Dust and Roses

by Wes Brummer

  Mother was wrong. The everyday familiar—that sense of order and balance—was dashed to pieces. A sense of uncertainty rocked her, like a boat yanked from its moorings and cast adrift on a windswept sea.

  Sara stood up and turned away, unable to mask a cold, bitter emptiness looming inside. She had to be strong and find her way through this. “I can’t sort this out. When did you and Daddy marry? I want the real date.”

  Katherine shuffled to the stove, stirring the potatoes. “Our true wedding date was December 2, 1910, five months before you were born.”

  Sara closed her fingers into a fist. “How did this idea…changing your anniversary, come about?”

  Katherine turned around and smiled. “The idea came when I decided to keep you as my child.” She grabbed a towel and wiped down the cupboard. “I first met your father when I was nineteen. My parents and I lived outside of Hutchinson. I spent that day in town with friends window shopping downtown. It was early May of 1910. Some boys followed us in a sickly green Tin Lizzie. The driver was this tough looking rooster in overalls.” Her voice trailed off as she stared out the kitchen window. “He followed me home, driving that contraption into my parents’ yard. The car kept backfiring, and our dogs ran around barking up a storm.”

  “Is this Daddy you’re talking about?” Impossible.

  A faraway look touched her mother’s eyes. “Oh yes. He wore these goggles. Dust and wind plastered his hair down, and he was filthy except for his eyes. He honked his horn, waving at me. Daddy took a pitchfork after him. Me? I was already falling for him.”

  “Oh, my.”

  “My parents forbade me from seeing him. I did anyway. I felt like the luckiest girl on earth. At least, until the day I learned I was with child.”

  Sara drew in a breath. A pang resonated within her, but she had to know the rest of the story. “What happened?”

  “My parents were shocked, of course. Mother was disappointed in me. Daddy took his shotgun in search of Sam—I mean your father. He hid in an old dugout we found one day while driving. A friend took me there. I begged him to marry me. He was my last hope because I was about to be sent away. We married two weeks later. I wouldn’t call it a shotgun wedding, but my uncles covered every door in the church.”

  Sara shook her head in amazement. It was impossible to imagine her mother as a prim, but reckless young woman, stepping beyond the bounds of acceptability. A stunning truth hit home.

  This was her story as well.

  “After we married, I insisted we move away. We arrived here in January. I was clearly a mother-to-be by then. We rented a house, joined a church, and made new friends. I even made a plate—it’s in the front room—stating our wedding date as July 19, 1910.”

  “Six months difference, just like you said.” Sara’s voice was low as if reciting the facts to herself.

  Katherine shrugged. “What’s an anniversary but a date on a record nobody sees?”

  Sara blew out a breath. “Larry isn’t about to give up his job and move away. He wants to run his father’s business.”

  Katherine set her jaw. “I’ll write to my sister in Hutchinson. You can stay with her. It’s only fifty miles away.”

  “I’m not going away just to wait out my time and let someone take my child.”

  Katherine gripped her daughter’s hand. “You must. It’s the price you pay for having sinned.”

  Sara flinched, stepping back. “My price? And you, Mother. What price did you pay?”

  Katherine recoiled, glancing down the hall. “I made a decision. People don’t always marry for love. Love may come later. Or not at all. My sins are my own. Spare your child—and yourself. Do you love this man?”

  “I enjoy his company.”

  “That’s not what I asked. Do you love him?”

  Sara’s rose, trudged to the sink, and turned on the tap, running water in cupped hands and splashed her face.

  Katherine offered her a clean towel. “Don’t add to your mistakes, Sara.” She leaned over and peeked in the stove. “Let’s go to Sunday worship tomorrow, the way we used to.”

  Sara bit her lower lip, shaking her head. “I can’t. I don’t want to see those hypocrites again. Not after all that’s happened. I’m surprised you still go.”

  “Your father didn’t commit a crime for leaving. He moved on because he found a new passion. The radio station needed programs to fill its schedule, and his idea of a Sunday morning commentary fitted their needs perfectly.” Katherine gazed out the kitchen sink window “But I have to admit. Being the pastor’s wife was exciting. I chaired committees, took part in social events and greeted parishioners as they came in the door. Those were crazy, busy years—raising three children and organizing church projects at the same time. I still miss it.”

  Sara’s lips held a quiet smile. “I had some good times as well. Singing solos when I was ten and still being the youngest member of the choir at seventeen. I felt so grown up. Then Daddy quit.”

  “Some people were bitter toward your father. Those were not easy times.”

  Sara poured water from the potato pot and retrieved a masher from the cupboard. “I hated the whispers and side-long glances. I called them phonies and quit the church.” She added salt, milk, and butter to the potatoes, stirred in the ingredients, and tasted the mixture. All done.

  “The thought of leaving the church never crossed my mind.”

  Sara bowed her head. “I wish I was as strong as you.”

  “You are. You just don’t know it, yet.”

  Sara heated the green beans and spinach and Katherine set the table. Brakes squeaked outside announcing the arrival of Sara’s younger brothers, Jason and Michael.

  Michael McGurk banged through the back door, carrying a stack of newspapers and magazines. “We must have gone to half the newsstands in town!” The wiry eighteen-year-old dropped the papers onto a kitchen chair and tossed his newsboy cap onto a wall peg. Small for his age, with curly brown hair and freckles that refused to disappear, Michael looked like one of the older tough kids in the Our Gang comedies.

  Katherine stepped forward. “Take those papers to your father’s office. And tell him supper’s about ready. Where’s Jason?”

  “He’s working on the clutch. Says it’s too tight. You know how he likes to fiddle with that Model A.”

  “Well, he better not get attached to it. Your father’s talking about trading it in for a Nash or a Mercedes.”

  “A Mercedes! That’d be neat!” Michael grabbed the papers, racing down the hall.

  Sara scooped the cooked vegetables in bowls while Katherine removed the meatloaf from the pan and added flour to the drippings to make gravy. “Is Daddy serious about a Mercedes?”

  “Your father wants a car that will make a statement.”

  Sara raised her brows. “He’s going to buy a fancy car before his show is on the network?”

  Katherine held up a palm. “When I tell you kids to learn from your father, it doesn’t always mean to follow his example.”

  Sara set the bowls on the table. “I have to call Larry.”

  Katherine pursed her lips as she placed the gravy by the vegetables. “Supper first. Larry can wait.”

  Sara frowned but said nothing. She set the meatloaf by her father’s plate.

  Katherine surveyed the table. “Everything’s ready. Let’s get the men in here. Time to eat.”

  Chapter Four

  Sara passed the last of the meatloaf to her father. “Would you like any more, Daddy?”

  “I’ll take that.” Sam deposited the remainder on his plate. A large man with hooded eyes, massive hands and thick shoulders, Samuel McGurk looked more like a boxer than a preacher. “Now, where was I? This new car I want will be either a Nash or a Mercedes.”

  Jason McGurk frowned. “What’s going to happen to the Model A?

  Sam pointed an index finger at Jason. “I’ll get to that. The Nash is a roomy, elegant car. We could all ride comfortably in it. But I’ve been eyeing a M
ercedes at Ziegler’s car lot. It’s been sitting there for weeks. I’m betting the dealer will give me a discount just to get rid of it.”

  Jason bent forward. “I’ve put in a lot of time keeping the Model A in good shape.” Three years younger than Sara, Jason had his mother’s slight features, black hair, and blue eyes. “A second car could come in handy for running errands, especially if you’re out of town.”

  Sam’s fist fell to the table with a thump. “Forget the Model A. It’s an average car, built for the masses.” The big man wolfed down a mouthful of meatloaf. He seldom wore pastoral clothes these days, preferring flannel shirts and suspendered denim pants. “I’m selling the car. One vehicle is enough for this household.”

  Jason set his fork down. “So, does that mean I can drive this new car?”

  Sam settled back in his chair. “No. This car will be special. Since my program is going national, I want a vehicle that commands attention. Not one of Mr. Ford’s cookie cutters.”

  “You’re going to sell the Ford and leave us with nothing?” Jason shook his head. “Fine with me. I’ve been saving my money. In four months there’ll be enough to make a down payment for a used car.”

  Sam McGurk rose and bent forward, his thick arms pressing down on the table. “Watch your tongue, young man.”

  Katherine held Jason’s arm. “Sam, owning a car will teach Jason responsibility. We could keep the old car until he buys his own.”

  “Maybe.” He turned to Jason. “Or you could buy the Model A.”

  “No. Sell the thing and run your own errands.”

  Sara gasped. Why was Jason goading Daddy?

  Sam shoved the table forward, as his voice simmered with controlled rage. “You’ve made your point. Now hear mine. As long as you live in this house, I will expect your full respect. Either you give it to me, or you can live under a different roof. Do I make myself clear?”

  “I’m sure Jason didn’t mean—”

  “Stay out of it, Katherine. This is between Jason and me. What’s it going to be, boy?”

  Jason’s eyes searched about the room as if avoiding his father’s penetrating stare. “All I want is to own a car.” All defiance was gone.

  “The subject under discussion is respect. I’m not interested in you owning a car.”

  Jason’s eyes focused on the table. “You have my respect, Father, for as long as I live under your roof. May I be excused now?”

  Sam nodded. “We’ll keep the Model A. For now.” Samuel sat back down, extending a pointed finger. “But I warn you. Any more lip, and I’ll take action.”

  Jason rushed from the kitchen.

  Sam finished eating as if nothing had happened, then wiped his lips. “A fine meal as always Katherine.”

  “Sara helped as well.”

  He shrugged. “Daughters are expected to help their mothers.”

  Sara sighed, closing her eyes.

  “Can I go now?” Michael asked. Katherine nodded, and Sara’s youngest brother bolted from the kitchen.

  Sara picked up plates. “I’ll wash dishes tonight, Mother.”

  Katherine waved her hand. “You and your father should visit.”

  Her father turned his head. “Oh? Are you going to lecture me on how I handled your brother?”

  Sara clasped her hands together. “My helpers are worried how joining the Alliance will affect the Mailroom.”

  Sam leaned back. “Well, let’s get to it. Katherine, is there any of that strawberry cake left? Or did the boys eat it all?”

  “There’s still two slices. Sara, would you like some?”

  “No, thank you.” Sara retrieved the two letters she brought from work while Katherine plated a wedge of pink cake and brought it and a clean fork to the table.

  Sam licked some icing from a fingertip. “Cake doesn’t last long around here.” He ate with deliberate slowness, savoring each bite. Sometimes he dabbed his mouth with a napkin between bites. Finally, he ate the last bit of frosting before pushing the saucer away. “Very tasty, Katherine. A lemon pie would be a nice treat next week. Could you do that?”

  Katherine nodded. “Sara has some business to discuss with you.”

  Her father glanced at her as if noticing her for the first time. “Can this wait? I should be polishing my talk for tomorrow.”

  Sara shook her head. “No, Daddy.” She pushed the “duster” note across the table. “This first letter is about a grandmother who loses her daughter and grandchildren. It’s very sad.”

  Sam pulled out the pages with a bit of dust as well. “They don’t keep a clean house, do they?”

  “Just read it, Daddy.”

  Sam donned a par reading glasses and flipped the pages before reading through the letter. A frown etched across his face. After he finished, he settled back in his seat, scowling.

  Sara couldn’t contain herself. “What do you think?”

  “Quite a story. Two unfortunate children die from an obscure disease. A mother aborts because she doesn’t want another child. And we have an insane grandmother ready to commit suicide. You tell me what to do with this mess.”

  Sara stared at her father. “It’s possible Jennifer may still be alive. We need to call the sheriff down there. Get her family some help. You do that from time to time. She turned to you, Daddy. She believes in you. We have to make an effort to help her.”

  Sam pushed the letter away. “Do you remember what I said when I gave you the job of answering fan mail? We’re not saving the world. If you get a sob story, tell them to look to their church for help. Then move on. Don’t let one piece of mail bog down the works.”

  “This one is special.” Sara tapped the pages. “Don’t you see? Dust storms are destroying their lives. You can tell their story. Prevent another tragedy like this from happening.”

  Sam gathered the pages. “Have you answered this letter?”

  “I thought you should see it first.”

  “Good.” Methodically, he ripped the paper into confetti. “Coming from a demented woman, this may not have happened at all.”

  Sara gasped—it was hard to breathe. “Don’t!” She grabbed his arm to stop the mutilation, but he batted her away.

  “The matter is settled.” He brushed the pieces aside and then picked up the other letter. “So, what’s this one about?”

  Sara stared at the bits of paper, Jennifer’s words flashing in her mind. 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. Was this a cry for help from a saddened woman? Or was it a premonition? Should she let this moment pass? Or should she make her stand?

  Sam slapped the pages of the second note. “Now this is a good letter. A farmer is losing his land because of a New Deal program. He can’t plant any crops to feed his family or make a living. Here’s proof FDR’s farm programs are failing. No fireside chat can smooth this over. I’ll pay a couple of months rent to keep this story alive.”

  Hot anger shot up the back of Sara’s neck. “The bank controls the situation. Not Roosevelt.”

  Sam flicked his fingers. “Let’s not muddy the water. You take care of the letters. I’ll take care of the show. Where are the donations?”

  Sara drew a thick envelope from her handbag. “I could deposit in the bank. I go by it every day on the way to the bus.”

  “No bank is touching this money. Are we finished?”

  Sara’s eyes narrowed to steel slits. “Not quite.”

  “Oh?” Sam raised an eyebrow. “I know that look of yours. Out with it.”

  “These letters are calling for your help, Daddy. They’re from listeners who look to your authority. They see you as a pastor. So they write about the things that matter to them—the lack of control in their lives. Many folks think this Depression is punishment for sins they’ve committed. And they’re looking to you for hope.”

  Sam threw out his palms. “I do give them hope.”

  Sara spoke with urgency, knowing it was a futile ef
fort. “You spew out anger and criticism. You talk about the economy, Congress, government programs—the average person sees these things as remote. You can use your role as Pastor to ease the anxiety, to build charities. You can be more than a mere entertainer.”

  Sam’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t lecture me on running my business. We are not a charity. The program is my concern. And I expect you to encourage fans to write back with at least a dollar donation.”

  “Daddy, if you want to call yourself a pastor, you need to act like one. Listen to yourself. The problems of these people mean nothing to you. Their only purpose is to donate. Remember what the Bible says about serving two masters?”

  “Stop right there.” Her father’s voice wore a warning.

  “You have to hear the rest. You take, but give nothing in return. Your show is one big advertisement. A half-hour commercial all about you.”

  Sam slammed a fist on the table. “Why you smug little whelp. Don’t get pious with me. When was the last time you’ve been to church? Or cracked a Bible? You’ve gone dancing, living the carefree life, running around with that well-dressed pansy, yet you insult me in my house—”

  “Sam!” Katherine stepped from the sink, grasping his arm. “Be mindful of your blood pressure.”

  He turned to Katherine, glowering. “The doctor said it was benign hypertension. Benign. There’s nothing to worry about.”

  “That not completely true. Dr. Payton said your blood pressure was close to malignant, and you should avoid anger by counting backward.” Katherine shot a look at Sara. “And you shouldn’t irritate your father.”

  Sara breathed a sigh of relief. Thank goodness, Mother distracted Daddy with his recent doctor’s visit. “I’m sorry for saying those things. The volume of mail is going up, and our in-state listeners will likely get buried under the avalanche of new mail.”

  Sam grinned. “I would say now is the time to send out those new leaflets. Did they come in today?”

  Sara nodded.

  “With the flyers in place along with the increase in mail, donations should pour in. How many leaflets went out today?”