Confessions to Mr. Roosevelt Read online

  “You never did!” The color drained from Constance’s face.

  “Of course not,” Ivy managed to say through her laughter. “Don’t you know when you’re being teased?”

  Constance scowled. “Well, I hope you can be serious when you’re interviewed and just stick to the facts.”

  “I’ll do my best,” Ivy mumbled, waving over her shoulder to Agatha.

  CHAPTER 5

  OPAL’S GROVE, 1936

  ELLEN

  A large storage room in the basement of the Dobbs County courthouse had been converted into office space. Someone had managed to find mismatched chairs and battered desks. They contrasted sharply with the almost-new typewriters rented from the local high school. The odor of cleaning solutions mixed with the musty smells of damp and age. Iris Hewitt—president of the local historical society, director of the public library, and head of the WPA project in the county—stood just inside the door, introducing herself to each person.

  Ellen shook the woman’s hand, found a seat, and watched as the others filed into the room. She had arrived in town on the previous Saturday, after spending a few days at home. The visit hadn’t been the disaster she’d envisioned. She’d surprised them at supper when she pulled into the driveway. Her brother, Ed, met her at the door and pulled her into the house. Ellen’s family wasn’t the kind that hugged. Her brother thumped Ellen on the shoulder with a loose fist, the way he did when they were kids. Her sister-in-law giggled and squeezed an arm. Her mother patted her on the back as she eased Ellen into a chair at the dining table. Her father smiled and nodded. She hadn’t wanted them to think she was home to stay, so she broke the news right away. There was just a moment when Mother seemed ready to launch into the usual lecture about matrimony and its benefits, but she stopped herself. Whether it was her father’s slight shake of the head or her mother finally surrendering to her daughter’s plans, the subject was dropped. Ellen was grateful that over the next few days, family conversations revolved around her mother’s garden, the coming baby, and the work her brother and father did on her automobile to keep it in top-notch running condition.

  It was only when Ellen was packing to leave that her mother made a last half-hearted attempt to change Ellen’s mind. “I hate seeing you churning up all this misery for yourself,” she began. “You’re chasing a pie-in-the-sky dream, and when it doesn’t happen, you’ll be hurt. I just don’t want you to be bitter, and a bitter old spinster at that.”

  Those words hung in Ellen’s head and made her smile as she glanced around the courthouse basement and the group there. She turned to Audrey Varns, her new roommate at Miss Jewell’s boardinghouse, and smiled. “Here we go,” she whispered.

  Iris Hewitt stepped to the front of the room. A woman of middle years, she wore her muddy-brown hair fixed to the top of her head in a complicated arrangement of bobby pins and tight curls. A pair of reading glasses dangled from a chain around her neck. She clapped her hands sharply as if bringing a group of misbehaving schoolchildren to order. She welcomed the group, encouraged them to read up on local history, and pointed to manila folders arranged on a small table to her left. Inside each were the names and addresses of old settlers assigned to each interviewer.

  With the skill of someone accustomed to being in charge, the woman went over the guidelines for transcribing and typing up the interviews. She had taken the liberty of arranging the times for each interview, making it clear she was to be consulted on any changes. “Now, as I call your name, please come forward, pick up the folder with your name on the front, and introduce yourself to your colleagues.”

  Ellen was glad to be one of the first. She took her folder, faced the group, and introduced herself. “In college I worked on the school paper, and some of my short stories have been published. I don’t know where writing will take me. I just know it’s what I want to do.” With that, she slipped back to her spot and studied the others. It seemed an unlikely group, thrown together by chance and unemployment.

  There was Mae Swenson, whose poetry was published once a week in the local paper. The woman had a sweet smile but a rather vague expression, as if her muse were calling to her even at that moment. Ellen wondered how the woman would ever be able to focus on asking questions and listening to the answers. Then there was the man who looked to be in his thirties and introduced himself as Cowboy Joe. He penned cowboy poetry, but his one great hope, he confided, was to go on the radio to sing his songs. Joe had the assignment of traveling throughout Dobbs and surrounding counties to record songs on a special machine.

  The science-fiction writer spoke next, saying little about himself and a great deal about the imaginary planet Xandabar. Iris Hewitt skillfully cut him off and called Audrey to the front. Audrey gave her dark, short-cropped hair a pat and offered the group a wide smile before introducing herself as an out-of-work librarian who’d turned to writing children’s books that no one wanted. “Oh, there was one publisher,” she added rather wistfully. “But the company went bankrupt a week after I signed a contract.” When one or two in the group groaned in sympathy, Audrey shrugged. “But something will turn up. This job did. So, I’m not discouraged.”

  Heads nodded, encouraging Audrey’s optimism. The mood was just as quickly dampened by the man Ellen guessed to be in his mid-thirties. Wearing a tweed jacket too heavy for the warm weather, he scanned the room with a dour expression, as if evaluating a freshman class. He cleared his throat before introducing himself as a temporarily unemployed college teacher who wished to be addressed as Professor Reynolds.

  “Oh, boy,” Ellen muttered.

  The young man next to her leaned across and whispered, “You got that right. He’ll get booted out of the county if he uses that snotty tone with an old farmer and tells him to call him ‘professor.’ Serve him right, too.”

  He grinned and extended a hand to Ellen. “Jess Smith, high school graduate.”

  Ellen gave his hand a business-like shake just as Jess was called to the front. He was a local hired by the WPA. “I just graduated from high school,” he began, “and maybe I’ll have a chance to go to college, but what I really want to do, after three years of covering sports news for both the school and town papers, is to be a sports reporter in a big city.”

  He glanced at Iris. “But, for now, I’m being sent to the far end of the county, where I’ll stay with a great-aunt I haven’t seen since I was twelve, but whose house, as I remember it, smells of camphor, cats, and old socks. I’m happy to have this job, but I sure don’t look forward to Aunt Sissy.” Laughter, including Mrs. Hewitt’s, followed Jess as he took his seat.

  Iris Hewitt announced the meeting was ended, but she expected that beginning the next day, everyone would begin their interviews as scheduled.

  As people began to mill around and leave, Ellen tucked her folder into her worn leather satchel and walked to where Audrey was engaged in a one-sided conversation with the professor.

  “Do you want a ride back to Miss Jewell’s?” Ellen asked. Audrey had arrived in Opal’s Grove driving a rusted, dented Ford that didn’t look as if it could go another mile. “After lunch, I plan to track down the addresses for my assignments. We could look for yours, too.”

  “No, thanks,” Audrey turned and flashed a grin. “I appreciate the ride getting here this morning, but I think I’ll look around downtown. My first interviews are all at one place—the old folks’ home on the west end of town.” She gave the professor a sweet smile. “Me and Professor Reynolds are both assigned there for a couple of days.”

  Audrey put enough emphasis on the name to make it sound ridiculous. Ellen thought she saw the man flinch.

  “You can call it an old folks’ home, but we both know it’s the poor farm,” he huffed.

  “Then we should take a good look at the place. See what it’s like, because we might end up there if this Depression keeps on.” Audrey’s look dared the man to say more.

  Ellen mumbled that she’d see Audrey later and followed the others into th
e hall. On the stairs she found herself next to Jess.

  “I was wondering,” she said as they reached the first floor, “how are you getting to wherever it is you’re going?”

  “The place is Boxley. It’s not much more than about ten houses with a general store, post office, and gas station. And I get there on a motorcycle.”

  He laughed at Ellen’s look of surprise.

  “Yep. It belongs to my brother, but I’m riding it while he’s out in Idaho at a CCC camp.”

  “Idaho? I’ve heard people talking about a bridge project just outside town. Why isn’t he here working on that?”

  “The bridge is WPA, although they brought in some CCC boys to clear brush and haul rock. Some are local boys, but most are from somewhere else. They live in a camp down near the river.” He shifted his folder from one hand to the other, anxious to be on his way. “Well, bye. I’m going over to the library. Mrs. Hewitt’s big on local history. She and the historical society set up what they call ‘the Kansas Room’ and filled it with history books and old things people have donated. I don’t want to look stupid when I talk to these old-timers, so I’ve been reading up since last week.”

  As he started for the door, Ellen hurried to catch up and asked if she could tag along. She knew some state history, but nothing about the county. A browse through some local history wasn’t a bad idea.

  Jess gave a shrug, trying to appear nonchalant, but he looked pleased to have Ellen along. On the short walk to the library, she learned that Jess had played basketball and baseball on the school teams. He wanted to learn the game of golf, if he ever had the money to buy clubs, and he was dead serious about being a sportswriter.

  The library sat on a corner lot just off the courthouse square. Built of limestone, its double front doors of dark wood were flanked by stone columns. Ellen’s eyes widened in surprise. “I was expecting something less grand. The library in my hometown is located in the old two-room grade school.”

  “Wait till you see the inside.” Jess reached for the door. “One thing you can say about this town, when people decide to do something, they do it in a big way.”

  Ellen stepped through the door, scanning the central room. To the right, an ornately carved staircase led to the second floor. To the left was a large, highly polished desk. Behind it sat a woman with the ramrod posture of a commanding general and the sharp eyes of a store detective.

  “Hello, Miss Riley.” Jess stepped up to the desk.

  “Hello, Jess.” The pleasant tone of the woman’s voice contradicted her physical presence. “I thought you started that job today,” she said, putting aside a file of library cards.

  “Yes, ma’am, I did. I’ve just come over from the courthouse. This is Ellen Hartley, one of the other WPA people.” He turned and motioned Ellen forward.

  Ellen murmured a “pleased to meet you,” and let Jess do the talking.

  “She wanted to see the Kansas Room, and I’d like to read some more before I head out to Boxley this afternoon.”

  “That’s fine.” The woman’s nod was curt. “Mrs. Hewitt must still be over at the courthouse, but you know where things are. If you need anything, please don’t hesitate to ask for assistance. We don’t approve of people riffling through the books in that room.” She glanced at Ellen, including her in the warning.

  “You don’t have to worry, ma’am. I’ll be careful.” Jess led Ellen past shelves of books to a room at the back. When they were safely out of the woman’s line of sight, he grinned.

  “She’s a real character, isn’t she?”

  “I’ll say. She’s like a guard dog. Does anybody have the nerve to come in and check out books?”

  “Oh, she’s okay. You just have to get used to her.” He pointed toward an arched doorway. “The Kansas Room.”

  Ellen followed him. A table with four chairs sat at the room’s center. Bookshelves lined two walls. Another wall was covered with framed portraits of important local men, as well as historical photographs of Opal’s Grove. Under two sets of windows, glass-topped display cases filled the remaining space.

  While Jess selected his books, Ellen examined the cases. The miscellaneous collection of branding irons, hand tools, hats and gloves from bygone days, and pieces of china and silver held no interest for her. The items and the names attached to them with small labels meant even less. About to turn away and join Jess, her eyes caught the contents of the last case.

  At least one hundred arrowheads, of various sizes and colors, were arranged in perfect rows. Next to them were larger pieces, ax heads and grinding stones. At the far end, and easy to overlook because of their size, were two carvings, no bigger than a person’s thumb. A small yellowing label identified one of the carvings as a bird, the other as a turtle.

  “Oh, my.” Ellen barely breathed the words. When she was eight years old, she had found an arrowhead in a recently plowed field. After her father explained what it was and who made it, Ellen felt a tremendous sense of wonder that she had found such a treasure. She never discovered another. Now, here in this case, was a collection that must have taken years to unearth.

  Straightening, she took in the whole effect. A large handprinted label across the top of the case identified the collector as J.S. Featherstone. Beneath his name was smaller printing: “All items were found along the Big Muddy River. Mr. Featherstone believed these items proved an Indian village once existed along the river, but the exact location eluded him.”

  Ellen called to Jess and motioned at the case. “Is there anything about this Featherstone in any of those histories?”

  “Not much, but I read about him just the other day.” He thumbed through a book, finding the page he wanted. “Says he was born in Kentucky but left home early and headed west. Became a mountain man and once lived among the Sioux Indians. He also drove supply wagons for the army and acted as a scout for survey teams. Died in 1875. It doesn’t say when he settled in the county.”

  He closed the book, disappointed there wasn’t more.

  Ellen shrugged at the short biography. “Too bad he’s not around to interview. I’d love to hear his stories.”

  Jess agreed and went back to his book. Ellen took a chair across from Jess and opened one of the histories he’d pulled from the shelves. She skimmed through the accounts of the county’s early settlers, the coming of the railroad, and the homesteads that began to dot the landscape. Shutting the book, she pulled Mrs. Hewitt’s list from her satchel and began to leaf through the pages of the county biography Jess had used to find Featherstone. She began to search for family names that matched those on her list of people to interview. She found one name and then another.

  A light tap on the doorframe interrupted the quiet.

  “Sorry to bother you.” Iris Hewitt walked into the room. “Miss Riley told me you were back here.”

  “Hello, Jess.” She nodded in his direction. “Still reading up on your history. Good for you.”

  “Yes, ma’am, but I better get going.” He looked at the watch that had been his graduation present.

  “And, Miss Hartley,” the librarian turned her full attention to Ellen, “I’m so pleased that at least one person from the group this morning took my advice about visiting our little history collection.”

  Ellen started to explain she’d just tagged along with Jess, but Iris wasn’t finished. “Inez Fletcher was very impressed with you, which is why I assigned you to interview people I consider most important to this project. Now, I’m sure it was the right thing to do.”

  “And I get Aunt Sissy,” Jess broke in good-naturedly.

  Ellen gave him a smile of gratitude. Mrs. Hewitt had taken her by surprise, and she still wasn’t sure how to respond. Although she’d gotten the job, she still found it difficult to believe that the WPA woman in Topeka had been impressed.

  “I’ll certainly do my best,” she finally managed, thinking that, while Iris Hewitt seemed nice enough, the woman would be watching her, maybe more than the others.

&nbs
p; CHAPTER 6

  IVY

  Ivy Hamilton lived on a quiet street west of the courthouse square. Her trim brick bungalow was fronted by forsythia bushes. A detached garage sat back from the house. It wasn’t a big place like Agatha’s, but Ivy was more than satisfied with the house she and Wheat built when they decided to sell the farm and move to town. It was time, Wheat had announced one day. The work was getting to be too much, and, since the boys didn’t want to raise cattle or plant crops, better take the good money being offered for the property and go to town, where the only farming he wanted to do was keep a vegetable garden. That was in 1920.

  Ivy watched as an automobile pulled into the driveway and a young woman emerged with a battered satchel. She opened the screen door before Ellen took two steps across the porch. Ellen felt the woman taking her measure, just as she tried to hide her own appraisal of Ivy Hamilton. Ellen knew the woman was in her mid-eighties, but she seemed younger. It was the gleam in her eyes and her open smile, Ellen decided. The effect made her feel welcome, as if she were just the person Ivy was hoping to see that day.

  She felt herself relax as she followed the woman into the house. The Hamilton name hadn’t come up in the county histories she’d read, and within minutes Ellen guessed the reason. The histories mentioned the area’s great agricultural potential, but said very little about people like the Hamiltons, who ran the farms and ranches. Ivy explained her move to town as she led Ellen through the living room and past a dining room.

  Ivy came to a stop in the kitchen and pointed through a side door to the left. “I told Wheat I only wanted two things in the new house. There had to be a room for my sewing and a screened-in porch where we could sit and catch the breeze without being bothered with flies and mosquitoes.”