Furnace Mountain: or The Day President Roosevelt Came to Town

by Rebecca Patrick-Howard

  Donald Maynard had seen him in the school that morning. He’d been swinging but when he’d seen Sam walking importantly toward the school with his can and brush he’d asked if he could help. Sam had lent him his other brush and they’d painted around the windows for an hour, until Donald’s daddy had come and got him.

  He figured that maybe Donald wanted to be known for something, too.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  SOME DAYS, Homer Dyer wished he could beat his head against the side of the building. This was one of those days.

  The news was good. In six weeks, a committee was coming to look at Furnace Mountain as the possible site for the Hartside Morgan Factory. Of course, they were also looking in Texas and South Dakota, but Homer was at peace with that. He was certain that once they visited the town and saw that the hard workers they could employ here were top-notch, they wouldn’t even dream of putting in the factory someplace else. That wasn’t the problem.

  The $50,000 upfront fee to install the factory was the problem.

  Once you reached a certain amount of money, anything over that might as well be a million bucks. For most folks, that point was very, very low. Homer himself did without most of the time. So did everyone else in Furnace Mountain. There had been money, real money, there at one time but not anymore. There wasn’t a person in the county who had access to $50,000–not even the Lewises. If everyone in the county donated every cent they had he figured they’d still be a few thousand short.

  He knew that Hartside had been hit hard. The cotton shortage had seen to that, even before the stock market fiasco. On the upside, their quality work clothes gave them an edge. Despite how it often felt, people were still working. And Homer believed those that weren’t would eventually be working again. They needed warm clothes that didn’t fall apart the first time they took a fall or the rain came pouring down. They needed uniforms. Homer knew a good investment when he saw one.

  Once the economy improved, people would be buying more. Hartside was a good company and one that people trusted. It would do fine. The employees working for it would have good, stable jobs.

  He wanted that factory to come to Furnace Mountain so bad he could taste the desire.

  The jobs it would bring would help. Hartside estimated that in the first year alone the plant could employ as many as seventy-five. That wasn’t taking the building of the factory into consideration at all. While it couldn’t employ everyone in town, it sure would help out a lot of folks.

  It wasn’t just those numbers, though, that got Homer’s blood pumping. Once one company came and saw success, others would follow. Shops would open, diners would come, schools would be built–things would change.

  Furnace Mountain had always landed on its feet, but that didn’t mean it didn’t occasionally need help getting up righted. The Lord helped those who helped themselves. If the people of Furnace Mountain wanted change, they’d have to show good faith.

  “President’s gonna come and do good things for us,” Homer heard on a daily basis.

  Sometimes followed by, “Aw, hell, president don’t care for people like us. Nobody in Washington or New York City or any of those places has ever done anything for us that didn’t cause trouble.”

  Homer knew that some would be resistant. Furnace Mountain had always been reliant on its natural resources in one way or another. Even the railroad had snaked through this part of the state because of its geographical attributes.

  A factory was something else. Outsiders were something else. Furnace Mountain had been taken advantage of by many a person who thought they could profit from her, only to leave her once they’d procured all they could.

  Homer thought long and hard about this. Finally, he called in Louella.

  “Are you talking a bribe, Homer?” she asked suspiciously. “Why should we have to pay to bring them here?”

  “Well, Louella, it’s not so much a bribe as an investment. Whoever gets the factory is going to have to build it. The money’s for a stock subscription. It will finance the opening of a new plant. Hell, Lou, Hartside Morgan is taking a chance here. They don’t rightly have that kind of money upfront to build to begin with. It would be a mutual chance.”

  Louella was still not convinced.

  “I tell you this, I think it will work no matter where they build it, so why not let it benefit us? Those overalls are popular. The president started that program, the one building things, and it’s going to come here. There will be new buildings, maybe even new bridges. People are going to work again. And when they do, they’re going to need work clothes.”

  This, Louella could get on board with. “Do you honestly think the WPA will come here?”

  Homer nodded. “It will. I’ve already heard of courthouses and schools being built. You know eventually we’re going to get that health department everybody else has. And our schools will be consolidated. That right there means new buildings. People have to build them, don’t they?”

  Still not persuaded, Louella thought hard. “What makes you think when people start earning money they’re going to spend them on britches and dungarees?”

  “Eventually, they start spending money on what they want. And what people will want are clothes they can move around in.”

  “Well,” she conceded. “You might be right about that. I do know that there are times I wish I could buy something foolish again and work clothes aren’t foolish. But with all that being said, we’re still not going to convince anyone in town to donate that kind of money. Nobody has it.”

  “I’m studying on a committee…”

  “A committee of what?”

  “A committee of concerned citizens. There are some smart people in this town. If we could make everyone think it was their idea then maybe the money could be found.”

  “Homer–”

  “It could!” Of course, he wasn’t sure.

  “I can see that you’re set on this so why don’t I offer another suggestion? Instead of trying to find people to come together for this, why not take this to people who already have an agenda?”

  “Who?” And then it dawned on Homer, an obvious choice he hadn’t considered. “The Kiwanis Club. This would be for them.”

  “Yes,” Louella smiled. “I would think it would.”

  ***

  Nicholas was proud of the fact that his father had asked him to help at the paper. He’d never had much to do with the newspaper itself, but he liked the details of the industry. The ink, the machines, the proofing, the organization, the rituals–all of these things appealed to Nicholas’ structured way of thinking.

  Today, it was proofing. Writing was not one of Nicholas’ strong suits, but he could catch a grammatical error and spelling mistake a mile away. His father had someone who usually did those things but he was gone to Frankfort for the day and with the newspaper coming out the next morning it had to be done quickly.

  Settling back on the wooden bench, Nicholas began skimming over the stories for the week ahead. He was lucky that the paper only came out once a week because doing this on a daily basis would have been asking a lot. He didn’t consider the fact that it was usually his father’s job.

  Nicholas was not one who typically kept up with current events–only the ones that interested him and he was certainly not interested in the gossip element of the paper. Still, the words themselves fascinated him. The shape of the words, the way they flowed, and the structure of the columns were things that he liked and found interesting. He also liked the smallness; the fact that an entire story could be told in just a few lines in a small space appealed to his economical sensibilities.

  Sometimes Alice talked too much. She would often go on and one about something that she had read or seen and he often found himself tuning her out. She was the one that enjoyed hearing about current events, the one up-to-date on news’ stories; she always knew what was going on in town. She had opinions on everything from politics to the church. Her opinions made his head swim.

  She was
just so passionate. It was one of her quirks that he found attractive and exhausting at the same time. Alice could never just be.

  Nicholas wondered how she might have done if she had the means or desire to leave Furnace Mountain like him. It angered him, sometimes, to think that she couldn’t and then made him even angrier when he realized that she didn’t really even want to.

  Who would want to stay around here, he thought haughtily to himself. He looked out the newspaper office’s dusty window and snorted. There was nothing!

  Maybe there was when they were children, but they weren’t children anymore. They were almost adults. Wasn’t it time to do things with their lives?

  It would never in a hundred years have crossed Nicholas’ mind to take Alice with him. He loved her but those feelings were not examined in detail or scope. Marriage was never on the table. He couldn’t even imagine entertaining a romantic relationship with her. Oh, he had thought about it in a theoretical sense, but putting it into practice was something else entirely. He understood human physiology and biology and knew about urges and the human body but he’d always assumed that romantic relationships were meant for other people–those without initiative or aspirations. Being in love seemed childish and not something in which he wished to be involved.

  Yet…with her comforting embraces and sweet ways and soft body, Alice confused him. Sometimes it made him angry.

  Nicholas had never felt comfortable at home. His parents’ house was not one filled with laughter or warmth of any kind. His parents’ affections remained undemonstrated towards him and each other. Sometimes, Alice threw her arms around him to tease him, or when she was happy. He felt awkward those times, yet he knew she cared. She held his hand, mostly when she was scared, and he had once let his lips brush against her hair. It had tickled his nose and his belly in a good way.

  More importantly, she listened to him. She asked questions and prodded and he felt like what he had to say meant something to her.

  He hoped that when he did decide to marry and settle down, he would find someone just like her.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  ALICE APPROACHED HER FATHER with apprehension. He’d been home for a solid week and hadn’t once reeked of the drink. He was sitting outside under her tree, however, and looked very far away. She didn’t want to anger him or disturb his peace.

  “Daddy?” her voice was soft and tentative. She wasn’t sure he’d heard her, for he didn’t react, so she repeated his name, this time louder. “Daddy?”

  “I heard you the first time,” he muttered. His eyes were not closed, but his breath was slow and even; his chest rose and fell with the gentle rhythm of someone sleeping.

  “I, um, I wanted to talk to you about something,” she began. She’d planned on standing, but now she wasn’t certain that her shaky legs could hold her. The grass was warm and dry from the sun so she lowered herself and sat a few feet from where he leaned against the weeping willow. “Are you busy?”

  “Do I look it?” he snapped.

  “O-oh,” she stuttered, feeling herself blush. “Well, anyhow, I wanted to ask you about building something.”

  He turned his head and really looked at her for the first time since she’d approached. “I can’t build nothing. Not for you or anyone else.”

  “But you see,” she hurriedly continued, “there’s something I think we need. You know how the president of the United States is coming here?”

  She actually wasn’t sure that he knew; they hadn’t discussed it in the slightest. When he gave a slight nod, however, she took that as a good sign.

  “Okay, well, I don’t know if you’re aware of this, but he had polio and now he has trouble walking. I was thinking that if you could build him a wheelchair, a beautiful chair, that it would be a respectful thing for him to have when he gets off the train.”

  Robert turned and looked at her with wide, amused eyes. “You want me to make a wheelchair for our president? The gimp?”

  “Well, I know he has one, but this could be a special one. One like he’s never seen–like only you could build! And then we’d present it to him on the platform and…”

  Now that the words were out of her mouth she felt foolish.

  It wasn’t a good idea after all, she told herself. It was a terrible idea. Her father wasn’t going to build a beautiful wheelchair; President Roosevelt wasn’t going to want one.

  Alice jumped up without warning. “Never mind,” she wept with humiliation. “It was a foolish idea anyway. I’m just a foolish girl!”

  With that, she turned and ran into the house.

  ***

  Donald Maynard waited on a stump across the road from the stores, watching the train yard. Off in the distance, an engine slowly chugged down the rails, sputtering and clanking. Its smoke billowed high, rising into the sky and dissipating in the trees. He watched as it slowed down at the old station, its brakes screeching to a slow halt. Although the doors opened, nobody got on or off. After a couple of minutes, the doors shut and the train took off again, gathering speed until it disappeared around what the people around there called Bear Mountain and he could see nothing but trees still moving by the rails in its wake.

  The little boy, Sam, who everyone talked about was standing on the new platform with one of the men. The big man had his sweaty arm rested on Sam’s skinny shoulder and both were laughing. Sam looked like a dandy in his clean shirt and cord knickers with his green tweed Ivy Cap perched on his head. The cap was too big really, but he looked smart in it. Donald had always wanted a cap like that. Someone had brought his mama some flour sacks and she’d made him over a new shirt with it. He’d been proud of it when he’d first come to town that morning. He’d felt as good as Sam or anyone of them other boys and had strutted down the street, feeling its soft material up against his skin and smiling But now he just felt dumb.

  “Nice to meeetcha,” Sam had said, sticking out his hand to shake the first time Donald had met him. He’d had a real polite smile as he’d also held out his hand to Donald’s mama and daddy, too.

  Donald didn’t care for Sam. He had tried to like him but Sam was too nice, too polite, and too quiet. Donald had never been any of those things.

  Donald was a good listener, though, and had heard things about Sam and his family. He knew that his daddy was dead and his brother had gone up to Ohio for work. He knew people felt sorry for him.

  Well, Donald felt sorry for himself. At least Sam had a house to live in. He didn’t have to sleep in no barn. At least he had a school to go to and friends to play with and a pretty teacher who smiled at him and smelled clean. Donald couldn’t remember the last time his mother smelled clean, and he missed his school so bad sometimes it hurt his belly to think of it.

  He’s making them signs, too, Donald thought meanly to himself. I hope they tear up and the president hates them.

  Donald had seen them inside the schoolhouse. Sam was a good artist, Donald could admit that, but it was unfair that Sam’s signs were going to be where everyone could see them.

  Maybe if I went to school like Sam I could have written that letter to the president, Donald thought.

  “Maybe I could be the one painting them letters on the sign right now,” he declared. He picked up a loose rock and threw in on the ground just as hard as he could.

  In another time, Donald might have liked to have lived in Furnace Mountain. But now…he just wasn’t so sure. The people here just didn’t understand. He’d seen a lot of badness, and this town wasn’t as bad as it thought it was. Sure, it didn’t have nothing to do and nowhere to go, but folks still did some things. There wasn’t no hobo camps in the freight yards like there’d been in other places. Those had scared him–men with hollow eyes and stale breaths and even little kids sometimes with sores on their feet and heads itchy with fleas. This town didn’t know anything about that.

  Donald didn’t like to think about it, but in the last town they’d seen a body beside the track while they were walking. It was a wom
an and her dress was pulled up to her chest; her bloomers were twisted and stained and dirty from the rain and sun. She was stiff and white as snow, and her neck had been at some awful angle. They’d all three seen it, but nobody said anything about it so they kept walking.

  Then there had been that town where the men had yelled at them and thrown something at them. He didn’t know what it was. He felt it hit him in the side but he kept his head down and walked on. That’s when he’d learned not to look up. Later, his daddy had talked to him about that.

  “Son,” he’d said to him that night. They were sleeping under a tree in a farmer’s field, eating the apples on the ground that weren’t rotten and didn’t have worms. “Some folks are scared of people like us. They think we’re going to come in and take their jobs or food or steal or do something bad.”

  “But Daddy,” he had protested, “I’m not gonna do nothing bad.” He was too tired to do anything bad.

  “I know son, but that’s why it’s called ‘fear’–because people are afraid of things they don’t know or understand.”

  In the corner of the stall where he was sleeping, Donald had dragged in a big log and made himself a table. He’d also fashioned a cot of sorts from hay and birch branches. Except for the stench of the mule and horses he could almost pretend it was a real bedroom. It was the first time he’d had any privacy in months and it wasn’t so bad. Most of the time. He reckoned Sam had a real bed and maybe even a bedroom. Probably ate at a table and everything.

  He didn’t like him one bit.

  ***

  Marianne stood on the front steps, apple pie in hand, swatting at the wasp that flew in circles around her head. She’d had to watch where she stepped because many of the floorboards were rotting through. She was surprised how poorly the house looked from the outside. Some real work needed to be done on it. The screen door was closed but she could see inside. The small house was compact, but orderly. A kitchen table peeked through the shadows down a small hallway and as she knocked again she leaned forward and peered into the darkness.