Dust and Roses

by Wes Brummer

  A faint smile crossed her lips. “I understand you more than you think, child. Cooking is your passion. Dazzle others by serving a Sunday dinner every day of the week. You want to be appreciated.”

  Sara clenched her fists beneath the tabletop but kept her voice steady. “All I want is to serve a good meal. I’m not interested in gratitude.”

  “It’s understandable, even reasonable. But we have to deal with hard truths. This is not a Harvey House looking for new customers. Let’s suppose you serve a good table, and word spreads to every panhandler around. Beggars would overwhelm us. I can’t allow that to happen. Mr. Wheatley will continue to prepare the meals.”

  Sara bowed her head in defeat. She had no more arguments. “I just wanted to make a contribution.”

  The matron stood up. “You can. I have another labor in mind for you, a bigger one.” The matron stepped into the long hallway, walking a bit slower this time to the front of the house. She stopped at the landing by the front door. “I’m about to give you a challenge that will test your fortitude as well as your generosity. It will sharpen your strengths and lay bare your weakness. You will feel wonder, elation, and grief.” She inclined her head. “It’s all up there.”

  Sara tilted her head, perplexed. “What am I doing?”

  “The infirmary. Your job is simple: feed and comfort ten unique human beings.”

  Sara surveyed the long flight of stairs. “I don’t see how I can get up there. I can’t lift those people. My ribs still hurt.”

  The matron laughed. “Child, you were ready to take on cooking for nineteen residents. Now you’re afraid of a few steps? Perhaps I’ve overestimated your tenacity.”

  “I can do it.”

  Her voice became gentler. “Pick who you need to help. Mrs. Robson and Miss Underwood are both capable and experienced workers. Rest now. You’ll need your strength tomorrow.” She left, rushing down the hallway.

  Sara tried the stairs, trudging up a third of the way before clutching her side. She crept back down, one step at a time. The first challenge would be reaching the floor above.

  No, that wasn’t right.

  The first challenge was asking for help.

  Chapter Thirteen

  At two o’clock that afternoon, Sara paced about the main floor attacking clutter wherever she found it. What started out after dinner as a way to look busy turned into a mission. But her thoughts were not on her work. What happened to the Poor Commissioner? He was supposed to be here at ten o’clock this morning. His absence only added to the intrigue. Now, it was more than mere curiosity. She wanted to talk to this man. Why was he so late?

  Sara entered the common room for the third time, glancing out the front windows. Still nothing. Mrs. Eisner said he was a committed young man. What was he like? Would he be a fat little bookkeeper with thick glasses, or tall and brawny? Would he give her the time of day? Or snub her for being uppity?

  Stacks of dust-covered newspapers overflowed the wicker baskets. Sara retrieved a frayed pillowcase she found earlier. Stooping aggravated the stinging pain. She winced, slowing her movements. Think about something else besides the pain.

  It was hard to imagine this place as a home. The structure felt more like an institution. Residents had to conform to overbearing rules. Yet everyone accepted them. Mrs. Eisner called it a community. That was certainly true, but there was more. We all look after Patrick, Beatrice had said on her slate. Despite their limitations, residents drew together in support. They depended on each other. For this, they shared a mutual bond. A kinship. They didn’t whine. They didn’t blame others. They didn’t even act poor.

  The pillowcase, now crammed with trash, pulled at her aching side. She set it behind a chair. Even when Mr. Krause arrived, did she have anything original to say? Poor farms had been around for three generations, segregating the undesirable from the rest of society, but they weren’t prisons. Residents stayed here voluntarily. Few wished to leave. As Mrs. Eisner said, they had nowhere else to go.

  A station wagon approached. A Woody with the Joshua County seal on its side pulled into the west side drive. Sara rushed to the dining room and watched it park by the back porch. A figure stepped out, his black homburg pulled down against a stiff wind, hiding his face. He wore a tweed jacket and a loose tie. Medium build, not quite six feet tall.

  Sara brushed back her unraveling locks. A couple more days and her curls would disappear altogether. Grabbing the bag of newspapers, she set off to meet the Commissioner.

  As Sara came in the kitchen, Mrs. Eisner entered with the administrator in tow. Sara dropped the bag and followed them. The matron ushered the young man into an office on the northeast corner of the building. The door closed with a click.

  Sara stamped her foot in frustration. Mrs. Eisner had taken control. She could easily occupy the official’s time until his departure. How could she possibly see him now? Sara froze as a delicious idea took form. She would wait her turn while the commissioner and matron talked by going to the one place where she could talk to Mr. Krause—alone.

  First, the trash. Sara hauled the pillowcase out the back door and found a burn barrel near a smelly privy. She dumped the newspapers into the container and stuffed the pillowcase in her apron. She would tear it into rags later. Now, she would wait for the Commissioner.

  The Woody sat near a stand of cedars, and she slid into the front seat. Minutes of waiting irritated her side. She had to stretch out. Sara moved to the back, lying down across the bench seat. Much better. Now, what could she suggest? Allow the residents a monthly trip into town? Purchase a piano or radio? How about a newspaper subscription? Sara yawned. It was easy to relax, though a bit cool. An old blanket lay at her feet. She pulled the cover, tucking it around her neck. The last thing she remembered was the wind stirring through branches. Soon she was fast asleep.

  ****

  Sara awoke with a start. The car was moving! She threw the blanket aside and sat upright. A man with thinning brown hair drove the station wagon in the middle of the road. She shook her head. What was she doing here? Then it came back. She wanted to visit with Commissioner Krause. Now she had the chance—he was in the seat before her. A bit awkward, but that couldn’t be helped. I hope he has a sense of humor.

  She tapped his shoulder. “Hey, could you turn your car around? I’ll be in Dutch with Mrs. Eisner when she finds out I’m missing.”

  “Hah!” He jumped, yanking the steering wheel, sending the car skittering across the gravel road.

  “Be careful!” Sara yelled, arms clutching both his shoulders.

  Mr. Krause pumped the brakes and gained control, bringing the vehicle back to the center of the road. He glanced behind him. “You gave me a start. Who are you?”

  I wasn’t a question, but a demand.

  “My name is Sara McGuire. I just arrived—”

  “What are you doing in my car?” His tone was more of a demand then a question.

  “It’s an accident. I wanted to talk to you—as soon as you came out. But I fell asleep, and—this is embarrassing.”

  “Are you a resident?” Again the forced tone. What kind of person does he think I am?

  “Yes. The Eisners took me in yesterday. You probably think I’m crazy.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “You didn’t have to. I heard it in your voice. I haven’t lost my marbles…just had them rattled a bit.”

  “Well, you’ve rattled mine. Are you in some kind of trouble?”

  “I hurt every time I breath, and…I’m expecting. Trouble enough.”

  Was he smiling?

  “Well, trouble is the menu for the day. I’m Acting Commission Krause. Just call me Wendell. So you the one…the pepper pot.”

  Sara drew back. Did Mrs. Eisner talk about her? “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” It was too late to play innocent, but it was the only card she had.

  “All the same, you’ve made an impression on the matron. She had a few things to say. But they weren’t
all bad.”

  “Like what?” Sara wasn’t sure she liked where this conversation was goinng.

  “Let’s see. She mentioned impetious. Called you unruly. A wisenheimer. And obstinate. I think she was complementing you—in a left field sort of way.”

  “I think I rubbed her the wrong way. They have a lousy cook right now, and I could have done a better job.”

  “Mrs. Eisner doesn’t like her authhority challenged.”

  “Oh, I got that. For a minute, I thought she would kick me out. Mrs. Eisner was kind to let me stay.”

  “I’m stopping here, so you can sit in front.” He slowed the car, pulled into the parking lot of a filling station, and stopped. “Now, it will be easier to talk while I take you back.”

  As Sara eased her way through the door. He moved his hat and some papers closer to him. “Thank you, Mr. Krause,” she said. “I know this is awkward.”

  “This is the highlight of my day. Believe me. Mr. Krause has quit for the afternoon, so you can call me Wendell.” He turned the vehicle in a thght circle and headed back to the tenement house, again staying in the center of the road.

  “Shouldn’t you be in your own lane?”

  A quiet smile played at the ends of his lips. “I should. But more tramps on country roads are getting struck by farm vehicles. I’m just playing it safe.” Wendell rubbed the back of his neck. He had a worn out look that went beyond the rumpled suit and wrinkled tie. The man might been had been up the night before. Of course, his work wouldn’t be easy. Probably had a rough day. She had a few of those.

  He glanced at her, raising an eyebrow. “So why did you risk your stay by hiding in the back of my car?”

  “I wanted to meet you, but couldn’t think of a way to do it. Waiting in you car seemed like the best plan. I must have fallen asleep.”

  “Should I call you Miss McGuire?” A glint sparked in his eyes. “Or Goldilocks.”

  “I’d rather you call me Sara.”

  “Fair enough.” The twinkle disappeared. He turned his attention back to the road.

  He seemed so serious. A little teasing might lift his spirits. “It’s nice to know you don’t think I’m crazy.”

  “No more than anyone else. So, what’s on your mind?”

  He was smiling more, having a little fun with her. A little less somber. That was better.

  “I was wondering what you did on a daily basis. Do people really call you Commissioner of the Poor?”

  He smirked. “Well, nobody calls me Commissioner of the Poor. It’s merely a title. On paper I see to it that services are carried out. Mostly, it means fixing things that go wrong. From missed relief checks to finding a doctor for a poor family. And sometimes it’s hunting for some poor old woman’s lost dog. At least those programs hadn’t been challenged yet.”

  That seemed an odd thing to say. “How did you get to be commissioner?” If he had something on his mind, he could always tell her—if he wished.

  “There’s a story. My father ran for the office last fall and won. But he died last January, before he started office. When I came into town to settle his affairs, the county asked me to fill in for him. I inherited the job. And the thing is…” He bit his lip, swallowing. “Everyday, I keep asking myself what would my dad do. Today, I have no answer.” He shook his head, staring at the road as morose as ever.

  “What happened?” An uneasiness settled on her, like out-of-tune strings playing off-stage.

  “The beginning of he end.” He glanced down at the papers beneath his hat. “It’s all in there. Everything’s done but the doing.”

  Wendell seemed resigned. Defeated. She nudged the pages. “May I look?”

  He flicked the air. “Why not? It’ll be public soon enough.”

  Sara gathered the papers.

  Schedule And Procedure

  for Public Sale of County Property 0043

  Miller Township

  Commissioner Wendel P. Krause

  8 April, 1935

  Most of the twelve remaining pages contained maps and blurry memeographs of old public documents. She gazed at Wendell. “What does it mean?”

  “Joshua County is selling the poor farm.”

  “What?” Sara pressed a hand to her temple to calm the spinning whirlwind within. “They’re taking away our home?”

  “ ‘They’ is me. The other commissioner outvoted me two to one. But it’s my job to prepare the property for auction in August. As soon as I finished typing the report, I brought it to Mrs. Eisner for review. That was hard, but I had to talk to somebody.”

  “What did she say?” It was hard to catch her breath. What will happen to this house? To Bea and Patrick? To her? And what would happen to her baby?

  “She was furious, of course, and demanded to know the reasoning. ‘What posessed these fools to make such a cold decision?’ she asked.”

  “I’m with her.” Sara shoved the report back under the homburg. “Why?”

  “It boils down to money.” He gave a rueful laugh. “Joshua County Farm sits on one-hundred sixty acres of good farmland. Why not sell it? Turn a drain on the county budget into taxable private property? No one would notice an out-of-the-way instituation closing.”

  “It’s more then that. It’s home. Our home—a place worth fighting for.” The words rang like a rally cry. Like those stories of underpaid dressmakers her grandmother told her about—who unionized because no one else would come to their defense. “We must find a way.”

  He shook his head. “I like the idea, Miss McGuire. But I’m tired. After I drop you off, I’m going home, throw together a sandwich, and write my resignation letter. The battle is already over.”

  “Would your father aprove?”

  She wasn’t sure if he heard her words above the wind buffeting the car. He sat hunched over the wheel, ever watchful. A few seconds later, he slowed as he passed a man wearing a shapeless cap and shabby jacket.

  “No.” Wendell drew out the word. “He’d probably want me to stick it out. Dad left home when I was eleven. Most of what I remember are rosy memories: a can-do man who would take on anything. That’s part of why I came out here. Not just to settle his estate but to find out if the man I imagined was the real deal.”

  “Was he?”

  He grinned with sad eyes. “Turned out he was.”

  “I’m jealous,” she said. “You should be proud of him. Does that mean you’ll stay?”

  He turned, giving her a sideways glance. “You assume I’ll carry on?”

  “You’re his son. His fight is your fight.”

  Wendell stayed silent for several seconds, then turned to her. “You’re different from any poor resident in this county. Yesterday afternoon Mrs. Eisner takes you in—and in twentyfour hours you’re taking a stand for the other residents. Most women living in poverty are overcome by the sheer enormity of the problem—they’re indifferent, worn down. But you’re aware and involved. Why are you so interested in what’s happening?”

  “I want to stay here. Going anywhere else could mean giving up my baby. All in all, Joshua County Farm is the safest place for me.”

  Wendell sighed. “Mrs. Eisner certainly needs the help.”

  Sara sat straighter. “She’s given me the job of working in the infirmary.”

  Wendell chuckled. “Either the matron has the upmost confidence in you, or…”

  “She thinks I’m a pain? I don’t mean to be. Mrs. Eisner is letting me pick my help. The job should be straightfoward. Except for lifting patients, I see no problems.”

  “The job entails doing three rounds a day. You’re dealing with people. Some of the invalids can be difficult.”

  “I think I can manage the old folks.”

  The station wagon topped a small hill, going by a small cemetery. The tenant house with its pointed spire, loomed ahead. “So, do you have some thoughts about saving the county farm? I could use the help.”

  Sara gasped. “Me? I have no ideas.” In coaxing Wendell to carry on, she ha
d lapse into her role as mailroom supervisor, employing a little trick she discovered to spur on a faltering worker. But this was more serious then tackling a mountain of mail. Lives were involved. And now Wendell was asking for her aid. What did she have to offer? Was this even her fight? It was so much easier to move away and leave the problem of saving the farm to someone else. Why not jump ship then go down with it?

  She could never do that.

  Wendell frowned, as he pulled into the back door driveway next to an ice truck. “I can’t go this alone, and there’s no one else to turn to—not even Mrs. Eisner. She’s got enough to deal with. It has to be you.”

  He was right. She did encourage him. She couldn’t back out now.

  She inclined her head. “I’ll do everything I can.”

  “Great! We should plan. Meet together to decide what to do. How about this Thursday? There’s a restaurant in Joshua. We can have supper there. Put our heads together and brainstorm. “

  “It’s hard to refuse when you put it that way.”

  “Good. I’ll call…um, meet you here at four o’clock Thursday and have you back well before lights out.”

  Sara looked down at her lap. “I don’t have anything to wear in public. Only feed store dresses. What would people think?”

  Wendell waved the thought away. “Most women wear sackcloth around town. You’ll fit right in.”

  “If you say so. Thursday, then.” Sara opened the car door.

  “Stay there.” Wendell jumped out and hurried to help her out of the car. “I’ll come in with you. Can’t have you in hot water with the matron. That would interfere with our meeting.”

  Wendell escorted her into the house. Mrs. Eisner was in the kitchen moving food around a new chunk of ice. “Didn’t even know you were gone,” she said and turned back to work.

  “I hope I can come up with something,” she told Wendell before he left.

  “We’re in this together. We’ve got to.”

  A few minutes later she was back in her room, pacing despite the twinges of pain from her side. It didn’t seem possible for two people to stop the machinery of government once it started on a project. Failure, however, to stop the closing meant for her—for all of them—an uncertain future.