FATAL FLAWS: Based on a True Story

By Connie Lounsbury

Award-winning author Connie Lounsbury expertly weaves nonfiction and fiction together in a story that will have the reader weeping in both sorrow and joy. When Irene’s husband abandons her and their children in the early 1920s she tries, in various ways, to earn an income to support her children. When circumstances make that impossible, he

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pyramid Publishers
• Release date: Nov 12, 2018
• ISBN: 9781886179028

Connie Lounsbury

Connie Lounsbury is a freelance writer who also teaches writing classes.

Book preview

Table of Contents

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Fatal Flaws

Based on a True Story

Connie Lounsbury

Previously published as KATHLEEN CREEK

Copyright © 2013 by Connie Lounsbury

Under the title Kathleen Creek

Pyramid Publishers wb Address

Copyright © 2018 by Connie Lounsbury

Under the title Fatal Flaws

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

Printed by Lightning Source, 1246 Heil Quaker Blvd.

La Vergne, TN, USA 37086

ISBN – 978-1-886179-01-1

ISBN – 978-1-886179-02-8 eBook

Cover Design by

Interior Design by Just Ink Digital Design

All Scripture quotations are taken from the New American Standard Bible®, copyright 1960, 1962, 1963, 1968, 1971, 1972, 1973, 1975, 1977, 1995 by The Lockman Foundation. Used by permission.

Printed in the United States of America

Other books by Connie Lounsbury

A HOBO’S WISH

THRIFT STORE SHOES

KATHLEEN CREEK (Republished as FATAL FLAWS)

REACHING PAST THE WIRE: A Nurse at Abu Ghraib

EYES OF HOPE, Caring for Orphans and Widows in Africa

HEAVEN IS NEAR WHEN A CHILD DIES

QUIT YOUR JOB AND MAKE ENDS MEET

Dedication

To my brother, Lee R. Duncan, (now deceased) and my sisters, Judie Pierce and Rennie Duncan – those kindred spirits close to my heart who share my family heritage.

Acknowledgments

This book would never have made it to fruition without the encouragement and support of my husband, David, and many of my friends and family, too numerous to mention. I extend my undying love and gratitude to all of you who helped make this book a reality, especially my publisher, Patrick Day, for his guidance and wisdom in publishing this second edition.

I am especially grateful to my dear Aunt Cora, who graciously shared our tragic family story with me.  May she now rest in her mother’s arms in Heaven.

1

Fall 1919

IRENE ROCKED TWO-YEAR-OLD LEONARD to the rhythm of the train wheels as they clacked over the rails. Across the aisle, her husband, Sam, sat against the window, his face settled in disgust. At least he had stopped calling her a harlot. Irene’s heart hurt with regret every time she looked at him.

Eight-year-old Frank pushed his unruly red hair out of his eyes and asked his tall papa, who sat next to him, How come we don’t fly off the train tracks and plow into the trees?

Sam offered a brief, one-shoulder shrug and turned his face toward the window.  Frank peered up at the back of his papa’s rusty red hair, then dropped his chin to his chest.

Irene frowned. She didn’t know why he took it out on Frankie when he was angry with her. Frankie, tall and gangly like his papa, wanted to become just like him.

Irene noticed that Frankie had missed the top button on his gray sweater, and one corner hung lower than the other in front. She reached across the aisle and re-buttoned it. He gave her a weak smile and she whispered, We’re almost there.

As she watched Sam’s brooding, angular profile against the passing of colorful autumn leaves and sparkling blue lakes outside the train window, her excitement returned. They were finally going back to Minnesota after living in North Dakota for three years – the longest, loneliest three years of her life.

She could hardly wait to get back to Kathleen Creek. But, she didn’t know how she could get Sam to forgive her and love her again. As she studied the face so dear to her, she felt grateful, once again, that he had been too old for the draft. So many men had been killed in this terrible war in Europe, including Sam’s brother.

Irene glanced at Leonard, asleep in her lap, and she wondered, once again, what the townspeople will say about blue-eyed Leonard, with white-blond hair, who exactly resembles his real father.

Leonard snored lightly, and Irene laid him on the rough, brown, horsehide train seat next to her. She watched Jonathan reading to his five-year-old sister, Hannah. They both had dark auburn hair like hers, and Jonathan’s face sparkled with freckles like his younger brother, Frank. Jonathan wasn’t quite ten yet, but already a little man. She had precious children, such dark-eyed beauties. Except for the baby, of course. He had his own fresh, blue-eyed, blond beauty.

Irene shook her head in disbelief that at one time she didn’t want to have children. Now she couldn’t live without them. She gently slicked back the cowlick that stood up on the front of Leonard’s hair and tucked her coat around his shoulders.

She wondered how Sam, an overly prideful man, will handle the gossip in town. She looked over at him—broad shoulders straight as a chair-back and large hands sticking out from sleeves that were always too short. His Adam’s apple moved in slow motion up and down in his long neck and a muscle in his jaw clenched and unclenched with his thoughts.

Go away. Stop! Hannah lisped between her two missing lower front teeth as she pushed at Frank who tried to squeeze between her and Jonathan. Hannah held Dolly, her constant companion, close to her while she refused Frank entry between them.

Hush, Irene said as she grabbed Frank. Leonard will wake up. Irene knew she spoiled Frank and not for his betterment. Born with one leg shorter than the other, Irene found it easy to pamper him when kids taunted him and called him gimpy. Frank limped when he walked and hobbled when he tried to run.  Jonathan will play with you later, Irene assured Frank as she handed him a book from her bag. Why don’t you read to me for a while?

Frank finished reading to his mama and then headed back to cause more trouble with Jonathan and Hannah, but Irene headed him off. Hush! We’re almost there. Look out the window. See? Irene pointed to the sunny October Minnesota landscape of red maples, yellow birch, tawny oak, and fields of dry brown stalks of corn ready to be harvested. There’s the Sioux County line.

By the time the conductor, a rotund man with a bulbous nose and graying hair that curled over his greasy hat waddled down the aisle and announced, Next stop, Kathleen Creek, they were wearing their coats and were ready to disembark.

Sam picked up the picnic basket and satchels without saying a word, and Irene noticed he didn’t have his fiddle. She wondered about it but quickly forgot it in the flurry of getting the children and their baggage together.

Irene had telegraphed her parents, and now she saw out the window that Agnes and Albert Engstrom stood on the wooden platform holding onto their hats as the train screeched to a stop. Irene noticed Albert had worn his tweed Sunday jacket in honor of their homecoming, and moisture misted her eyes.

Sam got off the train first and nodded toward Irene’s parents, set his baggage down, and began to assist his family. Frank wobbled down and yelled, Hi, Grandma. Hi, Grandpa, hobbling toward them. Jonathan came down the steps next but waited for his little sister. He took her hand, so they could greet their grandparents together.

Sam reached up without looking at Irene’s face and helped her and Leonard down the train steps. Please be nice, Irene whispered. Sam turned away and walked through the crowd to claim their trunks from the baggage car.

The pungency of coal smoke from the engine scented the air although the wind blew most of the smoke away from the platform. The sun shone so brightly Irene had to squint as she greeted her parents. Her mama, a large woman with dark hair braided into a bun at the back of her neck, smiled with a warm welcome. Her dad, small compared to his wife, beamed with sincere welcome and a warm hug.

Agnes embraced Irene and then peered in at Leonard, who was wriggling to get down from Irene’s arms. Let’s have a look at little Leonard, she said, removing his cap. Her smile froze when she saw Leonard’s blond cowlick, striking blue eyes, and dimples. Agnes stared at her daughter and whispered the question for which she realized the answer: Irene, this is not Sam’s child. What did you do?

Irene set Leonard down but held him close to her legs. She looked away, then back at her mama, who searched Irene’s face with concern written in every line. I’m ashamed at what I did, Mama, but it only happened once, and I reckon I can never make it up to Sam, but I’m trying. I’m really trying. Irene spoke quietly, scanning to make sure the other children weren’t within hearing. It’s been really hard, but I thought Sam finally forgave me. Now I’m not so sure. He won’t talk to me.

We’re ready. Albert pulled alongside them in the buckboard.

Agnes examined the few trunks in the back of the buckboard.  Where are the rest of your things?

Later, Irene didn’t want to explain anything right then.

Well, Irene and Leonard can come with me in the buggy, and Sam and the other children can ride home with Albert, Agnes said.

The children headed toward the open buckboard. Good-bye, Frankie, Jonathan, Hannah. I’ll be going now, Sam said.

Going? Irene grabbed onto the green velvet hat that slid down her hair when her head had whirled around. Going where?

Pa’s.

Are you coming back?

Nope. Sam nodded a solemn farewell to Albert and Agnes and, without a glance at Irene, strode back toward the train.

Sam, no! Come back, Sam! Irene took a step to go after him, and Agnes grabbed Leonard. Sam, Irene called frantically. She took several more steps, but Sam’s long strides had reached the train and he boarded.

Jonathan ran to his mama and caught her as she leaned against him for support. At the same time, Frank called to his papa and hobbled after him so fast that he stumbled and fell. He quickly got up from the ground and continued to run and yell, Pa, Pa, don’t go, don’t go.

Irene ran after Frank and grabbed him right before he reached the train. As the train pulled away, Irene kept a firm grip on him as he sobbed, Come back, Pa, come back. The puff-puff-puff of the train drowned out the words, but the boy’s mouth formed another plea when Sam’s face showed through the train window.

Irene began to console Frank, but he glared up at her, his face red, nose running, and yelled at her, It’s your fault. You made him go. He’s mad at you. You’re a harlot!

Frankie, you don’t understand…

I heard him. I heard him say you’re a harlot. He’s mad at you, and now he’s gone. It’s your fault. I hate you! I hate you! Frank ran to Albert, burying his face in his grandpa’s belly, crying even louder.

Irene stood mute, her mind racing. Her worst fear had come true. Sam had left her. Sam was gone. And now Frank blamed her. Even though Frank, at eight, didn’t know what harlot meant, he was right. It was her fault his pa was gone. She had betrayed Sam. She buckled in pain, her hands holding her stomach, as she convulsed into tears.

Irene looked at her dad, who nodded that he would take care of Frank, so Agnes led her to the buggy, urged her into the seat, and lifted Leonard onto her lap. She heard Agnes get into the seat beside her, felt the jolting when the horse started pulling the buggy, but otherwise felt outside of her own body – numb.

In the buckboard Frank sat next to Albert, still sobbing, while Jonathan comforted Hannah. Though he held it high for the world to see, Jonathan’s chin quivered.

Inside the buggy, Agnes and Irene rode along in silence for several miles as they followed the buckboard, silent tears flowing down Irene’s face. When Leonard fidgeted, Irene settled him more comfortably on her lap and noted her surroundings again. She thought back to the many weeks she had tried to convince Sam that the new Prohibition Law that had recently gone into effect would create greater demand for his moonshine business in Minnesota now. As much as she hated his bootlegging, she was desperate to get back home. Sam had only worked his jaw muscles and said nothing.

Then, after almost three years of mostly ignoring her, Sam had made love to her about a week ago. But the following morning he was furious. Harlot! he had yelled at her. We can’t ever go back home. Everyone will see me for a fool. Yet the next day he had announced they were going back to Kathleen Creek. Irene’s excitement pushed away the questions she knew she should ask. She hadn’t wanted anything to get in the way of going home.

All week people had come to pick up the horses, the prairie schooner, the cow, the pigs, and the buckboard. When Sam saw Irene packing pots and pans, he said, Leave ’em.

Sam will make good money with his bootlegging and we’ll buy more, Irene reasoned, refusing to listen to a fear in the back of her mind that he might bring her to her parents and leave her. She gave most of their household belongings to Mrs. Mattila, her only friend there, packing only clothes and personal things. The perpetual smile she wore made her face hurt by the end of the day. But she hung on to the joy that she was going home.

Now Irene sat in the buggy with her mama on her way to the homestead, trying to face the reality that Sam had left her. How could she get him to come back to her and make a new start now? What would make him forgive her and love her again? Her heart ached with loneliness already.

Leonard, who had been good until now, began to cry. He’s hungry, Irene said. Her mouth tasted metallic, and her voice sounded hollow and tinny in her own ears.

We’ll be home soon. Agnes urged the horse into a trot with a couple shakes of the reins. Only minutes later Irene saw the well-maintained white clapboard house on the hill where she grew up. The maple trees radiated red, yellow, and orange across the vast front lawn welcoming them up the driveway and along the orchard toward the house. The lake behind the chicken coop and barn reflected a brightness Irene had always embraced when she came into that view. Yet today, as the buggy pulled near the house with the buckboard right behind it, she burst into loud sobs at the bittersweet homecoming.

Julia Zack, Irene’s grandmother, came to the door all smiles, her arms out to Frank, who jumped from the buckboard still crying. By the time Irene came in, Frank had already told her that his pa had left on the train. Land sakes, child, I didn’t expect you all to come home crying. I’m so sorry. It’s true, then? Sam has taken leave from you?

I don’t know. Irene sniffed. He just left. She put Leonard down on the floor.

My heavens! Whose little boy is this? Julia squinted at him.

This is Leonard. Irene searched her pocket for a handkerchief.

Your Leonard?

Yes, my Leonard. Irene’s voice sounded strained.

Agnes came in then and nodded at the shocked question on Julia’s face. Frank continued to cry.

Come here, Frankie. Julia beckoned. Great-grandmother will get you a cookie. She went into the kitchen and Agnes followed. When they came back, Julia’s dark eyes snapped, and her mouth was a tight grimace. You go outside and play now, Frankie.

Can’t I read with you? Frank whined.

Not now, Frank. Go outside and play with Jonathan and Hannah.

When Frank left, Julia planted her hands on her hips and leaned toward Irene. I realize your husband has just taken leave from you, and your mother thinks I should go easy on you because of that, but how do you expect any of us to hold our heads up in this town when you bring home a child who is obviously not Sam’s? Julia’s eyes bore into Irene. I can’t say I blame poor Sam for taking leave. He’s a proud man. Anyone who sets eyes on this child will know straightaway to whom he belongs.

Julia raised her hands in the air to emphasize her point and then continued her tirade. At last she lowered her voice to reflect the futility of the situation.  What in heaven’s name were you thinking, Irene?  Now I understand Sam’s all-fired hurry to get you out of here when you left. It’s a good thing your grandfather isn’t around to see what you’ve done. It would break Daniel’s heart. Julia stood straighter and threw her hands in the air once again.

Grandmother let me…

I’m too upset to stay here any longer. Julia glared. I’m going home. She pivoted away from Irene, put on her fur coat, her fashionable hat, her long black gloves, and dusted a piece of lint from the supple leather before she picked up her handbag. I don’t care to see you for a while, Irene. Her rigid back turned as she walked to the door. The homecoming cake is in the pantry, she added with a withering glance backward.  I hope you can swallow it better than I could have. She lifted her chin as if to dismiss Irene forever and walked out, leaving the inside door open and letting the screen door slam hard behind her.

Irene walked across the room to close the door but stood watching Julia Zack who picked up the reins with her gloved hands and clucked her tongue to get Betsy moving. Irene didn’t care much for her grandmother, but now she cringed knowing the shame Julia would face in the community, especially from the women at Ladies Aid and the Grand Army of the Republic and the Improvement Club.

Her grandmother held so much pride in her status of having the first wood-framed house in that community furnished with only the best all the way from New York City, and having once had connections with President and Mary Todd Lincoln. Now everyone would be buzzing about Irene. And Grandmother will probably blame it all on her poor, dead husband, like she always does.

Leonard toddled across the room and put his arms around Irene’s legs and cried, reminding Irene that he was hungry. She closed the door and focused on her child. Let’s get something for you to eat, Sweetie Pie, she said as she picked him up and carried him into the kitchen. She wondered if the hollow feeling inside her would ever go away and what she would do without Sam.

*

The following week, Frank was angry with Irene one minute and clinging to her the next. You made Papa leave, he’d say and refuse to have anything to do with her. The next day he’d follow her around the house asking, Why did Papa leave, Mama? Is he coming back?

Irene didn’t know how to answer, so she only said, I don’t know, honey. I don’t know. Frank crawled into bed with her and squeezed into the same chair with his mother. He was inconsolable.

Irene was just as inconsolable. But she was more concerned for ten-year-old Jonathan, who showed his feelings differently than did Frank. Jonathan didn’t cry. He kept silent, but his face showed a hardness that wasn’t there before. Hurt showed in his eyes, but he wouldn’t talk about his papa except to tell Hannah, We don’t need him. I’ll take care of you, Hannah. Don’t worry.

Now Hannah, at five, seemed to be even closer to Jonathan. The two became inseparable, leaving Frank whining to Irene that he didn’t have anything to do.

Once again Irene wished that her grandfather, Daniel Zack, were still alive. He had told her she would always be happy because he paid for her happiness in the Civil War with his lost eyesight, but she wasn’t happy now with her family torn apart. Popsy had loved her unconditionally, and she had talked to him about everything. She remembered telling Popsy about Sam the first day Sam had walked into her life, in the spring of 1906….

2

Spring 1906

IRENE ENGSTROM SOMETIMES WISHED SHE HAD BEEN BORN A BOY. She was tired of doing women’s work and tired of her mama’s efforts to make her into a lady. At fifteen, if she wasn’t already a lady, she probably never would be. Irene sat on the front porch, petting one of their many barn cats, waiting for the flatirons to heat. She hated ironing clothes and gazed longingly toward the barn and fields where she would prefer working.

The brilliant sunshine made the day appear warm, but a brisk May breeze blew cold. Irene gathered her plaid, wool coat tighter around herself and shivered. As pigeons flew to the roof of the barn, something orange moved behind the lilacs growing alongside the road next to their farmyard. She watched the bobbing movement above and beyond the bushes until an unusually tall man emerged from behind the windbreak. He walked toward them along the dusty gravel road, and Irene wondered momentarily if he were walking on stilts. As he came closer Irene saw that his hair was the color of carrots after they had been in the cellar for a while and that he had something on his back. Their dog, Brownie, began barking.

The cat jumped from Irene’s lap, and she walked down the driveway to get the mail, so she could more closely view the man as he passed by. Brownie followed her and continued to bark. When the man carrying a pair of work boots, a satchel, and a violin case reached her at the mailbox he nodded to her, turned into their driveway, and continued walking toward their house. Irene watched in amazement. Brownie, who rarely took to strangers, started following the man, his tail wagging.

Irene hung back, blushing, certain the stranger knew she had wanted a better look at him. Then, ever so slowly, she strolled back to the house with the mail. Her mama stood at the open door wiping her hands on her apron. She pointed to the barn, where Albert was already coming toward them to meet the man.

You need help? the stranger drawled as he strode to meet Albert.

Albert nodded, smiling at the man.

Sam Ross. The stranger extended a huge hand.

Albert Engstrom. Can you milk?

Yep.

Field work?

Yep.

Are you good with horses?

Yep.

Where you from?

French Lake.

Did you come afoot? Albert asked as he looked around.

Yep.

Well, that’s a far piece. Come sit yourself.

Albert led the way to white wicker chairs on the front porch. Sam Ross took the work boots with laces tied together from his right shoulder and set them down beside a chair. He removed a violin case that rode on his back by way of a wide leather strap and laid it carefully alongside the boots. Then he repeated the procedure to remove a worn, black leather satchel from his back. Finally, he sat, his wide shoulders straight. Brownie put his head in Sam’s lap, and Sam caressed the dog.

Albert, a quiet man, watched his dog’s unusual behavior, then said, Irene, make some coffee.

As Irene went into the house, she left the door slightly ajar to not miss anything. She moved the flatirons to the back of the stove, happy for a reprieve from ironing, and started making coffee. After pumping water at the dry sink into the blue and white enamel coffeepot, she added coffee grounds, all the while listening carefully to the conversation on the porch.

Irene heard her dad say, Well, Sam, we have here, Mrs. Engstrom and I, forty acres – about thirty tilled. We milk eight cows. All except two come in fresh the last couple a’ weeks. We raise pigs, chickens, a few geese, and have a good pair of work horses, plus Mother’s horse for the buggy and the children’s riding horses. My arthritis is gettin’, so I can’t do it all anymore. The soil’s almost ready for plantin’. Have to face that fact and hire help. Never did it before so it’s new to me. I suppose we could give it a try.

Irene peeked through the crack in the door and saw her dad glance at Sam, whose nod seemed sympathetic. Albert peered out at his fields again. I understand twenty dollars a month is a fair wage, with room and board and Sabbaths off between morning and evening chores. ‘Course you’ll have to sleep in the shed until winter when we can fix up other means, if that’s satisfactory. Albert stopped talking and looked at Sam. Sam nodded.

Agnes came into the kitchen with a stack of towels she had folded and nodded in satisfaction at Irene’s having set the table for pie and coffee.

On the porch, Albert and Sam discussed weather, crop predictions, and workhorses until a rich aroma reached them. Let’s have coffee then, Albert said, as he led the way into the kitchen. Sam stooped to pick up his violin case and laid it inside the kitchen door. This here’s my wife, Agnes, Albert said. Aggie, this is Sam Ross. He’s going to work for us. I told him he could bunk in the she, so he’ll need some bedding.

Gesturing in Irene’s direction, Albert said, My daughter, Irene. We have two younger sons, Virgil and Roy. They’re helping their grandmother, Julia Zack, right now. That’s the next place, quarter mile south a’ here.

After Sam nodded to Agnes, he nodded at Irene, too, his eyes resting on her longer than they had on Agnes. Irene listened to his heavy accent and wondered, as she placed slices of warm rhubarb pie on dessert plates and poured coffee, whether he knew much English. Sam followed Albert’s lead and hung his jacket on a hook before washing his hands in a basin at the dry sink. Then they sat at the round oak kitchen table where a small pitcher of cream and a bowl of sugar cubes sat in the center for their use. After the first sip of coffee, Agnes asked, Where are you from, Sam?

French Lake.

Do you have family there?

Yes, ma’am. Mother and father, James and Lizzy Ross. Eight brothers and sisters.

I can tell that you’re from another part of the country.

Yes, ma’am, Kentucky.

I see. Have you been in Minnesota long?

Since I was ten, ma’am.

Irene wondered about his present age. She liked his straight nose, but she didn’t like his big Adam’s apple, his long neck, or his serious nature. Pour more coffee, Irene, Agnes said.

After three cups of coffee and a slice of pie they rose from the table. Best pie I ever ate, ma’am. Sam nodded to Agnes.

Compliments go to Irene. She made the pie.

Thank you, Miss Irene.

You’re welcome. Irene wondered what it would take to make him smile as he picked up his violin case and followed Albert out the door.

Later that night Irene overheard her parents talking. I know, Aggie. I don’t know a thing about him, but Brownie took to him right away. Dogs have a good instinct when it comes to judging a man. If he doesn’t work out, we’ll find someone else. But I’m going to give the man a chance. He appears to be a decent fellow.

*

The next day Irene rushed through her morning chores, so she could go fishing with Tommy Johnson. I don’t know why you want to run wild with that Johnson boy, Agnes told Irene. Riding around the country on horses and shooting guns is not lady-like behavior. What must people think? Have you practiced your piano lesson today?

I’ll do it when I get back. Irene