Dust and Roses

by Wes Brummer

  “I don’t see how. It’s now become a county mandate.”

  “Is this what you want to see happen?”

  “Of course not, but my colleagues believe adding more taxable land and eliminating a relief program will get them re-elected.”

  That sounded like a defeatist answer. Jeremy needed a commitment. He wasn’t about to leave without getting it. “You’re a commissioner as well. Are you going to stand by and do nothing?”

  Krause rose to his feet. “I am carrying out my duties the best I know how, but I’m fighting a defensive battle here. There’s other programs to protect as well. People think I dole out taxpayer money and food to freeloaders. That’s not true. Most of my recipients are women, children, and the aged. They need relief to survive. The poor farm, however, is a unique example of how a group of dependent people can band together to live a life of quiet dignity. I would not care to put a price tag on that. Somehow, we have.”

  Gorham smiled. “It’s good to see a politician who stands for stands for basic values.”

  “Well, it’s not helping me. I’ve been looking for any way possible to keep the county farm open. I haven’t found it yet.”

  “Maybe I’m your answer.”

  Wendell retook his seat. “Listen, good intentions aren’t enough. Times are changing. We live in the twilight of what you call the work farm. Other county farms have closed in recent years. You’re from Wichita. You should know Sedgwick County sold the land out from under its poor farm five years ago. Saline County closed theirs after a group of residents rebelled against conditions. We are not unique. County farms are dying. Someday, they will cease altogether.”

  “So you’re declining our request?”

  “There’s no point, sir.”

  “I see. That’s unfortunate.” Gorham stood. He couldn’t get past this county official. It was a long drive back to Wichita—with Meredith Tabor standing at the end of the line.

  Wendell rose as well. “Sorry this was a fruitless trip for you.”

  “Thank you for your time, Commissioner,” Jeremy said. “I’ll inform my boss. She’ll be disappointed to hear the bad news.”

  They shook hands. Gorham turned to leave but stopped in the open doorway. Time for his final pitch. “You’re wrong about one thing, Commissioner. Joshua County Farm is unique because we can give the dwellers a voice. Our station is providing you an opportunity to speak to the world. Stir emotions. If the program is successful, then listeners will be reaching out to you through fan mail by Tuesday.”

  Krause was gathering his receipts together. He peered at Gorham, tilting his head. “How many listeners are we talking about?” he asked.

  Jeremy considered. “Alliance anticipates at least twenty million listeners will tune in at some point during premiere week.”

  “I can’t fathom a number that big. You mentioned fan mail. Do people really write about your shows?”

  “It’s how we understand our customers. Some programs like Pastor McGurk’s have a loyal following who write frequently.”

  “That’s hard to believe.”

  Jeremy looked down. “Listeners like dramatic stories full of dialogue. Not a dry narrative. Stirring emotions will lead to an outpouring of letters that will soon die unless we keep the story alive. Our station can start the conversation, but we need your help.” Jeremy held his breath.

  Krause looked to the ceiling. “Still sounds like a long shot.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I can’t imagine a story about a Midwest poor farm getting the attention of a radio listener in New York. Do you follow baseball, Mr. Gorham?”

  Gorham chuckled. “Sure. Who doesn’t?”

  “Well, I feel like the left fielder running to catch a bouncing line drive. Anything I do may be too little too late.”

  “Well, you can’t give up the ball.”

  Krause drew in a breath. “Good point. Okay. Do what you need to do, Mr. Gorham. Let’s see how this game plays out.”

  ****

  Ten minutes later, the engineer drove to the work farm. Brown ridges of dirt bordered the country lane. Road crews were certainly busy these days. His car topped a small hill. He drove past a cemetery buried in dirt. The big house weathered the storm well, but the land around it looked stripped and bare.

  Gorham parked in front, retrieved his clipboard, and climbed the porch steps. As he stepped to the door, flying dirt and billowing dust shot through the entrance. Jeremy leaped back coughing. A stout woman with a straw broom glowered at him before turning back inside.

  He peeked in the doorway. Two other ladies were cleaning the muddy walls of a large front room with rags and buckets of murky water. The menace with the broom lurked in the back, sweeping around the fireplace. Forlorn, mismatched furniture lined the walls of the day room. Rockers, wooden chairs, and small tables for games dotted the center of the dank space. An old wheelchair with a missing footboard sat in a corner.

  On the plus side, the floor was solid. They could move the furniture and whatnot aside, and the women were making progress on their cleanup project. This room would serve well as a place for the broadcast.

  Jeremy knocked on the open doorway. “Hello?”

  “Who are you?” one asked.

  “Sorry to intrude. I’m looking for the person in charge.”

  The glowering woman leaned her broom against the unlit fireplace and pointed to the rear of the house.

  “Could you show me the way, please? I’d be grateful.”

  She waddled across the room, and plopped in the dilapidated wheelchair. “Push me.”

  Jeremy rolled her through a large dining room and pantry, stopping in a long, narrow kitchen. Water splashed farther back. The woman pointed to a passageway. “The matron is in the laundry room.” She rose to her feet and pushed her wheelchair out of the kitchen. Shaking his head, Jeremy stepped around the corner to the source of the ruckus.

  Three men, soaked from head to foot, were washing clothes. A large, bearded man fed laundry into a handwringer. A grandfatherly old man heaved the crank. Bed sheets rolled from the wringer into a basket. The third man, a hooked-nosed old codger with a chin that nearly met his nose, stood in a galvanized tub full of water. He wielded a laundry stomper, pounding away at the wash like he was digging a post hole. Water flew everywhere. Jeremy shielded the clipboard, but drops still hit the paper.

  “Welcome to the circus!” A woman’s voice broke through the racket. A howl of pain erupted. The big man whirled about, yelling and clutching his fingers. “Just a second.” The small matron led the bearded man from the room. Three minutes later, she returned alone. “Let’s step into my office.”

  “Is that man okay?” Jeremy asked.

  “Mr. Wheatley will be fine. I wrapped his fingers with a rag and some ice chips. The swelling should go down in a day or two.” She led Jeremy to a small corner workspace. “Take a seat. I’m Mrs. Eisner, matron of this house. How can I help you?”

  “My name is Jeremy Gorham and I’m an engineer with station KSKN in Wichita. I talked to Commissioner Krause. He’s agreed to allow us the use of your front room for a remote broadcast on May 12th.”

  The matron tilted her head. “Did the Commissioner mention that the county plans to close our doors?”

  “We discussed that. Both of us believe there is a chance that listener reaction could extend your operation.”

  The steely-eyed woman waved him off. “That’s so much falderal.”

  “I assure you, Mrs. Eisner, this is a serious matter. Pastor Sam McGurk, the host of Heaven and Earth, plans to do a story about your home and the people who live here. It’s all part of a special live broadcast airing across the nation on the Alliance network.”

  “We make do on our own, Mr. Gorham. Your charity is not needed.”

  “This is not charity. It’s business. Our station will gain new listeners, and reaction from the show could delay the closure.”

  “How cozy.” The matron frowned. “Why did you choose us for—what did y
ou call it—a remote?”

  She wasn’t convinced. Were country people always this bullheaded? “Actually, that came about from a fan letter sent to the pastor. The note was a plea for help. The powers that be at KSKN saw this as an opportunity to tell a dramatic true story. One that loyal listeners will talk about. Which reminds me, is there a choir or singing group, perhaps affiliated with a church, near here? We need music for the program.”

  “You’re in luck, Mr. Gorham. Step outside the back door and you’ll hear a group from the local church helping us with the laundry. I’m no judge of music, but they have a pleasant harmony.”

  “I’ll do that. So have I made my case, Mrs. Eisner?”

  “You should have been a salesman instead of an engineer, Mr. Gorham.”

  Jeremy grinned. “In radio, you wear many hats.”

  “I can imagine. Tell me, who wrote this letter?”

  “Well…” Jeremy looked at his meeting notes. “I understand the writer lives here. Her name is Beatrice Mullens. To be frank, Mrs. Eisner, we want to create as much drama as possible for this program. That includes an interview with her and the pastor. Can she articulate well?”

  Gloria scrunched her lips. “Beatrice is not the person I’d have guessed to write such a letter. Someone else comes to mind. But to answer your question, Beatrice can put a sentence together.”

  “Great. I want to get your telephone number so my director can keep in touch with you. We will install a new phone line in the front room in two weeks or so. On May twelfth, we will be bringing in some equipment in order to make the broadcast.”

  “I can’t believe Commissioner Krause agreed to this escapade.”

  “This endeavor might well save the farm.”

  “Wishful thinking.” Gloria took a towel out of her apron and wiped her hands. “It’s against my better judgment, but I’ll go along with this silliness. The house rules are posted in the common room. I expect you to follow them like everyone else. And you better put the room back together the way you found it when you’re finished.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Should I be discussing this with the overseer?”

  “With James? He’ll be finding things to do in the barn while this is going on. You’ll be dealing with me, young man.”

  “It will be a pleasure, Mrs. Eisner.” Jeremy suppressed a sigh. Another hurdle jumped. “Just imagine. Your workhouse will be the subject of conversation for millions of people. Our program could be on any radio between here and New York City.”

  “Young people spend too much time listening to the radio. They should be reading a book or working with their hands.”

  “They do, Mrs. Eisner. In just eight years, radio has gone from a hobby to a major part of our lives. Today, we can send a human voice or a Beethoven symphony across the country or across the ocean. Who knows what we can come up with in the next eight years?”

  “Hopefully,” said the matron, “A better way to clean the house.”

  “Someone will have to work on that,” said Jeremy. “Now, let’s hear this choir.”

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Sara sat at her usual spot in the dining room that evening. She had gone into the kitchen to offer her help, but the church ladies shooed her back to the tables. Now, she waited with the others in anticipation of the evening’s feast. The tables were covered with red-checkered tablecloths. Pie plates set besides evenly spaced tinware placed on carefully folded cloth napkins before each person. The mouth-watering aroma of seasoned meat and vegetables whiffed from the kitchen. Across from her, Patrick rubbed his hands. “It’s supposed to be a secret, but I know what we’re having.” He leaned forward, cupping his mouth as if to whisper, but his voice was too loud. “It’s spaghetti casserole!”

  Mrs. Chapman shushed him, but the old coot, Mr. Wunch, cackled and thumped the back of Wheatley who sat beside him. The cook must have hurt himself today. Three of his fingers were bandaged together.

  Sara glanced about the room. The cupboards and walls were shiny white instead of dull gray. Mrs. Robson, Miss Underwood, and Mrs. Chapman did a fine job cleaning. All the sweeping, mopping, and scrubbing had paid off. The house never looked so clean. Too bad Dutch wasn’t here to see this.

  Two ladies in aprons and long dresses filed out of the kitchen each carrying a large bowl of meaty casserole. Both went to the head of each table. The third volunteer brought out a cart containing two bowls of green beans and a deep dish of apple crisp. She tapped the dish with a wooden spoon. The room quieted.

  “We’ve all worked hard today cleaning. I know you’ve built up big appetites. What better way to celebrate than by sharing our bounty. Mr. Eisner, would you say the blessing, please?”

  James stood, clasped his hands, and bowed his head. “Dear Heavenly Father, thank You for the fine food and the generous service of these wonderful neighbors. I pray that each of us find ways to serve others by giving of ourselves as our sisters have done today. We cannot thrive on our own, but only through Your Grace. You touch our lives, and we practice our faith by touching the lives of others. This is the source of our true bounty. Through serving others, we serve ourselves. In this way, we bring home the harvest of Your Glory. And for that we give You thanks. And we thank these generous ladies for their kind help today. Amen.”

  Bowls of food passed down the table to lifted hands waiting eagerly to fill their plates. The spaghetti sauce was thick with plenty of hamburger meat. The green beans held bits of bacon and onion. Sara watched several residents stare at their untouched food. Probably thinking the same thoughts she had at the restaurant nearly a week ago. Well, that wasn’t going to happen tonight. She picked up a fork and ate.

  One of the volunteers, a full-bodied woman with calloused hands, soft brown eyes, and a wide smile, drew a chair next to Patrick, who was well on his way to being the first person to clean his plate. Beatrice kept her head averted. After looking around, the visitor turned her attention to Sara. “Mrs. Eisner told me how the three of you care each day for the aged souls upstairs. Tonight, you can take your rest. My friends and I will serve the elderly folks.”

  “Thank you for the help. I’m Sara. Next to you is Patrick. And this is Beatrice.”

  Bea nodded.

  “We were in the infirmary and heard your singing outside,” Sara said. “You sound good together.” She nudged Beatrice with her knee.

  “The songs were pretty.” Bea cupped a hand over her mouth as if she said too much.

  “We were being playful with the Lord’s music, but it makes the labor so much more enjoyable.” She smiled, her brown eyes beaming, “I’m Priscilla Rohlman. Friends call me Cilly.”

  “Music is always welcome here.” Sara nudged Bea again.

  Swallowing, Beatrice leaned forward. “I want to sing… To learn, I mean.”

  Priscilla glanced at Sara as if asking for confirmation. Sara nodded.

  “Do you, now? I’ll introduce you to the others later. We’re always looking for new voices to add to the choir.”

  “I’d like that,” Bea said.

  Sara finished her meal, saying no more. She helped planted the seed. Now, to see if it would grow.

  After supper, Priscilla came around the table and embraced Sara. “I’m so glad to meet you. Go relax. You deserve some time to yourself. After we serve the elders, we’ll do the dishes, and then make a joyful noise upstairs. You’re welcome to join us.”

  “Later, perhaps. I’d like to write a letter first.”

  “Splendid.” Priscilla turned to the younger woman. “You come along with me, Miss Beatrice. I’ll introduce you to the other ladies.”

  They left. Sara stood alone in the kitchen.

  The church ladies would get home late tonight, and she couldn’t walk away from a kitchen full of dirty dishes. Sara tied on an apron and set to work filling the two metal dish pans in the big sink with hot water from a teapot mixed with cool well water. Then, she grated some flakes from a bar of borax soap. Rounding up someone to dry would make the job
easier, but it felt good to be alone. In a few minutes, she had a pile of dishes in the rinse tub, Sara found a towel and put away the tinware and utensils.

  Nearly all the residents were in the common room doing jigsaw puzzles, playing checkers, cards or waiting for the singing to begin upstairs. The Eisners were gone—possibly helping upstairs as well. That’s what I should be doing. Sara backed away from the group, satisfied with the relative solitude of the dining room. It wasn’t that she was uncomfortable with the others. Working simply made it easier to avoid saying something that would expose her identity.

  Still, she needed something to do. Sara opened the bureau drawer with her name on it, taking a stamped envelope and a sheet of paper. Sitting at the dining room table, she wrote:

  “Dear Ladies,

  Thank you for telling me what’s happening. I can’t believe my sanctuary is about to be invaded. It’s my fault, of course. I never thought my letter would lead to this.

  I’m staying here. This is my home, and this is where I stand. The fact that a broadcast will take place here means Daddy will need to stay focused on the program, so I don’t think anything will likely happen.

  One thing for sure. Daddy’s arrival will force my true identity to come out. Friends I’ve made could see me as a fake. Even if they don’t, I will still have to leave. I could avoid any trouble by leaving early, yet, I feel I must meet him face to face and attempt to mend our differences.

  Don’t tell my family I’m here. Let me handle this my way.

  I love you all,

  Sara

  This would be her last message. Sara addressed the envelope, stuffed the letter inside, and sealed her decision.

  As she walked past the landing, choral voices rang from upstairs. Sara walked out the door and down the steps. Sunset was giving way to twilight. The mailbox for the county farm sat with two others at the intersection of Miller and Carriage Road. Sara set off to mail her letter.