by Wes Brummer
There were three trashcans: two were nearly empty and a third under the roll-up desk spilled over with papers. After she set the trash by the back door, she could go home to help Miss Beth with her niece’s gown.
Prepare the dress. Work with haste.
Wedding’s coming! The lady waits.
At eighteen, Beatrice Mullens had to leave the Kansas City orphanage, but she needed to learn the skills to survive in the outside world. The social worker found a sponsor, a couple who would take her in and teach her the things a young woman needed to know. On the day she left the orphanage, the social worker drove her to Union Station and gave her a one-way ticket to Joshua, Kansas. When she arrived in the small town, Frank and Elizabeth Bergkamp met her at the depot. A nice couple. Mr. Bergkamp was a bookkeeper. Miss Beth was a dressmaker. Bea’s inability to speak didn’t bother them. She soon learned to cook, clean, and sew. Miss Beth even let Bea pick the fabrics for her own dresses.
Mr. Bergkamp promised a small allowance if Beatrice would clean his downtown office. Stirring up dust, he told her, bothered his breathing. Four weeks after her arrival, Sally hadn’t stirred from within her mind. Life with the Bergkamps was working out.
The cool October evening seeped into the office as Bea gathered the refuse together. She crawled under the roll-up desk to retrieve stray wads of crumpled paper that had fallen out of the waste can. Behind her, the front door squeaked opened and rattled shut. Bea scrambled out from under the desk. Before she regained her feet, the lights went out.
Someone else was in the office.
Dappled light filtered in from streetlamps and surrounding businesses. Beatrice concentrated on the shadow standing between her and the front door. Heavy, labored breathing approached. Headlamps from a passing car fell on the figure as he passed an opened window. It was Mr. Bergkamp, his arms outstretched and a strained smile played across his reddened face.
Beatrice sensed the familiar stirring of Sally as she emerged from the depths of her mind. Sally adopted a singsong tone. Uh-ohhh. We’ve got com-pa-nee.
Bergkamp crept closer. “Don’t be afraid. I’m not going to hurt you. I just want to be friends. Good friends. A good friend who deserves some affection.”
Bea retreated a step, bumping against the roll-up desk. Her fingers found a desk lamp and turned on the light.
Light caught Bergkamp’s shifting eyes. Beatrice had seen those eyes before. In the orphanage, a night watchman found one of the prettier girls to his liking. His eyes shifted as well.
What was she going to do?
Sally pulsed with excitement. I do believe he wants to play. Beatrice could almost feel her friend rubbing her hands.
There was no way out except through the front door. Sitting on the desk behind her was an open ledger, its pages filled with tiny numbers. Beside the ledger sat a small dark bottle.
Bergkamp stepped closer, his eyes hungry, and his grin contorting into a grimace.
Bea picked up the bottle. The label said WATERMAN’S BLACK INK.
Sally loomed from within. Don’t throw it—pop it open!
Bea flipped off the stopper.
Let him come closer. Art class is about to begin.
Bergkamp didn’t notice what Bea held. He was an arm’s length away, his hands about to encircle her.
Let’s finger-paint.
Bea upended the ink bottle over a page of figures. It was like pouring corn syrup over pancakes. Bergkamp screamed like a little boy, stepping backward. Bea grinned as she rubbed her hands over the page, making little stars and spirals with her black fingers.
Time for lipstick!
Bea swiped a finger across her mouth. The ink tasted horribly bitter. She spat; a stream of black goo landed on Bergkamp’s shirt.
The little man looked at his chest as if he was bleeding. His eyes became giant saucers. For a moment, he stared at Bea as if assessing her. Then with a roar, he rushed at her.
Give him what he wants.
With blackened hands and lips, Bea hugged the man, kissing him on the lips, face, and neck.
Bergkamp tore her arms loose, staggering back. “Get away from me!” He turned around, making funny little noises in his throat, and ran smack into the door. After fumbled with the lock, he dashed out, bending to his knees on the front porch. There, he heaved up his supper, gulped a lungful of air, and bent forward again, his body shaking. Finally, he disappeared from the open doorway, still wheezing.
Sally shrieked with delight.
Bea grinned. She sat in the swivel chair by the desk, toying with the spilled ink. Someone would be along soon. By then Sally would disappear from conscious thought. She—Beatrice—would be left alone to answer questions. Sally was that kind of a friend…
The dappled square of moonlight on the floor held no more magic. Bea turned over, facing the wall. So ended her time with Miss Beth. Frank Bergkamp accused her of destroying property. The Joshua County Court agreed and sent her to the county asylum for observation.
It wasn’t so bad. Living here wasn’t scary like staying at the orphanage. She had new friends: Miss Gloria, Patrick, and now Sara. She seemed like a princess who had lost her palace, pretty as a porcelain doll and just as fragile. Regal, yet friendly. It was easy to imagine her wearing jeweled bracelets and a long, flowing gown. And she was her princess-attendant. Bea smiled in the darkness. Working with Miss Sara was pleasant. There was only one problem.
Sally despised her new friend.
Since the death of Mr. Byers, Sally remained quiet. Too quiet. Was her friend jealous of Miss Sara? Bea hoped not.
There was no telling what Sally would do.
Chapter Thirty-Five
“No, no, no. You’re holding the syringe all wrong.” Gloria Eisner took the glass tube from Sara and held it with the tip pointing upward. “When injecting, you hold the needle like you’re throwing a dart.”
Sara stood at Mrs. Eisners’s desk, which held a bottle of rubbing alcohol, some cotton balls, a bowl of water, a potato, and the open box of syringes. A folded newspaper sat on a corner of the desk. It was a copy of the same paper she saw at the restaurant yesterday.
Breakfast was over and the residents were doing morning cleanup. Infirmary rounds would begin soon. The matron had been patient up to now, drilling Sara on giving shots. The potato used in the exercise leaked water from at least four punctures. Soon, Sara would inject a dangerous solution into a dying woman.
The matron handed the syringe to Sara, taking care to point the needle away. “Now, give the injection. Recite the steps as I’ve instructed.”
Sara wetted a cotton ball with rubbing alcohol. “First I sanitize the area. Then I take the syringe and push the plunger forward to eliminate air bubbles inside. That way the patient gets nothing but medicine.” A small bit of water sprayed from the end of the needle.
“What’s next?”
Sara inserted the inch-long needle into the potato. “Next, I pull back on the plunger slightly to see if I hit a blood vessel.” Sara drove the plunger forward, shooting more water in the potato and removed the needle. “After the shot, I massage the muscle to spread out the drug.” Sara replaced the glass cylinder in its place and closed the lid.
Mrs. Eisner nodded. “You did excellent.”
Sara beamed, Mrs. Eisner did not give compliments often.
“Training is over. You’re ready.”
Sara nodded. “Thank you.” The steps in giving a shot were easy—yet scary. But what filled her thoughts was yesterday. What was she to make of the evening with Commissioner Wendell Krause?
She’d always thought cemeteries were frightening, but the small pauper graveyard dotted with spring flowers felt tranquil. Like the Commissioner, she found the mystery of the Negro boy’s grave enchanting. Who was he? Where did he come from? What happened to him? Feeling pity for the child—and herself—brought about a rising emotion impossible to control. Confessing her fears to Mr. Krause—Wendell—felt like a release. She offered no resistance to his tou
ch and responded to his kiss with surprising passion. What must he think of her? Should she explain her feelings and actions? Avoid seeing him alone again? Or should she wait to see what happened next?
Wendell was kind and thoughtful. But the timing was all wrong. She didn’t need romance. Not now.
Mrs. Eisner moved the box aside. “I’ll prepare two syringes. Mrs. Hiebert will require morphine every four hours. With that many injections, a third person should assist. I’ll train Mrs. Robson and set up a schedule. The three of us will each administer two shots per day.”
“That would be a big help.”
The matron dropped the waterlogged potato in a nearby trashcan. “I want to be there when you administer your first injection. It will remind me of those days when I watched over new nurses.” A faint smile played across her lips. It dwindled when she glanced at the folded newspaper.
“I don’t know if I’d make a good nurse.”
“You have gifts, child. Natural abilities.” She unfurled the paper. Beneath the headline of the announced closure, a smaller line read: “Commissioners Disagree Over Closure Decision.” The story recounted the heated discussion between the three commissioners. Residents would be vacated by July 15th, and the property would be sold in forty-acre parcels by August 5th. “Have you mentioned this to any of the other residents?”
“I thought that should come from you.”
She folded the paper. A wry grin lingered for a moment. “I almost wish you had. It’d be easy to blame the messenger. I’ll tell the group at dinnertime.”
“Is there anything we can do?”
“I’m not sure if doing anything is a wise idea. I don’t like the attention we will draw from this article. Dozens of people will come to inspect the farm. Or to gawk. I hope we can remain a safe place before…” She sighed. Behind her stern mask, Sara glimpsed the weary in her eyes and the set of her mouth. Mrs. Eisner met her gaze. “You best get ready for your rounds. Never mind me. I’m feeling my age today, and prone to worry. Shut the door on your way out.”
As Sara left, she saw the matron bowing her head, hands clasped before her.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Sara steeled herself before leading Bea and Patrick into Mr. Evans’ room. He was often at his conniving worst in the morning. Let’s hope he’ll limit his anger to me. She knocked twice and entered, feigning a smile. As her helpers went about their chores the old man watched them without comment. “Good morning, Mr. Evans,” said Sara. “We’ll change your drawers and have you eating breakfast in a few minutes.”
She turned the long rod, bringing him upright. Still he said nothing, though he had a sour expression, the old codger hadn’t launched into his usual belittling assaults. “Is there something wrong, Mr. Evans?” Sara stepped forward, leaning over him.
“Nothing wrong,” he muttered, cringing. “Go about your business and leave me be.”
He hadn’t move at all. “There is something amiss,” she said. “What is it?”
He licked dry lips. “I don’t like being called Mr. Evans. Not coming from you.”
She stepped back, crossing her arms. “What should I call you?”
Evans scowled. “Call me Daddy, It’s my privilege.”
She studied him. “Oh, that’s right. I forgot. After we freshen the room, would you like to sit by the window…Daddy? Then we’ll get breakfast ready.”
He sighed. “A window seat would be fine.”
Patrick helped him to a rocker. Curious why he remained so reserved, Sara stood by him as he stared outside. Perhaps I was too harsh with him yesterday. She didn’t mean to scare him—at least unduly. But a manageable Cyrus Evans seemed too good to be true.
From his window, Sara glimpsed a deer grazing among the cedars. Bits of red, yellow, and white dotted the scraggly grass. The color reminded her of the wildflowers in the cemetery.
Mr. Evans seemed interested as well. He leaned forward with effort in the rocker, muttering to himself. “Weeds… Nothing but weed wrapped with paper and bows.” He leaned back, the chair swaying as he rubbed his eyes.
“Paper and bows, Mr. Evans?” she asked.
“What?” He peered at her as if coming out of a stupor.
“You mentioned weeds with bows. Do you mean the wildflowers?”
“Flowers?” Mr. Evans’ eyes drifted back to the window. For a few seconds, his gaze intensified as he peered outside. “Dandelions and lilacs strung all over the kitchen. Then, they’d be rolled and tied inside a paper holder with bit of ribbon.” Sara wasn’t sure if he was talking to her or to himself. A moment later he fell back in the rocker, closing his eyelids. His face melted into a deepening frown.
Old memories must be slipping past the veil of his dementia. Was there any way she could help him?
“Are you thinking about May Day baskets?”
Mr. Evans jolted awake. “That’s what they’re called. Do kids still do such nonsense?”
Sara stifled a smile. “Afraid so.”
“Waste of time.” He glowered. “And a mess to clean.”
“Did you get a May Day basket, Mr. Evans?”
He stirred in the chair, shifting his back and shoulders, as if he could not find a comfortable position. “Don’t remember.”
Bea set a bowl of oatmeal on the rolling table by the rocker.
“Would you like to eat breakfast in front of the window?”
The old man bobbed his head.
Sara moved the straight-backed chair next to the rocker. “Patrick will help you move to this chair. We can lower the table so you eat while watching out the table.”
“I can take care of myself,” he grumbled. Mr. Evans leaned forward to stand, but the rocker continued to sway with him in it.
Patrick lifted him to his feet. Sara steadied him. He hobbled to the other chair while Beatrice rolled the table in front of him.
Usually Mr. Evans had a good appetite, but today he continued to watch out the window, leaving his food untouched. Other than the bits of color, there was nothing else interesting outside. The deer wandered away, its tail disappearing behind the cedars.
“You did that.” His voice seemed to come from far away. “You used to bundle those weeds in paper holders and run from house to house.”
Mr. Evans was having a rare moment of soul-searching. Perhaps she could help him in his search for old memories. “I made them in the kitchen?”
“Back door must have been banging all day with you running in and out.” It was hard to tell if he was disgusted or amused. His remarks bordered on the sarcastic. Still, there was a hint of re-discovery in his words. “I threw out all the dead plants, the ribbons, and the rolled papers with the names of neighbors. ’Til I saw mine.”
“So you did get a May Day basket,” she said. “From me.”
For a moment, Mr. Evans raised his head, his eyes alive. Then his chin sagged to his chest.
“To Daddy.” His voice was barely audible.
“What did you do?”
Evans furrowed his brow. “What needed to be done.”
That sounded ominous. But if Mr. Evans did remember, he needed to get the words out. Even if they hurt.
“What had to be done?”
She wasn’t sure if he heard her. Sara motioned for Patrick and Beat to take the carts out of the room. He roused in his chair, fully alert. “What did I do?” He seemed to ask himself. “I came home from the foundry early. Not much work that day. Kitchen table and floor were covered in grass and picked flowers. Then you came running in, squealing with excitement about who you delivered your flowers to. All I wanted was a little quiet.” He paused. “After you were in bed I found mine.”
“How old was I when I made your basket?”
“You were…” Mr. Evans fiddled with his nightshirt. “Eight or nine. So small.”
“You was my father. I loved you.”
“I don’t know what you’re blathering about.” Mr. Evans grabbed a spoon and shoved food into his mouth.
; Ten minutes later, Patrick helped him to bed. Cyrus drew sheets to his neck, Sara tucked him in. Before she left, she had one more all-important question. “What name did you give your little girl?”
The old man gazed at her, his head wavering. “I dunno.”
She held his hand. “I’ll help you.”
Cyrus gazed at her.
“I’m Sara.”
“Sara.” Evans repeated the name. “I’m glad you’re home.”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Gladys Pickering watched Pastor McGurk stuff the day’s donations into his satchel. “Any interesting letters today?” He zipped the bag closed.
For the last five days, it was the same routine. Pastor arrived at four o’clock, looked over the list of donor names, counted the cash—paying little attention to the checks—and asked about notable letters. Gladys had shown him more than a dozen messages, but none suited him. He kept insisting on a “home run” for his network debut.
Today, she might have just the one.
The letter came in the two o’clock delivery. Sylvia discovered it and handed the envelope to Gladys. Above the address, the writer penned Attention: Gladys Pickering. Who would write her a personal letter? Gladys tore it open. The note, however, was for Pastor. That was odd. Why put it to her attention? The penmanship seemed familiar. Insistent thoughts nagged at her to check out a hunch, but she’d have to wait until later.
“We got this note two hours ago.” Gladys offered him the pages, keeping the envelope hidden. “You might find it interesting.”
He sniffed the paper, raising his eyebrows. “It smells like flowers.” Shaking his head, he unfolded the sheets, reading the letter aloud.
“Dear Pastor McGurk,
“I am a resident of Joshua County Farm. Before the misfortune that brought me here, I used to listen to your program. Just hearing your voice gave me comfort and hope. Other residents here have heard you as well. Since we do not have a visiting pastor, your voice and message would be most welcome.
“We work hard earning our keep here. One of my chores is caring for the old and the infirmed. The job requires me to lift and move the patients. It is tiring work, but worthwhile. The people I watch over are happy and comfortable. Since we do not have indoor plumbing, we are constantly hauling in new water by hand and taking out the old. My back aches from all the lifting and carrying. Running water would ease my burden and add to the comfort of our older folks.