Dust and Roses

by Wes Brummer

  Except now, she was cold. The thrill was gone, and she just wanted to finish it. Bea placed her hands on the wind-battered wood. Thin muscles tensed, ready to push off.

  Wait! Not yet! You’re spoiling it! I give the word. I decide. You do what I say. Or I will leave you. Just like that! Now look around. Pick the last thing you want to see.

  Bea hung her head, waiting for the tirade to end. The chill of a stiff wind gave her goose bumps, tousled her short blonde hair, and fluttered her thin flour sack dress. Bare feet dangled in space over the porch roof below. Could she push hard enough to clear it?

  In front of the porch was a semi-circle drive that led to Miller Road. Bea traced the two-lane eastward. A grove of willows covered one side of a small cemetery a quarter mile away. The town of Joshua lay eight miles farther. She lived there after leaving the orphanage, learning to be a proper adult. It was a short stay. Bea shuddered. No one knew the truth of her time there. Only her and the Bergkamps. And Sally.

  White-faced cattle grazed on the east side of a gravel road going south, and still-dormant buffalo grass lay on the west. Both cattle and grass disappeared in the haze of the southern horizon.

  Only, it wasn’t haze. Dust billowed, racing up the road along with the growing whine of a car engine pushed wide open. Long and silver with a sloping canopy, the car screamed like a wounded animal, speeding forward. Brakes squealed, and the vehicle slid to a halt near Miller Road. The silver car sat quiet and unmoving as the dust settled.

  Bea watched mesmerized. Then—a piercing scream!

  There was an impression of movement on the passenger side; the door opened and someone fell to the road. The driver, a well-dressed man, jumped out, one hand to his cheek, and stalked around the car. He yanked open the back passenger door and tossed a bag to the road. For several seconds, he stared down with one fist raised—about to pummel the unseen person on the ground.

  Beatrice held her breath, but the blows never came. The man lowered his fist and came back around to the driver’s side. The tall figure in the white hat turned his attention to the building. She gasped. The man wasn’t interested in the house. He was studying her. Waiting.

  What was he waiting for? And why was he smiling?

  Then the man did the oddest thing. He bowed, making a grand gesture of tipping his hat and sweeping his arm as if greeting her at a ball. Holding the bow for a long moment, he swept his arm back up, donning his hat. The curious figure waved a final salute, jumped in his car, whipped the vehicle around, and roared off.

  Silence returned to the flat plain. Bea turned her attention to the woman by the road. She stirred, pushing herself up with one stiff arm and raising her head. For one brief moment, both women locked eyes before the battered form crumpled.

  Sally, what do I do?

  No answer.

  Sally was gone.

  Bea shifted her position on the ledge. With clumsy effort, she climbed back in the window. She pulled the attic shutters closed, but couldn’t get them to latch. The hook would not reach the eyebolt. She did manage to shut the window. Now, she must leave the attic unobserved.

  She peeked out of the hatch and surveyed the infirmary hallway. No one about. She lowered herself from the ceiling onto a massive linen closet, replaced the attic board, and clamored to the floor.

  She opened the closet drawer and pulled out her apron, tying it on. She retrieved her slate and chalk, putting them in her apron pocket. Now, she was ready to find the matron. Miss Gloria would know what to do.

  Bea crept down the long stairway that ended in a landing by the front door. Miss Gloria sat on a couch in the big common room with Patrick Arnesdorff, a pleasant boy two years younger than her. The matron was trying to teach him how to thread a needle, but it was clear Patrick wanted to be somewhere else.

  The matron was a small woman, her hair always wrapped in a tight bun. Tiny spectacles magnified piercing eyes gave her the appearance of an alert barn owl. She once called Patrick feeble-minded to a well-dressed man from the county, but that wasn’t true. Sure, he was slow and didn’t see well, but Patrick knew how to avoid a chore if he didn’t want to do it.

  As she padded across the front living space, a pine board creaked underfoot. Patrick glanced her way as she pulled slate and chalk from her apron. She printed her message in careful block letters:

  LADY ON OLD CARRIAGE ROAD—HURT

  “Um…Miss Gloria? Bea has something.”

  The matron peered at Bea’s message, then jumped to her feet. Sally found it amusing that the fifty-six year-old matron stood only to Bea’s chin.

  “Patrick, go to the road with the cattle,” she said with urgency. “Look for a young lady—perhaps laying on the road. Then get back here and tell me what you saw.” She turned to Beatrice. Her gaze bore into her; it was a look even Sally found disconcerting. “Go to the dinner bell. Ring three times. Stop. Take a breath. Then ring three more times. Keep ringing until Mr. Eisner comes. Show him what you wrote. I’m getting my medical bag.”

  Beatrice stood transfixed, staring wide-eyed at the older woman. Patrick didn’t move either.

  “Get moving!”

  Bea dashed through the dining room, kitchen, and out the back door. The railed porch was strewn with rockers and stools. A stout iron bell set mounted on a metal frame by the steps. With both hands, she grasped the handle and rocked the bell.

  Bong. Bong. Bong. The piercing ring hurt her ears.

  With difficulty she held the bell in place after several swings then rocked the frame again.

  She so wanted to meet this stranger. Why didn’t Miss Gloria choose her to check on the lady’s condition? After all, she saw the injured woman first. And what was keeping Mr. Eisner? What if he was in the barn and couldn’t hear the bell? Not wishing to stop again, Beatrice pushed the handle harder, and the bell changed with each swing.

  A broad-shoulder man in drooping slouch had, white shirt, and washed-out overalls emerged from the barn about forty yards away. He loped to the back porch, waving his arms and yelling. It was hard to tell what he said with the bell ringing. Miss Gloria said to show him the message—that was what she would do.

  He came up the steps, reeking of straw and manure and grabbed the frame. “All right. You got my attention. Did the missus send you out here?” He looked to the house. She tapped the slate with the chalk. Anything to get him to read her note.

  “A woman’s hurt on Old Carriage Road. Who is she?”

  Bea shrugged.

  “Does Gloria know?”

  The blonde resident shook her head.

  “Can’t you tell me anything?

  She bowed her head, trembling.

  “Forget it. I remember now. You can’t talk. Well…the missus says I snore like a bear. So we all got something.”

  She tucked her slate in her apron and pointed inside. The matron was waiting.

  He smiled. “Come on,” he said. “Gloria has probably issued orders to half the residents. Let’s see what we have to do.”

  Bea followed the overseer into the dining room. If she stayed out of the way, she could learn more of the stranger.

  “What’s this about an injured woman?” he called from the kitchen.

  “I’m in the dining room.”

  Miss Eisner sat at a table peering inside a leather bag. She closed it with a snap. “A young woman is lying practically on our doorstep. You and I are bringing her in. We need the litter in the infirmary.”

  “I’ll get it. Anything else?”

  “No. I’m going out to find this girl. Once we load her onto the litter, we’ll bring her back to the house.”

  Excitement jolted Bea—she wiped the slate with her sleeve and wrote:

  CAN I GO??

  The matron frowned. “It’s up to you. Just stay out of the way.” With that, she grabbed her bag, and bustled out of the house. Bea followed behind.

  A cold wind blew as she hurried to catch up with the matron. The huddled woman hadn’t moved. Mrs. Eisner knelt
down, cradling the lady’s head in her arms. She looked to be in her early twenties with beautiful glowing skin, thick brown hair, and clothes fit for a princess. Those well-kept curls reminded Bea of the dusty movie star magazines in the front room. She knelt beside the matron and wrote on her slate:

  HOW IS SHE?

  “She’s taken a beating, but her pulse is good.” Mrs. Eisner pressed on the stricken woman’s side. A loud groan escaped her cracked lips. “Bruised or broken ribs. We’ll have to get Doctor Zwiefel out here to check her.” The matron bent to whisper in the girl’s ear. “We’ll get you inside.”

  The girl blinked and her lips moved, but no words came.

  Mrs. Eisner placed her ear to the woman’s bloodied mouth. “Say it again, honey.”

  Bea leaned forward.

  The hurt woman’s single word was a sigh. “Baby.”

  Mr. Eisner arrived a minute later with the stretcher. They loaded the stranger and carried her to the house. Bea rushed ahead to open the front door.

  “Put her in the empty room, second door right.” The matron pointed down the long hallway that separated the main rooms from the resident bedrooms. They carried her in and transferred her to an iron bed.

  Mr. Eisner locked the metal bedrail in place and rolled the bed closer to the window. He stepped back, looking at his wife. “I’d better fetch the doctor. Need anything while I’m in town?”

  “No, but hurry. The woman’s with child.”

  Patrick brought towels, and the matron sent him for hot water. Bea stood near the foot of the bed. This was exciting! Would Mrs. Eisner let her stay until the stranger awakened? Who was she and where did she come from? With her fine clothes, she must be from a big city. A place like Wichita or Kansas City or New York. And she must be rich with her own house servants and ladies in-waiting.

  Mrs. Eisner closed the door and glanced at Bea. “Still here? Well, sit down and don’t be a nuisance. You might come in handy.” She dug in her first-aid bag, retrieved a pair of scissors, and then slashed the dress from hem to neckline. While it was disturbing to see such a fine dress ruined, it was fascinating to see the matron performing as nurse.

  Someone knocked. The matron pulled a sheet over the still form and received a pan of steaming water from Patrick. “Now, bring me a dipper of water and some women’s bedclothes. They’re in the big bureau upstairs.” As the door closed, her friend’s footsteps thumped away. As she closed the door again, she stared at Beatrice. “You take the water when Patrick returns. I don’t want to be disturbed for the next few minutes.”

  Bea nodded. She moved aside the manacles attached to the bed. One was laying in front of the sleeping girl’s nose. She wouldn’t need them. Such a beautiful princess shouldn’t need restraints. Would she?

  With towels, water, and some soap from a nightstand, the matron set about cleaning the stricken woman. “Dear, this is hot water. It’s going to sting. Not waiting for a reply, she applied the steaming towel to a swollen lip.

  “Oww! Stop!” The girl came to life with a start, batting away the hot towel. “That hurt!”

  “Ahh, you’re awake. That’s good. How’s your head?”

  The woman felt her left temple. “I’ve got a splitting headache.” She tried sitting up, but fell back, eyes squeezed shut. “My side is on fire,” she said through gritted teeth. “I’ve never hurt this bad in my life.”

  “I’ve seen worse. It looks like you’ve been kicked by a mule. We’ll fix you up. What is your name?”

  “Sara.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Twenty-three.”

  “Good.” Miss Gloria nodded, satisfied. “Your memory’s intact. How in the world did this happen?”

  “My boyfriend. We had a fight.”

  Bea wanted to tell what she saw, but then Mrs. Eisner might guess about her trip to the attic. Best to remain quiet.

  “I’ll want to hear more about that later. What I’m more concerned with now is the baby. How far along are you?”

  Sara widened her eyes for a moment, and then she nodded. “I remember now. I told you outside. The doctor said I was at least seven weeks along.”

  There was a knock at the door, and Bea jumped to her feet to answer. She retrieved the dipper and night clothing from Patrick. When she returned, Mrs. Eisner found aspirin, shook out three tablets, and gave them to the pretty stranger. Bea handed her the tin cup.

  “Sara, I’d like you to meet Beatrice. She saw you on the road. Bea, this is Sara.”

  Bea wrote in her best script:

  SARA IS A PRETTY NAME.

  “Uh…thank you.” Sara arched her brows to the matron.

  “Bea can’t talk, but she has a good ear and doesn’t miss much.”

  Miss Gloria always said kind things about her. It was a good thing she didn’t know about Sally. She wouldn’t say those good things if she knew about her hidden friend.

  “Since you’re expecting, it would be wise to have you checked by a doctor.” The matron wiped more dirt from Sara’s face and neck. “A beating is not good for mother or child. We have a physician, Dr. Barry Zwiefel, who comes out once a month on the county’s dime. He does checkups and the occasional emergency. I think we can call this an emergency.”

  “It hurts to move. I can’t even take a full breath. Can I rest for a while before leaving?”

  Bea sucked in a breath. It would be grand if she could stay.

  “Dr. Zwiefel makes house calls. My husband left a few minutes ago to fetch him.”

  Sara nodded. “Thank you. Who are you? Are you a nurse?”

  “I’m Gloria Eisner. People here call me Miss Gloria or Mrs. Eisner. I do a bit of nursing when the need arises.”

  “Is this some kind of hospital?”

  Bea bit her lip. Not the kind you’re thinking of Miss Sara.

  “No hospital. I manage the house and supervise the residents. My husband oversees the work farm.”

  “Residents…” As Miss Gloria re-filled her kit, Sara surveyed the room, looking from the ceiling and walls to the iron bed. She gasped, staring at the manacles. The injured woman gripped the bedrails on either side of her, pulling herself up and hooking one leg over the bedrails. She gulped for air, her arms shaking. A low moan came from deep within her throat. Her shallow breathes increased and her cheeks flushed an alarming tint of red.

  Something stirred in the sub-cellar of Bea’s mind. No! Stay away! Not now! She jumped to her feet, tapping her scrawled letters with the chalk.

  THE BED IS SCARING HER!

  Miss Gloria dropped her bag and rushed to the incapacitated woman. “Get your hands back!” She slapped at Sara’s wrist. Sara jerked back, still wheezing. Miss Gloria whacked the metalwork with her palm. The top half of the heavy iron rail fell with a loud clang, and the matron clamped a palm over Sara’s mouth. “Breathe through your nose. You’re taking in too much air. Relax. The cuffs and straps are not for you. You’re not a prisoner. You can leave anytime. Take slow, deep breaths. Not so fast. You’re not a prisoner. That’s it. Relax. Breathe steady. You’re free to go anytime. That’s much better.” Gloria took her hand away. Sara lay on her back, eyes closed. “How do you feel now?” She dabbed at the woman’s forehead with the now cool towel.

  “Exhausted,” Sara said just above a whisper. “I’m so tired.”

  “We’ll be leaving in a minute. I’ll return later with the doctor.”

  “Wait a minute!” Sara’s hand darted out, grasping Miss Gloria’s wrist. “There’s something I have to know.”

  “What is it, dear?”

  “What is this place?”

  Miss Gloria raised an eyebrow. “You mean you don’t… We can discuss this after you’ve rested.”

  “No. I have to know now. Nothing makes any sense.”

  “Very well. Keep an open mind. In spite of our name, we’re rather proud of what we have here. We keep a clean house. No pests—well, few anyway. And we are a safe place.”

  “Where am I?”

 
; “You’re at the Joshua County Poor Farm.”

  She’ll learn. Beatrice’s chalk squeaked as she wrote, then turned her slate to Sara.

  AND ASYLUM

  Chapter Eight

  Sara awoke in a darkened room. Through the window, the silhouette of cedar trees pointed to a sky of brightening stars as dusk gave way to nightfall. Where were the lights from neighboring houses? Why was it so quiet? Then she remembered; she was in the country, in a strange house. Realization brought understanding, but not relief.

  Faint lights flickered as footsteps approached. The door creaked open, and two shadowy figures loomed over her, each holding hurricane lanterns. Sara shielded her face, stifling a growing terror. “Who’s there?”

  The smaller shadow set a lamp on the bedside stand, revealing the diminutive features of Mrs. Eisner. “Sara, I brought Dr. Zwiefel.”

  The doctor spoke in a sonorous voice, “Hello, young lady. I hear you got some pain.” He wore small silver glasses that sparkled with reflected light from the lanterns. The mirror on his forehead sent a point of light dancing about the room whenever he moved his head.

  Sara exhaled with relief, unbuttoned the front of her nightdress, and moved it aside. “It’s a stinging pain. Along here.” She traced the curve of her lower ribs.

  The doctor probed the area, gauging her reaction. She gasped when his jabs struck a tender spot. A prickling sting high on her left side became a jagged-toothed blade sawing across her lower ribs the lower his fingers probed. Sara gripped the side of the bed, yearning for the torment to end.

  Finally, Doctor Zwiefel released her and drew from his black bag a spool of soft cloth. “I’m going to bind your ribs for now, loose enough for normal breathing, but tight enough to keep you from taking a full breath. Let’s bring you up.”

  Mrs. Eisner cranked the long rod running beneath the metal frame. Sara’s back rose to a sitting position as the top half of the mattress lifted. The doctor wound the strip around her mid-section several times and then clipped it in place.

  “If it loosens, you can re-wrap it to your liking. Or leave it off. The cloth is to help with the pain. Your ribs will have to heal on their own.”