Dirt

Chapter 1 of my latest book. Two orphaned children learn the art of leing to stay together during the Great Dust Bowl

CHAPTER 1

 

 

Weathered boards muffled their footsteps. A soft swoosh broke the silence as the rope swung across the beam. Trembling hands secured one end of the rope. The old timbers creaked and threatened to snap against the sudden weight.

The silent moonless night resumed its passage toward morning. Crickets chirped while tiny claws once again scuttled across the sagging floor amongst the molding hay.

 

 

Blazing sun knifed through a break in the sheet covering the window. Sammy Larkin blinked and rubbed his eyes. He stretched, pushed the now dry sheet from his face and jerked up. His gaze darted to the window, then around his bare room. The sun sat high and he was still in his bed.

Where were his parents? They never let him sleep this late. Had it all been a bad dream, the conversation he heard pieces of last night? “I jus’ don’t know this is best for Sammy and Birdie. What’re they gonna do without us? It ain't right.” His pa’s words came back to him.

He jumped out of bed, pulled on his overalls. It had to have been a dream. Shirtless, he hurried out of his room and across the hall to Birdie’s room, his bare feet slapping hard on the dusty, wood floor. His younger sister’s bed sat empty. He rushed down the hall to his parents’ room and reached for the doorknob. “Ma? Pa?” he called out. Silence answered him. He couldn't remember their bedroom door ever being shut this late in the morning. He hesitated briefly, and then he knocked. “Ma? Pa?”

His stomach twisted, threatening to claw a hole right through to the outside. His parents should have been up hours ago. A chill ran down Sammy’s spine despite the early morning heat of summer. He shivered, pushed back his mop of hair hanging in his face. Pieces of the conversation played over in his mind, “The State will have to take care of the children. I have to believe that,” his ma had whispered. “It’s a small price to pay to make sure they survive.”

A silent house and closed doors definitely meant something was wrong. By this time in the morning, everyone should be up, fed, and out the door for chores, even on Sunday. Everything felt wrong. Maybe he didn’t dream the conversation he overheard. He thought back to last night when he had crept down the stairs, silent as a field mouse, to listen to his parents talking. Though the house was small, tucked on a stair he strained to hear some of the tear-laden words. The last bit, before he fled back to his room, came through as clear as a winter night sky, “Tonight”, which was now last night.

He grabbed the door knob and threw open the door. His heart stopped. The room was tidy�"the bed made, a small collection of clothes hung neatly on the pegs against the faded wall. Sammy willed himself to breath. He spun around and rushed out of the room, down the stairs, through the parlor and into the kitchen.

His bare feet skid to a stop in the doorway where he found Birdie sitting quietly at the table. She chewed on a slice of old bread. They called her Birdie because her mouth was always going, asking for more to eat, like a little bird. But she never seemed to grow. At seven, she looked more like a four-year-old. She was shorter than her friends and thin as a reed, with tiny hands and feet. Her curly auburn hair framed a pale oval face dominated by large, gray eyes, and a sprinkling of freckles across her cheeks and nose.

Her head bounced up when she heard Sammy in the doorway. Her lips turned down into a frown. “I can’t find Momma and Daddy and I’m hungry. How come Momma’s not here fixin' brefess?”

“I don’t know, Birdie,” Sammy said, trying to sound calmer than he felt. “Did ya look outside?”

Birdie nodded. “I looked from the porch.”

“Well, maybe they’re out in the fields. Did you go out in the yard lookin'?”

Birdie started to cry. “I was scared to go off by myself. Momma should be here, not outside.” She nibbled on the bread.

“Great. Come on, let’s go look for ‘em.” Sammy walked past his sister and pulled the back door open. He stood on the porch, searching the yard and the distant fields. “I can’t see nothin’ from here. Come on, Birdie.” He took off down the steps, Birdie ran after him.

“Wait fer me, Sammy,” Birdie called as she jumped down the porch steps and raced to catch up with her brother. She trotted behind him attempting to keep up with his larger strides. At thirteen, he was tall, most of his height being his long, thin legs. It seemed as if he grew out of his pants before they got dirty enough to wash.

“I ain’t waitin’. We gotta find them.” Fear and hope battled within him as Sammy tried to think of a reasonable answer to where his parents were. They probably just let us sleep, he thought. “Right,” he said aloud.

He ran to the fence on the side of the house closest to the fields. There was no sign of them. Windswept dirt lay in mounds against the fence and outbuildings making the acres of fields look like a winter snowdrift. Along the fence line, where they had kept the livestock, when they still had livestock, only the tops of the fence posts poked through. Sammy climbed over the fence and scrambled up the banked dirt behind the tool shed and scanned the barren acres.

No sign of anyone or anything. Nothing moved but dust, swirling and dancing across the sickly land, at the mercy of the incessant hot wind. In the distance, a couple of buzzard vultures circled, riding the currents of air.

He slid down the hill and rushed back to the yard. From beneath the half-dead Prickly Ashe tree, Sammy turned in circles, looking out over the landscape for a sign, any sign, of his Ma and Pa. He must have missed something. How could his parents disappear without a trace? Maybe they went to town, he thought. No, that couldn’t be right. He knew they had no money to buy anything. He’d heard his ma say the night before that there was no gas in the truck to leave and find work somewhere else. Where was the truck then? It, too, was missing. No truck meant they had really left.

“Nooo,” he yelled so loud a flock of crows took flight. “You can’t go off an’ leave us.” He stood there, beneath the tree, angry. “How can you do this?”

Lost in his anguish, he almost jumped clean out of his overalls when Birdie came up behind him and laid her small hand on his shoulder. He spun around and glared at her. “What?” he snarled. “Don’t you be sneakin' up on me, ya hear.”

“Do ya see ‘em, Sammy?” A note of fear carried Birdie’s words.

“No, I don’t see ‘em, but the trucks gone. I reckon if we can be findin’ the truck, we’ll find ma and pa.”

Birdie began to cry softly as Sammy sprinted for the barn. Why hadn’t he thought of it sooner? Pa always put the truck up at night. It helped keep the blowin’ dirt off the engine. He threw the door open and to his amazement, there, in the middle of the barn, sat the truck; beat up and rusted, places in the bed so bad you could see straight through to the ground beneath. Sammy slumped to the dirt floor and let out the breath he had been holding. His parents hadn’t left after all. How could they, the truck was right here.

So, where were they? Maybe they done walked on over to the town. He could think of lots more places they could have gone to. Didn't mean they weren't comin' back on home. Why wouldn’t they have woken him to say they were leaving? They would want him to watch over Birdie while they were gone.

He stood, dusted himself off. It had been a whole lot of worrying for nothing. He felt stupid, carrying on like some sissy child. He turned around when a gust of wind rushed through the open door, swirling dirt and pieces of straw. From the corner of his eye, he glimpsed a shadow dance across the dirt floor. Sammy turned and slowly raised his head, pushing his hair from his eyes. Two pairs of feet dangled above the front of the truck. As his eyes traveled up further, he saw legs attached to those feet. Then the bodies came into his view. His mother and father hung from the barn rafters. In a sense, they hadn’t left after all.

He gulped and stood paralyzed.

Where was Birdie? In his rush to find the truck, he had forgotten all about her.

From behind him he could hear Birdie crying. “Sammy, what’s wrong with momma and daddy?”

He turned to see his sister standing in the doorway behind him. Her tear-streaked face was grimy from the dust blowing in the air, dust that never seemed to go away. She looked as though she had seen a ghost.

“Git outta here, Birdie. Now.” he yelled.

“I want my momma. I want my momma,” she screamed.

“I said git.” Sammy grabbed Birdie by the arm and dragged her out of the barn.

The wind rustled through the barn once again. Bits of straw and dust swirled in the air. Caught in the breeze, a piece of yellowed paper floated off the hood of the truck. It rose and dipped riding the air current, finally settling beside a stack of rotted boards.

 

Author's Note

I wrote this after having long talks with my father about him growing up during the depression

Reviews

[the crying cup]

This is very well written and you've obviously put lots of effort into it. Great job on this!

[JR Darewood]

I love the way you set the scene with small details, it really put me in the period.
and the voices were excellent.
your flair for description made the content even more heart-wrenching.
it sounds like you really got a lot out of those conversations with your father.

[Samuel Dickens]

So heartbreaking to see children in such a sad and hopeless predicament, but not at all implausible. The dust bowl days were well before my time, but my younger brother and I experienced many things similar to Sammy and Birdie. In fact, we were Sammy and Bobby. This is close to home, Sharon, but I'm very glad you're writing this. People nowadays don't have any idea what hard times are.