by Wes Brummer
“I just wanted to know if he’s safe. Could you sit me up? It’s easier to breathe that way.”
Sara cranked the bed to sitting position. “I have to block the doors. Dust is coming in the hallway.”
The east side patients weren’t in any direct danger, but a child-like woman poked her head out asking questions. When Sara told her about the dust storm, she crossed her arms. “Well, bring out my rocker. I’m not about to miss on any gathering.”
She moved two more beds and another rocker. One man wanted his potty chair carried into the hallway, but Sara refused. “Do your business in your room. Everyone will still be here when you come rejoin us.”
As Sara made her way back to the stairs, she grabbed dusty sheets off beds and stuffed them in the door cracks, working her way back to the stairs. She sighed with relief after wedging a pillowcase under Mr. Evans’ door. She had sealed off the hallway. No more dust came in, and there were no other weaknesses in their makeshift fortress. The patients were safe. But the temperature was dropping.
She rummaged through the big bureau, pulling out clean sheets and quilts. The patients needed warmth. At least she had enough blankets for everyone.
The stairs creaked. Beatrice ascended the stairs. She looked refreshed; face clean, hair combed and a raised area on her left shoulder indicated a bandage. Sara waved her over. “I’m glad you’re here! There’s still plenty to do.”
Bea studied the crowded corridor. Finally, she looked down and moved her toe over the dirty floor.
MR. EVANS??
Sara leaned her head against the bureau. “He died.”
Bea wandered to Cyrus’s room, her hand reaching for the doorknob.
Sara lunged for the door, slapping Bea’s arm away, her voice a low hiss, “Stay out.” Grabbing Beatrice by the hand, she pulled the smaller woman to the dresser and piled her arms with bedding. “We need to replace dirty covers with clean ones.” She slammed the drawer with her hip. A flurry of stabbing needles fell on her side like dumped coals. Sara gritted her teeth, marching toward the beds. “Cover the patients and then check the doors. We need to keep the dust out.” Sara turned and glared at her.
The silent woman stood with downcast eyes.
Sara hurried back. “You don’t have your slate. Where’s it at?”
Bea shrugged. A tear rolled down her cheek.
“Is it lost? Worry about it later. You need to get busy.”
She shook her head and bent to the floor, writing with her finger.
I’M SORRY MR. EVANS DIED
Sara stared at Mr. Evans’ door, wiping silent tears. “I tried to save him. Too late.” She turned back to Beatrice. “Come on. We’ve got work to do.”
They changed covers, cleaned faces, and ripped strips of cloth to use as dust filters. Howling wind lashed the window at the end of the hall. Dust rolled across the attic floor, sounding like a serpent slithering overhead, looking for a way inside. The patients hardly noticed. Conversations buzzed throughout the well-lit passage. Neighbor met neighbor—many for the first time.
“What’s your name again?”
“Why, I’m right next door. Come visit anytime.”
“Cottonwood Falls? I’ve been there. Do you know…”
“We should do this more often.”
Sara found Bea dusting off a fallen pillow. “I’m sorry for snapping at you. I’ve been thinking about Mr. Evans. Remember how I left him next to the open window? What if I had done things differently? What if I never opened the window? Or we came back sooner? He’d still be alive.”
Bea produced a serving tray and a stub of chalk.
WE SURVIVED
“That’s not enough. I should have saved him as well.”
WHAT IF WE DIED?
“I wouldn’t have let it happen.”
WE’D BE LIKE THE FLOWERS COVERED IN DUST
Sara tilted her head. “I don’t understand.”
MR EVANS WAS A FLOWER
What was Bea trying to say?
BEFORE THE STORM—HE BLOOMED
Bea scurried off to help a tottering woman trying to get into bed. Sara gazed in wonder at the baffling young woman.
Patients were calling for something to drink. Bea scribbled on her tray that she would send up water and then dashed downstairs. Before long, pitchers and cups appeared in the dumbwaiter, and Sara moved among the old folks, filling water cups like a maid at a house party. Outside the north window, darkness turned to gloomy gray. None of the elders noticed. The social event of the year was in full swing. No storm was going to dampen that. Sara moved some of the beds together. Those who wanted to chat could do so without yelling.
Bea returned with supper: bread sprinkled with brown sugar. No one complained.
Chatter continued into the late evening. Sara tried to coax the east side patients into going back to their rooms. All refused, preferring to stay the night in the corridor. No one noticed the wind had ceased. At nine o’clock, Bea helped Sara put out most of the lamps, leaving two flickering at each end of the hall. Most of the patients were settling down to sleep. Only two residents, like balky children, persisted in murmured conversation. After lights out, Bea returned downstairs.
At last, Sara was alone. She pulled the pillowcases from beneath Cyrus’s door and entered. Kneeling by his body, Sara took his withered hand. “I guess you know now I’m not your daughter. You insisted, and it was easy to play along. You remembered so much. I saw you for the first time. If only I could have known you a little longer.” She squeezed his limp fingers. “Forgive me.”
Knock, knock.
Sara jumped.
Mrs. Eisner stood in the open doorway holding a lit candle. Bea stood beside her. “Forgiveness generally works best when the other person is still alive.” The matron stepped forward, held out a hand and drew Sara to her feet. “From what Beatrice tells me, Mr. Evans’ death was an accident.”
“Is that supposed to make me feel better?”
The older woman waved her remark away. “You made a difference, though. Despite his nastiness, you worked with him. In six days, you did more to improve his disposition than anyone else had in months. I saw nothing but a bitter old man losing what few memories he had left. Beatrice says you two snapped at each other those first few days.”
“We did.”
“Maybe that’s what it took. I refused to let him bait me. As it is, you gave him back his humanity. That’s a great accomplishment.”
“I failed him.”
“Beatrice said it was his choice to keep the window open. Providence took him. No one, least of all you, should feel responsible.”
The stark outline of Evans’ face flickered in the candlelight. “It doesn’t matter. I can’t do this anymore.”
“Nonsense. Tomorrow is a new day.”
Sara licked dry lips. “Tomorrow, I’m leaving.”
Chapter Forty-Seven
The wind had quit blowing for some time now, and the world was quiet. Jason took a breath. He nudged Michael, and his brother stirred. They survived the storm. Now it was a matter of getting out of the car and surveying their situation. What did their car look like from the world outside? Just another mound of dirt, a little bigger than the rest? He wiped the dust from his eyes. At least it wasn’t completely black outside. No details could be discerned, but a shade of dark gray came through the passenger window.
Light! They could still get out.
“Try your door, Michael,” he said. I can’t budge my, but you might have better luck.”
Michael pulled the handle and shoved. “It won’t move.” A note of fear edged his voice.
“Then roll down your window. We’re getting out.”
“Do you think it’s safe?”
Jason smiled in the murky darkness. “You got a better idea, Houdini?”
“Suppose not.” There was some movement. “Can’t tell how deep the dirt is on this side, but I can climb out the window.”
Jason breathed a sigh of relief. Be
ing buried alive gave him the willies. “Well, get going. I’ll be right behind you.”
A few minutes later, Jason circled the Model A, appraising their task ahead. South of them the world looked black, but to the north and west sky were gloomy, but clear. Along the windward side, of the car, fine granules of dust lay heaped to the windows. Even the hood was covered. But sand only covered half the wheels on the leeward side. Michael, with a torn bit of shirt wrapped around his face, was already scooping dirt by hand away from the rear compartment. Digging tools were in there. Once they got the back end open, they could make better progress. Jason assessed the road from which they came. The storm filled in ruts and holes. That was the good news. The bad news? Road and grassland were a single rippling plain of dust.
“Come on! Help me out!” Michael bent over the rear, throwing dirt with hooked arms. He looked like he’d been mining in a sandbox. Jason went to the front of the car to work. He wasn’t about to have his brother throw an armful of dirt in his face.
The top layer of earth was the finest dust he’d ever seen. Just moving it filled the air with minute particles, making it hard to breathe even through his makeshift dust filter. Unless scraped carefully away, the powdery grit sifted through his fingers and rolled back in place like a thick liquid. Swiping with his forearm worked much better.
The brothers labored at opposite ends of the car making slow progress. Around them, the world grew, if not brighter, at least less shadowy. Michael popped the rear door. Jason peeked at his watch. Seven o’clock. “Here’s the shovel,” Michael called. “And look! Something for you.” Michael tossed a hoe in Jason’s direction. Pop always carried tools in case the car became stuck on bad roads. Today those tools would be lifesavers.
Jason grabbed the tool. “Thanks. We might get ourselves out if this yet.”
Michael scooped dirt from the rear bumper, while Jason cleared the hood and grill. As work progressed, each made their way to the driver’s side; Jason scraped around the front tires while Michael shoveled out the back. Their unspoken goal was to meet in the middle. Moving the earth was tedious and grueling. Jason’s shoulders already ached. This was thirsty work, and they had no water. It had to wait. Digging out came first.
After an hour, the scarred, dust-blasted side of the Model A came in view. Jason tapped Michael’s shoulder and pointed. “The old man will have a conniption when he sees what the storm did to his car. I can hear him already, bellowing about getting it repainted.”
Michael drew his cap across his forehead. “Pop’s all wind. He’ll fume and growl, but a couple of hours later, he’ll give us something to do like nothing ever happened. I never listen to him. You shouldn’t either.”
“It must be nice to have it all figured out.”
Michael laughed. “Well, I didn’t figure on getting waylaid by a storm and stuck in the country.” He turned to look to the road ahead. “That reminds me, shouldn’t we try to find Larry? He might still be alive.”
Jason pointed to a patch of hazy red above the horizon. “We have maybe two hours of daylight left, and we’re nowhere near finished digging out. Do you want to be here after dark?”
“I’d rather be at home with a Nehi.”
“I’ll buy you a carton of Nehi if we get out of here before dark.”
“You’re on.”
They dug with renewed effort.
With dusk closing in, Michael cleared the rear wheels. Jason scratched a path for the front tires. “Check the tail pipe. Make sure it’s clear. A plugged exhaust would not be good.”
“Yes, boss!” Michael called back.
They were free. With tools stowed away, both jumped in the front seat. Now, the decisive moment. A clogged engine meant further delay. Jason hesitated, and then turned the ignition.
For several anxious moments, the Model A coughed and sputtered—then backfired with a resounding bang! The old car was cranky but awake.
Jason turned the vehicle around and retraced their route to the main road by dead reckoning. “Let’s hope there won’t be piles of dirt on the roads. I don’t want to dig our way home.”
“What time is it?” Dusk was turning into starless night.
Jason retrieved his pocket watch, but couldn’t read it. “Too dark. Sometime after eight.”
Michael stared out the window. “This whole day has been a wild goose chase.”
“Not completely. We know Sara is alive somewhere in Joshua County. That’s something.”
“And Larry Bigger is probably dead. Who should we tell? What do we say? The police could decide we had a hand in his death.”
Jason drove around a mound of dirt. “He killed himself. And we would have died trying to look for him. We lived. That’s all that matters.”
The drive seemed eerie. The countryside around them was devoid of light. Hours later, they entered Newton. The town seemed abandoned. All of the streetlights were dark and the houses seemed to be without power. No businesses were open. Too bad, they would have gotten something to drink. Only one other car moved about as they passed through the deserted streets.
Some ten hours after they left, the highway turned into Broadway Avenue at the edge of Wichita. They entered a darkened city with only a few sections lit with streetlights. Few vehicles moved about. Parked cars had drifts of dust well above the tires. At a quarter past eleven, Jason pulled into their parents’ driveway. The neighborhood was dark, but a light moved near their house. Their mother held a lantern. She set down the lamp and rushed to the car as it came to a halt.
Jason turned off the engine. Michael pulled himself out of the car and trudged to meet her, falling into her arms when they met. Jason eased himself onto wobbly legs. Arms and back ached with each movement. When he reached the two of them, his legs nearly collapsed. The three embraced, Katherine weeping on Jason’s shoulder.
“We were so worried about you!” She thumped Jason on the shoulder. “Thank God, you’re both okay!” Tears streamed down her cheeks. “Telephone lines are down, and the power is out. All we could do was pray that you’d be safe.”
“We’re fine, Mom.” Michael put on a brave face, but his eyes betrayed his weariness. “We had a line on Sara, but the storm caught up with us. We had to wait for the wind to pass before we could dig the car out.”
“I’m not happy with you boys. You left without a word where you were going.” Katherine paused, then added, “Your father is in the kitchen. He’s been drinking. Jason, don’t provoke.” Katherine wiped her eyes with her apron. “Despite appearances, he worried about you boys.”
“More likely he’s worried about the car.” Jason left his mother and Michael to enter the back door, his thoughts centered around a tall glass of water. Inside the kitchen, he headed for the cupboard. Pop could say anything he wanted. But first, the water.
He sat at the kitchen table with a single flickering candle in the center. A square bottle lay on its side. He remained seated as Jason plodded in. “Take those filthy shoes off,” McGurk said in a heavy, carefully enunciated voice. “And I want those car keys.”
Jason pulled the keys from his pocket. “I can explain.”
“Not interested.”
Jason tossed the keys toward the table. Incredibly, his father snatched them in mid-air. He heaved himself to his feet. Without another word, he took the candle, and lurched to his bedroom, one hand leaning against the wall. A moment later, the door slammed shut.
Jason clutched a glass and filled it from the sink, drinking it. He couldn’t think of a time when something as simple as water tasted so good. He refilled his glass and gulped it down as well. Only then did he allow weariness to overtake him. He slumped in a chair and rested his head on the table. They came so close.
Now, they had no car.
And no way to find Sara.
Chapter Forty-Eight
Monday, April 15, 1935
Sara awoke from a restless sleep in Mr. Evans’ rocker outside the door to his room. The rest of the infirmary residents stil
l lay sleeping in beds scattered throughout the corridor. Morning light peeked around the blanket covering the window by the big bureau. It must be past six o’clock, and Mrs. Eisner had not rung her wake-up bell. There was a serene quiet in the hallway. One that could go on indefinitely. Sara had no such luxury.
Stifling a sneeze, she straightened from the chair, stretching overworked muscles. Her neck and shoulder ached, and it wasn’t from sleeping in an odd position. Bright red marks ran across her shins from where she barked them on the outside steps yesterday. Even her knees hurt from kneeling on the hardwood planks and stuffing sheets under the doors. What she’d give for a long soaking bath. Shaking off the fantasy, she padded downstairs to her room.
First thing was to clean herself. She prepared a basin of soapy water, removed her filthy clothing, washed, brushed her hair, and slipped into a clean dress. At least look presentable enough to travel. From here, she’d go to Hutchinson and live with her aunt and uncle. Once the child was born, she would give it up for adoption. Maybe then, the remorseful daughter could return home.
A light knock on the door jerked her away from her thoughts.
“Come in.”
Miss Eisner’s voice called through the door. “Breakfast in twenty minutes.”
“Thank you. I’ll be there.”
No annoying bell. The storm had even changed Mrs. Eisner’s steadfast routine.
Saying goodbye to Patrick and Bea would be hard. They were good friends. Leaving them felt like desertion. Abandoning Mrs. Hiebert in her final days was especially hard. What else could she do? This was her day of reckoning.
Sara left her room and knocked on Bea’s door. No answer. Bea liked her coffee. She was probably already at breakfast.
Only three residents sat in the dining room: Patrick, alone at one table, Mrs. Robson and Miss Underwood at the other. Streaks of dirt covered the chairs, walls, and floor.
No Bea. She could be upstairs asleep.
Sara found a sheet of newspaper, draped it over her seat, and sat down, Wheatley rolled his cart to the table and served what looked like porridge, passing a tin to her and Patrick. She scrutinized the mixture.