Prologue, Dust and Roses, Part I

I'm still revising Dust and Roses. Part of it, though, has seen the light of day already. Late last fall, on a whim, I submitted the first chapter to the Kansas Writer's Association contest. It got second place with a score of 98 out of a 100. I was happy. First time out of the gate and I found I could compete with other writers. My weakest area was mechanics. So I'll probably need to hire a proof reader/editor before it is time to send my baby out into the world.

Currently I'm revising my last third of the story. This is where Sara is hit with a double whammy and she must make that critical decision that will bring on the climax. That "we-will-stay-and-face-the-Deathstar"decision-making moment. I'm still reading those "craft of writing" books, but there is going to be a time when I'll have to say enough is enough and send this out to Kindle and Create Space. There is another story stirring that I'm antsy to get into. Anyway, here is a taste. Enjoy.

Dust and Roses, a Kansas History novel

By Wes Brummer

“Affluence, unless stimulated by a keen sense of imagination forms but the vaguest notion of the practical strain of poverty.”

     --Edith Wharton, The House of Mirth, 1905

 

As we come marching, marching in the beauty of the day,

A million darkened kitchens, a thousand mill lofts gray,

Are touched with all the radiance that a sudden sun discloses,

For the people hear us singing: "Bread and roses! Bread and roses!"

 

As we come marching, marching, we battle too for men,

For they are women's children, and we mother them again.

Our lives shall not be sweated from birth until life closes;

Hearts starve as well as bodies; give us bread, but give us roses!

 

As we come marching, marching, unnumbered women dead

Go crying through our singing their ancient cry for bread.

Small art and love and beauty their drudging spirits knew.

Yes, it is bread we fight for -- but we fight for roses, too!

As we come marching, marching, we bring the greater days.

The rising of the women means the rising of the race.

No more the drudge and idler -- ten that toil where one reposes,

But a sharing of life's glories: Bread and roses! Bread and roses!

     --protest poem originating from the Lawrence, Maryland, Textile Strike of 1912,

     Wikipedia article “Bread and Roses.”

 

PRELUDE  Joshua County Farm, April 7, 1935

     Beatrice Mullens sat on her perch outside the loft window listening to the voice in her head. It was Sally. Today, Sally was being annoyingly persistent. Come on Bee. You can do this. Put your arms down by your side and push off. It’s easy. It will be like flying. A rush of wind, and then we can be together. Push off when I say.

     Sally promised it would be fun. Bee had to agree. Climbing up to the attic was a delicious idea. No one knew she was here. The view was enormous. She could see everything from up here, but no one could see her. It was a thrill to open the heavy window, throw back the shutters, then climb out onto the ledge. There was danger here. She could fall. That was the point. Eternity was seconds away.

     Except now she was freezing. The thrill was gone. She just wanted to finish it.

     Bee placed her hands on the wind battered, unpainted wood. She was ready. The thin muscles of her arms tensed. She was about to push off.

     Wait! Not yet. You’re spoiling it! Sally scolded her. You stupid creature. I give the word. Not you. Now pick the last thing you want to see.

     Bee hung her head. She hated to be “talked to” by Sally. A slight wind brushed her thin blonde hair and ruffled her flour sack dress. Her bare feet dangled in space high over the front porch roof far below. She would have to push hard to clear it. She wondered if it mattered.

     She looked for something worthwhile to see. In front of the porch was a semi-circle path that led to the main road. This was Miller Road. It looked so small from up here. It made Bee dizzy. She could just slip off now, but Sally would be angry. Bee did not want to disappoint Sally. And she absolutely did not want to anger Sally. Sally could be scary-mean when she was mad.

     Bee shifted her gaze to the bleak horizon ahead. A solid blanket of clouds turned the flat landscape into dreary tones of gray. Little stirred. There was some blowing dust on the road reaching south. This was South Farm Road. She saw the name on a sign once. It joined Miller Road just to the east of the tenant house. The dust streaked toward her. A dot resolved itself into an automobile. It was long and silver with a sloping box-like roof. The rattling engine screeched in protest as the driver slammed on the brakes. The car swerved to the side of the dirt road, clattering to a halt amid a cloud of dust. As the dust cleared, Bee could hear a man and woman shouting, but it was hard to make out the words. Then she heard a piercing scream.

     A man jumped out of the car. He was young and well dressed, wearing a wide-brimmed Panama hat. He was very handsome and very, very angry. He slammed his door, walked around and yanked open the passenger door. A young woman fell on to the dead grass, landing on her side. She screamed again in an agonized burst of rage and hurt. The young man stood over her, one fist raised, as if he would pummel her again. Then he must have thought better of it. He reached into the back seat, pulled out a suitcase, and threw it down beside her. Slowly, the man turned to look at the fortress-like house. He looked up at Beatrice.

     Bee sat, unmoving. What will he do? Am I next? What is Sally thinking? The man stood, watching her, waiting. Bee stared back. Each examined the other. Slowly, the man began to smile. Then he did the oddest thing. He made a grand gesture of tipping his hat, sweeping his arm, and bowing as if greeting her at a ball. He held the bow for a long moment. He swept his arm back up, tipping his hat in a jaunty angle. He then got in his car, turned around,  and roared off.

     Silence returned. Bee watched for movement from the woman. She lay tightly curled up. She raised her head, looking to the house. Beatrice noted her condition: red rimmed eyes, blood seeping from nose and lip, hair askew, her once nice dress torn and covered dead grass and dust.. Sally, what do I do? But Sally wasn’t answering. She was gone.

     Bee shifted her position, conscious of her danger. With clumsy effort, she climbed back into the window. She tried to closed the shutters, but the hook would not reach the eye bolt. She did manage to close the window, then she made her way down from the attic.

     Bee peeked out of the hatch and looked down into the infirmary. No one was there. She lowered herself from the hatch in the ceiling onto a massive linen closet. She then carefully replaced the square attic board. She climbed down from the stout cabinet, reaching into a drawer. Bee pulled out her apron, putting it on. She then retrieved a slate, chalk, and a homemade rag doll. Sally was a stuffed burlap sack with a tied off lump for a head, red yarn for hair, stitches for eyes and mouth, and knots for limbs. Bee placed the items in her apron pocket. With Sally tucked away, she was ready to find the matron. Miss Gloria would know what to do.

     Gloria Eisner sat in the common room, trying to teach Patrick how to sew on a button. “But first, you need to know how to thread a needle.” Gloria held up a sewing needle in one hand and a spool of heavy black thread in the other.

     Patrick Arnesdorff rolled his eyes. He was a thickset youth with short arms and a mop of unruly brown hair. He squinted at the needle. Dr. Zwiefel said he needed glasses. “But I don’t have to know this, Miss Gloria. Can’t you do it?”

     “I can, Patrick, but you need to learn this for yourself.” Gloria was adamant. “You’ve got two buttons missing from this shirt. Watch and I’ll sew the first button. You do the second.” With practiced ease, Gloria threaded the needle and sewed a on large white button.

     “It’s a little bigger than the rest, but at least all the buttons are white. Now it’s your turn.”

     Patrick was lost. “You went way too fast, Miss Gloria. I don’t think I can do that. If you could do the second one for me, you can double my chores. I don’t mind.”

     “Patrick, you’re hopeless. People won't always be around. You can't keep making excuses.”

     Gloria started on the second button. Patrick turned his head and carefully breathed a sigh of relief. Beatrice approached them with her chalkboard out-stretched. Patrick tried to make out the letters.

     “Um … Miss Gloria? Beatrice has something.”

     Gloria glanced up. Beatrice looked even more somber than usual, then she saw the words, GIRL ON SOUTH FARM ROAD – HURT.

     Gloria stood up, all fifty-nine inches of her/ Piercing grey eyes focused on the two young inmates. “Patrick, I want you to run out to South Road. Pretend like your eyes are cameras. Look for a young lady.. Then get back here as fast as you can. Tell me what you saw. Beatrice, I want you to ring the dinner bell three times. Stop. Take a breath. Then ring three times again. Keep doing that until Mr. Eisner comes. Show him what you wrote. I’m getting my medical bag.” Patrick and Beatrice stood staring at Gloria, wide-eyed.

     “Get moving. Now.”

     Both took off. Patrick ran out the front door and down the porch steps. Beatrice made her way through the big tenant house to the back porch where the cast iron dinner bell hung. Gloria went to the pantry between kitchen and dining room. She found her first aid kit, and took it into the common room. She opened the satchel, taking careful note of the most useful item: bandages, cotton balls, alcohol, gauze, scissors, tape, aspirin ….

     Bong. Bong. Bong. The resonant old bell peeled away. The front door burst open. Patrick raced in, breathless from running. “There’s a girl by the road. She looks like a movie star. She’s bleeding and all curled up.”

     Gloria finished her inventory. “Now, Patrick, go to the kitchen and have Mr. Wheatley put on some water to boil. Then go upstairs and get some clean towels. They’re in the hallway linen closet. Go now.” Patrick took off again, this time towards the back of the house.

     The bell quit ringing. Gloria heard James’ loud voice questioning Beatrice. That was a waste of time. “Gloria? Gloria! What’s going on?”

     James Eisner was a big man who could make himself be heard from one end of the farm to the other. He thundered into the common room. Other inmates showed up as well. Gloria closed her bag. Time was wasting.

     “A girl is lying out on South Road. She’s injured. We need to bring her in. I believe there’s a litter upstairs in the infirmary.”

     “It’s in the storeroom. I’ll get it. Anything else?”

     Gloria considered, “No. I’m going out now. Beatrice, you’re barefoot. Stay inside. Patrick, bring a wet towel.” Without another word, Gloria took her bag and headed for the front door, grabbing a coat from the entry way.

     She cut across the empty field, not bothering to follow the road. She reached the huddled shape, knelt down and cradled the girl’s head in her lap. She was surprisingly beautiful with dark brown hair. It was full, curly, and excessively long. Probably spends a lot of time on it. With practiced fingers, Gloria looked for a pulse. The girl was shaking with cold and possible shock, but her pulse was strong. Gloria checked for broken bones. A loud groan escaped from the girl’s cracked lips when Gloria ran her hands over her left side. Could be cracked or bruised ribs. There was something else. Gloria bent down to the girl’s ear.

     “Help is coming, child. We will get you in where it’s warm.” The girl opened her eyes. She had striking brown eyes thanks to those dark brows. Gloria wiped tangled hair from her pale face. She was trying to say something. Gloria placed her ear to her lips. “Say it again, honey.” Gloria listened, holding her breath.

     Her single word was almost a sigh. “Baby.”