by Wes Brummer
“Thank you, doctor.” Sara squinted against the harsh light.
He stepped back. “You have two bruised, possibly cracked ribs, but I don’t think anything is broken. In two to four weeks you’ll be good as new.”
“Is the baby okay?” Sara asked.
The doctor took out his stethoscope, adjusted the earpieces and held the bell against her chest. “Your baby is at an early stage, so it’s hard to say. There doesn’t seem to be any harm at this point. Has anyone gone over your pregnancy with you?”
“No, I just found out yesterday.” Her visit with Dr. Payton seemed like a long time ago.
Dr. Zwiefel grunted. “Let me ask a few questions then. How are you feeling? Nausea? Morning sickness? Mood swings?”
She sighed. “All of it. Especially the mood swings.”
“Your doctor probably gave you a guess on the due date, but I’m going to ask you a direct question. Be honest. Do you know what causes a woman to have a baby?”
Sara gasped. “Of course, I do! I’m not a child!”
The physician chuckled. “You’d be surprised how many grown women don’t know the answer to that question.”
Sara shook her head, shocked by the candor of this country doctor. “I see what you’re implying. I’ve been pregnant since February fourteenth. No other possible date.”
“So you should deliver your baby around mid-November.”
“That was my doctor’s guess. What other signs can I expect in the coming days?”
“Let’s see.” Dr. Zwiefel tapped his temple. “You might get a heightened sense of smell. At times, you may feel overwhelmingly tired, and you may get cravings for unusual foods. Some foods you normally like may taste awful. This is happening because your body is preparing for the baby.”
“Is there anything I should do?”
“Nothing special. Anything beneficial for the mother is beneficial for the child. The good news is you haven’t miscarried.”
Sara’s eyes widened. “Is there a chance of that?”
“Unfortunately, yes.” Dr. Zwiefel checked her pulse. “Especially during the first three months. However, with time, the risk will lessen. Think positive, young lady. You’re about to have a healthy baby. Eat well, get lots of rest, and don’t get into any more fights. If you’re still here next month, I’ll see you again.”
Sara glanced at Mrs. Eisner. “I need to ask you about staying.”
She smiled. “We’re not going to kick you out, child. There are certain requirements for staying, but we can talk about that later.”
The doctor put his instruments away. “When I return, your child may be around twelve weeks old with fingernails, a chin, and a nose.”
“Mrs. Eisner?” Sara asked, “Can I have lantern? In case I need to get up?” She didn’t want to be without a light.
Gloria nodded. “Keep this one.” She produced some stick matches from her apron pocket and laid them on the stand. “It’s about eight o’clock now. Lights out is nine-fifteen. I’ll return then with some clothing for tomorrow. Right now, I need to check the other residents. Doctor, if you’re ready, we’ll find James and get you back home.”
“Before I go,” the doctor said. “I’d like to check on the infirmary. Especially the TB and cancer patients.”
“Certainly. Sara, I’ll be back to check on you later.” She cranked the bed flat and left with the physician.
She was alone in a strange house, miles from home. The city held music, lights, and color. Here was silence and shadows. She’d visited the country as a child, spending weekends with her relatives. That was an adventure. To live without power would be an adjustment.
Still, it felt safe here. These people rescued her, given her a bed, a place to stay, and even brought medical help. For all this, Sara was grateful. She could rest and get her strength back. In a few days, she could go…where? She had no job, no home, and no future. All gone. What was she going to do? What could she do? She would have to come up with a plan. Sara squeezed her eyes shut, sighing. The task seemed impossible.
She extinguished the flame and relaxed. Laying on her hurt side made it easier to breathe. Closing her eyes, she drifted off to sleep.
Sara woke with a start. Someone was rapping on the door.
“Come in.”
Mrs. Eisner entered, pushing a cart. The wooden trolley held a bright lantern, ceramic pitcher, metal basin, and a tightly wrapped bundle of clothes. She set the items on top of the nightstand. “I want to go over how we do things here. This will take but a few minutes. Would you like your bed raised?”
Sara nodded. “Are these house rules?”
“In part.” She turned the long crank and brought Sara to a sitting position. “Tomorrow, I can give you a tour of the house.”
“I’d like that. I’m sure this place isn’t like the terrible stories I heard growing up.”
The matron gave her a pensive look. “Pay no attention to what you hear on most matters. Telling a simple lie is far easier than explaining a complicated truth.”
Sara swallowed. “I understand.”
“Many people have an irrational fear of poorhouses, poor farms, almshouses—whatever you wish to call us. Maybe they see an unclean purgatory or a prison for paupers. That’s not how it is here. I have three simple rules. Keep your room clean. Do your assigned chores. And get along with the other residents.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She waved a hand. “Oh, please, don’t call me ma’am. My official title is matron, but most of the residents call me Miss Gloria or Mrs. Eisner.”
“Can I call you Gloria?”
A ghost of a smile crossed the matron’s face. “You’re a bold one.” She shook her head. “To keep the harmony, I think Mrs. Eisner will do.” She sat in the rocker. “Our purpose, if you will, is to provide shelter and work for the poor and the indigent. But it’s also the aged, the feeble-minded, and the insane. We’re a community of sorts, but not one normally seen by polite society.”
Sara wrinkled her brow. “It’s not just the poor?”
“Half the residents here are elderly and bed-ridden. Many of the others can’t do farm labor for different reasons. Times have changed. Very few residents work outdoors anymore.”
“Who takes care of the farm?”
“The county bought James a tractor two years ago. A couple of the residents help in the barn and garden.”
“I see. How many people live here?”
“Eighteen. Four men, four women, and ten in the infirmary. You’ll meet the active residents tomorrow.”
“I’d like to stay, at least until I can get around better.”
“Stay as long as you wish. We often get people who’ve had a bad turn. They stay for a few days and then move on. Most, though, have nowhere to go. Don’t be surprised by the attention you’ll receive tomorrow. New residents get a lot of scrutiny.”
Sara shuddered, “I’m not sure I want that kind of attention.”
Mrs. Eisner laughed. “I’m sure you’ll do fine.” She retrieved the bundle on the nightstand. “I’ve brought you some clothes for tomorrow.”
Sara glanced at the grayish parcel. “Thank you, but I have my own clothes.”
The matron’s cordiality faded. “I’m afraid you misunderstand. There’s no choice. If you wish to stay, you will wear these clothes. We’ll put away your possessions for safe keeping while you’re here. No one is to stand out by wearing store-bought clothes. Beatrice, the girl you met earlier, made these dresses. She’s picked up some sewing skills along the way and is quite a good seamstress.” She unrolled the parcel and held up a garment. It was a feed sack dress with a daisy print. “Classen’s Feed and Grain” was stenciled on back.
Sara pursed her lips. “Rather plain, isn’t it?”
“It’s a rule of the house. One other thing, if you decide to stay, I’ll need some information. If you have family or relatives nearby, you cannot live here. The county commissioners believe family must provide the first line of
support. Kin look after kin. Most don’t have any kindred at all.
“No family. That seems a little harsh.” How can I stay here if Mrs. Eisner learns of my parents?
“Only the truly destitute can remain here.”
“I understand.” No one must know about my family.
She set the clothing aside. “Morning will come early. The wake-up bell is five a.m.”
Sara groaned.
“You’ll get used to it. We don’t tolerate laziness. Breakfast bell is at five-thirty. If you’re not in the dining room by the time breakfast is served, you’ll have to wait until dinner to eat. At night, everyone is expected to be in their room by nine p.m.” Mrs. Eisner stood and carried the lantern to a corner of the room. There set a wooden chair with raised arms, and an oval hole cut in the seat. On the floor nearly was a tattered catalog. “This is your potty chair.”
“You’re joking!” She gulped. The house had no plumbing.
“It’s the white owl here or the privy out back. I expect you to scrub it out every day. Cleaning time is after breakfast.” She stepped to the nightstand, opened the small door, and retrieved a bottle of clear liquid. “Feel free to use as much bleach as you want. And yes, I do check.”
Mrs. Eisner reclaimed her seat in the rocker. “I know what you’re thinking. The rules are unforgiving, and the accommodations are minimal. There is no electricity or running water. A poor farm is not a hotel. The residents here have little. Only the truly needy would want to stay here. It’s only for the deserving poor. So you have a decision to make. Ask yourself, ‘Is my situation hopeless? Is there somewhere I can go?’ If there is, then make your plans to go there. If you stay, you’ll have to give up your possessions and a certain amount of freedom. So think about alternatives. You seem resourceful. Consider what is best for you.”
“I will. And thank you for the clothes.”
“Thank Beatrice. She’ll love the praise.”
“I’ll be sure to thank her.”
“Do that. After the morning chores, I can give you a tour of the house. Say around nine o’clock?”
“Nine o’clock. I’ll be ready.”
“It will be quick. Commissioner Krause will be here for his weekly visit around ten.”
“What does he do?”
“He oversees all relief programs in the county, making sure they are carried out. Not just us, but medical services, food relief, and direct payments.”
“It sounds like a lot of responsibility.”
“It’s not a popular position to hold either. The newest elected commissioner gets the job by default. Most of the time an official will bumble their way through the job, hoping to pass it on when they become a senior official. But I have to say, Commissioner Krause has done commendable work for such a young man.”
“A person who takes his job seriously? I’d like to meet him.”
Gloria’s brows narrowed. “I don’t think that would be proper. Residents do not communicate with Commissioners.”
Sara bowed to hide her eyes. “Yes, Mrs. Eisner. Thank you for helping me.”
The matron huffed. “Let’s see how you feel in twenty-four hours.”
Chapter Nine
Throughout Sunday, Jason McGurk had been nursing an idea. At first, it seemed preposterous, but it was clear that family would see the task through to the end. No distractions. No setbacks would stop him. And he would pursue the trail wherever it may go.
But he couldn’t do it alone.
That night, He dashed in the bedroom he shared with his younger brother Michael. Music from Country Hoedown played on the radio downstairs.
Michael lay sprawled on his bed reading a copy of Black Mask, a pulp magazine full of gun-blazing gangsters and murder. Jason scrutinized the cover. A square-chinned man in fedora and trench coat held a drawn pistol peeking around a corner to a dark man shoving a blonde into a black sedan. What does he see in this trash?
Michael glanced up, flipping the monthly over to keep his place. “What’s with the serious look?”
Jason turned the magazine around. Three Complete Detective Novels in This Issue! “How would you like to try your hand at being a real-life private-eye?”
Michael wrinkled his nose. “How’s that?”
Jason pointed at the cover. “You and me. Tracking down a missing person.”
“Who are we looking for?” Michael looked blank, and then his jaw dropped. “You’re talking about Sara!”
“Bingo.” He nodded, unsmiling. “She should have called home by now.”
Michael’s eyes dazzled. “Count me in!”
“Shh. Not so loud. Pop doesn’t need to know.” He hooked a thumb downstairs.
“Why don’t we call the police? That’s what they’re paid to do.” Michael flipped the magazine back around.
“They’ll say she ran off.”
“What makes you think something happened to her?”
Jason crossed his arms. “Because Sara told me she’d call home when I took her downtown last night. Something’s wrong. I know it. And don’t be trying to weasel out of this. You said you were in.” Jason snatched the magazine. “Give—or you’re not getting it back.”
“Okay! You sold me! Don’t lose my spot. I was just thinking out loud.” He grabbed for the magazine, but Jason yanked it out of reach. “I said I’d help, now give it back.”
Jason tossed the pulp to Michael, pages flying.
“Thanks for nothing,” Michael mumbled as he looked for his place. “You’ve been thinking about this longer than I have. Where do we start?”
No kidding. Like all afternoon. Jason pulled up a chair. “I thought we could go to her office tomorrow and talk to the help. We can find out if she went anywhere else that day. There’s a diner nearby with a phone. She may have met somebody there.
Michael found his page and bent the corner. “A friend maybe?”
“Can’t say. It’s all guesswork. We can start finding answers tomorrow.”
“Can’t wait.” His brother rubbed his hands together. “The game is afoot.”
Jason tilted his head. “What game?”
Michael smiled. “Never mind.”
Chapter Ten
Monday, April 8, 1935
Sara awoke to the shrill din of a bell clanging outside her door. She covered her ears until it stopped. After a few moments, the bell rang again a short distance away. She eased out of bed, moving carefully to avoid the worst twinges of pain in her side. The room was dark, with starlight shining through the eastern window. No sign of dawn. Sara found the lantern and matches. After striking a light, she removed the thin, frosted chimney, lit the wick, set the glass in place, and adjusted the flame.
The travel bag and purse lay next to the bed. It was tempting to wear one of her own dresses. Best not. No reason to create a ruckus. She unfolded the sackcloth dress, examining it at arm’s length. The material was coarse and stitched in odd places. She sucked in a breath between gritted teeth. Okay then. She shrugged off the nightclothes and slipped on the sack. The material hung to her knees. If only it was longer. She’d look presentable if she had a scarf to cinch at the waist.
The thought of meeting strangers meant she needed a new name. Sara…what?
She sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing her temple. The name had to be easy to remember, similar to her real one. Sara…McCain, McDonald, McPherson, McGuire? McGuire! That’s it!
Now, a new past for Sara McGuire.
The story should be adequate, but not too detailed.
The five-thirty bell rang.
Time for breakfast. Using a worn cake of soap, she washed her face and hands in the basin and dried with a coarse towel. Was she ready to meet the oddities who lived here? Sara gave a mental shrug, put out the lantern, and stepped into the narrow hall.
A kerosene wall lamp flickered outside the door. The wallpaper looked like autumn leaves in faded greens, browns, and reds. A pale ceiling arched overhead. It was like being alone in a rundown gothic manor h
aunted by murmuring ghosts.
She wasn’t alone.
Ahead, voices chattered and chairs scraped on a wooden floor. The scent of greasy food and wood smoke hung in the air. This forest path led to a gathering. With her heart in her throat, Sara crept forward.
A doorway opened to the left, revealing a spacious dining room. Two wooden tables spanned the center of the room with white cupboards along the east wall, and a row of tall, narrow windows to the west. The south wall was a blazing fireplace that separated the dining room from the one beyond. Bright and whitewashed walls made the space brilliant and inviting. A few people milled about, but most were seated.
The blonde waif, Beatrice, sat at the end of one of the tables. A weather-beaten man with gray whiskers and slouch hat poured her coffee.
While Sara picked her way between chairs to join Beatrice, the hairs on the back of her neck tingled. To the left, a stern-looking wheelchair-bound woman scowled at her, a deep frown that made her face droop like a bulldog’s.
Sara reached the end of the table. “Good morning, Beatrice.” She waved to the thin girl. Bea’s blonde hair fell straight, just past her ears, and she had serious dark blue eyes. “Care if I sit with you?”
Beatrice shrugged, pointing to an empty chair next to her.
“Coffee?” The battered-looking man held a dented metal pot. “Still hot.”
“I’d love some.” She slid into a rickety Bentwood chair. “What’s for breakfast?”
“S.O.S. Same Old Stuff. Hobos call it stuff on a shingle. Or worse. I wouldn’t want to offend, and the matron has ears like a bat. She was just here, asking about a person named Sara. Would that be you?”
“That would be me.” She liked this man’s easy manner.
“She wishes to welcome you to the charming rogues of our humble home. I’m Don Holland. Friends call me Dutch.” He stuck out a hand.
“Nice to meet you.” She flipped a wave, refusing to touch hands with strange people before eating.
Dutch tipped a metal cup to his lips. “So what do you think of the house?”