Dust and Roses

by Wes Brummer

  She went from room to room visiting, fluffing pillows, and adjusting beds. She would miss them all, but the ones she’d miss the most were already gone. Maxine and Mr. Evans. Living at opposite ends of the hall, they seemed as different as night and day. Yet, part of the same coin. They were the anchors that kept her stable. And helped her grow. For that, she would always be grateful.

  She stood at the dumbwaiter, about to return downstairs, when she noticed Maxine’s door open. Patrick had closed it hours after the county men took Maxine away. Was someone in there? Sara peeked inside.

  Patrick lay asleep in Maxine’s rocker by the stripped bed. He must have slept there all night. It was tempting to let him slumber, but he needed to be downstairs.

  Sara knelt beside the rocker, patting his hand. “Wake up. The people from the radio station are here setting up for their program. Beatrice will be singing. We can watch the show together.”

  He blinked open bleary eyes. “Maxie?”

  “No. It’s Sara.”

  “I want Maxie back.”

  She nodded. “I do too.”

  “She’s still my friend.”

  Sara brushed his unruly hair to one side. “You took good care of her.”

  “I carried her and put her in this chair.” He pounded the arm of the rocker. “Every day!”

  “You gave her a lot of love, Patrick.”

  He reached out to touch the mattress.

  “Come on,” Sara said. “Downstairs there is a machine you should see. It has dials and switches and wires. Big as a movie projector.”

  Patrick shook his head, gripping the rocker. “I can’t leave. What if Maxie comes back?”

  Sara extended a hand to lift his chin. “She can’t. Remember all those times you waited for Maxie in the movie theater when she had to stay in her booth and sell tickets?”

  “I didn’t mind.”

  “I bet she won’t mind if you come downstairs with me. This machine works with sound the same way a movie projector works with pictures.”

  “Only if you say so.” Patrick pushed down on the armrest and rose to his feet, and they left the room.

  ****

  Wendell Krause parked his Pontiac beside an impressive looking Mercedes. A large man in a black suit and flat, wide-brimmed hat pounded on the back door. Wendell jumped from his car and hurried up the steps. “Can I help you, sir?”

  The red-faced stranger held a sheaf of papers. “I’m expected, and nobody is answering the door. Time’s wasting, and preparations are needed.”

  “I’m with the county. The name’s Krause.” Wendell stuck out a hand.

  “Pastor Samuel McGurk. I’m the commentator for Heaven and Earth.” The big man had an abrupt handshake.

  Wendell opened the door and showed McGurk to the common room. The pastor weaved between an assortment of chairs set in rows to confer with the engineer. Gorham sat on a wooden stool in the center of the room listening through a headset. A wire from the earphones led to a large box of dials and switches. McGurk tapped Gorham on the shoulder. They talked a minute and Gorham produced some papers—probably a script—handing it to McGurk. The pastor shook his head, waving his own pages. He stepped over a row of car batteries separating the chairs from a makeshift stage. There, he lengthened an already long microphone stand, tilted the oblonged-shaped microphone, and began reading. Gorham made adjustments on his machine. At the other end of the stage, the singers moved chairs, examined the hanging blankets, and talked among themselves.

  Abruptly, the pastor stopped reading and shot a glance at the engineer. “Director, kindly inform the women to be silent while I’m completing my sound check.”

  Jeremy gave McGurk a sidelong glance. Then, he clapped his hands twice. “Ladies, stay quiet while I finish with Pastor’s microphone test. Then, it’ll be your turn.”

  Three minutes later, Gorham made the okay sign with his fingers and waved the singers to their microphones. “Hurry, ladies. Twenty minutes until show time.”

  Two ladies sang at each microphone. The engineer concentrated on two dials to fine-tune the sound. Wendell didn’t envy Gorham. He was the ringmaster of this tightly wound production. Keeping Pastor McGurk and the singers focused on their tasks would be a job in itself. Several of the residents were already drifting in and finding seats. Sara was not among them. She must be upstairs.

  From the beginning, Sara was like a breath of fresh air. Maybe an unpredictable gale at times and opinionated. Still, he wanted to be her husband and the father of her child. In a couple of hours, she would walk out these doors, never to return. No, that wasn’t true. Once her mother appeared, she was free to leave anytime.

  Brakes squeaked outside. Wendell peeked beneath a blanket blocking the window. A Model T parked behind his Pontiac. Several women jumped to the ground and hustled to the kitchen entry. The driver, a lanky man in straw hat and coveralls, lagged behind. Wendell stepped to the back door and opened it. “Are you folks here for the broadcast?”

  “We’re here to see Beatrice Mullens.” The short auburn-haired woman seemed to be the leader of the group. “I’m Gladys Pickering. These are my friends, Sylvia and Marilyn. Hiding behind them is my husband, Eddie.”

  “I’m Commissioner Krause. Come in.” He led them to the front of the house. “Are you old friends of Beatrice?”

  “Yes. How did you know?” Gladys smiled. “Beatrice and I went to high school together.”

  “Lucky guess.” Wendell pointed to a set of chairs. “Have a seat. You friend is busy at the moment. Did you and Beatrice talk to each other much?”

  “In high school we chattered all the time.”

  Wendell pointed to the stage. “We have some singers with us today. Recognize any of them?”

  Gladys peered up front. “No. Should I?”

  “No reason.” Wendell glanced at the staircase, tiring of the game. No more time. “She’s upstairs. I’ll get her down here before the broadcast begins.”

  Marilyn tilted her head. “I hear someone knocking on the back door.”

  Wendell stood up. “That should be Mrs. McGurk. Mrs. Pickering, could you let her in? I’ll be back with your friend.”

  As the group left for the back door, Wendell rushed to the stairs. He slipped out his pocket watch. Ten minutes left.

  ****

  Sara stood at the top of the stairs. Patrick tromped down the steps, passing Wendell coming her way. Parting shots or a moment of truth? She owed him an explanation before she left this place.

  Wendell climbed to the top of the stairs, blocking her path. “Good morning, Sara McGurk.”

  “Good morning, Mr. Krause.” He knows my name. Everyone probably knew by now. “I should be getting downstairs. There’s somebody I need to see.”

  “Sit down.” Wendell pointed to the top steps. “If it’s your father, he can wait.”

  She sat, moving over as Wendell settled beside her.

  He held her hand. “You are the last thought I have at night, and the first person I think about in the morning. If I don’t say this now, I won’t get another chance.” He stared at her though narrowed eyes, though he didn’t seem angry. But there was an intensity about him.

  Sara lowered her eyes. “I’m listening.”

  He drew in a breath. “I love you. I want you to marry me.”

  A small quiver skittered down her back. Of all the times for this to happen. She had demanded a proposal from Larry, and he rejected her. Now, she had to answer.

  Wendell squeezed her hand. “I’ve known this for a while now. Since the day we went out for supper. You were hiding your thoughts earlier that evening, but you trusted me enough to share your secrets. I knew then I wanted us to have a life together. To be parents. I know people will be counting down the months to when the baby will be born. Let them. I’ve got a small nest egg saved up. After my term as commissioner is over, we can go anywhere you want. Start over.”

  “Long ago, I demanded this very thing,” she said in a broken whisper. “It
seemed so simple. I could carry on with my job and still visit my family. That evening, Daddy called me a disgrace and threw me out of my own home. Now, I have to go back.”

  “Things will change for the better.”

  “You don’t understand. Since I came here, no one has judged me. No one has called me shameful. I was just Sara. I did my job, and people appreciated my work. A poor farm would be shunned by respectable people, yet it became my refuge. If I could, I’d stay. But now I have to be what I was.

  Wendell pulled her in close. “That’s not important anymore. Say you’ll marry me.”

  Sara leaned her head on his shoulder and wet her lips to speak.

  Voices filtered up from downstairs. An argument. “I don’t have time for this!” an angry, familiar voice roared nearby downstairs. “It’s five minutes before airtime, and I need somebody with me at that microphone. If she won’t do it, then who will?”

  Sara jumped to her feet. Didn’t he understand anger wasn’t good for his blood pressure? She hustled down the stairs.

  Her father stood in front of the singers’ microphones, pointing an accusing finger at a frightened Beatrice. She huddled next to Mrs. Rohlman who extended an arm, keeping her father from coming any closer. Jeremy sat at his controls with hands cupped over his headset. A group of voices—familiar voices—approached the big room. Those things didn’t matter. Bea was in trouble.

  Sara rounded the landing and advanced on Bea’s attacker.

  “Stay away from her! You’re frightening the child.” Mrs. Rohlman planted herself between Beatrice and her father.

  “I need to interview her.” He threw his arms wide in mock supplication. “She only has to say a few lines. Why did she write the infernal letter if she didn’t want to talk to me? What’s wrong with her?”

  Priscilla crossed her thick arms, eyeing him with distaste. “You are a man of God. Be more respectable.”

  “If I can’t get a response from her, then I need someone else. This is radio. All I need is a grateful voice.”

  Sara tapped her father on the shoulder. He whirled around. “You can talk to me,” she said. “I’ll be your stooge.”

  The crowd of voices entered the common area. Michael’s voice yelled from across the room, “There’s Sis. By the front door!”

  “Sara!” Chairs scooted as family and friends rushed to greet her.

  Mouth agape, her father stared at her. “You! What in God’s name—”

  The rest was lost. Mother, Jason, Michael, Mr. Bigger, Gladys, Sylvia, and Marilyn converged on Sara. Her head reeled as she grabbed onto Jason—the first person to reach her. Jason held her as she wept on her mother’s shoulder. The people she most cherished were all here. In a few minutes, she would have to face her father on stage, but she would always remember this blissful moment.

  ****

  Jeremy removed his headset, remembering the stream of last minute instructions from Mrs. Tabor. And now she wanted to speak to the pastor. The time was 9:56, four minutes before airtime, and the place was a madhouse. He found the pastor scrutinizing the group surrounding Sara. “Follow me, sir. Meredith Tabor is on the backline. She’d like a word with you.”

  McGurk placed the headset over his ears, picked up the hand microphone, and spoke into the dimpled surface, “This is Pastor McGurk.”

  The Snow Queen’s faint tinny voice was discernable, even without the headset. “Mr. Gorham tells me you are getting distracted. Is there a problem?”

  “No. I took care of it.”

  “Stick to your script. Mr. Gorham is acting director up there. Refer any problems to him. Now, take your place and give us a great performance.”

  “Yes, madam.” McGurk handed the headset to Gorham. “My daughter will act as Beatrice.” He motioned to Sara, still surrounded by friends and family.

  “Stand by, Mrs. Tabor.” Jeremy sat the hand microphone down on its thick base, grabbed a script, and hurried to Sara.

  “I understand you’ll be on stage with Pastor.” Jeremy handed her the papers. “Follow the cues marked BEATRICE. Good to see you again. By the way, I like the feed sack dress. You look like you live here. Now get on stage.” Jeremy turned to the crowd gathered in front. “Choir! Take your places. Everyone else be seated. Quiet please, we’re on the air in two minutes.”

  Chapter Sixty-Three

  Jeremy Gorham sat at his console with one ear pressed to the headset. He positioned himself so that the singers, Pastor, and Sara could see his signals when to speak. A small speaker rigged to the “front line” played the choral music lead-in to the show.

  “Ten…nine…eight…” Meredith’s clipped voice came over the backline as the soothing baritone of the announcer introduced the program.

  “From subjects as far-reaching as Genesis to tomorrow’s headlines, the Carey Salt Company Presents…Heaven and Earth!” The final words sounded like echoing thunder. An “On the Air” light hanging over the stage blinked to life. The engineer flipped a switch marked MIC 1 and shot a finger at McGurk. This was his cue to speak.

  “I am Pastor McGurk. Friends, today is our debut broadcast with Alliance Broadcasting Systems. It is my honor to be talking to you from Joshua County Farm in the heart of rural Kansas. Some would call this institution a poor farm. That is untrue. Though, it is a community of impoverished souls, it is also a group rich in spirit. They labor for their own food. Make their own clothing. And care for fellow residents too old or sick to work. It is a demanding existence. Yet, for many, the county farm is their first real home.”

  McGurk bent forward projecting a soft Irish brogue, “Today, we celebrate the eighteen residents of this large house that looks older than its fifty years. The structure is without electricity or running water, yet, a group of dedicated workers minister to eight invalids every day. In a few minutes, we’ll talk to one of those care providers. Her story will amaze you. But first, we have music from a local choir called The Joymakers. Ladies, it’s all yours.”

  On cue, Priscilla led the choir as they sang “Count Your Blessings.”

  ****

  Sara flipped through the script, searching for her lines. They weren’t much. What few words she spoke were meek and humbling. She remembered Dutch’s words the day she met him. A deserving poor person was a docile one. Go along with the script? She had a choice to make.

  “What are you doing in this dump?” her father’s whisper hissed with venom.

  She glanced up from the script. “I live here.”

  “That’s impossible. We’re in the middle of nowhere. I’ve kept this location a secret. Your mother doesn’t even know. Why is she sitting out there? What’s going on?”

  “You’re making your show. I’m taking Beatrice’s place. There’s nothing else.”

  “That’s not enough. I want to know how you got here.”

  “Larry Bigger brought me.”

  “Ridiculous.” His voice was a low growl. “He’s dead. Your mother must have found out and told you.”

  Sara smiled. They were drawing attention from Patrick and Jason. Jeremy glanced in their direction and drew a finger across his lips. Zip it. “Mother told me a few minutes ago she got a call from an official last night saying I was here.” She drew in a breath. “She’s taking me home.”

  McGurk leaned forward. He, too, smiled for the audience, but his tone was poisonous. “You have no home. Not under my roof. I’m still waiting to hear how you got here.”

  Sara sighed. “I called on Larry the day after you threw me out, and he suggested we go for a drive. Along the way, we argued, and he left me in front of this house. Looking back, it seems clear he had the trip planned from the beginning.”

  “That means you’ve been here five weeks. Plenty of time to think of a plan to sabotage my debut.” His voice became more livid with each word. “You must have written the fan letter that brought me here. This is a trap. Look at me when I’m talking to you!” His voice ended in barely suppressed rage.

  More heads turned their w
ay. Jeremy put an index finger to his lips. Quiet. He flipped a switch, picked up the handheld microphone, and spoke into it.

  Sara gestured in Jeremy’s direction. “Keep your voice down. I did write the letter. But I never thought―”

  “I knew it!” he said.

  Jeremy glanced over again, this time giving her father a sharp look.

  The choir reached the final refrain of their hymn.

  McGurk turned away from the engineer and yanked out a pair of reading spectacles from his suit pocket. “We’re not finished. My intro talk is coming up, so stay quiet. I’ve got more to say to you later.”

  As the last note of the hymn faded, Jeremy cued the singers to silence, flipped several switches, and gave McGurk his cue to speak.

  Sara followed her script as her father began his first talk. “When I was a young boy, one of my favorite authors was Horatio Alger…”

  ****

  Jeremy bent to listen to Mrs. Tabor’s voice coming through his headset. She was not happy. “I discernible heard McGurk’s voice twice during the interlude. The second time his words were distinct. What’s gotten into him?”

  The engineer kept his voice as low as possible. “I admit the start was awkward. For one thing, Pastor is not interviewing Beatrice. He has a daughter, and she’s sharing the microphone with him. They were arguing during the opening hymn.”

  “What about?”

  “I don’t know. He was fine until he saw her just before airtime. Sara—that’s the daughter—is wearing a feed sack dress and worn slippers. She looks the part of someone living here. I’d say he wasn’t expecting her, but she seemed ready for him.”

  Meredith sighed. “It’s too late to separate them. Their dialogue is right after the commercial. How is the situation looking now?”

  “Seems normal. Pastor’s reading his spiel. Daughter’s following along. No fireworks.”