Dust and Roses

by Wes Brummer

  “Impossible,” McGurk scoffed.

  “It works like any radio drama. A telegraph operator climbs a pole and sends in the play-by-play to the station. A writer composes a script based on the game’s progress. About four innings into the game, while the scripter is still hammering out the action, a couple of announcers and a soundman will simulate the game, following the script. The listeners hear a realistic sounding ballgame complete with commentary, mitts slapping, the bats, crowd noise, and umpire calls.”

  Jeremy clapped his hands. “That’s it! Pastor can do his presentation at the county farm, but we bring everyone involved to Wichita and re-enact the program in the studio on the day of the premiere.”

  McGurk shot to his feet. “I won’t allow my radio event to be cheapened by studio tricks. My broadcast will be done live at the poor farm. If money is an issue, I’m willing to pay the cost of running the telephone line there. This is my show, and I want it my way.”

  Tabor turned to his wife. “Do you see a way for this to work?”

  Meredith laid her pencil down after totaling a neat row of figures. Her moniker fit her well. The Snow Queen expected results without ever raising her voice. Was she pushy? Always. Intimidating? Like a hawk. But never brutal. Meredith wasted little time on fabricating punishment or inspiration. She demanded excellence and paid well when her staff delivered.

  “Gentlemen.” Her smooth, clipped voice commanded attention. “Pastor wishes to devote his program to donating a radio to a workhouse that is about to fold. A pointless gift when you think about it. Pastor neglected to mention that the writer and other dwellers will soon have to leave. Keep in mind, this is more than a workhouse for penniless fieldworkers. It’s a resting place for the old.” Her eyes turned back to McGurk. “Perhaps you should give each inmate a share of the money you were so willing to spend on wire—as a going-away present. It would save us all a lot of bother.” Meredith took up her pencil again.

  McGurk jumped to his feet, his chair falling over backward. “Those remarks are insulting! The future of that house is not the subject of my broadcast. This is my show. I decide the content. Alliance chose it over two other programs, one of which you produced—”

  Meredith’s pencil snapped, sending bits of wood skittering across the tabletop. McGurk jumped when a piece of lead struck the wall by his head.

  “Be seated, sir.” Meredith’s tone remained cool. She set the shards of her pencil aside and reached for a new one. “Some enlightenment is in order. You signed a contract with this station. That means you work for us. As long as you continue to make this station money, we will entertain your employment. This fits with your gospel, I believe.”

  McGurk’s red face stared back without expression.

  Meredith smiled benignly. “While we are on the subject of ownership, we’re modifying the name of your program. The sponsor wants name recognition, so on May twelfth we are renaming the program Carey Salt Presents Heaven and Earth.”

  McGurk’s eyes flashed. “Do I have a say in this?”

  “Only if you wish to pay for your own sponsorship.”

  Jeremy bit off a chuckle. The Snow Queen seemed to take pleasure in toying with the preacher.

  Pastor shook his head, loosening his tie.

  She turned to address the group. “On the face of it, the pastor’s notion of a remote at a doomed workhouse is a ridiculous idea, but remotes are the future of radio. Broadcasting from large hotel ballrooms in New York and music halls in Nashville have become popular. Audiences are demanding more. As broadcasters, we cannot stay hidden in our studios indefinitely, and so we must venture out to become listeners as well. Our opportunity now is to relay the story of the workhouse lodgers along with the larger story of its closing. The real story is how losing their home will affect the lives of the infirmed and those caring for them.”

  Jeremy cringed. A series of remotes? This project was bigger than what their station could handle. “Are we producing these shows within our studio?”

  Meredith nodded. “Rest assured, Mr. Gorham. Further broadcasts will originate from the studio here. I don’t imagine the workhouse overseer will want us taking up residence there. Shows about their own community get listeners involved. How does the Depression affect the people here? How will it affect the area? Has the role of these home changed over time? If so, what will the future hold? Learning these answers will lead us to discovering ourselves.”

  “I’m not interested in the future.” McGurk flicked his hand like batting away an irritating fly. “And I’ll have no part in this grandiose scheme of glorifying the destitute.”

  Meredith Tabor turned her chilling gaze upon Samuel McGurk. “Oh, Pastor, you misunderstand.” Her smile showed perfect teeth. “It will be your job to sustain the audience from the start. You will show the plight of the dwellers and be a part of the narrative.”

  “I agreed to the offering a radio. And to pay for the telephone line. You’re demanding that I involve myself in their affairs?”

  “Of course, the cost of the network line is the least of your duties. Do what you do best. Sell yourself. Fail—and you can retire to your pulpit.”

  McGurk hunched forward, gasping like he’d just run up three flights of stairs. He mopped his sweaty brow with a handkerchief and gulped down the glass of water before him. With some muttering, he regained some measure of composure. Jeremy slid his untouched glass to the pastor. Was he counting backward?

  Meredith turned her gaze to Jeremy. “We’ll need to gain permission from the authorities to use this site. You will go to Joshua and see the county official in charge of the workhouse. Get his permission to proceed with the broadcast and inspect the site. Decide if it meets your requirements. And locate a choir if you can. I’m leaving the engineering details up to you as well. Much of this is on your shoulders. I’m expecting miracles, Mr. Gorham.” She gave him one of her rare genuine smiles.

  “Yes, ma’am.” There it was. They were going through with the pastor’s crazy scheme. Only now, it was the Snow Queen’s crazy scheme. And he was tasked with making it happen.

  Meredith turned to McGurk. “Pastor, I want an hour-long script of your premiere. Assume there will be no music. We can always edit down later. Give me your best draft in ten days.”

  Pastor McGurk lowered his eyes. “Yes, madam.”

  “Splendid. If everything looks promising, then it’s a small matter of hiring a crew of linemen to run the telephone wire. Our premiere is in a month so speed is essential. Mr. Lam, you have your contracts. Let’s make history, people. You’re all dismissed.”

  As Jeremy Gorham left the conference room, he wondered if the history they were about to make would be a grand victory. Or a disaster because they overextended themselves.

  Chapter Forty

  Sunday, April 14, 1935

  Jason McGurk scanned the neighborhood from the porch as Michael read from his Black Mask pulp. It was twelve twenty-five. The cabbie, if he were coming, should be along soon. It all came down to waiting for an address, the last known place where Sara went. They’d been seeking this answer for a week.

  Kids squealed playing tag across the street. In the branches of a neighboring elm, squirrels quarreled over shared territory. To the east, a man in a straw hat mowed his grass. Jason watched as he leaned into the handle, pushing the two big wheels with its whirling blades. Why bother? There’d been little rain. It seemed like a waste of time.

  “Cab’s coming.” Michael pointed to the west. The approaching taxi tooted as it chattered to a halt in front of the house.

  Jason followed his younger brother running to the car. He agreed that Michael should do the talking. This was his idea, and the driver trusted him.

  Michael peeked into the passenger side window. “Have you got an address for us?”

  Harlan handed him a slip of paper. “I was lucky to catch him starting his shift.”

  “Thanks.” Michael waved as the cabbie pulled away. Jason glanced over his shoulder. He unfo
lded the paper.

  “1217 River Boulevard.” Michael refolded the slip. “We can walk there in thirty minutes.”

  “Forget that.” Jason jangled a set of car keys. “We’re taking the Model A. Dad’s still at the radio station. It’s a good time to go.”

  Michael crooked his thumb to the house. “Shouldn’t we tell Mom?”

  And tell us to sit by while the cops question Larry? “Would you tell her?”

  Michael sighed. “No.”

  “That’s what I thought. Let’s go.”

  A few minutes later, Jason steered the Model A south along the winding street bordering the river. Five years of drought had not been kind to the Little Arkansas. The river used to be nearly sixty feet wide. Now, it was little more than a creek, crisscrossed with sandbars and grass. Houses on the west side of the street faced the forlorn river.

  Jason rubbed a well-scratched spot of dry skin on his arm. He’d never started a fight before, but Larry would talk—one way or another. He parked the car two houses north. Larry’s residence was not visible because of the curved street.

  He killed the engine. “Stay here.”

  “What’re you doing?”

  “I’m ending this. If anyone gets in trouble, it’ll be me.” Jason got out of the car.

  Michael jumped from the vehicle, slamming the door. “Nuts. I’m coming too.”

  Jason held up an arm. “We’re done playing detective. Stay put. I mean it.” With that, he set off for the house.

  The Roadster sat in the driveway. Jason entered through the gate and up to the front door. A radio played inside. Several chairs sat together on the covered porch and a bench swing hung from hooks screwed into the ceiling. Jason rapped hard on the doorframe. Behind him, a board creaked. He turned around.

  Michael leaned on the porch rail, crossing his arms. “You know, there’s another way to get our bird to sing. You act the part of the angry brother, and I’ll be the nice brother. That way, you won’t have to go to jail for fighting.” He shrugged. “That’s assuming you win.”

  Jason furrowed his brow. Wise guy. What kind of pretend game was Michael talking about? “Okay, Sam Spade. How’s it work?”

  “Just threaten him. I’ll take it from there. The two of us will play him like a piano.”

  The door opened. Larry stood, eyes not quite focused. “You guys again? Get off my porch.”

  Jason stepped forward, blocking the front door from closing. “Not a chance. There’s blood in the front seat of your car. Sara’s blood. You tried to clean it off, but it’s still there.” Jason pointed at Larry’s bandage. “Yours too, I’ll wager.”

  Larry touched his cheek. “How… What do you want?”

  Michael drew up beside Jason. “We want Sara. Our parents have issued a reward. It should be in this evening’s newspaper. As I see it, we can either tell the cops about the blood. Or…you can be the hero. Bring our sister back, and collect the reward.”

  Jason blinked. What was Michael talking about? Then it dawned. Play him like a piano. And he was the angry brother. Not exactly a stretch. He balled his hand into a fist. “The reward is good only if she’s alive. If something happened to her, you’d be the one paying.”

  Larry focused on Michael. “How much?”

  Michael spread out the fingers of one hand. “Five grand—cash money. That’ll get you a nicer car. A new car beats getting grilled by the cops.”

  Larry’s eyes sharpened, shifting between the boys.

  Jason turned to Michael. Time to set the hook deeper. “He doesn’t deserve the money. Send him to prison. He won’t last long in the Big House.”

  Michael grabbed Jason’s arm. “No. Give him a chance. Larry can help.” Jason struggled to keep a straight face. And he thought Jackie Cooper was a ham.

  “No cops. I want the money,” said Larry.

  Jason glanced at Michael, tapping his chest. My turn. Michael shrugged. Jason pointed at Larry. “You’ve got the rest of the day. Bring Sara back home safe and sound. Or else.”

  “Have the money ready.” Larry pushed Jason back and slammed the door.

  Jason passed a shaking hand across his forehead. Michael’s plan worked. He turned and trudged out of the yard. His knees wobbled, and he head reeled from the adrenaline.

  Michael loped ahead, clapping and rubbing his hands. “We got ’im! Did you see the look on his face? He believed every word we said!”

  Jason grabbed his brother by the collar. “What got into you? There’s no reward. That’s crazy! He thinks we’ll pay for Sara.”

  “That’s the point!” Michael broke away and danced around Jason as he lumbered back to the car. “Who cares about the reward? All that matters is Larry bringing Sara back. We can watch the house and see if he makes a move.”

  As they reached the car, Jason pulled out the keys. “He confessed to taking Sara. We got the goods on him. Maybe we should go to the police.” Jason started the engine. “This business of flushing him out seems like―”

  “Save it!” Michael pointed. “Look!”

  Around the curve, the silver Roadster was just visible backing onto the street. It turned north, coming their way.

  “Duck!” Michael yelled. “He’ll see us!”

  Jason bent, knocking heads with his brother while diving below the dashboard. He rubbed his forehead as the rattle of the Chevy engine passed, dwindling to the north.

  Jason sat up, engaged the car, drove to the nearest driveway, and turned around. Their canary was loose. Now, they had no choice but to follow. Where would their songbird fly?

  Chapter Forty-One

  Sara and her crew went about serving Sunday dinner to Mr. Evans. Like yesterday, he didn’t taunt or bicker, but hummed an out-of-tune song. After eating, he allowed Patrick to help him. to the rocker by the window. He settled in with a sigh. Then, he took up the off-kilter song once again. He gestured to the window. “Can you get some fresh air in here?”

  What was the name of that tune? She’d heard it before.

  Patrick lifted the window, but it kept falling down. “Miss Sara? It won’t stay open.”

  She stepped to the window, pushing the sash to its fullest extent. It slipped a couple of inches, then held.

  Cyrus inclined his head. “Thank you.” When was the last time he said that?

  Sara turned. “Why, you’re welcome!”

  Mr. Evans gazed out the window, taking deep breaths. “Nothing but blue skies.”

  Blue Skies. That’s what he was humming.

  “I remember more about the May baskets you made.”

  She bent forward. “Tell me.”

  “You made a little tag that said ‘To Daddy.’ Only the D faced backward. For years after you left, I thought about that tag.”

  “Bea and I are going to the cemetery to gather flowers. Would you like us to bring back a nice bouquet for you?”

  Cyrus nodded, closing his eyes. “But it needs the tag.”

  Sara’s voice held her smile. “One flower basket with a badly printed tag, coming up.”

  HIs chair creaked as he leaned back. “I recall growing up, near a train stop called Watch Horn. Our farm had a quarter horse named Babe. I took her riding each week. One day, a cougar shadowed us. Its screams kept getting closer and closer. The thing sounded like a woman, but its screams would curdle your blood. Babe spooked and bolted for home. I lay flat on her back, my fingers wrapped around her neck. That cougar kept pace with us, screaming the whole time. I knew if I fell, I was done.”

  “What happened?” She imagined a small boy clinging to terrified horse. A mountain lion urging the horse to rear up.

  “Babe got back to the house, practically climbing on the porch. By the time Pa got his shotgun, that cougar left, its screams faded with the wind.”

  “Thank you for telling me that story.”

  Mr. Evans shrugged. “Just something I remembered.” His smile faded.

  “Sara.” He cleared his throat. “I’ve done a few things wrong in my youn
ger days.” His voice took on a gravely tone. “Things I’m not proud of. If I’d made a few middling changes, life would have been different. I might have kept my wife. And you.”

  He’s apologizing. Sara bowed her head. “That was a long time ago. You were a different man then.”

  The old man looked beyond her to the window. She tried to meet his eyes. But he averted her eyes. “T’ain’t no excuse. I know what I did. I’m not proud of it. Seems like once a body goes far enough down a certain road, it’s easier to keep on going. Not so easy to turn around. I could’ve done different. Changed my ways. I didn’t. Now, I’m not making sorry. That won’t change what happened between your ma and me. All I can do is make good with you.”

  A small moan escaped her lips. If only her own father could say those words to her. Ask her forgiveness or merely offer a word of love. Daddy had his flaws—pride and vanity. His own self-blindness could well wreck his family as Cyrus destroyed his. But Cyrus atoned, though it was way too late.

  But even for Mr. Evans, it was redemption. He had just apologized to the image of his grown daughter.

  She held his hand. “If Ma was here. I’m sure she’d forgive you.”

  “I don’t see why. She’d dune right to walk out. It took brass to do that. I could have gone after her. Guess I was too proud. Never really appreciated her ’til I grew old alone.”

  “You’re not alone now. I’m here.”

  Cyrus smiled.

  The three finished with their chores. Sara pulled back the bed covers. “Would you like to lay down?”

  Cyrus shook his head. “I’d rather look out and see the sky.”

  Sara took the blanket off his bed and tucked the edges around him in the rocker. “That should keep you comfortable.” She moved the table closer and set his water cup on it. “We’ll be back at suppertime with your May basket.”

  “Remember the tag.”

  She kissed his forehead. “Of course. I’m glad we can be friends.”

  “See you.”

  “Goodbye, Daddy.”

  Mr. Evans rocked in his chair humming off-notes as he looked out the window.