by Wes Brummer
“We should share. By the way, thanks for letting me mail my letter.”
“Glad to help. Many residents write to distant relatives asking to stay with them. Very few get lucky.”
“I wrote to a friend asking for a favor.”
“Good luck. I hope your friend comes through.”
Sara bowed her head. “I saw the headline by the register. The sale of the farm is public news now. Has there been any letters from residents in the county about the closing?
“That newspaper is only a day old. No one around here does anything in a hurry. But I’m hoping for some kind of reaction.”
Sara nodded. “Mrs. Eisner said if the farm manages to survive, it would serve the old and infirmed.”
Wendell sat back in his seat. “She talked to you about it?”
Sara smiled. “No. That’s when I told her I knew. In so many words she told me to stay mum.”
Wendell blew out a breath. “I’d say the time for silence is over.”
Their waitress arrived with water glasses and took their orders. After she left, Sara leaned forward. “Is there any chance that the other two commissioners will change their minds?
Wendell pursed his lips. “Not likely. Unless they get an overwhelming negative response, they will pronounce the voters as being in favor of the closure. The commissioners see themselves as practical men saving the county money—with no personal ill will.”
Sara slammed her fist on the tabletop. Utensils jumped. Water glasses trembled. Customers nearby glanced her way. “It is personal!” Her voice erupted with white-hot indignation. “We live there! The residents care for each other. There’s understanding and respect—we’re a family. You—they—are destroying our home!”
Wendell grabbed her hands. “You’re attracting attention. Anger won’t help.”
Sara drew a ragged breath. “I been so busy with the infirmary I’ve barely had time to think about what to do about it. My only idea was finding someone who would buy the tenant house and allow us to stay.”
“Little chance of that happening. But I like your arguments. Perhaps making this a public issue by writing to the newspaper will stir some interest in saving the farm.”
Sara’s eyes brightened. “Do you think that will work?”
Wendell took a sip of water. “With hundreds of families fending for themselves because of the Depression, I can’t see how the dislocation of nineteen people will matter. A long shot, though, is better than nothing at all.”
“I suppose you’re right.” Sara met his eyes. She wanted to tell this sincere man about her letter to Daddy’s radio program. How there was an outside chance he might help. But that meant telling him about her family. She couldn’t risk that. Not yet. Better to deflect the conversation away from herself altogether. “You seem like an unlikely champion for the poor. What was your family like?”
Wendell let out a long breath. “It started with law school at the University of Chicago. My parents had divorced when I was very young. Granddad Pinkston ran a huge garment factory and died a rich man. Mom inherited the business. Me becoming a lawyer was Mom’s idea. Once I passed the bar, my job would be to act as legal counsel for Pinkston Garments, Chicago’s third-largest coat maker. My job would be to keep bad publicity to a minimum, negotiate with unions, and cater to local ward bosses. ‘Work hard,’ Mom told me, ‘and you’ll be set for life.’ ”
“So, what happened?”
“Last January, she called. Dad died of a heart attack somewhere in Kansas. Mom wanted me to settle Dad’s affairs. So I came out here. It felt good to quit law school. I had no wish to be a mouthpiece for a big company. Mom’s control over me ended the day Dad died.”
“I’m sorry for your loss. What did your father do?”
“He worked with his hands. Building. Repairing. While I was here, I learned he ran for County Commissioner and won. But he died before he took office. The commissioners asked me to serve out his term. The Commissioner of the Poor has been full of surprises.”
“Mrs. Eisner says you’re doing a wonderful job.”
Wendell fiddled with the cloth napkin, unrolling and rolling it back up again. “That’s nice to hear. I knew my dad was a handyman, but I never knew he had this Will Rogers ability to hit it off with people. Mom, on the other hand, liked the good life: theater, shopping, and making life miserable for the help.”
“Your parents sound so different from each other. How did they meet?”
“My father wired Granddad’s big house for electricity. The story goes that my mother married him because he wasn’t cowed by her demands.”
“So father and son left the Big City and moved west.”
Wendell rubbed his neck. “Let’s just say Mother is not the easiest person to live with.”
“Do you plan on going back to law school?”
Wendell chuckled, his hands spread apart, encompassing his surroundings. “What? And leave small-town politics?”
The server brought their orders, refilled their water glasses and left.
Sara’s slice of chicken pie looked marvelous. The thick wedge covered half her plate, its golden crust filled with thick chunks of white meat, potatoes, carrots and peas in a creamy sauce. Sara dug in, relishing the blend of tastes and textures. The colors, the aroma, even the feel, demanded that she savor each flavorful bite. The creamy sauce was the key, light and buttery with an array of spices. It was a privilege to be here to enjoy such a feast. She hadn’t tasted anything like this since her retreat from home. Too bad the others had to eat Wheatley’s watery potato soup, but they were used to it. She wasn’t. She deserved a good meal.
Sara stopped eating, setting down her fork. What was she thinking? Here she was, stuffing her face while Bea and Patrick ate the same bland fare. A hollowness yawned within her, but not from hunger. How could she betray her friends? How could she be so selfish?
It was shameful.
“This is a mistake. I shouldn’t be here.”
Wendell looked up, “Something wrong?”
“I can’t eat this.”
“Is the chicken bad?” Wendell studied her from across the table.
Sara shook her head. “It’s wonderful. But…I shouldn’t have it.” She gulped water to rid her mouth of the taste. “I need to step out.”
Wendell looked aghast. “Are you sick?”
“No. I have to go.” Sara rose to her feet. No explanation could excuse her actions. No use trying. “This is all my fault.” She turned and dashed for the door.
She didn’t remember getting into the Pontiac—just the headlong flight from the restaurant, bursting through the screen door, and the scolding jangle of the cowbell on the way out. Inside the car, she drew her knees to her chin and wrapped arms around them. She didn’t know where she wanted to go. Or what to do. But eating at a place where her friends could never go seemed like hypocrisy. Was she any better than her father? It was so easy to be disdainful of him, yet for a few brief moments sitting at the restaurant seemed like just another day of dinning out. Nothing special.
Yet, for Bea and Patrick—even Dutch, it would be an experience out of reach. In two months the closest they’d be to a restaurant would be to hunch in alley, going through garbage and fishing for scraps. The thought made her stomach turn.
The car door open and Wendell dropped behind the wheel. He watched her, brows raised. “Are you feeling better?”
“A little.” It came out more as moan.
“What happened back there?”
She stared ahead over her knees, speaking in a far-away voice. “I was eating… Marveling at the taste… Knowing that the people I live with never had such a feast. And I didn’t care. Everything soured after that.”
“You were enjoying yourself and feeling guilty because of that?”
“I suppose I was. How did you know?”
“Sometimes a farmer gives me eggs or milk to pass on to a poor family. Needy parents often accept the food for their children—never for thems
elves.” He reached for her hand and squeezed it. “You’re not alone in how you feel.”
“That may be true. But I still want to go home.”
Wendell started the car and headed for the city limits. “I just now realized how much I dominated the conversation at supper.”
“That’s because I asked all the questions.” The queasiness made grinning an effort.
“And I fell for it. The more I talked about myself, the fewer questions I’d be asking you.”
That brought a smile to her lips. “I hoped you wouldn’t notice.”
“Next time, it will be your story.”
“I gave my history to Mrs. Eisner.” She turned to look out the passenger window.
They drove in silence. After the car topped a small rise, the silhouette of the tenant house came into view, blocking the setting sun. Just ahead was the poor farm cemetery. She was almost home.
Wendell slowed the car and parked by the cemetery gate.
Sara sat up straighter, an image of Larry swinging at her splashed across her thoughts. “What are we doing here.” She already had her fingers on the door handle, ready to make a run for it. Not likely she’d get far.
“Before we call it a night, I wanted to show you the cemetery.” He gestured to a gleaming picket fence. “This is the quietest spot in the county, and it’s a six-minute walk from where you live.”
“A cemetery?” Sara peered at the rows of wooden crosses. Wendell came around and helped her out of the car. Here and there were spots of color on the ground. Mid-April and wildflowers were already blooming. She heard how cemeteries could be fertile ground for an assortment of plants. It was certainly true for this little gravesite.
The burial ground was rectangle-shaped with eight markers set side-by-side going back some twelve rows. A simple wooden cross topped each grave with the first initial and last name in black paint on the crossbar. Most of the markers showed little sign of weathering. Six bare-limbed willows stood just east of the cemetery. The largest tree bent like a stooped-shouldered sentry, its limbs bowing over the resting place as if protecting it. A rabbit munching on bits of grass watched from a pile of railroad ties behind the gravesite. Wendell and Sara passed through the picketed gate.
A stiffening breeze blew from the west. Sara hugged herself as a shiver coursed down her spine. It may be a tranquil place, but she wouldn’t want to be alone here.
“Are you chilly?”
“It’s gotten cooler.” Sara rubbed her upper arms. “Is Mr. Byers buried here?”
Wendell pointed. “On the back row.” He took off his suit jacket and draped it over her shoulders. “Welcome to the Joshua County Cemetery.”
She trembled, pulling the jacket tighter. “Mrs. Eisner told me about this place.”
“She avoids the cemetery. I come here to repair some of the markers or patch the fence. It helps me to unwind. So few visitors come here. But if anyone should visit, they’ll see this is a good resting place.”
“You are the caretaker?”
Wendell shrugged. “I’ve always thought that an odd title. I’m more of a steward.” The sun hovered over the horizon. Shadows from the grave markers created lines that stretched to the willows. Sara turned in a full circle, clasping the jacket. “It’s lonely out here.”
“Anything but lonely. Over ninety souls lie here.” He gestured to the eastern end of the graveyard. “Not everyone in this cemetery is from the county farm. There are two tramps who died while passing through town. And then, there’s the Boy.”
He showed her to a single marker set against the picket fence. The black paint was faded but still readable:
NEGRO BOY
“I don’t know why. Every time I come here I spend time in front of this grave imagining where he came from.”
“Who was he?”
“Nobody knows. He may have died on one the orphan trains that passed through here. Another story says he was riding atop a sand car and fell in. No documents exist showing when he was buried. I’ve considered moving the body so his grave is aligned with the others. Then common sense prevailed. Someday, I’ll fix his marker, but I’m reluctant about disturbing his resting place.”
Sara removed a tree branch from the cross. “That poor child. To die without a name.”
Wendell nodded. “An unknown orphan—and yet, my thoughts are drawn to him every time I come here.”
A gust of wind whistled through the bare trees like mournful spirits who had lost their way.
Wendell took her arm, and they hurried back to the car. Sara expected him to start the vehicle. Instead, he turned to her. “I have to ask you something. In my job, I ask many personal questions of people who apply for relief. I don’t do it to pry, but to justify the need. Clients lie to me daily—to protect themselves, their family—their pride. So I listen to what the person is saying—and not saying. The hidden truth. And here’s my question. What is your unspeakable truth?”
Sara turned toward the graveyard in the fading light, twisting her fingers.
Wendell gripped her hands.
She turned to him, her voice edged with insolence. “You want a list? I fear for the future of my child. With the house closing, I’ll have to move on, but where will I go? Will I be able to keep my child? I can’t go home. Daddy called me a disgrace. We don’t get along—but we’ll have to find some kind of peace, or I’ll never see my family again.”
Wendell blinked. “Tell me about your child. What would you like to happen?”
Sara pursed her lips. “I want to keep my baby—watch her grow. I can live with the shame of being an unwed mother, but I will not allow others to shame my child. I’m told that giving up the baby is the only way to give her a future. I fear that may be true.”
Wendell gripped her hands tighter, but she pulled her fingers free. “Other women have been in your situation and raised children. Don’t sacrifice your child before she’s even born.”
“You sound like one of those writers telling people to think like a winner.”
“I don’t want you to give up. What’s your father like?”
Sara cast her eyes downward. “Daddy is so ambitious. He has his eyes on fame and notoriety. His need for celebrity blinds him to all else—including his own family. That’s partly why I’m here. He saw me as a threat to his career.”
“What happened?”
Sara pulled the jacket tighter. “We had an argument. I’m barred from my own home.”
“How can you solve this problem? For that matter, how can you change your father?”
Sara stared at him. “I don’t know.”
“You’re feeling guilty about situations and events you cannot control. You don’t have to leave immediately. Stay at the house for as long as you can. “
“I want to talk to Daddy again. He could be a thousand miles away, yet he’s never far from my thoughts. I have to end the rift between us.”
“Don’t worry about that. You’re a mother-to-be. Your goal is to stay healthy. Try not to let your father haunt you.” Wendell drew her close, wrapping his arm around her shoulders.
“He called me a threat!” Faint light caught her glistening eyes. “Me! Larry said the same thing the very next day before dumping me.” She pointed ahead with a trembling hand. “Lying in the cold, hurting and alone…I wanted it to be over.”
“You survived. You’re stronger. How do you feel now?”
Her eyes were like reflecting pools, brimming with tears. “Now? I’ve found a purpose here and a sense of…belonging.” It was hard to talk, to force each word past the lump in her throat. “I’ve never felt that way before. Each day, the ties keep getting stronger. This place has been a sanctuary. And now…I can’t stay here. I can’t go home. I have to show Daddy…to prove…I’m worthy.” Sara leaned into his shoulder, weeping.
Wendell bent forward tipping her face upward; his lips touched hers in a tentative question. She responded with a crushing answer. He circled her back with his hands and she pulled hi
m close. She closed her eyes, drinking in his presence.
Time and place faded. The moment hung suspended. They melted together in a universe all their own. There was no past. Only a never-ending now and a yearning desire for a fairytale future. Both had a simple wish for the world to leave them in peace. And both knew with certainty it would never happen.
They kissed, not as lovers, but as two desperate souls finding a reprieve from loneliness, fearful of asking for more, but reluctant to break their tender bond. They broached no questions. They made no promises. Only prayers. Fervent hope. Solace. They held each other in a tiny piece of forever. A land of tender beauty. A world of roses.
Sometime later, Wendell returned Sara to the house.
“Goodbye,” she murmured, opened the door, and darted up the steps. From the back door, she waved to him as he backed the car out to the road. Sara didn’t go in until the engine’s chattering receded into the stillness of night.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Friday, April 12, 1935
Beatrice awoke in a cold sweat in the middle of the night. Through the curtained window, speckled moonlight spread across the floor of her room.
She had dreamed of the bookkeeping office again.
For the last six months, it was the same unsettling vision. Some nights it was a shadowy jumble of impressions, but this time she felt the broom handle and tasted the bitter ink. Tonight wasn’t so much a dream as a reenactment.
Bea stared at the pattern of moonlight on the floor. It was just like that evening when the light went out, and the office turned to spotty points of light and shifting shadows.
It was so easy to remember…
Move that dust. Sweep with care.
Push too fast will fill the air.
Making up rhymes made the work more enjoyable. Otherwise, cleaning Mr. Bergkamp’s office was boring. Beatrice swept dust into a pan and dumped it in a nearby bin. She tugged on the back door to take out the refuse, but the knob wouldn’t turn. Why would the bookkeeper lock the back door? She was supposed to empty the office trash every night. Beatrice shrugged and returned to work.
Gather rubbish. Empty trash.
Make it quick. Make it fast.