by Wes Brummer
“That is fortunate. Caution our friend about his outbursts. And let’s get the daughter off the stage as soon as she plays her part.”
“Would you like to talk to him?” Dealing with Pastor McGurk was like dealing with a pompous idiot.
“No. You are the director. Handle him as you see fit.”
“What if he won’t control his temper?”
Meredith’s voice was sharp, “Please refrain from that course of thought, Mr. Gorham. That is uncharted territory where I prefer not to tread.”
Pastor’s talk ended ten minutes later. A commercial promoting the benefits of Carey Salt played over the speaker. Jeremy shut down the on-the-air light and all microphones. He approached Pastor and Sara on stage. “Having a bad day, Pastor?”
“I’m having a fine day, engineer. This is my national debut.”
“Then I suggest you cut out the shouting. Your job, and probably mine as well, are at stake. So let’s play our parts like professionals.” Jeremy turned to return to his console.
“Are you the Snow Queen’s messenger boy?”
Jeremy whirled around. “No. I’m the director.” He grabbed the microphone stand. “Keep your mouth shut during the hymns. Or I’ll pull the plug on you. Now get ready. Your dialogue with Beatrice—I mean Sara—is coming up.” He hustled back to his console and donned his headset.
****
Sara found her spot on the script. She was about to play her role in this charade. Jeremy sat with his fingers outstretched. Three. Two. One.
“Hello, friends. This is Pastor McGurk speaking to you from Joshua County Farm. I’m standing here with Beatrice Mullens, the author of a most inspirational fan letter. Before she introduces herself, I wish to read the letter that moved me to journey here and meet her in person.”
Her father read the letter from his script. Except it wasn’t her letter. His version made her letter sound like a simple request for a radio and running water. No mention of the closing. Any attention generated by this program would be meaningless. In three months, the county would sell the farm and furnishings. Sara scrutinized the upcoming exchange between “Beatrice” and her father.
Pastor: (encouraging tone) “Step up to the microphone young lady. Don’t be shy. Everyone, give her a big hand. (applause)
Beatrice: (meekly) My name is Beatrice. I care for the elderly here.
Pastor: Tell the people how long you work during an average day.
Beatrice: Usually from early morning to well past supper.
Pastor: Those are long hours. How do you relax?
Beatrice: Often I sleep in my chair while soaking my feet. I think about the time before I came here when I listened to your Sunday mornings talks.
Pastor: Bless you for your thoughts. But tell us about how you get water up to your patients all day without plumbing.
Beatrice: (hopelessly): We carry it by the bucketful up the stairs every day. Enough to drink and to bathe. We have so many sick and bedridden here. It’s impossible to provide enough clean water for all their needs. That’s why I wrote to you. I could think of nowhere else to turn.
And what of her? At best, home was a way station. She would have to leave again. Odd. An unknown future didn’t seem so terrifying anymore. She could deal with it when the time came.
That left the radio broadcast. Time to end the make-believe. Not with sabotage, but with the truth.
Her father flipped a page, finishing her letter.
“We live frugally and spend what little free time we have in solitude. I wish for the day we have running water and a radio, but as long as these hard times continue, I don’t think either is possible. Pastor Sam, can you help us?”
Her father held out a hand. “This ends an impassioned letter from a unique resident. Now, I’d like to introduce you to the author of this letter. Step up to the microphone. Don’t be shy. Everyone, give her a big hand.” McGurk clapped while Jeremy motioned for the audience to applaud as well.
Sara glanced at her script, then tossed the pages in the air, letting the papers flutter to the floor. Her father’s head jerked around in surprise. She stepped to the microphone. “I’m your daughter. And we don’t want your gifts.”
Chapter Sixty-Four
Oh, no. Jeremy Gorham spoke into his headset. “The daughter is winging it. Her script is scattered all over the stage.” His hand hovered over MIC 1. Improvising on live radio often ended badly. “I’m ready to switch off. We can always say the lines went down.”
Mrs. Tabor’s steady voice came over the backline, “Keep broadcasting.”
“Are you serious? Sara has a look about her. Calm, but—I don’t know—determined. She could say anything. I can’t predict how the pastor will react. Terminate the broadcast.”
“No.” The Snow Queen’s voice was firm. “Let’s see where this little drama takes us. We have three minutes until the choir’s medley. If listeners are riveted to the show, they’ll stay tuned even during the musical interlude. I can stop the transmission from here if the situation warrants.”
“Will comply.” This was nuts. Sara could well turn her father’s show into a train wreck, and Meredith was letting it happen. Why?
****
Sara held the microphone stand in her hand. She could sense a stirring in the room. Like them, listeners were sitting by their radios hearing every word. What kinds of letters will they write? How will they remember this day? “I’m unwed and with child. That’s why you sent me away. But why is banishing the daughter from home always the answer? Does it lessen the family’s sense of humiliation?”
Pastor leaned back on his heels. “You’re Beatrice, remember?” He chuckled into the microphone. “I’ve been told by the matron that Beatrice thinks she is someone else—”
“Mother is sitting in front of you. Perhaps she can remind you who I am.”
He grabbed the microphone stand. “Folks, this is my daughter. She is asking a question as old as time. Of course, the daughter has sinned. She has brought shame upon the family because of that sin. It’s also against the rules of society. The family has their reputation to protect, and the daughter must bear responsibility for her disgrace.”
“Why is that? I am your daughter. This is the time when I need the security of my family the most.”
McGurk crossed his arms. “You had to leave for the good of the family.”
“I see. Your reputation outweighs my safety. I’m sorry that I mean so little to you, Daddy.”
“Now is not the time to discuss family matters.”
“Now is a grand time. You’re not the only father with a less than perfect daughter. Families look to you for guidance. Talking about how to keep the family intact makes more sense than raving about the government.”
“Don’t be twisting my words against me. I don’t make up the rules. I follow them. Maybe you should have considered that before you…sinned.”
“We’re all sinners, Daddy. There’s a sin of pride―”
“That’s enough.” McGurk raised a fist, looking like a boxer ready to pounce. “You’ve always had a slippery tongue that never kept quiet. I came here to present this deserving place a radio and the means to provide indoor plumbing. Can we at least agree on that?”
“Those things aren’t important. You know why.”
Her father gaped at her, shaking his head. “You mentioned a need for a radio and plumbing in your guise as Beatrice. But first—”
“The county is closing us down,” she said. Seated in the back of the room, Wendell rose to his feet with an upraised fist.
Her father scanned his script. “We’ll talk more. But first let’s listen to a medley of hymns sung by the Joymakers, starting with ‘Every Time I Feel the Spirit.’ Ladies?”
Caught off guard, Priscilla, Beatrice, and the other two singers scrambled to their microphones while Jeremy collapsed on his stool, flipping switches. In a few moments, Priscilla led the choir in song.
Sara looked down at the script scattered on the
floor. No matter what happened here today, she would leave with her head held high.
****
Jeremy Gorham leaned his head against the control board waiting for his head to quit spinning. The last few minutes were like watching a verbal boxing match, all the while he was torn between cutting off the confrontation and seeing how the drama would end. For now at least, the pressure was off. “That was extraordinary,” Mrs. Tabor said on the backline. “Stand by. I need to consult with my husband.” For several seconds, muffled voices came over the line.
He had no idea how this was going to end. He was in a remote location with one—no, two—loose cannons at the microphone in what was turning into a radio drama without a script. So far, they were still keeping the show alive, but this was a runaway train. Sooner or later, they were bound to crash.
“You there, Mr. Gorham?”
“Yes, Mrs. Tabor.”
“We want to hear what Pastor is saying during the medley. Can you patch the feed from his microphone into the backline?”
“I can switch MIC 1 to my stand microphone. You won’t hear me, but I can still receive through the headset.”
“Get cracking.”
It took but a few seconds for Jeremy to splice the stage line to the stand microphone cord. He flicked open MIC 1.
****
Sara pursed her lips. Daddy was using Gladys, Marilyn, and Sylvia as bargaining chips again. She kept her voice low, not wanting her voice to be heard over the air. “What kind of deal are you talking about?”
“It’s simple. After the hymns, you apologize for your behavior. Say that you’re distressed and moody from being with child. I couldn’t care less what the reason is. Apologize and I’ll let your friends at the mailroom keep their jobs.”
“Daddy, you’re grasping at straws—you would fire my co-workers just to get back at me? If I wanted to destroy your program, these ladies—my friends—would lose their jobs anyway. Please, no more threats. You’ve already taken away the things I care most: my family and my work. You have nothing left to bargain with.”
“Then what is it you want?” There was an edge of fear in his voice.
“Spend an hour or two each day reading your listener mail. And change the content of your show. Forget the doings of government, and talk about the stories behind the letters. Set up a charity. It’s time to give back to your listeners what they have given to you.”
“You care about those hayseeds? Most of them can barely spell their own names.”
“Those listeners got you where you are today.”
“Nonsense. Next thing you’ll be telling me is you care about this dump.”
“I care about the people here. In two months, everyone has to leave. Most have nowhere to go.”
He chuckled. “So another dozen tramps are riding the rails. Why should I care?”
Sara bowed her head. “I will be one of them.”
The choir was starting their final refrain of “Time I Feel the Spirit.”
****
Jeremy cringed as Mrs. Tabor’s voice blared in the middle of his head. He turned down the volume. “I’ve heard enough. Patch everything as before. We’re proceeding with the broadcast. But we’re cancelling Pastor’s four minute talk before the half-hour station identification. There will be a minute commercial, and director?”
“Yes, Mrs. Tabor?”
“You will need to coax three minutes of music from the choir.”
“Is that advisable? Listeners will tune their dials to another station.”
“Noted, Mr. Gorham. Proceed.”
He sighed, setting the wires to their original positions. His pocket watch showed twenty-six minutes past ten. With a sixty-second commercial running, he hustled to the choir’s end of the stage. “Okay, ladies, I need for you to come up with three minutes of music. Whatever you got. Be ready on my cue.” He stepped to the other end of the stage. “Pastor, we’re cutting your second talk. Stay quiet. The second half-hour will remain unchanged.”
McGurk scowled but said nothing.
Jeremy hurried back to his console and retrieved his headset. “All set.”
“Good,” Meredith said. “I’m betting listeners will stay glued to this broadcast. Thirty seconds.”
“Choir ready.”
“Thank you. One last thing, keep all three mics open. Twenty seconds to air.”
“Is this wise? What if Pastor talks during the hymn?”
“We’re aware of that. Fifteen seconds. It won’t be the first time an emcee destroys his career because he thought his microphone was dead.”
“But nobody’s done it on purpose.”
“Live in five. Don’t be so sure.”
Jeremy counted down using hand signals and then motioned for the choir to begin. The four singers huddled around their microphones and sang “It Is Well with My Soul.”
All three microphones were on. MIC 2, and 3 registered sound. MIC 1 remained silent.
****
Sara stretched her shoulders while standing on stage. Sparring with her father was tiresome. He would not budge from his position. If only this broadcast would end. In two months, her fellow residents would have to leave. What will happen to the house after that? A farmer could make use of the structure. Or it may sit abandoned and left to rot. In fifty years nothing would be left but a limestone hulk: porch rotted away, doors gone, and windows broken. A poor ending indeed.
She smiled at the irony.
“What are you grinning about?” Her father had given up all pretense of smiling. He glowered like an old man who had lost all joy in life.
“I was thinking of the people living here. Everyone will soon have to leave. A public auction will take place a month later. You could use the plumbing money as a charity for the residents when they move on.”
“Let the county deal with them. I’m still going through with the presentation. With a little luck, I’ll still be able to keep my money. No reason to spend good cash on an empty building.”
Sara averted her eyes from the audience. “And you’re saying no to the charity?”
“You know the answer to that question. I entertain. If it makes you feel good playing nursemaid, then find yourself a sugar daddy who cares.”
Sara gave her father a sideways glance. “Why did you really come here? You could have had the radio delivered. Or wired the money like you’ve done in the past. Why go to all this trouble?”
“For my debut. That’s always been my goal.”
Sara flicked a hand, dismissing the notion. “That’s not a goal. That’s an excuse. No, there’s got to be another reason.”
Her father inclined his head. “Well, it did cost me a pretty penny to make this show possible. Call it overhead expenses. In the end, though, my investment should pay off.”
Sara blinked. “What do you mean?”
McGurk smiled, leaning close. “With a national broadcast, the donations will pour in. All tax-free cash—day after day, week after week. When the flow slows down, I’ll find another worthy cause to hoist up the flagpole, and the donations will fall again like rain. In the end I can be my own sponsor. Buy airtime on any network I like. Endorse the right people for public office—for a moderate fee, of course.”
“So you’ll con your listeners into sending more money?”
“Before you get ideas about bringing me down, think about your position. You wrote the letter that brought me here. And you are standing on stage with me pretending to be someone else. You’re part of the plan. Hell, you made the plan. I’ve couldn’t have done it without you.”
The boldness of his scheme stunned her. Sara raised her hand to slap him.
McGurk snatched her hand in his large fist as if he anticipated her move. Sara gasped from the wrenching of her arm. He squeezed.
Then the pain began.
****
A harsh grating sound erupted between Jeremy’s ears. Aww! Gritting his teeth, he yanked off the headset. On the front row, a small thick-necked boy wi
th curly brown, and too-big trousers stood. He shuffled forward, bumping his way through the car batteries in front of him. On stage, Pastor gripped Sara’s hand in his larger fist. He should go help her, but Mrs. Tabor was demanding his attention. No one in the audience except the boy rose to advance on the stage. It was as if the on-the-air light held them in check. On stage, the chubby kid gazed up at pastor, then glanced at Sara.
Then, without a word, he lowered his head and charged.
****
Tears flowed down Sara’s cheeks. The bones in her hands were being crushed. “Please. Stop.”
“Promise you’ll remain quiet and far away. Don’t come home for a year. Make it two.”
“Anything.” She groaned.
“I have your word?”
Sara could only nod. Through bleary eyes images were fuzzy. A small figure stood looking at her. Was that Patrick? He put his head down. She’d never seen him move so fast. A streak of brown hair brushed passed her and rammed into her father, tipping over the microphone and knocking her father on his back.
She shook her hand. Oh, the relief.
“Get this moron off of me!” Daddy was red-faced, slapping at Patrick who sat on his chest.
Members of the choir shrieked. Chairs fell backward. People rushed the stage. Wendell drew Patrick off her father. Moments later, Mr. Bigger pulled Daddy to his feet and assisted him to a chair. He took a step sideways before sitting and held a palm to his temple.
“Let’s see that hand.” Mrs. Eisner led her to an empty seat. With Mother, Jason and Michael huddled around her, the matron felt her fingers and wrist. “I’ll fix you an ice towel. Don’t think anything is broken.” With that, she disappeared.
“Who was that?” Michael asked.
“A friend.” Sara wiped moist eyes. She was going to miss her new friends.
The room seemed strangely quiet. Jeremy wasn’t at his post by the control board. Instead, he was staring at the ceiling, his headset around his neck.
“Who was that little guy?” Michael asked.
Sara shushed him, her attention riveted on her father. Daddy rose from his chair. Mopping his brow, he tottered over to the engineer. “Why aren’t you getting these people back to their seats? We got a program to finish.”