Dust and Roses

by Wes Brummer

  Sara gritted her teeth. “You said you’d call me.”

  “So, does that make us even?”

  “Not even close.” She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter anymore. I’ll wait out here. Your parents should be returning home from church soon. I’m sorry to have bothered you.”

  Larry pushed the screen door open. “Don’t be so bullheaded. Come inside. It’s chilly out there, and my parents won’t be home for hours. They’re going to dinner after church.”

  “I’m not coming in with you undressed.” She retreated a step, crossing her arms.

  He shrugged. “Have it your way. I need some aspirin. Give me a chance to wash up, and then we can talk. Even better, I can pick you up at work tomorrow and take you to supper.”

  Sara stared at him through narrowed brows. “Daddy fired me. In fact, he turned me out of the house just last night.”

  Larry grunted and turned away, trudging up the steps. It was chilly out here. Sara slipped into the house, closing the door behind her. “Larry, I’m downstairs,” she called.

  No answer. Squeaky water taps turned upstairs. Larry must be taking a bath.

  Sara sat on the living room sofa. Lois Bigger kept a fine house. The wallpaper was a pale green print of vines and flowers. In one corner sat an upright piano. Small table lamps bracketed the sofa, and several chairs set around a large radio. Against the stairway was a bookcase full of recent hardbound titles in colorful paper jackets.

  Sara wandered to the shelves and examined the volumes. Most were fiction with “Book of the Month Edition” printed on the inside front jacket. Good-Bye Mr. Chips by James Hilton, So Red the Rose by Carolyn Miller, Elmer Gantry by Sinclair Lewis, Grand Hotel by Vicki Baum, and The Good Earth by Pearl Buck. Among the many books was a small wind-up clock: 10:50.

  She had read Elmer Gantry, skimming through the book at the city library after her father blasted the book on the radio. How many readers would have not read the novel if he kept quiet? The story of a conniving preacher was captivating. Even more thrilling was the delicious dread of getting caught while reading the forbidden pages.

  Heavy footsteps tromped down the stairs. Sara glanced up. Larry wore a gray pinstriped suit and Panama hat. His sunken eyes still betrayed a rough night before.

  “You look terrible. Did you drink last night?”

  “I had a few.” He plodded the rest of the way down the steps, and stopped before her. “When I came home, the old fuss was waiting for me—harping like an old woman ’bout how I should have returned hours ago. And what was I doing out so late? I kept quiet, but I wanted to sock him good. If he wants me to take over, he should step out of my way.”

  “So, you haven’t told your parents yet…about us?”

  Larry pursed his lips. “I’ll get around to it.”

  “You’ve had most of a day.”

  Larry shrugged. “Sorry.”

  “It’s quite all right.” She flashed a false smile. “I’ll take care of it.”

  Larry blinked. “You’re telling them?”

  Sara countered, “You weren’t listening at the door?”

  Larry’s eyes grew dark. “Don’t get smart with me.”

  Sara retreated a step. Larry was altogether too surly this morning. Perhaps it was time to leave. “It’s almost eleven. I should go. Later, this evening I’ll come back when your folks are home. Can I use your telephone to call a cab—”

  “What time?” He glanced at the clock and grabbed Sara’s travel bag. “Get your purse. I have an idea. Let’s go for a Sunday drive. Kill a little time and…talk. I think better behind the wheel. Whaddaya say?”

  Sara gazed at him, tilting her head. “Sure, but why the rush?”

  “No rush. Just need to clear my head.” He yanked open the front door. “Daylight’s burning.”

  Sara retrieved her purse. Larry hustled her out. What had gotten into him?

  He slammed the front door, and tossed her bag in the backseat of the car before opening her door. “The road beckons.”

  Sara got in. Larry slammed her door shut and jumped in his seat. Gunning the engine, he backed out of the driveway, raced up the Boulevard, and turned east to Broadway. Larry flashed a grin at Sara. “Let’s take a drive north. Might see something interesting.” With one hand on the steering wheel and the other draped over the front seat, he stepped on the gas as they took the highway out of town.

  In Newton, thirty miles from Wichita, Larry stopped for gas. Sara walked next door for some dime burgers and nickel pop. By one o’clock, they were bouncing along on a rutted dirt road. Sara crossed her arms. Her stomach was cramping. The greasy food and rough roads didn’t mix well. She gazed out the side window, watching the countryside. Anything to take her mind off the waves of nausea.

  The landscape west of the Flint Hills was flat and open, dotted with gray farmhouses and painted barns. The geography was a hodge-podge of plowed fields, tall grass pastures, and a few scraggly trees along dried creek beds.

  This was Mennonite country. Farms were small and well kept. Some of the barns looked to be in better shape than the houses. While phone lines stretched to some of the houses, there were no electrical lines. Power stopped at the edge of town.

  This land wasn’t much different now than when the pioneers first came here. She imagined empty plains under a forever sky. Wildlife would include deer, fox, coyotes, and bobcats. Even cougar. Not many trees, but there would be wildflowers. Did the young pioneer girls gather flowers to decorate their homes?

  She couldn’t have endured the pioneer life. Even today, it was hard to imagine living without electricity. Give me an afternoon at Innes Department Store or even Bigger’s Mercantile.

  “Larry, we haven’t seen a decent-sized town since Newton.”

  “I know. Isn’t it great? An open road with nothing to get in the way. Hold on. You can’t do this in Wichita.” Larry stomped on the gas.

  The Roadster leaped like a startled deer; engine racing like a heart beating fast. A rooster tail of dust flew behind.

  “Slow down!” She grasped the flimsy dashboard. Close objects hurtled by in a blur. Larry hit a bump, and the speeding vehicle leaped from the ground, landing with a jarring thump. Sara pushed down the lock on her door. “This is dangerous!”

  Larry eased his foot off the gas pedal, his eyes blazing. “Did you feel that? It’s like a rush of energy racing through my head! The only thing slowing me down is this crappy road.”

  Sara forced herself to steady her breath. “I’m not interested in thrill rides. I’m about to have a baby. Take some responsibility.”

  He scowled. “You’re ruining the fun.”

  “It’s time you acted like an adult.” Sara shot him an irritated look. “What’s gotten into you?”

  “Nothing. I’m fine.” Larry frowned. “Don’t get so testy.”

  Sara sighed. “You said at the house you’d rather talk in the car. I’m listening.”

  Larry sucked in his cheeks, thinking. “You don’t have to have this baby, right? Couldn’t you decide not to have it?”

  Sara stared at him. If only she could jump out and run. Dash away and never lay eyes on this stranger again.

  “Larry.” Reasoning with an obstinate child would be easier. “I could never do that. You have no inkling what a woman goes through when she faces the prospect of ending the life of an unborn child. The physical experience is dangerous enough. Women die from abortions. Even if all goes well, it’s never over. There are always lingering questions: Did I make the right decision? What if the infant had lived? Imagine that child becoming an adult.”

  Larry grunted. “You’re making too much of it.”

  Sara held up a palm. “Women have an emotional connection. It’s not just deciding with our head. We choose with our heart. Men make a decision—and that’s that, right or wrong. No turning back. There are no consequences. Just new problems. Your head and your heart are detached.”

  “Thank God for that. That’s what makes us str
onger.”

  Sara huffed. “Don’t be so sure. You have thin-skinned areas where you don’t like me to tread, Larry Bigger. It doesn’t take much to set you off like a rocket.”

  “Impossible. Try me.”

  “Are you sure you want to play this game?”

  “Sure. I got you beat already. Even if you hit a nerve, I can keep a straight face.”

  “We’ll see.” Sara hesitated. This could be a dangerous contest.

  “What are you waiting for?” Larry darted a look at her. The Roadster increased speed again. Without warning, he whipped the steering wheel to the left. Sara glimpsed a tilted signpost, “Carriage Road,” as the silver car spun around a tight corner. Wheels shrieked.

  Thump!

  Sara’s head slammed against the side of the car. Salty blood filled her mouth from a split lip. Larry fought the wheel as the car skittered across the road. A shallow ditch raced to within inches of the wheels as Larry shouted a curse.

  We’re going to crash! My baby will never live!

  Larry leaned forward, grabbing the wheel with both hands. The car straightened course. He turned to Sara, a smirk on his lips. “Well? I’m waiting.”

  Her head reeled; a bolt of fear shot through her. “Stop this car. I’ve had enough.”

  “Oh no. You started this. Let’s finish it. What do you got on me? Spill it.”

  He didn’t stop.

  “Okay.” She eased a sigh. There was no going back. “It’s about your work.” Her stinging lip made talking difficult. She found a handkerchief in her purse and dabbed at her mouth. “You know your father wants to season you. He doesn’t think you’re ready to supervise yet. He fears you’ll never be ready. You see the things you’ve done, but he sees the things you need to do. Try to put yourself in his shoes, and then maybe you’ll succeed.”

  “Is that all you got?”

  Sara nodded.

  “Pretty weak. Now it’s my turn.”

  “I don’t want to play this game any more.”

  “Game’s over.” He chuckled. “Now, we’re showing our cards.” Larry punched the gas. He glanced at her, a lopsided grin on his face. “Rides well, doesn’t it?”

  Sara said nothing. Her upper lip felt puffy, but the bleeding had stopped.

  Larry stared ahead, keeping the car to the center of the road. “I knew you wouldn’t like the abortion idea. You could still get rid of the baby, and we could have gone back to having fun. But no. Instead, you wanted to trap me into marrying you. So you got yourself pregnant—”

  She gasped. “That is not true!”

  “It doesn’t matter. I know what you want. I figured it out.”

  Sara gripped her hands together to keep them from shaking. She’d gone down the rabbit hole, and the Mad Hatter was behind the wheel.

  “You want my job. I saw you and the Old Man talking on the stairs yesterday. Both of you are in it together, but it’s not going to work.” The engine screamed as he mashed down on the gas.

  “None of that is true! Believe me.”

  “Save it!” He gave a mirthless chuckle. “I didn’t tell you the rest of the story. When I came home last night, he stood in my way and pointed a finger at me. Said I failed to meet his expectations and called me—me!—a disappointment. And then he talked about you.”

  Sara covered her mouth. Her body trembled. When was this madness going to end?

  “See? You know you’re guilty.” He snorted in triumph. “The Old Man said it was too bad you weren’t working for him. You would have easily taken care of all the tasks I failed to do. Well, that will never happen. I’m ending it now.”

  A spike of adrenaline coursed down her spine.

  Larry chuckled. “I love that look of fear. But don’t flatter yourself. I’m not going to hurt you. Just the opposite. I found a place for you to stay. It’s out of the way. A bit rustic. But it’ll do. Someday, you’ll even thank me.” He glanced up. “And lookee here. It’s the end of the line.”

  Larry braked hard. The Roadster skidded over loose dirt and gravel, sliding to the roadside near a T-shaped intersection. Dust engulfed the car, obscuring the world.

  Sara peered through the dirty windshield. As the haze dissipated, details of a strange building became clear.

  The structure faced an adjacent road about thirty yards to the left of the car. The construction looked like a fortress, three stories tall, built of rough-hewn limestone. On the other hand, it resembled a Victorian cathedral, but with a stark, imposing air about it. Front steps ran up to a wide porch with six windows in from. The massive edifice extended back from the road by a good two-hundred feet with an arching roof covering a lofty attic. A steeple towered in front with a small attic window placed where the bell should have been. Sitting on the ledge of the attic window was a small feminine figure.

  “Look!” Sara pointed at the person, her fears at bay for the moment. “In the steeple! It’s a girl!”

  “I’ll be…” Larry’s eyes flashed. “I think she’s about to jump.”

  Her jaw dropped. “Oh, dear God.”

  The figure did not move.

  Sara stared in fascination. “What kind of place is this?”

  “I’ll tell you later.” Larry tore his eyes away from the person. “First, let’s get a few things straight. You drove me to this. It’s all your fault. If you hadn’t gotten pregnant; if you had agreed to an abortion; if you didn’t scheme to take my job; things could’ve turned out better for us. Even if you weren’t after my job, the Old Man would’ve demanded we get married, and you would’ve taken over the business. I can’t have that. It’s mine.”

  She held her arms out to him. “I understand your feelings. I’d never do that. Larry, this is insane!” Exasperated, she lowered her arms. Her left palm landed on top of the shift lever. The metal knob fit snugly in her hand.

  “Funny you should say that.” His smirk turned into a scowl. “The bottom line is this: you’re staying here. They’ll have to take you in because you’re with child. And if you don’t like it here, go somewhere else. I don’t care. But if you show up in Wichita, I’ll hurt you. I’m a desperate man, Sara. I’m prepared to do anything to keep what belongs to me.”

  The gearshift knob felt loose. Probably from all the shaking the car took. Sara twisted the metal lump until it came free. It nestled in her palm like a stone. She grew up with two boys. She knew how to throw a punch.

  With her left fist cupping the round handle, Sara straight-armed Larry in the face, missing his nose but slashing him across the cheek. The edge of the knob ripped skin from nose to ear. Blood spurted. Larry grunted, knocking her arm aside. The heavy chunk of metal shot across the interior of the car, cracking a window. Larry punched her twice in the side and then threw a fierce jab to the temple.

  Sara yanked on the door handle, trying to get out. Locked! She fumbled for the latch as more blows hit her in the ribs. Larry raised a foot and kicked her as she threw open her door. She landed hard on the gravelly dirt road, eyes closed against the stabbing pain coursing through her body.

  A car door creaked, and measured footsteps crunched on the gravel, circling the back of the vehicle, stopping behind her. Another door squeaked, and her carpetbag and purse landed inches from her head. More shuffling, then a shadow loomed over her.

  Sara remained motionless. Finally, the passenger door closed, and the footsteps retreated to the driver’s side. The door slammed, and the engine roared to life. The Roadster backed away, turned, and retreated, its engine diminishing to nothing.

  An intense, visceral bubble throbbed inside her head.

  Sara opened her eyes to see the strange house and the figure watching her. She struggled to her feet, but a thousand knives jabbed at her side. A moan escaped her lips as she collapsed to the ground. Lying on her back brought the stabbing knives down to a hundred.

  How could she communicate with this girl? Could you bring me a glass of water? Sara tried to shout, but her words were a faint cry.

  Grit
ting her teeth against the pain, Sara pulled the purse beneath her head. She’ll try for the house later. Rest now.

  The last thing she saw was the girl climbing back into the window.

  Part II: Deliverance

  “Affluence, unless stimulated by a keen sense of imagination, forms but the vaguest notion of the practical strain of poverty.”

  ~Edith Wharton, The House of Mirth, 1905

  “As we come marching, marching,

  we battle too for men,

  For they are women’s children,

  and we mother them again.

  Our lives shall not be sweated

  from birth until life closes;

  Hearts starve as well as bodies;

  give us bread, but give us roses!

  ~*~

  As we come marching,

  marching, unnumbered women dead

  Go crying through our singing

  their ancient cry for bread.

  Small art and love and beauty

  their drudging spirits knew.

  Yes, it is bread we fight for—

  but we fight for roses, too!

  ~*~

  As we come marching, marching,

  we bring the greater days.

  The rising of the women

  means the rising of the race.

  No more the drudge and idler—

  ten that toil where one reposes,

  But a sharing of life’s glories:

  Bread and roses! Bread and roses!”

  ~Bread and Roses protest poem originated from the Lawrence, Maryland, Textile Strike of 1912

  Chapter Seven

  Sunday, April 7, 1935

  Beatrice Mullens sat outside the attic window of the tenant house, listening to the voice in her head. It was Sally. Come on Bea. You can do this. Put your arms down by your side and push off. Then we can be together. You do want us to be together, right? Then, push off when I say.

  Sally said it would be daring. Bea had to agree. Climbing to the attic was exciting. No one knew she was here. The view was enormous. What a thrill it was to lift the heavy attic window, throw back the shutters, and climb onto the outside ledge. There was danger here. She could fall. That was the point. Eternity was seconds away.