Fractured

By Sandra Windsor

“It’s just a move,” her father said. Her mother shrugged. Sarah cried. Fourteen and her dream country club life shattered. It’s not just a move, it’s a move to a farm with fields and animals and miles of dusty roads between farmhouses. She isn’t even part of a town. Neither is her mother. These two lives move in parallel as each negotiates change within the confines of the 1950s Midwest mores. A perfect family: executive father, trophy wife, two daughters until this move rips the scabs off the marriage and fractures the family structure.

“Readers will be swept away by FRACTURED, a timeless coming-of-age novel with an unforgettable heroine. Set in the 1950s, the novel evokes a more innocent time, but Sandra Windsor has a few plot twists up her sleeve that show the darkness hiding behind even the most perfect-seeming family. Windsor is a masterful storyteller with remarkable insight into the human condition. This novel is full of heart.”

• Language: English
• Publisher: Abbott Press
• Release date: Mar 4, 2021
• ISBN: 9781458223050

Sandra Windsor

Sandra published her first book, The FBI Wife: A Memoir in 2016. In 2017, it won the Colorado Authors League award for creative non-fiction and CIPA’s award for family relationships. In addition, her short story, “Forty-two Dodger Blue” was an award winner in Writer’s Digest’s short story contest in 2015. Fractured is her debut novel, a story once again centered around family relationships. She is currently working on a second novel and a sequel memoir to The FBI Wife. Recently retired from a long career in education and teaching writing, she and her husband reside in Denver, Colorado.

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Copyright © 2021 Sandra Windsor.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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ISBN: 978-1-4582-2307-4 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4582-2306-7 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4582-2305-0 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2021900841

Abbott Press rev. date: 02/26/2021

Contents

Prologue Perfect

Chapter 1 Perfect’s a Myth

Chapter 2 Possibilities

Chapter 3 In Style

Chapter 4 Decided

Chapter 5 Grandpa

Chapter 6 Moving Day

Chapter 7 Dread

Chapter 8 Help Arrives

Chapter 9 Avery

Chapter 10 Fallout

Chapter 11 Fall Dance

Chapter 12 Morning Reflection

Chapter 13 Almost Perfect Once Again

Chapter 14 Christmas ‘52

Chapter 15 Winter to Spring

Chapter 16 Cold

Chapter 17 New Arrivals

Chapter 18 Flying the Coop

Chapter 19 Spring for the Horse, Dad

Chapter 20 Sam

Chapter 21 Welcome to the Pasture

Chapter 22 Animal House

Chapter 23 A Different Kind of Picnic

Chapter 24 Summer Love

Chapter 25 Rescue Me

Chapter 26 Don’t Tell

Chapter 27 No Easy Out

Chapter 28 The Plan

Chapter 29 Grandpa’s Idea

Chapter 30 Holiday Perfect

Chapter 31 Christmas 1953

Chapter 32 Shattered

Chapter 33 Again

Chapter 34 Knock

Chapter 35 What Next?

Chapter 36 February Is for Love

Chapter 37 Hope Springs

Chapter 38 Surprise

Chapter 39 News

Chapter 40 Are Things Ever What They Seem?

Chapter 41 Sweet Dreams

Chapter 42 Ruined

Chapter 43 Make It Better

Chapter 44 Aflame

Chapter 45 Another Plan

Chapter 46 Visitors

Chapter 47 It’s Time

Chapter 48 Goodbye

Acknowledgments

To Sophia Catherine Browning,

my inspiring granddaughter

Lodged

The rain to the wind said,

You push and I’ll pelt.

They so smote the garden bed

That the flowers actually knelt,

And lay lodged—though not dead.

I know how the flowers felt.

Robert Frost

PROLOGUE

Perfect

P erfect I’m not, but my fourteenth birthday will be.

January, February, March 1952 I’ve been teasing my friends with my birthday plans, which are teenage dreams: a swanky place with all of us dressed up lunching in a fancy restaurant like those I see in Seventeen magazine. In Lansing? Well, it’s not exactly New York City and debutante balls. It’s a pipe dream until Dad announces over dinner that he’s being promoted to Engineering Vice President, and his promotion includes a membership to Walnut Hills Country Club. Perfect! This country club could be it, just the right place to celebrate my entrance into high school, this place called adulthood and my exit from a childhood I am more than ready to leave.

Amazing. It only takes one dramatic plea to convince my parents to turn a once in a lifetime birthday dream into a magical vision. It’s set: four friends and me.

Mom drives Lake Lansing Road like it’s a routine drive until a distinctive wooden, engraved sign signaling Walnut Hills Country Club looms on the left hand side. One turn and up the long driveway to the front entrance where a uniformed attendant waits as if he’s expecting us. He doesn’t look much older than me, but in his red short jacket, black pants with a stripe down the sides and a red kepi hat trimmed in the same black satin, he looks like he should be guarding a royal castle.

I straighten to my tallest in my seat next to Mom and wait for her signals. She says hello and tells him we’re here for lunch. He opens her door, just like in the movies, then opens our doors, our cue to exit and move to the huge wooden double door like one I imagine a castle to have. Mom thanks the stiffly courteous man and leads the way into the dining room where this time a woman appears to be waiting for us. She smiles like she knows this day has to be perfect.

We have a reservation for Wilson for 12:30 today in celebration of my daughter’s birthday.

Of course, Mrs. Wilson, right this way.

I try not to gawk as I walk, head up, shoulders back, to our table. This is the most beautiful dining room I’ve ever seen. The polished wooden floor echoes the tapping of my new mid-heel shoes, the very sound I love to hear when Mom walks in her high heels across our floors at home. I look around at the walls papered in a soft pistachio green silk, the color of my favorite ice cream. The towering windows circling the dining room are draped in a shade of darker green velvet fabric. I want to touch them, to feel their softness against my skin. The school Christmas dance would be perfect for a dark green velvet dress. I’m getting pretty good at sewing—maybe…

Our hostess, dressed in a flowered spring dress with a flared skirt, leads us past empty tables waiting for diners until she stops before a large round table agleam with ivory linen cloths and napkins where a formally dressed man appears from the wings to assist us with our chairs. I am the actress playing a leading role on stage. I look at my friends as we glance at the table setting before us. What are we to do with all this silverware and how many glasses can we possibly use? Mom sits confidently in her chair and smiles reassuringly. My friends and I follow her lead.

The formally dressed waiter hands each of us a large brown leather album with the word Menu emblazoned in gold on the front. Mom looks around the table and explains the specials. How does she know all this? Our waiter returns to ask if we’re ready to order. He must have noticed our nervousness, so he starts with Mom. Then he moves to me, writes something down and takes my menu. I take a deep breath and sigh. I look around at my friends and start talking to them like we did this every day, just five young women out for lunch.

Mom, this is perfect. I want my grown-up life to be just like this. I hold my crossed fingers in the air for wishful thinking. My friends follow suit.

Following lunch, the shiny chandeliers compete with fourteen yellow candles atop a snowy white cake decorated with pink flowers and yellow ribbons that is marching in the hands of waiters singing Happy Birthday. I look around the table at my best friends, smile, blink back the encroaching tears and make my wish. Our waiter flourishes a silver knife fit for a scene with a princess and serves our cake. We follow Mom’s lead and select the right fork to dig into its chocolaty sweetness. Mom orders coffee and asks if any of us would like some as well.

Why not? I reply. After all, I’m fourteen.

Sarah, this is so perfect, Betty Jo whispers. It’s like something out of the movies.

It is perfect, isn’t it?

CHAPTER 1

Perfect’s a Myth

I can smell it, and it’s suspicious. It’s a Wednesday, not a night for Mom’s Swiss steak and apple pie. That usually comes on Friday or for special occasions. I bop through the laundry room door, drop my books, take off my shoes and march into the kitchen. Something is definitely going on. Through the kitchen, I can see into the dining room where Mom’s throne, our large oak dining table, is set with linen napkins, two candles, and her fancy china which she saves for special occasions. Definitely suspicious.

Okay, Mom, what’s going on? Who’s coming for dinner? The mayor or somebody? I can see Mom has been preparing for this event all day. Her cheeks are flushed, her apron bears traces of flour, and she has her hands on her hips, which usually means she’s pleased with her work.

No company, Sarah. Dad and I thought we would just have a fancy family dinner tonight. I think he may have some news for us. She smiles that secretive smile of hers that tells me I’ll have to wait to hear.

This is different, for sure, I mumble. Don’t suppose you can give me a hint.

Mom shakes her head, her dark curls bouncing. Oh well, if it makes Dad feel important, I like to play fancy. Yup, I’m all about fancy. Like my over-the-top birthday party at the country club. When I’m a real grown-up, I want to live like those people in Mom’s Vogue magazine: big city like New York, fancy apartment, designer dresses and a great job, maybe modeling.

Sarah, why don’t you go wash up and change into something a little nicer. I’ve already sent your sister up to do the same.

Marla’s actually going to dress up? My 10-year-old sister only wears a dress under threat, and her blond, naturally curly hair rarely meets a comb. Marla tells me she’s a cowgirl and doesn’t have to look like a frilly girl.

I hear the front door open; Dad always uses that door since the driveway is on that level. I never have to guess when he’s arriving; I first hear the car give one last puff of gas, then the voice asking if anyone’s home. Of course, we always are. My dad’s the best. He’s my favorite person in all the world to spend time with. He and I are Detroit Tigers fans, and he once took me to a ballgame at Briggs Stadium. I’ll never forget that day.

Hi girls. My, don’t you look nice. Maybe we should have Mom’s special dinners more often. Let me hang up my coat, and we’ll see what’s happening downstairs. Our 50s tri-level house is a bit different from most of the two-stories on our street; the kitchen, dining room and laundry are all on the lower level, the living room and den on the main level with two bedrooms and a bathroom upstairs. Oh, I forgot the basement on the bottom level that my parents finished last year. According to Mom, this three level house was the latest design when they bought it seven years ago. I like it, except for having to share a room with Marla who is more than sloppy.

Mom, now perfectly groomed with her dark hair in the latest style, calls up to us that dinner will soon be served. Mom is Harriet in Ozzie and Harriet, everything according to what is considered proper. She always dresses for dinner, but tonight she’s wearing her newest dress, the pink flowered one with the wide shoulders and longish flared skirt. She looks like she might have dressed for a date with someone super important. She’s beautiful.

We take our regular seats: Dad at one end, Mom at the other and Marla and I on each side. We unfold our napkins, place them in our laps, and Mom begins passing the food. Once our plates are full, Dad places one hand on either side of his plate like he does when he’s about to make an announcement. Here it comes. Like a drum roll.

Rose, this is a wonderful dinner. Isn’t it, girls? Marla and I nod in unison. I told the girls we should do this more often. Mom smiles and says, sure. The sure sounds forced like she’s been practicing.

Just as I’m about to shovel a forkful of those little browned, roasted potatoes into my mouth, Dad speaks in that voice I know only too well. It’s the one that says, I’m calling this meeting to order… This big, strong table is his choice for family announcements. Okay, what will it be this time? Once, it was to decide whether to take a long vacation out west. Another time it was to announce that we were going to buy a new car. Judging by this dinner, it must be something pretty darn special. I look over at Marla and wink.

Girls, your mother and I have been thinking carefully about a new investment. You know what that is. Something that makes money for us. As you know, I got a promotion and a raise recently, so now we have some extra money.

Oh, are we going to the wild west, Dad? Marla interrupts.

Not a vacation, but something better. I can feel Dad’s eyes on me.

This isn’t something I’m going to like, am I, Dad? I blurt out.

Dad puts down his fork and folds his hands in front of his plate. Sarah, let me finish. You may be surprised and find you do like what I’m going to suggest. I’ve been thinking a great deal about our family, and your mom and I have been doing a lot of talking. We think we’ve come upon a terrific idea that will be an adventure for this whole family. His glance moves first to me, then to Mom and finally to Marla. It’s like he’s checking to see if we’re listening.

My hands are sweating as my gaze turns to my mother sitting like a magazine model at the other end of the table. I raise my eyebrows in question, but she only leans her head toward her shoulder. I turn back to Dad whose smile tells me this idea may ruin any plans I have in the works for the summer.

What would you girls think about moving to a farm? Maybe a nice place with a bit of land, not too far from Lansing where we could have some animals, a big garden….

There it is; he’s said it. To my right, out of the corner of my eye, I see Dad smiling like some devilish dictator. I try to stand up in a dramatic gesture with my hands raised, only to get caught up in the chair seat. I clumsily regain my seat.

No, Dad. This can’t happen. This is a terrible idea. I have a school, friends and maybe even a job renting chairs at the pool this summer. You and Mom told me we would all graduate from Eastern. Was that just some fake promise? I pause for a breath, but nothing is left except some tears waiting to roll down my face. So this is the result of their whispered after dinner conversations.

I look around this Norman Rockwell dining room table, praying I’ve heard wrong. This can’t be happening. Dad is still smiling, Mom’s mouth is turned up slightly, Marla is nearly jumping from her chair, and I want to escape this lunacy. I take a deep breath. There has to be a way out. These two people used to be pretty smart.

Again, I look down the length of the table at Mom, dressed so perfectly for this special, terrible dinner. She looks beautiful. I try to picture her on a farm feeding chickens, and I almost snicker at the ridiculousness. Sensing my stare in her direction, she fakes a smile and shrugs her shoulders. No, not my mom. She’s about fashion and decorating.

Mom, say something! as I mimic the shoulder action. You can’t think this is a good idea.

Sarah, Dad says, are you going to let me finish? What’s with this outburst? Surely, you didn’t behave this way a few weeks ago at your country club birthday bash. I’m only suggesting that your mom and I are discussing the possibility of moving further out into the country. It could be a farm. It could be a nice house with some acreage. In this family we discuss things. No, we don’t, I whisper to myself. Dad always wants us to think we have a say, but we know it will always be his way.

Dad, a farm? That’s not possible. We’re city people. City people don’t move to farms. It’s not even civilized. What would you do on a farm? You’re not a farmer; you’re an engineer at Motor Wheel. You build brakes and wheels and stuff. Bracing my body and leaning forward, I fold my arms and shake my head. Nope, not a good idea. I can feel my face redden as my body tenses. This can’t be happening. I look across to my little sister’s beaming face.

People do live on farms, Sarah, and they have horses too, Marla says with an even broader smile.

Marla’s right, Sarah. But about my being a farmer, I have no intention of planting and plowing the fields or taking care of animals. I’ll continue to work as Motor Wheel’s newest vice president, and I’ll hire another farmer to work our fields, someone who’s looking to expand his farm operation.

This doesn’t sound like a new idea. He’s been thinking about this for a while. This may explain the talks I’ve overheard through the bedroom walls lately. The bedroom I share with my sister is right next door to my parents’ room, and sometimes sleepless after reading a scary book, I roll over on my side and listen through the paper-thin walls. Eavesdropping. That’s what it’s called. Usually, what I hear isn’t very interesting, but the mumbling I heard a couple of weeks ago is now making sense. Dad was asking Mom something about taking a gamble. Then she mumbled something about feeling pretty secure right here, her voice, soft, her words slow like she had to think about whatever was on Dad’s mind. I scrunched my pillow and inched my ear closer to the wall. What did she mean, Right where we are? Where else would we be?

More clearly, I heard Dad say, The time feels right to me. If we don’t do this now, we won’t ever do it. And this is important to me, His voice was louder like he’d made up his mind.

I remember Mom said they needed to talk to us. Oh, now it makes sense: this fancy dinner and talk. And then something more about me that I couldn’t hear.

As a fourteen-year-old who used to believe her dad hung the moon, this farm question has to be a joke maybe intended for Marla, my dippy sister, who is always talking about getting a horse. The milkman used to have a horse. Up until tonight a horse was a ridiculous idea.

Daddy, can we really move to a farm? It’s not just pretend? If we got a farm, I could have a horse, couldn’t I? Marla bounces her blond curls in his direction.

That’s something we can talk about. A farm with a horse and other animals could be an adventure for all of us. He looks directly at my pint-sized sister, his little darling, but I know the adventure comment is meant for me. Adventure, like learning to act like some hick? No, thanks.

I don’t want any dumb farm adventure. And I don’t want a horse either, I say. The discussion part is over, and I can feel the tears building. How can I live with these insane people? Maybe Grandma will take me in.

Marla looks from me to Dad, waiting for an opening. Dad, I think it’s a great idea. An adventure. I’d like one of those, one that has a horse as part of it. She smiles and tilts her blond head the way she always does when she wants something from Dad.

Marla, first we have to have a place to put the horse. But I guess there’s another reason for this farm idea. You girls know I grew up poor, Dad says. Since the time I had to work in the sugar beet fields belonging to some rich farmer who paid us next to nothing, I’ve wanted to have my own piece of land. Not just a city lot but acreage where I can grow things.

Oh, no, not that poor story again. I’ve grown up on Dad’s tales of woe.

You’re not a farmer, Dad. I almost laugh that laugh that creeps up when you want to cry. My dad in farmer pants, overalls? The bizarre image almost brings a smile to my face.

Sarah, I told you, I’m not going to be a farmer. I have grown some pretty good tomatoes, though. Speaking of gardens, your Grandpa Shoulars could have a real garden at our farm which would mean you girls would get to see him more often. He smiles in my direction. Score one for Dad.

I love my grandpa. I wish he lived with us. Mom’s dad is the coolest man in Lansing. Going shopping with Grandpa is like being part of a parade with people nodding and smiling and wishing him Good day. He knows everyone in town, and they love him, but no one loves him as much as me. Tonight, he’s in the middle of a farm discussion he doesn’t even know about. Maybe I can live with him instead of on this farm. No, he lives in a rooming house with other old people. Miss Hedgelen runs it, and she hates kids. That idea’s out.

Dad, I can tell you’ve decided. May I be excused? I am already standing when Mom notices I have barely touched my dinner.

Sarah, nothing’s been decided. Please stay and have pie with us. Her soft, low voice hints she might talk to me later. It’s sort of our secret code.

Sarah, listen to me, Dad says. Your mom and I haven’t decided anything. We’re just talking. This is going to be a family decision. Every person at this table has a say just like when we decided to take that long vacation to Yellowstone and Pikes Peak. We sat down and talked about that trip and how we would all have to save money to be able to go.

That was a summer vacation. We weren’t moving to Pike’s Peak. This is different, Dad. I don’t want to leave my school, my friends, everything. No, Dad, please. I place my hands in a prayerful position. Please, Dad, no moves.

No need for all the drama, Sarah. Nothing’s been decided. But, about your friends, there will be kids your age anywhere we move. Besides, since my job and your schools are most important, any farm has to be close to Lansing, Dad says. He’s shifted to his serious voice. So, Sarah, Mom’s right; you would still be close to your friends here, and if we did have some horses, your Lansing friends could come out for a ride. We could even have a hayride in the fall with your old friends and your new ones. Dad looks at me with that smile of his, the one that says he knows something about his older daughter.

My lips quiver into a downward droop.

Mom, say something. Tell Dad it’s not a good idea. I can feel my voice rising and my face tightening into a deep frown. It’s as if someone else’s face has been pasted on top of mine.

Sarah, just listen, please. Right now, this is just an idea. Mom stares at Dad and shrugs once more. I shrug back. Is this shrugging the new family response when you don’t want to deal with something?

No matter. I want a new family, one that listens to me. I clomp a bit loudly up the stairs to the room I share with Marla. Now she’ll be gabbing all night about this stupid horse she’s going to have. I open the door. Same old story; my bed neatly made with my favorite stuffed bears keeping it safe for me and guarding the diary hidden under the mattress. Marla’s bed, unmade, messy with a bunch of clothes piled at the end, which will surely be there tomorrow. I hate sharing this space with her. Someday, someday, can I please have a room of my own?

It’s a plot. I know it now. It’s all making sense. My 14th birthday celebration was the bribe, the last supper, my final taste of civilization before this fateful announcement ruining my life. My parents, who I once thought loved me, gave me that birthday celebration so I wouldn’t throw a fit when they suggested this ridiculous move. They were buying me off. I know it now. Sure, we’ll have another dinner, but I already know the decision. It was made a long time ago.

So this is what it’s like to be on the road to grown up. What do I do? Live elsewhere? Not likely my parents will buy that. Pout, whine and get nothing. Continue to resist? My Dad expects me to be able to handle things, but this feels like a set up to fail. I’ve never moved before. I’ve had the same friends, the same neighborhood, the same school since second grade. It’s all too scary.

Wait. Something else could happen. They won’t like it once we’ve moved, and they’ll be wanting to move back. That could work. Fat chance.

CHAPTER 2

Possibilities

M y eavesdropping days are over. I don’t want to know what my uncaring parents are dreaming up next. I don’t want to hear that my mother, the one person in this family I consider my ally, is meekly agreeing with Dad, the person who always gets his way. Why can’t I have parents like my friends do, people who stay in one place for their kids? I keep thinking about a life with my grandma. She doesn’t go anywhere except to her sister’s, and she’s lived in her house her whole life. Well, that’s not exactly true; during the depression Dad said they moved from relative to relative. Maybe now, though, she can stay put long enough for me to graduate from Eastern. I’d call her, but she doesn’t have a phone, and I don’t want to call her landlord, creepy Uncle Elmer. Probably a hard sell anyway. Why would she want a teenager hanging around?

Since the farm bombshell, Marla comes bouncing into our room every afternoon blabbering about the horse she knows is going to be hers. Her bed is piled high with library horse books now, sure that Dad will soon come through with what she considers his horse promise.

Marla, I wouldn’t count on that horse. Dad’s great for changing his mind. Remember when he said he would build us that fort in the backyard?

No, Sarah, this is different. He said with the farm I can have a horse. You just don’t want me to have one. You just want to stay in this stupid house with your dippy friends. You don’t care what I want.

I look across the bed at my little sister. We’re both crying for different reasons.

It’s a normal Wednesday dinner. All present and accounted for. No Swiss steak, no apple pie on the buffet, not a special occasion, like before.

Okay, girls, your mom and I have been talking to a realtor about some available farms, something with a decent house, some outbuildings and maybe around 100 acres but not too far from Lansing. Dad is speaking like each word counts, like he’s sharing some secret. Curious, he’s created quite a list for this realtor man. It’s possible a place like this doesn’t exist, and that could be the end of this stupid farm discussion.

Dad, if it’s close to Lansing, does that mean I can still go to my school with my friends? Dad, I could ride into work with you and walk from Motor Wheel to school, then after school walk to Grandma’s and you could pick me up after work. I nod and even force a faint smile. In the heat of the moment, maybe I’ve come up with a solution. No. I’ve seen that look before, that set jaw and piercing gaze that tells me this farm thing is a done deal, and I won’t be going to any city school. I swallow and look down at my plate, feeling my dry throat constrict and hoping the tears will stay hidden. The worst is about to happen. What about all those teen books I’ve read where everything turns out okay. Those writers must not know my family.

Saturday morning we meet the realtor at the first farm, a kind of hicky guy wearing ugly pants and boots that look like they belong in a western movie. The Stetson is all that’s missing. The first farm is on a busy highway