Dust and Roses

by Wes Brummer

  Sara’s mouth fell open. “You wrote her a marriage proposal?”

  “I couldn’t bring myself to say that stuff.”

  She bit a lip before asking. “She must have accepted.”

  Mr. Eisner stared at the barn’s high ceiling. “She had conditions. I had to moderate my language, stay out of the saloons, go to church, and bring flowers on her birthday, but five months later, we were man and wife. Been married now for close to thirty years.”

  Sara stifled a grin as she imagined a young Gloria taming a brassy youth who fancied himself a cowboy. “Is Mrs. Eisner from Abilene as well?”

  “She moved to there with her mother as a child. Her father, I understand, died years ago.”

  Dutch ambled in and knelt before Sara, slipping clean shoes onto her feet. “Good as new, Miss Sara. I won’t even charge you.” He gave her a wink.

  James Eisner stood and arched his back. “We need to get back to that sow. Care to watch, Miss McGuire?”

  “I should get back to the house. Thank you, Mr. Eisner for showing me around. And thank you Dutch for cleaning my shoes.”

  “My pleasure.” Eisner nodded and stepped to the barn door.

  Dutch helped Sara to her feet. “I’ll have to introduce you to Cloris proper next time.”

  “Dutch!” Eisner called from the door. “Time’s wasting.”

  The two left.

  Sara stood alone in the murky gloom. What am I doing here? Farm work was beyond her. She left the barn, making her way back to the house.

  She felt so out of place here, but she had nowhere else to go. If only she could go home again, but that meant that, somehow, she had to bridge the rift between her and Daddy. He saw her as a shameful daughter. But he was a neglectful father. Could there be a way to mend their differences? Both would have to change, to make amends. But at what cost?

  What was the price of atonement?

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Thursday, April 11, 1935

  Sara awoke Thursday morning long before the din of Mrs. Eisner’s bell. Today’s sackcloth dress was pale yellow with white daisies. Sara slipped into the garment and cinched it with the strip of red cloth Bea provided. It would have to do for this evening’s supper with Commissioner Krause—Wendell.

  What would she say to him about saving the county farm? The last three days had been a whirlwind of activity with staying on top of the infirmary duties. With breakfast rounds over, she had maybe two hours rest before serving dinner. Another two hours to relax and then supper chores would commence. A grueling schedule. It was hard to think about the next day, let alone two months from now.

  But she had to. Her home was about to close, and Wendell asked for her help to keep it open. What could she offer besides encouragement. She was only one resident soon to give up her sanctuary with the others. She had no choice but to stay with relatives and give up her child in seven months.

  It wasn’t just her. There were Bea and Patrick—and the patients upstairs. All they wanted were a few extra minutes of companionship each day. Who would take care of them when the tenant house closed?

  She needed a idea.

  The trip into town this evening, gave her an opportunity to write mother and tell her she was safe. No return address, though. A return letter would jeopardize her identity as Sara McGuire. In the time she had left, nothing must interfere with staying here.

  Sara lit her lantern, walked to the dining room, and retrieved her stamp and box of stationery. She took the items back to her room and closed the door.

  She selected a thin sheet of scented paper, wrote a few lines to her family, stuffed the letter in an envelope of pink roses, and sealed it. Sara was about to affix the stamp when a thought struck her.

  What if she could never go home again?

  Home meant so many things: family dinners, listening to the radio, and warm baths. Here felt like home. Again, the question loomed.

  How could she save her home?

  Stopping the county’s plan to sell the land seemed impossible. But what if someone could buy the tenant house and the land it rested on from the county? A buyer who would let the residents stay. A radio personality could use that sale as a way to increase his fame.

  Daddy acted on listener mail when it suited his purpose. She could post a letter to him or—better yet—to Gladys. That would get it noticed. The note would have to grab his interest—and spur him to action.

  Sara pulled out another sheet of paper. She couldn’t use her name, of course. It would have to be Beatrice. She’d tell her friend later about the letter. Not that it mattered. Hundreds of letters arrived every day at the Mailroom. The chances of Daddy noticing her message were next to zero. Still, it was worth a try.

  Word by word, she constructed each paragraph. The breakfast bell rang as she signed Beatrice’s name, addressed the envelope, and attached the stamp.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Jason picked up the kitchen phone after breakfast. Getting Sara’s taxi destination would be a simple matter of calling the dispatcher. He picked up the telephone receiver. “Michael, could you look up the number to the cab company?”

  Michael retrieved the directory from the cupboard and plunked it on the kitchen table. “Found it.” He read the telephone number.

  “What are you doing, Jason?” his mother asked. She placed coffee mugs in the cupboard and hung the iron skillet by the stove.

  “We know that Sis took a cab. I’m hoping the taxi service will tell us where they took her.” Jason dialed.

  A chirpy female voice answered. “City Cab.”

  “I need to get some information about a ride taken last Sunday morning. My sister took a taxi—”

  “Let me connect you with my supervisor.”

  “Yes, I’ll—”

  Click!

  Before he could get the words out, he was talking to dead air.

  “What’s going on?” Michael asked.

  Jason stared at the phone. “I’m not sure. The lady said she would connect me to her supervisor. But it sounded like she hung up.”

  Katherine sighed. “The telephone company says direct dialing is more convenient, but I always liked the help of telephone operators. They made sure you were connected to the right party.”

  Jason raised a hand. “I think someone’s on the line.”

  A harsh, too-loud male voice came from the receiver. “This is Peters. Help you?” The words sounded more like “’Ep ya?”

  “Hello? My name is Jason McGurk, and I’m trying to locate my missing sister. She took a cab last Sunday downtown. I need to know where the taxi took her.”

  His mother sat with Michael at the table, giving him an earful. Michael was leaning back in his chair, not liking what she was telling him.

  “Give me the information.” Peters seemed unhappy but resigned.

  “The cab picked her up at the Farmland Café on South Broadway between nine and ten a.m.”

  “Destination?” the voice asked.

  Jason gripped the phone harder. Wasn’t this guy paying attention? “Sir, I don’t know where the cab went. If I knew that, I wouldn’t be calling.”

  Across the room, Michael gave him a sideways glance.

  “You won’t get anywhere talking like that.”

  With an effort, Jason forced himself to remain calm. “Sorry. My sister has been missing for four days. We’re at our wit’s end. All I want is an address.”

  “That information is with the dispatcher.”

  “Then can you transfer me back to her?”

  His mother was still giving Michael the third degree, but he was watching Jason.

  “Won’t do you any good. Our policy is not to give out information unless the person asking is the law. Are you a cop?”

  Jason thumped the back door with a fist. “Why didn’t you tell me this in the first place? Can I at least find out who drove last Sunday?”

  “’Fraid not. Unless you got a badge.”

  Jason sighed. “I got n
othing.”

  “We make it a point to answer all police queries. If you’re that concerned, you’d be calling the law.”

  “Yessir.” Jason dropped the phone on the hook.

  “What happened?” Michael asked.

  “I got the runaround. They’ll give out information to the law, but no one else.” Jason rubbed his eyes. “I was hoping to get that address.”

  Katherine turned to Jason. “You boys have gone as far as you can. Step aside. Let the police take over.”

  Jason stared at the back door. Defeat pressed on him like a physical weight. Unless Michael had some bright idea, their search for Sara was over.

  Chapter Thirty

  The gut-wrenching odor of stale vomit hung in the air as Sara and her crew entered Maxine Hiebert’s room. The diminutive woman lay huddled on her side, eyes scrunched shut, the meager contents of her stomach splattered on her pillow. Sara rushed to her side. Tears trickled down the older woman’s sunken cheeks; her bloodless lips were pulled back in a grimace.

  “Maxie!” Patrick charged forward and grabbed her hand. “What’s wrong with her?”

  “Mrs. Heibert needs her medicine.” Sara reached for the pills on the shelf above the bed.

  No bottle.

  A cold icicle pierced her stomach. Sara scanned the bed. “Bea, help me find her pill bottle! Patrick, you too!” Panic edged her voice.

  Sara patted the bed covers. Nothing. Scouring the floor produced eight pills and a cotton ball. She opened the door to the nightstand. Inside was a large ball of newspaper-wrapped paste smelling of garlic, earth, and rotten leaves.

  Beatrice discovered the bottle stopper under the rocker.

  “I found it!” Patrick yelled, pulling the empty bottle from beneath Maxine’s pillow. Frowning, he handed the container to Sara and turned back to hold Maxine’s hand. Sara checked the chart. The bottle had twenty-four pills left. Sixteen were unaccounted for. She glanced from the chart to Maxine. “Patrick, get Mrs. Eisner. We need help.”

  Patrick shook his head. “I’m not going.”

  Sara stepped forward, gripping his arm. “There’s no time to argue. Get moving.”

  Patrick planted his feet, turning away.

  A tap on her shoulder. Sara whirled around.

  Beatrice held out her slate. I’LL GO. Without waiting for an answer, she scurried from the room.

  Sara glanced at Patrick. What was she thinking? Of course, the youth wouldn’t leave her side. Sara let out a breath and bent to examine the dying woman.

  Maxine’s eyes were now open, the irises large but unfocused. Breaths came in short, quick, gasps. Her face lay on a wet splatter of bright orange. Sara moved the soiled part of the pillow away from her nose and mouth. Patrick stroked her arm while wind rattled loose windowpanes.

  “Maxine, we’re getting the matron.”

  No response.

  The hallway echoed with measured footsteps. The matron strolled in with Beatrice behind her. She glanced at Maxine, then stepped to the nightstand and removed the wrapped wad of paste.

  Sara held out the empty bottle. “Maxine somehow managed to get her medicine and—”

  “I gathered what happened, child. She’s lucky to be alive.” Gloria pointed to the spot of orange on the pillow. “She became nauseous—morphine will do that—and regurgitated most of the pills.” The matron unwrapped the newspaper. “Help me with this, Sara. Patrick, you’ll have to leave the room.” Mrs. Eisner tore off a hunk of the earthy smelling stuff, working it with her hands.

  Patrick sniffed the gunk, wrinkling his nose. “I’m not leaving.”

  “We’re about to rub ointment on Mrs. Hiebert. You’ll have to step out when we do this.”

  Sara put a hand on the youth’s shoulders. “I’ll walk you to the hall. Bea will keep you company.”

  The matron shook her head. “Beatrice stays. We’ll need her help.”

  Patrick crossed his arms, sulking, but Sara managed to get him out of the room.

  “Lock the door.”

  Sara turned the latch. She eyed the gray paste. “What is that stuff?”

  “Oh, this and that. It’s a theriac, a salve of sorts. Time’s wasting. Soften up the ointment with your hands. You’ll be surprised how pliable it gets. Rub it on Mrs. Hiebert’s skin. She’ll thrash a bit when the theriac begins its work, she’ll feel better afterward.”

  “Shouldn’t we call the doctor?”

  “Later. Dr. Zwiefel would give her a shot of morphine or even heroin. The theriac will soothe her without making her nauseous. I’ve been a nurse for thirty years, Miss McGuire. I’ve learned to appreciate folk medicine.”

  Sara removed Maxine’s gown, and the three rubbed the homemade liniment on chest, arms, and legs. Body heat made the ointment easy to apply. After they finished, Gloria drew covers over Maxine’s thin frame. “Now comes the hard part.”

  “Hard part?” Sara asked.

  “You’ll see. Go to the foot of the bed. Beatrice, stand on the opposite side and grab her shoulders.”

  A few minutes passed. Maxine stirred, rocking her head from side to side. A low moan escaped her lips. “Hot…” She kicked the covers, flaying her arms. Sara took a step back, wide-eyed, mouth agape. The scene was nightmarish. Was Maxine having a fit? Was she possessed? Sara stood frozen, heart quickening, ready to bolt for the door.

  “Sara! Hold her feet down!” Gloria snapped, gripping one arm and shoulder. “Beatrice, hold her down.”

  Sara stepped in to grasp her legs. Maxine let out a piercing cry as spasms wracked her body. Patrick pounded on the door. The dying woman’s strength was uncanny. Sara lost her grip. One foot broke loose, kicking her in the head. The blow sent her reeling. With her eyes teary and blurred, she felt her way back to the bed and hung on. The moans and the convulsions went on for long minutes. Was this really helping Mrs. Hiebert? They could be killing her.

  Slowly, the shuddering diminished, whether from the salve or sheer fatigue, Sara wasn’t sure. At last, she lay still. Sara retrieved her water cup and held a straw to her lips.

  Maxine sipped some water then shook her head. She turned a haggard face to Sara, but her voice was strong. “I want to see Patrick.”

  With a nod from Mrs. Eisner, Bea unlocked the door, and Patrick rushed in. The three women filed out of the room.

  The matron peered at the couple from the doorway. “I’ll call Dr. Zwiefel and see about increasing her dosage. Injections would be more suitable for her. If you wish, I can teach you how to give an injection.”

  “Anything to help Mrs. Hiebert.”

  “I understand Mr. Krause is calling on you today.”

  Heat rose up her cheeks. “Yes, Mrs. Eisner. We’re having supper in town. I should be back well before lights out.”

  “Land sake, child, I’m not your mother.” She waved the subject away. “I’ll call the Commissioner. With any luck, he can bring the morphine and syringes from Dr. Zwiefel’s office. We need to keep Mrs. Heibert comfortable in the time she has left.” She sighed. “How she hangs on is beyond me.”

  “She may have found something to live for.”

  Mrs. Eisner tilted her head. “So I see. It won’t end well for Patrick. Keep him busy. The three of you are taking a long time on your rounds. But I understand these patients need the attention. If this home should survive, care for the infirmed will be our main function.”

  Sara lowered her head. “Mr. Krause told me about his meeting last Monday.”

  She shot a glance at Bea. “Unspoken prayers, Miss McGuire. And enjoy your supper. I’ll do the evenings rounds.” She turned and walked to the stairs, but stopped and faced Sara. “Your style of care is breaking new ground. Just don’t let it break you.” The matron turned away and headed for the stairs once more.

  Sara gazed down the hall long after the persnickety woman disappeared. Did Mrs. Eisner praise or criticize her?

  Bea wrote.

  HOW ARE WE DOING?

  “You and Patrick are doing great.�
� Sara squeezed her shoulder.

  Beatrice hugged her, smiling.

  Fifteen minutes later, the infirmary crew rolled their carts to the next room. Patrick stepped in front of the door, squinting at Sara, arms crossed, blocking her way. “I don’t like you.” His voice held an edge Sara had never heard before.

  She squatted before the disgruntled young man. “I’m sorry about how we locked you out. We needed to help Maxie because she took too many pills.”

  Patrick shook his head. “She’s getting sicker. You’re supposed to make her better.”

  Sara’s jaw dropped. She’d promised Maxine she’d tell Patrick of her condition. She needed to honor that agreement. Sara reached for his arm, but Patrick yanked it away. So be it. It was hard to meet his eyes. “I cannot make Maxine better. Neither can Miss Gloria. Nobody can.”

  “But what’s wrong with Maxie? Is it a secret?”

  Sara swallowed. “Maxie has a disease. Her blood has turned to poison. There’s no medicine to fix it. All we can do is ease the pain as it gets worse.”

  Patrick squinted, bobbing his head. Sara waited. If this man-child was slow, he was also methodical. “Will Maxie die?”

  Sara nodded. “Soon.” The word felt like a death sentence.

  For a long moment, the youth gazed at her over crossed arms. He never moved. Did he understand what she said? Did her news send him into shock?

  Patrick touched Sara’s arm. “You told me like a grown-up. I like that. But Maxie will always be my girlfriend. So you can’t be.” With that, he turned and led the way to the next room.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  The last patient for each round was always Mr. Evans. Sara blew out a breath. The last but certainly not the least. She opened the door, allowing Patrick and Beatrice to enter before her. The air reeked with the foul stench coming from his bed. Sara put a hand over her nose. “Not again.” The old man was a bit easier to manage later in the day, though he never cared to be sociable. The mornings, however, brought out the worst in him.

  He huddled in his bed. “Leave me be.”

  “Afraid not, Mr. Evans. After we clean you up, you’ll be wearing a diaper from now on.”