Confessions to Mr. Roosevelt
CONFESSIONS TO MR. ROOSEVELT
CONFESSIONS TO MR. ROOSEVELT
M. J. HOLT
FIVE STAR
A part of Gale, a Cengage Company
Copyright © 2019 by Marilyn J. Holt
Five Star Publishing, a part of Gale, a Cengage Company
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This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously.
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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA
Names: Holt, Marilyn J., author.
Title: Confessions to Mr. Roosevelt / M. J. Holt.
Description: First edition. | Farmington Hills, Michigan : Five Star, 2019. | Identifiers: LCCN 2018040005 (print) | LCCN 2018046727 (ebook) | ISBN 9781432852115 (ebook) | ISBN 9781432852108 (ebook) | ISBN 9781432852092 (hardcover)
eISBN-13: 978-1-4328-5211-5
Subjects: LCSH: Federal Writers’ Project—Fiction. | GSAFD: Historical fiction
Classification: LCC PS3558.O415 (ebook) | LCC PS3558.O415 C66 2019 (print) | DDC 813/.54—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018040005
First Edition. First Printing: May 2019
This title is available as an e-book.
ISBN-13: 978-1-4328-5211-5
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Printed in the United States of America
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To my mother, Vera, a modern-day pioneer woman
INTRODUCTION
During the Great Depression, the Federal Writers’ Project employed out-of-work writers, poets, teachers, and librarians in every state, most U.S. territories, and in Washington, D.C. Their job was to write travel guides and local histories, to collect folklore and songs, and to interview elderly men and women for their life stories. In the states of the Great Plains, ravaged in the 1930s by drought and dust storms, project workers collected the reminiscences of homesteaders and town builders who settled the Plains, had known joy and hardship, and experienced years when the rains did not come. The workers and pioneers portrayed in this book are imagined, but the events they refer to—whether the blizzard of ’86, grasshopper swarms, or life in a prairie town—are based on historical fact.
CHAPTER 1
NEAR OPAL’S GROVE, KANSAS, 1870
The back side of the shovel slammed down on soil already tightly packed. John Featherstone ignored the spasm of pain rippling through his old muscles and brought the shovel down one last time. He’d promised the girl he would take care of things. He gave his word, and, once a man did that, he was dutybound. Maybe he’d said what he did because the girl had always been friendly, never making a judgment on him. Or, maybe it was the way she reminded him of someone he’d known long ago.
Didn’t matter, he told himself, as he knocked loose dirt from the shovel. The thing was done. He tramped back through the trees to his horse. He stowed the shovel in a leather sheath tied to the saddle. Absently running a hand across the horse’s neck, he glanced at the sky. Rain was coming. All day, moisture had been building in the air. Now, it was just a matter of time before heavy, gathering clouds opened a floodgate of spring showers.
Giving the horse one more pat, he mumbled, “Let’s get this finished and go home. Fine by you?” The old man eyed the horse, took the shake of its mane as a sign of agreement, and walked back the way he’d come, gathering clumps of winter-killed underbrush to cover the bare earth. He picked his way down to the riverbank, stiff knees creaking, and began gathering rocks the size of melons. It took time to carry these up the embankment and scatter them to look natural. Finally, for good measure, he pulled over a downed limb from a cottonwood tree and angled it crossways on the stones.
Fat drops of rain began to plop against his hat and jacket. Slowly, the rain increased until it fell in a steady shower. John Featherstone stood studying his handiwork. He thought of the girl again and hoped she’d remember to do exactly as he told her when she got to town.
Taking one last look toward the grave now hidden by nature and his helping hands, John Featherstone worked up a good mouthful of spit and sent it flying.
“Rest in peace, you sorry son of a bitch,” he growled.
CHAPTER 2
TOPEKA, KANSAS, 1936
ELLEN
An open window allowed a breeze to move the air in the stuffy room. Noises from the street drifted up. Barely visible through a canopy of trees was the dome of the state capitol. Ignoring the view, the sound of automobiles rumbling over brick-laid streets, and the occasional shout of a pedestrian, Inez Fletcher sat behind her desk. She was a stoutly built woman, wearing a dress that strained to contain perspiring flesh. She glanced at the young woman across from her.
“Opal’s Grove in Dobbs County will be our base of operations,” she began. “It’s the county seat, centrally located in the state. Mrs. Iris Hewitt, the president of the local historical society, will be in charge there. She’s a real go-getter. Even as I speak, she’s signing up the old folks and scheduling interviews.”
Ellen nodded. She knew the Works Progress Administration job involved writing down the life stories of people who had settled in the state before 1880 or who had been born there before that date. The project piqued her curiosity. But the prospect of being employed interested her much more. Prosperity was supposed to be just around the corner, but, for Ellen, it seemed a long way off. There was a growing sense of desperation in her search for work.
By nature, Ellen was optimistic, but the last few months of knocking on doors and writing letters that went unanswered or brought rejection chipped away at her confidence. It felt like little pieces of herself were breaking away. She’d gone about her job search methodically. Months before graduating from college, she began to look for work. Applications were mailed to every newspaper in the state, and she visited those she could reach in a day’s drive in the aging Packard roadster that had once belonged to her cousin Louise. When she learned that no one was hiring a good copy editor or eager young reporter, she turned to the state’s few radio stations, hoping to write jingles or radio plays. Usually, the people she met were sympathetic, but the answer was the same. No openings, especially for a young woman fresh out of school and with no family to support.
Inez Fletcher took a breath. Ellen waited, trying not to glance at a seam that was beginning to tear along one sleeve of the woman’s dress. “There are seven positions, two of which will be filled by local writers chosen by Mrs. Hewitt.”
The knot in her stomach tightened. While waiting in the hallway to be called into Mrs. Fletcher’s office, Ellen heard someone say that at least fifty jobhunters had shown up the day before. With that many applicants, Ellen reasoned, the odds were not in her favor.
As if reading her mind, the WPA woman veered off the subject of what was happening in Opal’s Grove. “You realize, of course, that the main goal of the Federal Writers’ Project initiated by P
resident Roosevelt’s New Deal is compiling a state guide. These interviews are only a small piece of the overall project.”
Ellen shook her head. She didn’t know.
“I’ve already hired dozens of workers for the guide, because it must be comprehensive, touching on all sorts of topics. Highway routes crisscrossing the state.” The WPA woman began to count the subjects off on her fingers. “Town histories and what one will find in those places today. Points of historical interest. Manufacturing. Well, I could go on and on. It’s not entirely organized as yet, but the pioneer stories will be included in some way. Ultimately, we hope for these documents to be housed at the state historical society for future generations to study. Additional workers may be needed for the guide, but at the moment we must have people to conduct these interviews.”
Ellen hoped her face did not show her consternation. When she heard from a college professor about the Federal Writers’ Project, just the interviews were mentioned. Only now did she realize she had missed the opportunity to apply for work on this guide Mrs. Fletcher seemed so keen on. She pushed back a wave of despair.
“Now,” said the woman, staring hard at Ellen. “Let’s talk about you. I’ve read the writing samples you submitted—your articles from the college newspaper and the stories that were published in those pulp magazines. The articles are well done, and I must say I enjoyed the stories in Ranch Romance and Western Romance. But the ones in True Confessions! Oh, my! Surely, those were fiction.” The woman fanned her face as if just the thought of what she’d read was too much.
Ellen bit the inside of her lip to keep from laughing. “No, ma’am, the True Confessions stories are based on real circumstances. The magazine doesn’t mind if you change the names of people and places, but it likes some basis in truth.”
“Even the one about the young woman who threw away a fortune to run off with a trombone player? In this day and age, it’s hard to believe anyone would turn their back on all that money.”
“Believe me; it’s true.” Ellen had no intention of adding that the woman in question was her cousin, and that Louise had always done things on her own terms. When she fell for the musician, she renamed herself LuLu, waved goodbye to her high-living friends at the Tulsa Country Club, and thumbed her nose at the fortune her father made in Oklahoma’s oil fields. When Ellen thought about LuLu, she imagined her sitting in a smoky jazz club in Kansas City or sauntering into a swanky nightclub in Chicago. Wherever she was, Ellen hoped she was happy.
“And the romance stories? Seems to me that if you write about romance, and certainly the way you have, you have some personal experience in the area.”
Ellen wished the woman would move on to another subject. Her love life was none of the woman’s business. In any case, if she wrote it up for True Confessions, the article would be called “I Gave up a Man for a Career.” Never mind that she had yet to find a career. And the man in question didn’t seem to be pining away for her.
The woman’s look told Ellen that she wouldn’t be satisfied until she offered something.
“Well, my mother was the inspiration for that story in Ranch Romance about the girl whose mother wants to marry her off to the cattle baron she doesn’t love. You see, my mother keeps trying to pick a husband for me—the butcher’s nephew, the new school principal, the minister’s son—and that gave me the idea of a mother trying to force her own ideas of happiness onto the daughter.
“But the girl in the story isn’t me,” Ellen added hastily. “I’m not interested in marriage right now.”
“That’s good to know. I don’t want any woman hired for this project to be engaged or married. It’s a distraction. And I don’t want anyone who drinks or smokes. Reflects badly on this project.”
Ellen assured her she did neither, omitting the facts that she’d sipped gin from a date’s flask at a football game and she’d once tried a cigarette because it seemed to be what modern girls did.
The WPA woman seemed satisfied with Ellen’s answers. Tapping the papers in front of her, Mrs. Fletcher turned to the question of Ellen’s need for a job. It was a question Ellen expected, and she’d rehearsed the answer over and over again. It was quite simple, she explained. Her family lived in a small town where her father was a mechanic. He had his own garage with a single gas pump out front. Ellen’s brother, who was now married and had brought his wife to live with his family, worked with their father and found the occasional handyman job to help out. But times were tough. People couldn’t afford to have their automobiles or tractors repaired, so Ellen’s father, being the good man he was, did it on promise of payment or for a sack of potatoes or a basket of eggs. As for college, Ellen would never have been able to go if not for her Aunt Viv and Uncle Frank in Tulsa. They had oil money and offered to spend some of it on Ellen.
“No children of their own.” Ellen let Mrs. Fletcher’s conclusion hang in the air. The less said about Louise, the better.
“So, you see,” she finished, “I would just be another mouth to feed at home, and there’s the fact that my brother and his wife are now expecting a baby. The best way I can think of to help myself and my family is to find employment.”
The WPA woman shifted her weight in the creaky office chair. She stared up to the ceiling as if looking for divine guidance, or maybe, Ellen thought, she was considering the best way to tell her “no.” Ellen sat straight in her chair. She clasped her hands in her lap, hoping she looked calm while her worst fears pounded in her head. She was fast running out of options. She couldn’t live off the little she made from selling stories to pulp magazines, and the graduation money from Uncle Frank and Aunt Viv would soon be gone. She sent up a silent prayer that the woman’s decision would not send her home to face not only her family—but also the town—with her failure.
Mrs. Fletcher roused herself. “You have the job, and I want you to know why. You listened when I talked, which is important when you want people to tell you things in an interview. You appear to be a fine young woman. You don’t have painted nails— always a sign of a loose woman in my book—and you’re not chewing gum. The last applicant popped her gum so loud, I could barely hear myself think. See Miss Bailey in the next office for the particulars of salary and lodging arrangements in Opal’s Grove. Good luck.”
Ellen was dumbfounded. Fingernail polish and gum? Then the rest hit her. When she thought about it later, she marveled she had resisted the urge to run around the desk and throw her arms around Mrs. Fletcher. Instead, in a voice she hardly recognized, she calmly thanked the woman, adding that she looked forward to meeting the old settlers and saving their stories for future generations.
CHAPTER 3
TOPEKA, 1936
NANCY
In the time it took to walk three blocks to her automobile, the dazed feeling had been replaced by giddy relief. Ellen could hardly wait to tell Nancy the news. Her friend had cheered her on at every turn and insisted she stay with her at her parents’ home until Ellen got on her feet.
She drove expertly through the downtown area. Slowly, stores, restaurants, and small shops gave way to tree-lined streets. Nancy’s family lived in a neighborhood of comfortable homes with large backyards. Ellen pulled into the driveway of a brick Tudor-style house. She barely had time to step out of the car when Nancy came rushing from the side door.
“I’ve been watching for you! Mother and I have been on pins and needles. What happened?”
Laughing, Ellen threw out her arms. “I am officially employed!”
“I knew it!” Nancy clapped her hands like a child given a wonderful gift. “Come inside. I want to hear everything. Mother had to leave for some committee luncheon, but she’ll be so happy for you.” Nancy steered her friend into the kitchen.
“It’s Rose’s day off, so you’ll have to settle for my sand wiches.”
“Bologna and cheese on white bread?”
“Certainly not,” Nancy huffed. “That’s the soup kitchen specialty, as you well know. I’ve made enough of th
ose sandwiches to never want to see another.”
Ellen knew Nancy didn’t mean a word of it. She worked at the soup kitchen three times a week, making sandwiches, filling bowls of soup, and handing out cups of coffee. To look at Nancy, you wouldn’t expect to find her anywhere near the railyard and its kitchen. But then, people tended to misjudge Nancy. All they saw was a pretty blonde with high spirits, the sort of girl with little on her mind other than deciding which pair of shoes to buy or contemplating which party to attend. That was Ellen’s first impression when Nancy arrived at college with two trunks of clothes, a tennis racket, and lots of spending money. Ellen was sure this girl assigned to be her roommate on the whim of whoever directed women’s housing must be a snob. Ellen expected Nancy to pledge a sorority and move into one of the Greek houses the moment she had the chance. She was wrong. And with fascination she watched as Nancy managed to sidestep the rituals of sorority rushes and invitations without hurting feelings or losing a place in college social life.
As roommates, they quickly moved from being politely formal to an easy camaraderie. The smooth transition to friendship surprised Ellen, almost as much as her discovery that Nancy intended to have a career after college. Nancy didn’t look like the type to think of college as anything more than an entertaining adventure leading to finding a husband. Ellen had soon revised that assessment, promising herself to stop judging people on first impressions.
Nancy, it turned out, had definite ideas concerning her future. Facing the world with a confidence that never considered failure, she had her life mapped out with a step-by-step plan. After college, she would go to law school. When that was completed, she would join the family firm, working alongside her father, uncle, and older brother. And then, she would marry Franklin, who was studying to be a surgeon.