A Trail of Crumbs

by Finkbeiner, Susie;

  “With her trademark narrative intimacy, Finkbeiner returns to the world of Pearl Spence, a heroine already beloved by readers of A Cup of Dust. Finkbeiner’s Depression-era canvas is replete with historical authenticity and colored by a voice both erudite and accessible. This coming-of-age story pairs its winsome heroine with a cast of salt-of-the-earth characters who will be welcomed by readers of Harper Lee and Julie Cantrell.

  “With a stoic look at faith and resilience in a time of famine, A Trail of Crumbs is a perfect modern-day parable—destined to inspire, challenge, and beguile any who step into its fully realized world.”

  —Rachel McMillan, author of A Lesson in Love and Murder

  “Susie Finkbeiner takes us right into the heart of the devastating years of the Great Depression. Pearl’s story could have been my own grandmother’s. It’s as though I tapped into a piece of my own history that I didn’t know was missing. A Trail of Crumbs is a beautiful, heart-wrenching tale of grief, suffering, love, and the enduring hope that comes from piecing a family back together. This was one of those books I didn’t want to end.”

  —Kelli Stuart, author of Like a River from Its Course

  Praise for A Cup of Dust

  “This is a suspenseful page-turner, intricately plotted and bursting with meticulously drawn characters who jump from the page. [Pearl’s] voice isn’t one you’ll soon forget.”

  —RT Book Reviews

  “Riveting. An achingly beautiful tale told with a singularly fresh and original voice. This sepia-toned story swept me into the Dust Bowl and brought me face-to-face with both haunting trials and the resilient people who overcame them. Absolutely mesmerizing. Susie Finkbeiner is an author to watch!”

  —Jocelyn Green, award-winning author

  Also by Susie Finkbeiner

  Paint Chips

  My Mother’s Chamomile

  Pearl Spence Novels

  A Cup of Dust: A Novel of the Dust Bowl

  A Trail of Crumbs: A Novel of the Great Depression

  A Song of Home: A Novel of the Swing Era

  A Trail of Crumbs: A Novel of the Great Depression

  © 2017 by Susie Finkbeiner

  Published by Kregel Publications, a division of Kregel, Inc.,

  2450 Oak Industrial Dr. NE, Grand Rapids, MI 49505.

  Published in association with the literary agency of Credo

  Communications, LLC, Grand Rapids, Michigan,

  www.credocommunications.net.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without written permission of the publisher, except for brief quotations in reviews.

  Distribution of digital editions of this book in any format via the Internet or any other means without the publisher’s written permission or by license agreement is a violation of copyright law and is subject to substantial fines and penalties. Thank you for supporting the author’s rights by purchasing only authorized editions.

  Apart from certain historical facts and public figures, the persons and events portrayed in this work are the creations of the author, and any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  ISBN 978-0-8254-4446-3

  Printed in the United States of America

  17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 / 5 4 3 2 1

  In memory of Wendy Gingrich

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Writing this novel was a battle against self-doubt and a monstrously cruel inner voice. But I survived it and so did Pearl, and it’s all to the credit of those I am honored to call my good friends.

  Alexis De Weese, Amelia Rhodes, and Darron Schoeder: Thanks for the texts, the emails, the phone calls. You three reminded me to breathe and I am forever grateful.

  Jocelyn Green: Thank you for understanding the madness which is novel writing and teaching me how much stronger our voices are when we sing together.

  Ann Byle: I’ll never forget how you refused to let me give up on this novel, on Pearl, and most of all on myself. Thank you.

  Janyre Tromp: Your unending enthusiasm for this novel served as fuel on the tougher days. Your edits broadened the story, making it richer and more beautiful.

  Dawn Anderson: Your honesty is what transformed this novel and made it the story it needed to be. Your belief in my abilities spurred me on. I’m a better writer because of you.

  Steve Barclift: You have the gift of writing the most encouraging emails I’ve ever received. They make me want to live up to your opinion of me. Thank you.

  Jim Kregel: When I sat beside you to sign the contract for this book, you told me you were praying for me. I cannot tell you how grateful I am for your prayers.

  Elise, Austin, and Timmy: You three ate more than your share of pizza and mac ’n’ cheese as I wrote this novel. Thank you for understanding and being quick to forgive your quirky mama. I love you!

  Jeff: Thanks for never swerving in your love for me. You make this life so much fun and I love you more than coffee and chocolate.

  And, finally, to my heavenly Father: For all the times I struggled or strayed, You kept Your eyes on me, waiting for me to come back to You. You left a trail for me to follow, helping me find my way. And when I did return, You came running. I never want to forget how it feels to come home to You.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Red River, Oklahoma

  Palm Sunday, April 14, 1935

  If a girl could go blind from too bright a sky, I would have gazed upward anyhow, burning the sight right out of my eyes. Far as I could remember, there’d never been a day so calm and blue, without a whisper of wind. Of all the things I could’ve done with that Sunday afternoon, all I wanted was to sit on the porch and let the sunshine warm my skin.

  I believed it would have been a sin to stay inside when God had sent us such fine weather. According to Pastor Ezra Anderson, sin was the reason we’d gotten into the dusty mess we were in. The way I saw it, that day was God’s way of letting us know He wasn’t mad at us anymore.

  Just maybe He’d seen fit to forgive us.

  My older sister, Beanie, sat beside me on the porch, her eyes clamped tight against the sunshine like she didn’t want it getting in. Every now and again she made one of her little grunting sounds that came from the back of her throat. I’d grown used to the noises Beanie made, and they didn’t bother me like they did other people.

  Thing was, most folks didn’t understand Beanie on account she wasn’t like anybody else in Red River. She wasn’t smart like most people because she was born not breathing. Some people in town didn’t seem to know it was wrong to say nasty things about a person just because they were different. They’d say my sister was an idiot or stupid or any number of other cruel things. Seemed to me they were the ones lacking in brains, to say something so hurtful.

  Meemaw, though, never listened to what those folks said. She’d told me Beanie was just the way God wanted her and that no soul on earth had the right to question it.

  Meemaw had always known just what to say to make me feel better. I wondered if she wasn’t hobbling around heaven, spreading her wisdom and sweet smiles the same way she’d done on earth. I sure did miss her.

  “I wanna hear a story,” Beanie said, opening one of her lids and eyeballing me.

  “You do?” I asked, giving her a half smile.

  She grunted her yes.

  “Then go on and get my book off the shelf.” I nodded at the open front door. “I’ll read something to you.”

  “Don’t wanna go in.”

  “Well, I don’t either.” I sighed.

  Some days I got tired of having to take care of her so much. She could do about anything for hersel
f. Problem was, she was stubborn as an old mule. When she got in her mind that she didn’t want to do a thing, there was no way of convincing her otherwise. She’d stay put until I gave up. I usually just shook my head and did for her on account it wound up being easier in the end.

  “I wanna hear a story,” she repeated in case I’d forgotten what she said.

  “How about I just tell it to you?” I asked. “Which one you want?”

  “The girl and the boy and the forest.”

  “You never remember their names, do you?” I asked.

  She closed her eye again and shook her head.

  “Hansel and Gretel,” I told her. “That the one?”

  She gave me an “uh-huh.”

  Silly smile on her face, she scooted on her backside so that she could lean against the slats under the porch railing. Tipping her head, she let the sun shine full on her face. Her wild dark hair fuzzed around her like a shadowy halo.

  “All right,” I started. “There was once a boy and a girl named Hansel and Gretel. They lived deep in the dark woods with their father and mother.”

  “She weren’t their real mama,” Beanie said. “Their real one was dead.”

  “That’s right. They had a stepmother.”

  “A wicked one,” she said. “She ain’t nice.”

  Beanie opened her eyes just a slit and peeked at me a second before closing them again.

  I thought of Mama, how she wasn’t my real mother. How she and Daddy had taken me in as their own, never treating me any different from Beanie. Mama loved me like I’d come from her.

  My real mother had left me right after I was born. My mother, Winnie—best-kept secret in all the history of Red River. Much as I didn’t like to, I thought of her most days even if just a little. And when she did come to mind, it was her with glassy eyes and bleeding body, the life gushing out all over me.

  That was hardly more than a month ago. I hoped after a while the memory of her getting shot and killed the way she did would fade away. I hoped that enough sunny days might work to do just that.

  Beanie made another of her noises, pulling me out of the bad memory and back to that sunshine-soaked porch.

  “Nope,” I said, sitting up straighter. “She wasn’t nice. That stepmother was real mean and selfish. When they ran out of food, she got even meaner.”

  Turning, I saw Mama in the side yard, where she shook out a rug, Oklahoma dust clouding up from it, showing like gold in the sun. She caught me watching her and smiled.

  “Well,” I went on. “That stepmother got the idea to send the children away.”

  “Out in the woods,” Beanie added.

  “But Hansel, he was a smart boy. He’d been listening and came up with a plan all his own.”

  “He took him a piece of bread.” Beanie swatted at a bug that got too close to her face.

  “He got that bread and broke it all to bits. As he and Gretel followed behind their father into the dark woods, he dropped pieces of it behind them, leaving a trail of crumbs so they could find their way back home.”

  “They never went home,” Beanie said. “Once you go, you can’t never get back.”

  Shifting, she turned her face toward town and opened her eyes. Her overgrown eyebrows twitched up and down, and she rubbed at her nose with the back of her hand.

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  She acted like she hadn’t heard me even though I knew well enough she had. Wiping her hand on the skirt of her dress she closed her eyes again.

  “I don’t wanna hear no more,” she said.

  I watched as she leaned her head on the slats again. After a minute she started on her snoring I knew to be fake. Sometimes she’d do that, pretend to be asleep, so I’d leave her alone.

  On her lap she held her hand in a fist, the dirt-under-the-nails fingers tucked tight into her palm. I put my hand over it, covering it.

  “I love you,” I said.

  I meant it.

  She opened her hand enough to hold my fingers just for a moment. She squeezed them before she went back to her pretend snoring.

  Out back of our house, Millard had set up his horseshoes. He’d been mayor of Red River long as anybody could remember. He said he was born mayor, which I knew wasn’t true. He’d been born in Virginia. I never did remind him of that fact on account of it wasn’t my place to.

  Ladies didn’t contradict old men, that was what Mama’d taught me. And they didn’t say somebody was old, either.

  I tried being as much a lady as I could for Mama’s sake. I did. But it sure wasn’t easy.

  “Now, you gotta hold that shoe just like this,” Millard said, lifting his hand in front of him so Ray could see. “That’s fine. Just like that.”

  Ray Jones stood, nodding at Millard. He was eleven and a half, a whole year older than me, but didn’t mind being my best friend. Really, he was about the only one left in town to be friends with. Still, if there’d been a whole truckload of kids in Red River, I would’ve picked Ray over all of them any old day.

  He’d been staying with us since his old dugout had gotten flattened by a month of dusters. Meemaw’d always told me to see how all things worked together for the good of those who loved God. I supposed if there was any good from all the dust, having Ray around was it.

  “Now, swing back before you give it a toss.” Millard showed him what he meant, then threw the old rusted horseshoe toward the stake in the ground. It clanked, hitting the goal and circling round it before thumping on the dirt. “Just like that. Nothin’ to it.”

  Ray stuck his tongue out the side of his mouth and wrinkled up his forehead, eyes trained on that old stake.

  I shimmied myself up on the back porch, watching him and Millard play.

  Ray’s father never would’ve taken the time to teach him how to play a game like that. Mr. Jones had been too busy pouring whiskey down his throat and wandering all over creation doing who knew what. He’d say he was looking for work, but we all knew better than that. When he was at home, he’d spend his time whupping Ray and Mrs. Jones for something or other. But he couldn’t hurt them anymore. He was dead, Mr. Jones was, and by his own doing. I wondered if Ray was haunted by seeing his father hanging like he had.

  I hoped not.

  The good thing that came out of Mr. Jones killing himself was that it left room for Daddy and Millard to show Ray all the man things he ought to learn. Still, I didn’t think it took all the sting out of it.

  It sure was an awful thing, losing your pa, no matter how nasty he’d been.

  Their game done, Ray slumped his shoulders. He’d never liked losing much. But the way Millard made sure to shake his hand and smile, I knew Ray wouldn’t be too sore about it.

  “You’re learnin’,” Millard said, rubbing Ray’s head so the tan hair stuck to the sweat on his forehead. “Pretty soon you’ll be better than me, I bet.”

  “My, my,” Daddy said, stepping out the back door. He hopped off the porch and made his way to Millard. “What’ve we got here?”

  “Thought it’s as good a day as any for horseshoes,” Millard answered, taking off his hat and wiping at his head with a bandana. “How about you try and beat me at a game.”

  “I’d like nothing better.” Daddy rubbed his hands together. “It’s been a couple years.”

  “Don’t worry.” Millard nodded his head at him. “I’ll go easy on ya.”

  Daddy stooped and picked up one of the shoes off the ground, giving it a toss. He missed the stake by a good foot.

  “Well, I might have to give you a lesson, too,” Millard said, laughing.

  Ray came toward me, his hands shoved in his overall pockets and his bare feet shuffling through the dust.

  “Wanna go for a walk?” he asked.

  I shrugged, not wanting to say that Mama didn’t want me wandering around. She’d kept a close eye on me ever since Eddie DuPre had taken me and kept me hidden away in a cellar. With all the nightmares I’d had since then, I didn’t mind being watched s
o close.

  “Come on,” Ray said.

  “I don’t know.” I crossed my arms.

  “You think your ma’ll say no?” he asked.

  I shrugged again.

  “Can’t hurt to ask, can it?”

  I shook my head.

  “You too scared?” Ray asked, but not in a mean way. And not in a way that tried to make me feel small. “You don’t gotta be scared no more, Pearl.”

  I couldn’t look at him just then, so I turned toward the empty part of the yard where Mama’d once had a garden. It had long been lost to the drought and the dust like everything else that’d once been green and living. Life didn’t seem to stand much of a chance anymore there in No Man’s Land.

  “I’m not scared,” I whispered. It was a lie, and I figured he knew it.

  “I promise I won’t let nothin’ happen to you,” he said. “You trust me?”

  I did and I told him so.

  “Sheriff, sir?” Ray called out, turning toward Daddy. “Can Pearl go for a walk with me?”

  “Go ahead,” Daddy said, not turning from the game. “Just don’t wander off too far, hear? We’ll be having supper in a little bit.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Daddy tossed and missed again, making Millard laugh so hard his head tilted back and his face pointed to the sky. The sound of his laughter made me think the dry days were over after all, and that good days were coming.

  His laughter stole away some of my fear. Not all of it, but enough.

  Pastor had told us that morning in church that God’s wrath was spent. He’d said we weren’t going to be punished anymore for our transgressions. The wage had been paid and the blessings were on the way. I didn’t put much stock in his words, if I were honest.

  Millard, though, he could’ve said that elephants could fly all the way to the stars or that horny toads could talk and I’d have believed every word of it.

  “Come on,” Ray said, nudging me with his elbow.

  I slid off the porch and chased after him at an almost run from the back yard.