by Wes Brummer
Part III: Convergence
“It is to the telephone, not to radio, that we owe the development of the equipment whereby speech and music are made available for broadcasting. More than this, it is the telephone wire, not radio, which carries programs the length and breadth of the country. John Smith, in San Francisco, listens on a Sunday afternoon to the New York Philharmonic Orchestra playing in Carnegie Hall. For 3200 miles, the telephone wire carries the program so faithfully that scarcely an overtone is lost; for perhaps fifteen miles, it travels by radio to enter John Smith’s house. And then he wonders at the marvels of radio!”
~R. T. Barnet, “Network Broadcast Historical Summary,” Bell Telephone Quarterly, April 1934
“There’s no better cure for the fear of taking after one’s father, than not to know who he is.”
~Andre Gide, The Counterfeiters (1925)
“Acceptance of what has happened is the first step to overcoming the consequences of misfortune.”
~William James
Chapter Fifty-One
Tuesday, April 16, 1935
Jason studied a roadmap of Kansas on the kitchen table while Michael read a letter from the Radio Club of America, inviting him to join their association. Katherine set iced tea and baloney sandwiches before them.
For the last two days, the boys had helped the neighborhood clean up after Sunday’s big dust storm. Since early Monday, the entire city had jumped into action. Neighborhoods organized to clear the streets and yards full of drifted dirt. In every home, women swept floors, beat rugs, and scrubbed houses. Men carted wheelbarrows full of drifted dirt to waiting pickups, which hauled it to locations east of town. Sparse patches of grass still grew on the south side of buildings. Dirt covered everywhere else.
The radio called the storm “Black Sunday.” A newspaper man from Oklahoma even coined a name for the South Plaines. He called it the “Dust Bowl.”
Jason drank his second glass of tea as he studied the map. “I found the road we took when we lost sight of Larry. Based on that, I’d say Sara should be…here.” He drew an oval covering the eastern half of Joshua County, including the county seat. He pushed the map over to Michael. “What I don’t understand is why he didn’t continue north and take the highway east into Joshua. Driving would have been much smoother.”
“Maybe Larry took the first turn-off to see if we were following him.”
“It’s possible.” Jason pinched his chin. “But I’m guessing he was driving to a specific place.” He tapped the map with his pencil. “We should talk to his parents. They may know where this place is.”
Michael was incredulous. “Are you serious? You saw Larry wreck his car. You said yourself he could be dead. If his parents find out we were there, they could blame us for causing his accident.”
Katherine rinsed and wiped a stack of plates clean. “If I were Larry’s parents, I would want to know what really happened.”
Jason rose from the table. “That’s it then. I’m going.”
“Hey! Wait up!” Michael grabbed his cap, hustling to follow his brother out the front door.
Banned by their father from using the car, Jason and Michael had no choice but walk along Parker Street to the house on River Boulevard. There was little traffic on the streets as they kicked dirt with each step. The sun was a burnished red in the sky, a sign that the atmosphere still held a large amount of dust. Jason rubbed a patch on his arm. The dry air could drive a person crazy with scratching.
When they came to the street bordering the Little Arkansas, they turned south. Incredibly, the big storm hadn’t buried the river. The water still ran in sluggish, muddy rivulets. Around a small bend in the street, they came to the two-story home where they had confronted Larry just two days earlier. There was no Roadster, but several cars sat in the driveway and along the front of the house. Jason led the way through the wooden gate and onto the front porch. He knocked on the door.
A young man, about Michael’s age, wearing church clothes and slicked-back hair answered the door. “Can I help you?” he asked.
Jason stepped back. “We’d like to speak with Mr. Bigger. Is he home?”
“Uncle Jerry is busy. Are you relatives or friends of the family?”
“We know Larry.” Jason glanced inside the front door. Large arrangements of flowers filled the living room. A group of well-dressed people stood in small circles talking in hushed tones.
“Everyone here is family. What are your names? I can tell my uncle who you are.”
As Jason and Michael introduced themselves, an older man in a dark gray suit came to the door. It was the floor man from the mercantile. “I’ll take care of this, Gordon. Get yourself something to eat.” Mr. Bigger stepped onto the front porch, closing the door behind him. “I know you, boys. You were at the store last week. Sara’s brothers, I believe.”
“Yes, sir. I’m Jason. This is Michael.”
“We always enjoyed Sara’s company when she came home with Larry, and I know she meant a lot to our son.”
Jason and Michael exchanged glances. “Mr. Bigger, I have to ask. Where is Larry?”
Gerald Bigger took a step sideways as if the world had just shifted beneath him. “You mean you don’t know?” The store manager wiped his brows. “Of course, you wouldn’t. The sheriff from Joshua County called yesterday and broke the news. My son died in a car accident. We have no other details. Could you boys bring Sara by later? I’d like to give her the news myself.”
Michael met Jason’s eye, mouthing the words Play dumb. Jason wet his lips. This wasn’t going to be easy. “We can’t, Mr. Bigger. Our sister is missing.”
“Dear Lord.” Bigger sank down on one of the porch chairs, one hand covering his forehead.
Jason sat down beside him. “We’ve been searching for her over a week now. A few clues have turned up.” Michael shook his head no, but Jason waved him off. “Some of it is disturbing. We think she’s somewhere in Joshua County close to where Larry had his accident.”
Michael slapped his forehead.
Gerald Bigger lifted his head. “I didn’t tell you where Larry died. You couldn’t have known that…unless…” The storekeeper focused on Jason. “I think you’d better tell me everything you know. And spare no details.”
Jason, with reluctant assistance from Michael, went over the events of the last ten days avoiding details about Larry’s behavior. Mr. Bigger bowed his head when Jason told about Larry’s vehicle during the last moments before the dust storm hit. After the boys finished, he removed a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his eyes. “That answers a lot of questions: Larry arriving home late that Sunday night, the gash on his cheek, and his pre-occupied state. We—my wife and I—thought the demands of the job were too much for him. I may have mentioned Sara’s name as a way to urge him to work harder, but I can’t imagine him holding a grudge against your sister.”
“Do you have any idea where he might have taken her?” Jason asked.
Bigger shook his head. “I knew he drove his car for hours at a time. But he never told us where he went. Larry was always secretive about his life outside of work.”
Michael tapped his chin. “Larry may not have talked to you, but he must have had other friends.”
Mr. Bigger looked down at his clenched hands. “I wish he did. Larry was pretty much a loner.”
“We’re sorry about not being able to save Larry,” Jason said. “After the storm hit, the world turned pitch black. Even if we found the Roadster, getting back to our car would have been impossible. Our headlights wouldn’t come on. Nothing worked until the storm passed.”
The store manager glanced from Michael to Jason. “There is something I don’t understand. Don’t take this the wrong way, but I need to know. Why did you two live and Larry die?”
“I guess we were lucky.” Jason clasped his hands together. The question seemed unfair, but Larry’s father was trying to understand. “I stopped the car because cattle wandered onto the road. Larry somehow shot
his way through. When I tried to restart, nothing worked. The air tingled with electricity. Larry may have had the same trouble with getting shocked. And he was moving fast.”
Gerald nodded. “Larry always did like the thrill of speed.”
The nephew Gordon stuck his head out the front door. “Uncle Jerry, the funeral home wants to talk to you.”
“I’ll be there in a minute.”
Gordon ducked back inside. Bigger turned to the boys. “I wish I could help you find Sara. Right now, Lois and I need to grieve for our son. It’s possible Sara may come back on her own. She’s a resourceful woman.”
“Yes, sir.” Jason averted his eyes to hide his disappointment.
“I’d better answer my call.” Bigger rose to his feet.
Jason and Michael got up as well. Jason balled his hands. The storekeeper turned to reenter the house. Mr. Bigger had a car and could help them continue the search in Joshua. What could he say that would cut through this man’s grief and get his attention? His chance was slipping away.
“Sir.” Jason’s voice was urgent. “There’s one more thing you should know.”
Bigger didn’t bother to turn. “I have to go.”
“Sara is having Larry’s child. You’re about to become a grandfather.”
Chapter Fifty-Two
Sara and Bea were in Mrs. Hiebert’s room after dinner rounds, giving it a thorough cleaning. Maxine, as well as the rest of the west side residents, were rooming with residents on the east side. Now, Sara and Bea could sweep, scrub, and mop each of the empty bedrooms without disturbing anyone. Downstairs, Patrick and the other men were washing sheets and blankets while the women residents cleaned the main floor. Three women from the Mennonite Church also volunteered to help. The trio brought laundry baskets, extra clothespins, cleaning supplies, and food for an evening feast.
Bea wandered to the open window, tilting her head. “They’re beautiful.” She stood mesmerized by the small group of women singing outside.
Sara joined her. “They harmonize well together.”
Between the house and a row of cedar trees, three women with baskets hung blankets on the clothesline while taking off sheets and pillowcases. They wore full-length aprons and bandanas over their hair. A stout woman wearing a red-striped apron, led the other two in a chorus of “Praise Him! Praise Him!” Stooping to pick up the baskets, they strolled back to the house, never breaking a note.
“I wish I could sing like that,” Bea said.
Sara grinned. The gift of speech had awakened a curiosity within the young woman. “You could ask to join their choir.”
“Oh, no!” Bea backed away from the window. “I could never do that. I don’t even know the words to the songs.”
“You can always learn.” The small choir stirred Sara’s memories of growing up. Choir practice was an essential part of church life for a pastor’s daughter. Fifteen years old and she stood out as the youngest member of the adult choir. All the other members praised her for her beautiful gift of singing to the Lord. That was partly true, but she really sang to Daddy. If only he noticed her, or mentioned how proud he was of her. But he never did.
Perhaps because he sought to be noticed as well.
“Sara…Sara!” Bea shook her arm.
“What?”
“I called your name three times. What are you thinking about?” Beatrice peered at her with concern.
“Home, mostly.” Sara passed a hand over her eyes. “It’s not important.”
“Yes, it is. Tell me.” Beatrice gripped her arm. “I want to hear it.”
Sara bit her lip. “The music reminded me of when I was younger, being in a church choir and feeling all grown up. Bittersweet memories, I suppose. It was a long time ago. You should ask those ladies about joining their group.”
“We both can ask. Wouldn’t it be grand to sing together?”
Sara slowly shook her head. “I can’t. Those times were enjoyable, but I don’t care to sing anymore. I wanted to please my father, but he had his own calling to think about. His pursuit of a new career led to a dispute between me and the rest of the choir. Since then, I’ve never gone back to church because of what those hypocrites said about Daddy.”
“What does your father do?”
Sara picked up the broom, sweeping dirt from a corner. “He’s a pastor with his own local radio show. In three weeks, his program will broadcast over much of the country.”
“Is there some trouble between you and your father?”
“You can say that. When Daddy learned I was with child, he demanded I leave his house. I’ve defended him and worked for him, but now I’m not sure if I’ll ever see my family again.
Bea placed her hands in her apron pocket. “Still, at least you had a home. How many brothers do you have?”
Sara stopped sweeping and leaned on her broom. “I have two. Jason is twenty, and Michael will be nineteen in July.” Sara tilted her head. “Why do you ask?”
“I found a letter in my drawer this morning. It has my name on it, but I think it belongs to you.” Bea withdrew an envelope.
Sara grabbed the letter from Bea’s outstretched hand. Inside was a sheet of paper in Gladys’s distinctive combination of print and cursive penmanship.
The note was short, friendly—and devastating.
“Dear Beatrice,
We got your note and hope you are well. I recognized your handwriting. You didn’t ask for a reply, but we feel you need to know that your letter created quite a stir. Pastor plans to use it for his debut program on the Alliance network. The radio station is seeking permission to broadcast from Joshua County farm. There, Pastor will interview “Beatrice” during the program.
Also, your brothers came to the Mailroom asking questions. So far, we’ve remained quiet. Please write and tell us what to do. Keeping this kind of secret is driving all of us batty.
Take care of yourself. Write soon.
Gladys, Sylvia, and Marilyn
P.S. If there are any supplies you need, please let us know. We can make up a parcel and send it up there.
P.P.S. Using a poor farm as a hideaway is a clever idea. Well done!”
Sara’s hands trembled as she refolded the letter. “I can’t believe it. He sends me away from home. And now, he’s coming here.”
“What does it mean?”
Sara bit her lip for a moment. “Another storm is coming.”
Chapter Fifty-Three
Jeremy Gorham parked his four-year-old Plymouth in front of the Joshua County Courthouse, a three-story limestone structure that sat on one corner of a town square. The other three structures in the quadrangle were the police station, city hall and post office. He grabbed his clipboard and entered the main doors. A directory in the lobby guided the engineer to the third floor. Mrs. Tabor said he was expected. Gorham climbed the wide circular stairs to the top floor where he found a small office marked W. KRAUSE, Commissioner. Inside the open doorway, a medium built man in a wrinkled brown suit and loosened tie punching keys on a large adding machine. Jeremy knocked.
Krause glanced up and waved him to a wooden chair and continued tallying figures from a pile of receipts. Krause made quick work of pecking keys and pulling the ratcheted crank, tearing off a long ribbon of paper and writing the total in a thick ledger. “Sorry for the wait,” he said, getting to his feet. “It was easier to finish adding figures now, rather than come back to it later.” He stretched a hand. “I’m Wendell Krause. How can I help you?”
“Jeremy Gorham from KSKM Radio. I’m here to ask about the workhouse.”
“A Mrs. William Tabor called earlier today and asked if I was interested in keeping the workhouse going. Before I could answer, she said an engineer would arrive this afternoon to give me details and examine the location firsthand to see if a radio broadcast from there is possible. Then, she hung up—too quick for me to ask questions. I take it you’re the engineer.”
Jeremy nodded, smiling. “That’s our Meredith. I work with her. She
’s a hard person to say no to.”
“We’ll see. What exactly do you wish to do?”
“Our station carries a Sunday morning program called Heaven and Earth. It’s a commentary on politics and society. Very popular with the listeners and generates lots of fan mail. The show’s host received a letter from an occupant at the county workhouse. She mentioned the farm was slated for closure by the county. Pastor McGurk would like to interview the writer during his broadcast on May twelth. This is also the show’s national debut on the Alliance network. Would you allow me to visit the property to see if broadcasting from there is feasible?”
“And if it is?”
“Then, with your permission, we’d proceed with airing the show. Our station doesn’t want to intrude on the people who live there any more than necessary. After the initial remote, any further reporting on the future of the workhouse will originate from our radio studio in Wichita.”
Krause rubbed the back of his neck. “This is amazing. I would never expect a radio station to be interested in a county farm.”
Jeremy nodded encouragement. “This is a big deal. Think how this story would affect listeners. It’s a world people usually don’t contemplate.”
The Commissioner bowed his head, nudging the receipts scattered on his desk. “I am.”
“So, is that a yes? I can drive to the farm today. We’d need an open space with solid flooring. Some of the equipment is bulky and heavy. If the space is adequate, we complete the broadcast and go home. Pastor gets his show, and your tenants will get an experience they’ll be talking about for days.”
Krause sighed. His voice took on a cheerless tone. “I’m afraid I can’t accept your offer, Mr. Gorham. The closure process has already started, and I’m in charge. We’re dismissing the residents in July. After that, the county will auction off the land. You’ve made a trip for nothing.”
Jeremy leaned forward. Time to put his salesman’s hat on. “We’re aware of the workhouse closing. That is precisely why I’m here. Together, we can make a case for keeping the building and population intact.”