by Wes Brummer
Sara scanned her surroundings. “It’s rustic, but clean.”
Dutch chuckled. “It’s not the Muehlebach Hotel, but the matron runs a tight ship. The food is plain. That old bum, Wheatley’s been serving S.O.S. since I came here three years ago.”
Sara drank some coffee. It cooled fast in the metal cup. “You’ve been here three years?”
Dutch leaned back in his chair. “Just the winters. I leave in the spring and tramp ’til November, working odd jobs and sending the money to my wife.”
“What work do you do?” Dutch was intriguing. She had never met a tramp before. At Union Station in Wichita, she kept her distance from panhandlers. And here she was, talking to one.
“The kind that pays. Helping Mr. Eisner is fine, but it doesn’t pay cash money. What few jobs there are in the spring and summer disappear when winter comes. Too cold to tramp then. So I come back here to winter. The matron doesn’t approve of me staying. ‘You’re not deserving enough,’ she says. But she hasn’t turned me out yet.”
Sara tilted her head. “Mrs. Eisner mentioned that to me—the deserving poor. But it seems odd. What makes one person deserving and not another? Seems to me, no one deserves to be poor.”
“Well now…” Dutch took off his hat and scratched the top of his head. “You’ve touched a question that’s vexed the minds of charity workers for the last hundred years.” He leaned forward. “The deserving or undeserving part has nothing to do with being poor but has everything to do with judgment. Who deserves relief? Who doesn’t? And how do you keep the undeserving from getting the goods? These are hard questions with elusive answers. Religious charities use faith as a yardstick. These days, social workers for the county think they have the answers as if wisdom comes with a job title.”
“So why would Mrs. Eisner think you don’t deserve to stay here?” Sara put down her empty cup.
Dutch fetched a new pot and re-filled their tins. “The missus and I get along well enough, but she sees tramps as ungrateful and uppity. There’s some truth to that. If we don’t like the pay or the boss, we walk. Traveling gives us independence. We fend for ourselves and don’t act humble or needy. That’s what makes us undeserving. When the matron talks about the deserving, she means the docile.”
“But with the way you move about, aren’t you taking advantage?”
Dutch lost his smile. “Tramping isn’t romantic. A lot of us die on the road. We get sick, fall under trains, and get rolled for money we don’t have. Sometimes we die because it’s too much trouble to keep living.” Dutch stared at his cup. “A tramp is no freeloader. I work for my keep.”
“It sounds like a bleak life.”
“Often, late at night, I think about my wife. I used to teach history and Latin at a high school in St. Louis. When the Depression hit, the powers that be cut back on courses. I got the ax. My wife and I soon lost the house, and she moved in with her parents while I searched for work. I’ve been tramping three years now. Some have taken to the life. But I’d gladly trade it for a paying job.”
“Why don’t you spend the winters with your wife?”
Dutch closed his eyes, sighing. “I ask myself that same question sometimes. I know it wasn’t my doing, but losing my job still makes me feel ashamed. I failed as a provider. My wife might understand, but her parents don’t. To redeem myself, I must find steady work.”
A rattling cart popped out of the pantry entry, pushed by a stumpy youth with unkempt brown hair. His too-long pants bunched at the knees and ankles, dragging on the floor.
“Ahh, here comes Patrick. Now, some people will tell you he’s slow. He might be sixteen going on eight, but he’s a great kid. Just don’t ask him to prove how strong he is. Mr. Arnesdorff can get a bit enthusiastic.”
Patrick’s wooden cart held a tray of tinware. He stopped at the end of their table. “Breakfast is coming!” He peered at Dutch while handing out forks and spoons. “Miss Gloria said it’s your turn to wash dishes, Mr. Dutch. She wanted me to tell you.”
Dutch grinned. “Tell the queen I shall comply. Miss Sara, this is our messenger from the kitchen, Patrick.”
Patrick squinted at Sara for a long moment. Sara sucked in a breath. The boy can hardly see. “I know you. You were laying on the road yesterday. I found you.”
“A shining knight. That’s our Patrick.”
The youth leaned over the table. “You’re sitting in my chair.”
“I’ll move. That way you can have—”
Dutch jumped to his feet. “Nonsense. Patrick, Miss Sara wants you sitting across from her so you two can talk. I’ll give you my seat if you do the dishes for ol’ Dutch.” The rumpled tramp winked.
“Oh boy!” Patrick flung the tray of utensils back and forth, twirling in a tight circle. Spoons and forks rocked shrilly from side to side, pieces threatening to fly out. He finally set the tray back on the cart. “Thank you, Mr. Dutch.” He moved to the next table, passed out the tinware, then bustled back to the kitchen.
Sara gaped at Mr. Holland. “Why did you say that? You got him all stirred up, so you wouldn’t have to work in the kitchen. I can’t imagine the kinds of thoughts you may have planted in his head!”
Dutch moved to the next seat over. “Don’t worry, Missy. Patrick bumbles, but means well. He’s Don Quixote without the horse. You couldn’t find a more loyal friend.”
“Still, I don’t like—”
A hand grabbed Sara by the wrist. It was Beatrice. She pointed to her slate:
WE ALL LOOK AFTER PATRICK
Dutch clapped his hands. “Bea knows. You tell her.”
Beatrice rolled her eyes. This got Dutch chuckling even more.
Patrick returned, flopping in the seat across from Sara. “It’s coming,” Patrick stage-whispered. “Mr. Wheatley is bringing out the big pot.”
A minute later, a large, full-bearded cook brought out a cart holding a steaming pot of gravy, a stack of pie tins, a large knife, and two loaves of homemade bread. As the cook shuffled back to the kitchen, Dutch cut the loaves and ladled the soupy mixture over the slices. Each person passed tins down to the end before getting their own.
Sara stared aghast at her meal. The gravy was a thin greasy mixture of flour and milk festooned with undercooked pieces of scrambled egg, peas, and bits of meat. The bread had a hard, thick crust with a pasty center. Back home, she would have pitched it.
Sara picked at the unappetizing mess. The smell of grease and eggs turned her stomach. Across the table, Patrick wolfed down his meal, using bread to soak the fat. After the third mouthful, she had enough and reached across, nudging Patrick. “I’m not hungry. Would you like my breakfast?”
He shoved his plate to one side. “Oh boy! More food!”
“It’s all yours.” She pushed the plate to his side. Patrick grabbed the tin, shoveling in the food.
Beatrice tapped her shoulder.
YOU’LL GET USED TO IT
“I don’t see how,” she said.
Dutch pulled a dirty rag from his pocket and wiped his mouth. “You’re talking about Wheatley. He’s an old rummy from way back. I’ve traveled with him a time or two. Don’t know what the matron sees in his cooking.” He lifted the pot, frowning. “I’ll get us some more coffee.” With that he left for the kitchen.
Beatrice wrote
MAYBE YOU COULD COOK FOR US
“I helped at home.” She touched sore ribs. “I’m not sure I’d be able to do the job right now.”
Beatrice nodded.
WHERE ARE YOU FROM?
“I’m from…” Sara froze, remembering her story. “Denver. How about you?”
AN ORPHANAGE IN KANSAS CITY
“Oh.” Sara tapped Bea’s wrist. “I’m sorry for being nosy.”
She shrugged.
“How did you get here?”
I TURNED 18. HAD TO LEAVE.
“You came directly here from the orphanage?”
NO. THEY BONDED ME TO A FAMILY IN JOSHUA.
Bea erased her s
late, and wrote,
BIG TROUBLE. HAD TO LEAVE.
Sara raised her brows. “What kind of trouble?”
Beatrice wrote a few letters but stashed the slate in her apron when soft footsteps approached.
Mrs. Eisner stepped to Sara’s side of the table. “I’m glad you made it to breakfast.” Her eyes narrowed when she spotted two plates in front of Patrick. “You know, you’re not doing your baby any good by skipping meals.”
Sara glanced up at the small woman. “I couldn’t eat the food.”
“You’ll eat the meals provided, or your stay will be short. I will not allow an unborn child to starve because of a finicky mother.”
Sara nodded. “I’ll try harder.”
The matron huffed. “See to it.” She glanced at the faces around her. “I see you’ve met Patrick, Mr. Holland, and Beatrice. Let me introduce you to the others before they wander off.”
Sara rose and followed the small woman, trying not to wince from the knives digging in her side. At the other end of the table sat two elderly men. One was a grizzled old coot with a hooked nose, no teeth, and huge ears. “This is Mr. Wunch. He’ll bend your ear about building the capitol dome in Topeka if you let him.” Mrs. Eisner turned to the other man, a thin fellow of medium height with wispy white hair, scratched eyeglasses, and overalls. “This is Mr. Emerson. Both these men help James in the barn sometimes. Gentlemen, this is Sara.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Mr. Emerson said.
Mr. Wunch gave her a toothless smile. “Well ain’t you a pretty chick-a-dee!” The hawk-nosed codger flapped his elbows like a bird.
The matron’s eyes flashed. “A word later, Mr. Wunch.” She took Sara by the arm, and they stepped to the next table.
“This is Mrs. Robson and Miss Underwood. Both work in the infirmary.” Mrs. Robson had well-kept red hair streaked with white and wore a full-length apron. Miss Underwood wore men’s trousers cut off at the ankles and men’s shoes as well. The handsome woman nodded. Mrs. Eisner then stirred Sara to the woman in the wheelchair.
“This is Mrs. Chapman. Mildred, this is Sara. We have a special rule for Mrs. Chapman. She may ask, but no one may push her in her wheelchair.
The stout woman glared at Mrs. Eisner. “The matron thinks I don’t need my special chair.” Her voice was deep, almost masculine. She thumped on the armrest. “But she’s wrong. I have a rare disease that demands special treatments. And there are secret experiments happening upstairs. Doctors put me here because I know too much—”
“Enough!” Gloria clapped her hands once.
The woman stopped jabbering like a needle lifted from a phonograph.
“We’re all accustomed to Mrs. Chapman,” Mrs. Eisner said as she led Sara back to her seat. There are ten more residents in the infirmary upstairs. When you’re able, I’ll introduce you to them. One has consumption. No one, except those taking care of him, may enter his room.”
“Shouldn’t he be isolated?”
Mrs. Eisner smiled, but her eyes remained serious. “He is. The county hospital sent him to us. I don’t win all my battles.”
Sara nodded, catching a whiff of greasy food. Her stomach lurched, and then tightened into a small ball. She doubled over, her forehead breaking into a cold sweat, and a wave of nausea spread upward. She grabbed a pie pan, heaving.
A few of the remaining tenants stared at her. One edged away. Sara coughed. This was embarrassing.
The matron appeared before her, holding out a cup of water. “Wash out your mouth. It’s been a while since I’ve seen this. You have a full-blown case of morning sickness. Welcome to motherhood.”
Chapter Eleven
While waiting for breakfast, Jason watched his father sip coffee and read the paper with a stack of uneaten pancakes to the side. His neck-tie hung over the back of his chair. The search could not begin until Pop left for the radio station. Jason tapped his foot. Every minute meant time wasted.
Katherine set hot plates of pancakes before Jason and his brother. “Meetings today, dear?”
“Detail work. We’re going over rules that KSKN must follow to comply with the other Alliance stations. The higher-ups call it ‘standards and practices.’ Since Alliance is broadcasting my program, I need to be there.”
“Is there anything the boys can do to help?”
Pop shook his head. “Maybe later this week.” After eating a few bites, he set down his fork. “I haven’t got time to eat. The meeting doesn’t start until nine, but I have some business downtown. Can you help me with this miserable thing?” He held the black-tie like it was a loathsome snake.
Katherine slid her skillet off the burner and hurried to stand behind her husband, working over his shoulders to loop the knot together. “Stand up,” she said. “Let me adjust it.”
Sam rose to his feet and turned around. Katherine straightened the knot, pulled it tight, and adjusted his collar.
He grabbed his hat, a battered trilby, and shrugged into his coat. “I’ll be home by five.” A few seconds later, he was out the door, and the Model A chittered to life.
Jason carried his plate to the sink, and his mother rinsed it, her face averted. “There’s something you should know, Mom,” Jason said. “Today, Michael and I are looking for Sis.”
She turned off the burner, sank into Sam’s chair, nibbling at his food. Her eyes were red and puffy. Was she crying? Jason sat beside her and reached for her arm. “We’ll find her.”
She stared at the half-eaten pancakes. Finally, she glanced at Jason. “I know she can’t come home. Just make sure she’s safe.”
“We’ll do that. Right Michael?”
Michael nodded. “Should be easy.”
****
The city bus dropped the boys off a half-block from the Kramer Building. What a wreck. To Jason, the structure looked even more rundown during the day than it did last night. Giant empty planters full of dirt and cigarette butts sat on either side of the front steps, and tattered newspapers covered the inside glass of the front doors.
They entered the cramped lobby.
Michael tapped his shoulder. “Wouldn’t it be funny if we walked in and found Sara working at her desk?”
“Fine by me.” Jason hoped it was true.
Michael raced up the steps to the second floor with Jason stepping behind. “Looks like the perfect place for a private detective’s office,” he said.
“Sara says a bookie works here.”
Bell-shaped light fixtures ran along a high-ceilinged hallway just wide enough for two people walking abreast. They crept down the corridor to Sara’s office.
A voice came from within.
Jason raised a hand to knock, but Michael grabbed his arm, pointing to the open transom above the door. “Listen,” he hissed. “It’s Dad.”
“For the third time, I’m telling you Sara will not be returning. She’s sick and out of town. And you don’t need to know where. From now on you get your orders from me. Do as I say, or I’ll fire you on the spot.”
It was Pop.
A trio of small voices humbly agreed.
“Now, I have a few rule changes. First, there’ll be no more personalized letters. You’ll type one basic ‘thank you for writing’ letter and send it along with the South Wind Ministries leaflet. Take down the names and addresses of donors, and the amount they gave. If a letter comes with no donation, you throw it out and don’t respond. I’m not wasting postage on people who fail to contribute. At the close of each day, I’ll gather the money and donor lists.”
Jason cupped his hand to Michael’s ear. “So this is why Pop left early.”
“One more thing,” McGurk’s voice continued, “I’m looking for a home-run fan letter for my debut program. A letter that will captivate the listeners. It could be a hard-luck story or a request for help. If it involves a government program, so much the better. I’ll gather that mail as well. Now I’ve already spent enough time with you people. I need to get to work.”
Jason gasped, poin
ting behind them. “Quick, beat it downstairs!”
They scurried back to the vacant lobby. Jason scanned the area. No where to hide. He led the way down the first-floor hallway. “We need a place where Pop won’t find us.”
A washroom near the rear of the building provided a safe hideaway. They waited, listening for signs of their father, ready to take cover inside. Three minutes later, footsteps clomped down the stairs, a glass pane rattled, and the door closed. The familiar chattering of the Model A filled the air, fading into the distance. Jason breathed a sigh of relief.
They headed upstairs and found the Mailroom door ajar. The well-lit room contained a central worktable piled with letters, surrounded by four desks. Three women stood by the table huddled in frenzied conversation. As if on cue, all three turned, falling silent.
“We’re sorry to bother you. I’m Jason, and this is my brother, Michael.” He pointed to the open transom. “We heard part of what Pop said. Sara’s our sister. She’s missing. We’re hoping you could help us find her.”
The small but well-rounded woman with reddish hair stepped forward. “I’m Gladys. Sara and I’ve known each other since high school. She talks about you fellas a lot.” She motioned to a grandmotherly woman fanning herself with a handful of letters. “This is Marilyn. And this is Sylvia.” A tall black woman in a simple homemade dress nodded, keeping her eyes downward.
Michael whipped off his cap. “Glad to meet you, ladies.”
Jason took a breath. “Two days ago, Sara and Dad had a doozy of a row. He sent her packing. Sara slept here Saturday night and promised to call home the next day. But we haven’t heard from her since.”
The three women glanced at each other. “Sara would have told us if she was going somewhere,” Gladys said. “The last thing she said to us was that we would hit the letters hard on Monday.” Gladys glanced sideway at the other ladies. “Sara said she was in a family way. Is that why the pastor said she was sick? Did he send her away?”
Jason narrowed his eyes. You don’t know the half of it. “A polite way of saying it. Dad practically gave her the bum’s rush out the door. Sara needed a place to sleep, so I drove her here Saturday night.”