Room for Hope

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  His knees gave way, and Arthur dropped into the closest chair. Of course! That explained why he’d thought young Charley looked vaguely familiar. The boy had Warren’s hair, eyes, and solid build. Over the years he’d heard tell of men, mostly railroad men, who had families all up and down the line. But he never would have suspected it of his very own neighbor. Poor Mrs. Shilling. How could she even hold up her head, knowing her husband was a philanderer?

  An unexpected coil of protectiveness wound itself through him. Over the past weeks even though she resisted his gestures of friendship, he’d begun to admire her. He didn’t understand why she held with such tenacity to that mercantile, but he respected her for working so hard. She’d even won his regard by giving food to those two ragtag men the sheriff feared might have come back and stolen her money.

  Even if she’d known they would rob her blind, he suspected she still would have handed the food over. That’s the kind of woman she was—kind and giving and unselfish. Kind enough even to open her home to her husband’s children by another woman. Why, Mrs. Shilling was exactly the kind of woman he would seek if—

  Arthur stood so abruptly his back popped. What was he doing now, mooning over her? He straightened his tie beneath his chin, smoothed down his vest, and cleared his throat. He’d set out to win the mercantile from her, not be won by her. He needed to reevaluate his motives and his method.

  The clock mounted on the bank tower across the street showed two minutes until five. Close enough to lock up for the evening. He pulled the shades, locked the door, and turned out the lights. Instead of going home, he entered his little office and opened his books for an end-of-the-month evaluation.

  October sales had been slow, but by unloading a few of his older pieces to a warehouse in Topeka, he’d still squeaked out a profit. He stared at the number, dollar signs flashing in the back of his brain. Once again Bud Shilling’s voice swooped in—“you’re a moneygrubber.”

  Arthur smacked the book closed and announced to the empty room, “Better a moneygrubber than a philandering scoundrel.” But somehow the statement didn’t make him feel better. A philanderer was motivated by lust. And a moneygrubber was, too.

  Neva

  Bud’s empty chair taunted Neva during supper. Where was he? The entire month of October had been mild, but over the day an increasingly colder and stronger wind had stirred, promising a chilly night. He had run out the door with his jacket but no hat, no gloves, no scarf. She fully expected him to skulk through the door when the supper hour arrived, but they’d been at the table for thirty minutes already, and still no Bud.

  Dear Lord, don’t let him have hopped a train…

  The prayer formed in her head without conscious thought, and she released a gasp as it took shape. Surely Bud wouldn’t—

  “Momma, what’s wrong?” Worry pinching her brow, Belle gazed at Neva.

  Charley and Cassie paused in pushing their stewed tomatoes around on their plates and sent furtive glances from Belle to Neva. Only Adeline continued happily eating. Or, rather, smashing her tomatoes into a lumpy paste with the back of her fork.

  Neva had never allowed her children to play with food, but she didn’t scold the child. Belle’s question still hung in the room, unanswered, and Neva decided to give an honest response in the hope it might communicate the seriousness of running away to Charley. “I’m very worried about your brother. I don’t know where he is, and I don’t know if he’s coming back.”

  Belle reached out and covered Neva’s wrist with her warm fingers. “Of course he’ll come back. He’s just”—she flicked a look across the table at Charley and Cassie—“upset. When he calms down, he’ll come home.”

  “Wh-why’s he upset?”

  Neva couldn’t bring herself to answer Charley’s question. She rose. “It looks as though everyone is finished eating. I’ll clear the table. Belle, would you help the children prepare for bed?”

  Charley’s lower lip poked out, but he slid out of his chair and headed for the hallway without a word of argument. Belle lifted Adeline from her chair, and Cassie followed Belle from the dining room, leaving Neva alone. She gathered the dishes, battling the desire to cry loud and long until every bit of suppressed emotion found release.

  She hadn’t allowed herself to cry when she received the news of Warren’s death. Nor had she cried at his memorial service. She wanted to be strong for her children. But now Bud was missing. Mr. Caudel had threatened her, then asked questions about her belongings that left her confused and concerned. Her strength was waning, and if she knew no one would overhear, she would wail at the top of her lungs.

  She slapped the plates onto the washstand and pounded to the head of the bedroom hallway. “Belle?”

  Her daughter poked her head from the girls’ room.

  “Leave the dishes. I’ll wash them when I return.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Out.” She turned and headed for the staircase. Belle would assume her mother was hunting for Bud, and for the moment Neva would allow the misconception. She would explode if she didn’t give vent to the storm raging within her.

  She snatched her shawl from a hook near the back door and stepped into the yard. The wind tugged at the woven fabric, nearly ripping it from her hands, but she held tight and managed to unlock the cellar door with one hand. Opening it proved tricky given the strength of the cold breeze pushing against it, and she grunted with exertion. She created an opening large enough to step through and hurried down the steps, allowing the heavy door to slam into the frame above her.

  Immediately she was plunged into darkness, but she didn’t care. She felt her way along the cool dirt wall past the storage shelves to the small table and bench tucked in the far corner. By the time she sank onto the bench, her eyes had adjusted enough to make out murky shadows. She set her gaze on the sturdy overhead beams keeping the earth from collapsing into the cellar and pulled in a shuddering breath. As her air released, a racking sob came with it. Then another, and another, her body jerking with each mighty heave.

  She wailed, and she socked the air with her fists, and she screeched out her hurt and fears and frustrations to the sturdy walls, which swallowed the sounds and kept them secret. She cried until her voice was hoarse and her chest ached, and then she sagged over her lap and buried her face in her apron skirt.

  The wind’s whistle crept through the cracks around the cellar door, but otherwise the space was silent. Almost ethereal in its quiet. For a moment Neva considered staying down here all night, away from the mercantile and its responsibilities, away from her children, who depended on her, away from Warren’s children, who were not a gift no matter what she’d tried to tell Bud and Belle, away from the uneasy feelings the sheriff’s questions had raised. But, in time, reality descended. She couldn’t stay hidden away. Her business and the children needed her.

  She sat upright, wiped her face clean with the apron, and forced her weak legs to straighten. She inched her way to the stairs, praying as she went that she’d find Bud in the house, dipping into the pork roast and potatoes. After securing the cellar door with its padlock, Neva hurried into the house and up the stairs. Approaching footfalls from the upstairs hall gave her heart a hopeful lift. She burst around the corner, her son’s name hovering on her lips.

  Belle met her instead. “You’re back. Did you find Bud?”

  The hope departed in a swoosh that left Neva’s heart bruised. “No. He hasn’t returned?”

  Belle shook her head. “But the children are in bed. Charley’s reading one of Bud’s dime novels—he said he wasn’t sleepy. But Cassie and Adeline are already asleep. I read them a story and sang a song. Then I gave them each a good-night kiss, and they drifted right off.”

  Neva pulled Belle into her embrace. “You’re going to make a wonderful mother someday, sweetheart. Thank you for taking such good care of the little girls.”

  Belle rested her head on Neva’s shoulder. “It’s not so hard.” She pulled loose and s
miled sweetly at Neva. “Somehow your good-night kiss at the end of the day always made it easy for me to drift off to sleep. So I just do for them what you used to do for me.”

  Neva gave a start. Belle’s innocent comment—“used to do”—stabbed like a knife. She knew exactly when she’d given up the practice of entering the children’s room at bedtime and giving them a kiss, praying with them, and whispering wishes for pleasant dreams. The same day Jesse Caudel delivered Charley, Cassie, and Adeline to her back doorstep. She’d gone an entire month without kissing her children good night so she wouldn’t feel obligated to bestow the same treatment on Warren’s offspring. But she’d stolen something precious from Bud and Belle.

  A second bout of tears threatened.

  “Momma, I know you’re worried about Bud.” Belle slipped her arms around Neva’s waist and hugged her tight. “Why don’t you ask Sheriff Caudel to look for him? He has a truck, so he can cover more area than you could walking.”

  It would be humiliating to confess that another child had run away from her today, but Belle’s idea was sound. She needed help, and the sheriff was the most sensible choice.

  “I’ll do the dishes for you, and while I wash, I’ll pray for Bud to come home.”

  Neva kissed Belle’s temple, pressing her lips to her daughter’s sweet-smelling hair for several seconds before letting go. “Thank you. I’ll lock the door behind me.” She pointed at Belle, frowning. “You stay inside until I return.”

  “Of course, Momma.” Belle hurried around the corner.

  Neva stood in the empty hallway, staring at the doorway where Belle had disappeared. She should apologize. She’d spoken more harshly than she intended. Did she really expect Belle to behave with such disregard for her feelings? Certainly not. She shouldn’t allow her frustration with Bud to trickle over on Belle.

  Nor should she allow her frustration with Warren to trickle over on Charley.

  The realization hit like a bucket of ice water dumped over her head. Chills traveled from her scalp down her body to the backs of her calves, and then she went warm all over, awareness bringing a rush of shame. Mr. Caudel’s demand that she look at the boy when she talked to him swept through her mind, and she bowed her head. She never looked Charley full in the face. Because every time she did, she saw Warren. Gazing at Charley made her relive her husband’s betrayal. Charley wasn’t responsible for his father’s choices, yet she’d used the little boy as a target for her anger.

  Oh, she hadn’t been cruel to him. Not like Bud. But she’d talked around him and over him. She’d pretended he wasn’t there so she could pretend Warren hadn’t lain with another woman. She’d been wrong. Hurtful. Insensitive. She owed Belle an apology, but she also owed one to Charley. And she’d give it to him, just as soon as she found Bud. Her son needed to witness his mother humbling herself to his half brother. Bud needed to see how to release a grudge.

  She clattered down the stairs for the second time that evening. But when she stepped out the back door, she didn’t aim her steps for the sheriff’s office.

  Arthur

  Arthur and his sons spent the blustery evening in the parlor, reading. The boys sprawled on their bellies on the carpet, Leon absorbed in an article in Practical Mechanics about building a battery and Leroy scowling his way through Tolstoy’s War and Peace, his latest assignment from Mr. Pearson.

  Arthur sat in front of the fireplace in his favorite chair with his ankle propped on his knee, the most recent copy of Fortune open across his thigh. The cover feature about photography hadn’t captured his attention, but he carefully studied every word of the article about economic royalism.

  Times had changed since Hoover’s campaign theme of a chicken in every pot and a car in every garage. Nowadays folks were lucky to have a pot, let alone a chicken to put in it. And cars? He snorted. Around Buffalo Creek there were more cars sitting idle in fields with empty gas tanks than being driven up and down Main Street. Whoever won the ’36 election would have his hands full putting the nation back on its financial footing.

  The knock on the front door brought all three of their heads up. Arthur glanced at the grandfather clock standing sentry in the corner and frowned. Who would call at this hour?

  Leroy bounced up. “I’ll get it, Dad.”

  Arthur set the magazine aside and waylaid his son. “Finish your chapter. I’ll see who’s at the door.” He was glad he’d chosen to go himself when he found Neva Shilling on his doorstep. “Mrs. Shilling, come in.”

  Cold wind propelled her over the threshold, and she shivered as he closed the door behind her. “I’m sorry to bother you.”

  Arthur touched her back with his fingers, urging her into the parlor where the fireplace warmed the room. “Mrs. Shilling, as I’ve tried to tell you, you are never a bother.” He scowled at his sons. “Boys, get off the floor so we have room to walk in here. Take your books to your rooms and—”

  “No, please stay.” Mrs. Shilling held out one hand in a silent entreaty to Leon and Leroy. “You might be able to help.”

  The boys plopped onto the sofa, and Arthur guided Mrs. Shilling to the chair Mabel had claimed as hers. No one ever sat in it, but it seemed to fit Mrs. Shilling nicely. Arthur returned to his chair and gave his neighbor his full attention. It wasn’t difficult. Even with wind-tossed hair, red-rimmed eyes, and worry lines furrowing her brow, she was a fine-looking woman.

  “With what do you need help, Mrs. Shilling? Some furniture moved or some crates unloaded?”

  She clutched her shawl closed over her bodice with shaking hands. “Bud left several hours ago and hasn’t returned. I’m at a loss as to where to search. I thought since Leon is in Bud’s class, he might have some suggestions.”

  Arthur stood. “Leon, Leroy, put on your coats and take the flashlights from the closet. Go to the sheriff’s place first, tell him Bud is missing, and ask for his help.”

  The boys scrambled for the hall tree.

  “And, boys?”

  They paused but quivered like a pair of eager puppies.

  “Take my firing pistol with you. Make sure it’s got a blank in it. When you find Bud, point it in the air and shoot it off.” He turned a warm look on the woman seated in Mabel’s chair. “The sound will bring comfort to his mother.”

  “Sure, Dad.” Leroy grabbed Leon’s arm and pulled him out of the room.

  Arthur crossed to Mrs. Shilling and perched on the corner of the coffee table. Her worried frown and the tears brightening her eyes stirred him to compassion. “Mrs. Shilling, try not to fret. I’m sure my boys will know where to search. They’ll find him.”

  “I appreciate you sending them out. It should be my responsibility, but—”

  He tsk-tsked, shaking his head. “I take responsibility, too. Bud and I had a little chat earlier today. Afterward I watched him run up the street. Maybe if I’d gone to get you right then, you could have caught him and brought him home instead of suffering this worry.”

  “Bud…came to you…to talk?”

  In less serious circumstances he would laugh at her genuine befuddlement. But she needed his assurance, not his amusement. He briefly explained Bud’s run-in with the rug, which was probably in Nebraska by now, thanks to the wind. “He seemed to need a friend, someone to simply listen.” He shrugged. “I tried to meet the need.”

  She gazed at him with her mouth slightly open, her eyes wide. He couldn’t decide if appreciation or mere shock motivated the reaction. He decided to respond as if she was appreciative.

  “I was happy to give him a place to release some pressure, so to speak. Sometimes a boy just needs to talk to a man. Bud is welcome to come to me anytime.” A surprising warmth filled him as he spoke. He truly meant what he said.

  Her mouth closed, but her eyes stayed fixed on him. The log in the fireplace rolled, sending up a shower of sparks and releasing a snap. The coziness of the room, their close proximity, her hazel eyes gazing intently into his face wove a web of intimacy around Arthur unlike anything h
e’d experienced since Mabel’s death.

  He braced his palms on his knees and leaned forward slightly, watching her for signs of withdrawal. She blinked, but she didn’t shrink away. A slow smile pulled on his mouth. “Mrs. Shilling?”

  “Yes?” Her simple reply wheezed out, as if she’d just finished running a footrace.

  His smile tugged a little higher. “Would it be all right if I called you Neva?”

  Bud

  Bud huddled under the big oak tree south of town with his arms folded across his middle, his teeth chattering so hard his jaw hurt. He was cold. And hungry. And tired. And even a little scared. But he wouldn’t go home.

  Why’d it have to go and get so cold so fast? Stupid wind, pushing at him.

  Stupid kids, pushing into his life.

  Stupid Ma, calling those kids his brother and sisters.

  Stupid Pop, spawning those kids and then up and dying on them.

  Bud pulled up his knees and pressed his back more firmly against the tree. The bark bit through his jacket, and a lumpy root poked him hard on his rump. He hadn’t chosen the best spot to spend the night, but the full moon had ducked behind a cloud of dust about an hour ago. Now he couldn’t see well enough to continue on safely. The old tree, with a trunk so big he and Belle couldn’t reach around it and hold hands, would have to do.

  While the tree limbs clacked together and the wind howled, Bud closed his eyes and tried to sleep. Somewhere nearby a night bird began to call. Its repetitive song became words in Bud’s mind. Two words, over and over. Stupid Pop. Stupid Pop. His nose started burning, a sure sign he was going to cry. He sniffed hard, rubbed his nose with his fist, and then put his hands over his ears to block the bird’s cry.

  Bud didn’t want to think of his pop as stupid. He loved Pop. The days Pop drove away were awful and the days he came back like a birthday, Christmas, and a trip to the circus all at once. He loved watching Pop with customers in the store—always smiling, joshing with the men and making the women blush with his compliments. He loved following Pop around in the barn, loved how Pop would say, “Come here, buddy o’ mine. Let me show you how to grease wheels so they don’t squeak when you roll up the road.” He loved how Pop would show him and then let him try for himself. He loved hearing Pop say, “Good job!” with a booming, proud voice.