low and urgent. “You don’t have a choice.” She glanced down the hallway. “It’s a terrible price to pay, but it will be over in a few months. Keeping your child would mean accepting the scorn of others or living with elaborate lies for the rest of your life.”

  Sara tilted her head, “I don’t understand.”

  “There is another way.” Katherine met her daughter’s eyes with surprising resolve. “You and Larry marry and move away. Change your life. Make new friends. Decide on a different wedding date for yourselves. Move it, say, six months earlier. Make a plaque or decorate a plate that proclaims the new date. The fictitious anniversary will soon become fact.”

  Sara stared at her mother open-mouthed. “How do you know so much about this?”

  She spoke in a detached tone. “You’re not the only one with secrets. Twenty-four years ago, I wore your same shoes.”

  Her words hit like a hammer. Sara buried her head and held on sobbing. “We’re quite a pair. So much alike. I’ve prayed I’d never have to tell you, but you deserve the truth. Please forgive me.”

  Sara trembled in her arms.

  “Sam and I married just before we moved to Wichita, well before you were born. I felt so ashamed at first when I learned I would have a child. But you are a special creation. My baby. And you grew to become the wonderful and unique person you are today. Now, look around. Nothing has changed.”