by Wes Brummer
The short walk was comforting. Despite the promise of relaxation, the free evening felt like a rebuke. Working in the infirmary gave her purpose. But this evening she felt aimless. What if the choir asked Bea to sing with them? She couldn’t do that. Was she and Beatrice drifting apart?
Sara reached the mailbox, slipped her message inside, and raised the flag. In the fading light, she returned to the house.
The common room was deserted, except for Mr. Emerson and Mr. Wunch huddled over a game of checkers. Hands clapped in applause upstairs. Sara hovered by the staircase, one hand on the banister. A new hymn began. Was Bea with them?
She climbed to the infirmary.
This end of the passage was dark, but at the far end, wall lamps burned bright on either side of a makeshift stage. Beds and chairs filled the hallway. All eyes faced the churchwomen as they stood in a row, singing a rousing call-and-response standard, “Get Away Jordan.” In the center, beside Priscilla, Bea stood holding a sheet of paper. She wore a radiant smile as her rich, contralto voice blended with the other singers. A few of the residents clapped to the beat while others swayed to the music. Bea’s eyes beamed as the audience broke into more applause.
The group began another gospel favorite, “Just Over in Glory Land.” Peppy songs must be the order of the day. Bea faltered on the lyrics, but came out strong on the chorus, her foot tapping to the music. Here she was, with newfound friends, singing to people she knew. Sara had never seen her so happy.
Lingering on the edge of darkness, Sara watched several more minutes. No one knew she was there. She turned away and descended the stairs, one long step at a time. Halfway down, a wave of despondency overcame her, and she sat on a step, leaning her head against the banister.
Beatrice was a wounded creature when Sara first met her, haunted by a darker half that no one knew existed. Yet, in the last two days, the mute caterpillar had turned into a joyful butterfly taking wing with new friends. She found her calling. Maybe even a way out of this place. Bea achieved it on her own. Could she survive outside these walls? She was such a dependent creature.
Or maybe not.
Bea could leave, and she’d be the one left alone.
It would be easy to sabotage Bea’s good fortune. Tell the church ladies of Bea’s dark past. Be careful, ladies. Your little butterfly could turn into a wasp.
Sara gasped, her fingers covering her lips. These were treacherous notions. Not even her father would do such a thing. Could the coming meeting with her father be affecting her judgment? She must consider the consequences of her actions. Her reunion involved the lives of her friends. Confronting Daddy may be the wrong thing to do. Wasn’t he supposed to help save this home? So why was she feeling so much dread?
One thing mattered most. She lived here. This was her house. Her father was the visitor. And she wouldn’t tolerate threats from a visitor.
Even if her home was already doomed.
Behind her, the choir sang “A Shelter in The Time of Storm.”
Chapter Fifty-Five
Saturday, April 20, 1935
Sara couldn’t put her finger on what it was, but something was going on with Beatrice. Her friend said little during afternoon rounds. After storing their supplies, she and Beatrice relaxed downstairs. Bea fidgeted in her chair and watched out the front windows.
Sara turned to her companion. “Is something wrong?”
Bea leaned back in her rocker. “I’m going to choir practice with Cilly. She invited me to church on Easter Sunday. That’s tomorrow.”
Sara blinked. “I’d forgotten all about Easter. We’ve been so busy with the patients. Will you be singing?”
“I don’t think so. But I do want to listen to the music.”
“Easter hymns can be beautiful.”
“Cilly told me that singing is not an amusement, but a prayer to the Lord.”
“We may sing for any number of reasons. But the ear doesn’t know the difference. You told me when you were small you sang for the sheer pleasure.”
Bea bowed her head. “I still do, but I can’t tell Cilly. She’d be disappointed in me. It is fun. But in church it’s serious fun.”
Sara nodded with one eyebrow arched. “Church choirs are people with all-too-human emotions who can kill the enjoyment. I envy your innocence.”
“These ladies aren’t like that.”
Sara remained silent.
At four o’clock, Priscilla and her husband arrived in a mule-drawn carriage. Bea bolted for the front door with Sara lagging behind. Priscilla waved to her. “We’ll have Beatrice back to you folks by eight. The church is having a potluck supper after practice, so she’ll be eating with us.”
Mr. Rohlman helped Beatrice to her seat. “Does Mrs. Eisner know Bea will be out?”
“I told her a few days ago. Tomorrow, we will be singing three special hymns for Easter service. We’re all very excited about the new music.” Beatrice waved goodbye as the mules set off.
Sara and Patrick worked evening rounds alone. Without a third person, it did take longer. “Did Bea tell you she was going to music practice?” Sara asked Patrick as they were finishing their last room.
He nodded.
“I wonder why she didn’t mention it to me.”
Patrick stared at her, blinking.
Sara flashed a false grin. “It’s okay. I’ll ask her about it when she returns.”
By seven-thirty, Sara sank exhausted into one of the couches in the front room, a four-month-old Saturday Evening Post lay crumpled in her lap. Daddy had a subscription to the magazine. She read the short stories and poetry but nothing else. Today, she found an article by Garet Garrett, a free-market thinker who blamed the Depression on government debt. Garrett argued that the New Deal was disguised Socialism. Quit government spending, he suggested and let the downturn play itself out. This sounded like one of Daddy’s talks. He probably read this same article.
A few minutes later, Beatrice bounded in. “Mrs. Eisner!” The small woman tore through the entryway, dashing down the hallway. Sara peeked out the front window. The carriage still sat outside. What was going on?
Sara opened the front door. Priscilla waved her over. Sara descended the steps.
“The choir has asked Beatrice if she would like to sing during Easter service. She’s gone to ask Mrs. Eisner if we can pick her up early.”
“I see.” Sara took a step back. “It’s getting dark. Will you be able to make it home safely?”
“We live just a couple of miles away. Once old Sulky knows we’re heading home, he’ll pick up the pace. We’ll be there in no time.”
Bea flew out of the house, jumped into the carriage, and hugged Priscilla. “She said I could leave whenever I needed to.”
“That’s wonderful, sweetheart. We’ll be by about seven. Service starts at eight. Don’t worry about clothes. I can scrape something together for you.”
“Thank you, Miss Cilly. You’ve been very kind,” Bea said.
“Nonsense. God had a hand in making this happen. He wants your voice to be shared. Now, we best be going.”
“I can’t wait for Easter.” Bea’s eyes twinkled in the dimming light.
Mr. Rohlman flicked his wrists and the mule jerked the wagon to life. Sara and Bea watched the Rohlmans turned south.
“Why didn’t you tell me about going to Easter service?” Sara asked.
“I…didn’t think you wanted me to go.” Bea continued to watch the vanishing wagon.
“I’m not interested in church, but you’re welcome to go. I’m very proud. You’re getting your wish to sing.”
“You could come with me.”
“No.” Sara shifted her feet. “I can’t go back to that.”
“Whatever happened to you, it doesn’t mean it will happen again.”
Sara looked down. “I can’t dismiss the past.”
“But Sara—”
“Don’t ask me again.” Sara rushed up the steps, hurried in, and slammed the door.
Chapter Fifty-S
ix
Monday, April 22, 1935
Sara massaged Mrs. Hiebert’s hip after her six a.m. injection of morphine, working the medicine into the muscle. Maxine moaned as Sara rolled the bed-ridden woman onto her back and drew the covers. She was thinner now—and weaker, having eaten little in the past week. Last evening her Bible slipped from her hands at least twice. Yet, despite the medication, she stayed alert during their room visits.
Sara laid a hand on her forehead. “You’re looking a bit pale. Can I get you anything?”
Morning rounds would begin soon enough with the clatter of changing pitchers, pots, and basins, followed by the rush to clean and move on to the next room. It was nice to have a little quiet time with Maxine. In all the bustle, it was easy to forget that Mrs. Hiebert was a person and not a patient.
The older woman swallowed. “Could you raise my bed? My mouth is dry, and I could use some water.”
Sara cranked the bed to a sitting position and rolled the bedside table in place. She filled Maxine’s tin cup, found a straw, and held it to her lips.
She took a couple of sips. Sara wiped water from her chin.
“Thank you, young lady. I wish for all this to be over. I so wish to be with Pearce again. Will you pray with me?”
Sara pursed her lips. She didn’t have the heart to voice her thoughts on the injustice of a supposedly kind God inflicting needless pain on a dying woman—a devout follower, no less. There was plenty of evil in the world to draw His wrath. Much easier to remain silent and go through the charade of praying.
Maxine tilted her head as if sensing her hesitation. “You’re not a Believer, are you?”
Sara lowered her head. “I want to believe. But it’s hard…”
With an effort, Maxine grasped Sara’s hand. “It’s not always easy, especially if you’re going through a personal trial. But you must know this; God has sovereignty over your life, whether you believe in Him or not.” She focused on Sara with intensity. “Even if you’ve lost your way.”
Sara blinked. “What do you mean?”
“You were a Believer once, but your faith has fallen. Yet, you still serve Him.”
Sara’s eyes widened. “How did you know? About losing my faith?”
“You lack the conviction of a true atheist. For them, Jesus is a subject to avoid, or they reject Him with pride. For you—it’s an apology.”
“You’re a perceptive woman, Mrs. Hiebert.”
“If perceptive means having lots of time to think of the obvious, then I suppose so. Still, you believed once, growing up. You fell away, or perhaps an event shattered your faith.”
Sara glanced about, looking for a task to do. “I shouldn’t burden you with my problems. It would be selfish of me.”
Maxine’s gentle laughter was like soft bells. “Oh Sara, hearing your story takes my mind off myself. What was your childhood like?”
Sara closed her eyes. “I don’t know where to start. I don’t like talking about myself.”
“Start with your parents.”
“I’ve always gotten along with Mom. Not so well with Daddy. He sees me as a nuisance. As a child, I tried different ways to please him. Few things worked. I loved drawing pictures. When I showed him my art, he would tell me to pick up my crayons. When I was seven, Daddy bought some tools. I took them out of the car, and the teeth of a saw touched the door paint. He yelled at me about how I scratched his car, and now he’d have to re-paint it. When I was a little older, Mom taught me how to cook. I wanted to do all the cooking one day a week. He didn’t like anything I made. The biggest shock of my life was when Daddy asked me to manage the fan mail for his radio show.”
“Is your father an actor?”
“Daddy calls himself a radio pastor. But he doesn’t bring up much scripture. He’s more of a social commentator.” Sara brushed the air with her hand. “It doesn’t set well with me.”
Maxine nodded. “My pain is temporary. Yours will never end unless you take action. Open your heart. Ask God for comfort. And there is another task you must take. The hardest task you’ll ever do. You’ve built yourself a cross to carry, and you must learn to cast it off. It will take forgiveness.”
Sara shook her head. “There’s nothing to forgive. Every time I’m around Daddy, I’m that little girl who can’t do anything right. There’s still a lump in my throat every time he scolds me.”
“I’m not talking about forgiving your father.”
She puckered her brow. “What do you mean?”
Maxine made a small gesture. “You must forgive yourself.”
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Saturday, April 27, 1935
After her Saturday afternoon choir practice, Beatrice entered the tenant house. Where is Sara? Her friend’s dark mood was aggravating. Ever since Sara learned of her father’s upcoming visit, she hadn’t been the same cheery person. These days, Sara showed little interest in conversation before meals, sitting on the porch, or even taking walks. And she wanted no part of choir practice or attending church. Sara used to stroll about like a princess who just discovered the countryside. Now she seemed like a whipped child.
The coming reunion with her father must be bothering her. Tonight, she would do what she meant to do before Easter. Wake her from her doldrums.
Bea loved telling her new friends how she and Sara worked together and how Sara saved her life. Cilly wanted to know Sara better. “Invite her to church,” she urged Bea. “Keep asking until she says yes.”
Tonight she would do more than just ask, and she wasn’t taking no for an answer. Miss Sara was normally a generous person, but lately, even the bedridden folks upstairs have noticed her sour nature. Today, she would challenge her friend.
I hope she’ll still be my friend tomorrow.
Bea found Sara with Patrick in Mrs. Hiebert’s room. Patrick leaned forward in Maxine’s rocker, stroking her hand while Sara sat in a corner chair, a handkerchief in her hands. Mrs. Hiebert was asleep.
Beatrice stepped inside the door. “Should I get Miss Gloria?”
Sara leaned back in her chair. “No. Maxine is failing. Patrick won’t leave, so I’m keeping him company.”
Bea touched Patrick’s arm for a moment and then turned to Sara. “I wish to speak to you.”
“Go ahead.”
“Not here.” Bea was firm. “Let’s go down the hall.”
Sara sighed but stood and followed the smaller woman out of the room.
Bea led the way, entering the room once occupied by Mr. Evans.
Sara looked sideways at Beatrice. “This room gives me the heebie-jeebies. I’m surprised it doesn’t make you uneasy as well.”
“I’m learning to face my fears. Maybe you should too.”
Sara crossed her arms. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Bea stepped between Sara and the door in case she tried to bolt. “I want you to come with me to worship tomorrow. I’ve been telling everyone about the work we do together—even about the black storm. Everyone wants to meet you. They say I’m so lucky to have you for a friend.”
Sara backed up a step and tried to duck around the smaller woman, but Bea rushed to the door, blocking her way. Sara blew an exasperated breath. “How long do you intend to keep me here?”
“Until you become honest with me. What’s wrong with attending service?”
Sara placed hands on hips, her voice edged with anger, she said, “You want a reason? I’ll give you several. Church is full of phony people pretending to be pious and noble, but they’re a bunch of two-faced judges. I was once in a choir singing my heart out. The choirmaster told us we were singing to God.” Sara hesitated, biting her lip. “That may have been true for the others, but I was singing to Daddy, hoping he would notice. Instead, he left the church to start a new career, leaving my mother and I to face their judgment.”
“It must have been hard.”
Sara closed her eyes. “Daddy left so abruptly, I took the rebukes in silence. Perhaps I even agreed with them.
Daddy’s behavior was insincere. How could I say anything? That was five years ago. I’ve never been able to forgive them, and I can never go back to church again. Never.”
“These feelings—your irritation—it’s misplaced. You’re really angry at your father.”
Sara reeled backward, her palm stuck out, as if fending off a blow. “No. It was the choir. They were all pretenders—”
“Stop it!” Bea stepped forward, heat rising up her neck. Blood pulsed in her temple. She thrust an accusing finger at Sara. “You’re the pretender.”
Behind glaring eyes, Bea’s thoughts whirled. What was happening to her? The clenched teeth… The shallow breaths… A feeling like surging water bouncing off rocks… A roaring cyclone. And she was in the center, buffeted by swirling unrestrained feelings. Each one fierce and demanding.
Anger. That was it. She was furious at Sara. All these years Sally had harbored these emotions. Kept them to herself—blocking them. Bea only knew the depths. Now, for the first time she sensed the heights of body and mind acting in tight orchestration.
It was…exhilarating!
Sara blinked. “What did you call me?”
Beatrice took a breath to calm herself. She wanted so much to share her wonderful discovery: feelings, emotions, and the instant leap from thought to action. But not now. “You heard me.” Bea glared, savoring the heat. “Your make-believe story about being wronged is a mere excuse.”
Sara gaped. “That’s not what I meant.”
“Poor Sara,” Bea said, chastising her in a Sally-like voice. “You can be such a damsel. You suffer the words of others. Your job and your home were taken away. You’ve lost more than any of us will ever gain. I’ve only lived a single month in a real home. Never worked or gone on a date. Yet, you’ve done all these things.”
“But you’re accusing me—”
“Let me finish. Yet, here you are with a different name and a story to go with it. Hiding with the invisible people. So, tell me. Who is the pretender?”
Sara shook her head. “You’re twisting my words.”
“None of us have anywhere to go. None of us can change from a pauper to a princess. No one but you.”