{"id":1528,"date":"2024-11-05T15:48:17","date_gmt":"2024-11-05T23:48:17","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/sandyjuker.com\/?page_id=1528"},"modified":"2024-11-05T15:48:18","modified_gmt":"2024-11-05T23:48:18","slug":"crumbs-2","status":"publish","type":"page","link":"https:\/\/sandyjuker.com\/?page_id=1528","title":{"rendered":"Crumbs"},"content":{"rendered":"\n[et_pb_section fb_built=”1″ custom_padding_last_edited=”on|phone” module_id=”short-stories” _builder_version=”4.20.4″ _module_preset=”default” background_color=”#ff5757″ max_height=”191px” custom_margin=”1px||-74px||false|false” custom_padding_tablet=”” custom_padding_phone=”” global_colors_info=”{}” theme_builder_area=”post_content”][et_pb_row _builder_version=”4.20.2″ _module_preset=”default” width=”100%” min_height=”314px” height=”1000px” max_height=”1000px” custom_margin=”-56px|auto|0px|auto|false|false” global_colors_info=”{}” theme_builder_area=”post_content”][et_pb_column type=”4_4″ _builder_version=”4.19.5″ _module_preset=”default” global_colors_info=”{}” theme_builder_area=”post_content”][et_pb_text _builder_version=”4.20.4″ text_font=”Trade Winds|700|||||||” text_text_color=”#000000″ text_font_size=”100px” text_line_height=”1.8em” header_font=”Trade Winds|700|||||||” header_text_color=”#FFFFFF” header_font_size=”55px” text_orientation=”center” custom_margin=”||-16px||false|false” custom_padding=”||||false|false” animation_style=”slide” animation_direction=”right” animation_intensity_slide=”0%” animation_starting_opacity=”100%” text_font_size_tablet=”100px” text_font_size_phone=”33px” text_font_size_last_edited=”on|phone” header_font_size_tablet=”44px” header_font_size_phone=”40px” header_font_size_last_edited=”on|tablet” locked=”off” global_colors_info=”{}” theme_builder_area=”post_content”]

A Short Story by Sandy Juker<\/em><\/strong><\/h1>\n

[\/et_pb_text][\/et_pb_column][\/et_pb_row][\/et_pb_section][et_pb_section fb_built=”1″ fullwidth=”on” _builder_version=”4.20.4″ _module_preset=”default” global_colors_info=”{}” theme_builder_area=”post_content”][et_pb_fullwidth_image src=”https:\/\/sandyjuker.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2024\/11\/Crumbs-scaled.jpg” title_text=”Crumbs” _builder_version=”4.20.4″ _module_preset=”default” width=”15%” module_alignment=”center” hover_enabled=”0″ global_colors_info=”{}” theme_builder_area=”post_content” sticky_enabled=”0″][\/et_pb_fullwidth_image][\/et_pb_section][et_pb_section fb_built=”1″ _builder_version=”4.20.4″ _module_preset=”default” global_colors_info=”{}” theme_builder_area=”post_content”][et_pb_row _builder_version=”4.20.4″ _module_preset=”default” width=”100%” max_width=”2560px” custom_margin=”-36px||-23px||false|false” global_colors_info=”{}” theme_builder_area=”post_content”][et_pb_column type=”4_4″ _builder_version=”4.20.4″ _module_preset=”default” global_colors_info=”{}” theme_builder_area=”post_content”][et_pb_text _builder_version=”4.20.4″ _module_preset=”default” text_font=”Bad Script||||||||” header_font=”Acme|700|||||||” header_text_color=”#471F00″ header_font_size=”90px” width_tablet=”” width_phone=”” width_last_edited=”on|phone” hover_enabled=”0″ global_colors_info=”{}” theme_builder_area=”post_content” sticky_enabled=”0″]

Crumbs<\/h1>[\/et_pb_text][et_pb_text _builder_version=”4.20.4″ _module_preset=”default” text_font=”Acme||||||||” text_font_size=”21px” text_line_height=”1.8em” text_orientation=”justified” width=”61%” module_alignment=”center” hover_enabled=”0″ global_colors_info=”{}” theme_builder_area=”post_content” sticky_enabled=”0″]

April 1931 – The Great Depression<\/p>\n

My four-year-old son tugged at the frayed hem of my maid\u2019s uniform. \u201cGrammy\u2019s hungry, Mama.\u201d His translucent skin, stretched over protruding cheek bones, stirred an ache deep in my gut. A pain sharper than the rumble of hunger.<\/p>\n

\u201cI know, Raymond.\u201d His hair under my palm lay limp and lifeless. \u201cI\u2019ll make juice. You can share it with Grammy.\u201d<\/p>\n

His sunken eyes peered over the counter at the lemon I\u2019d stolen from my employer. I rolled the fruit with my palm and squeezed every ounce of life from its pulp. Today it would be my son\u2019s breakfast. Four stolen olives and a bread crust would be his lunch.<\/p>\n

Raymond grabbed the lemon rind from the plate. His eyes closed, and his nose wrinkled as he sucked every life-giving drop of tartness. He sank his teeth into the pulp, tearing it from the peel, like a dog with a bone.<\/p>\n

Tears burned and trickled down my face as I divided the precious juice between two glasses. I licked a drip from the plate, wincing as my empty stomach tightened.<\/p>\n

I kissed my son\u2019s citrusy lips and straightened my uniform. \u201cI\u2019ll see you after work, sweet boy.\u201d<\/p>\n

***<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s about time you made an appearance,\u201d the head housekeeper snapped. \u201cDeliver Mr. Blanchard\u2019s dishes to the kitchen, immediately.\u201d Her ample girth jiggled as she marched away.<\/p>\n

\u201cYes, ma\u2019am.\u201d I hurried to the dining room. A surge of saliva pooled in my mouth at a lingering hint of bacon. I swallowed in anticipation, but the banker\u2019s plate was empty. Faint from hunger, I bent over and licked smears of egg yolk, bacon grease, and maple syrup. The sweetness melted on my tongue.<\/p>\n

\u201cGirl! What the hell are you doing?\u201d<\/p>\n

I jerked upright, turning toward the shadowed corner of the room. \u201cUm, uh\u2026 Mr. Blanchard. I\u2019m, I’m so sorry.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI should think so.\u201d Hissing spittle announced his disgust. \u201cWhat is your name?\u201d He stepped forward, fists clenched across his rotund belly.<\/p>\n

Emboldened by hopelessness, I hissed back. \u201cAudrey. My name is Audrey. For eight months I\u2019ve cleaned up after you, surviving on your crumbs while you grow fat and my son starves.\u201d<\/p>\n

He pointed a meaty finger down the hall. \u201cMiss Audrey, you\u2019re fired.\u201d<\/p>\n

I rushed forward. \u201cNo! Please, give me another chance. My son\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n

He shook his head. \u201cI don\u2019t believe in second chances.\u201d<\/p>\n

***<\/p>\n

I stumbled down the mansion\u2019s back steps. Salty tears dampening my lips as I envisioned Raymond\u2019s skeletal remains lying in a pine box.<\/p>\n

At the bottom of the stairs, I spun back, considering a new vision. The contents of Mr. Blanchard\u2019s bureau.<\/p>\n

In the drawer where I placed his freshly laundered personals, he kept a snub-nosed revolver. Like the one my dear departed husband had used to escape the impossible task of providing for his family. A decision I was beginning to understand.<\/p>\n

I dashed into the house, avoiding the dining room. I ran up the grand staircase, cringing at the watchful eyes of ancestral portraits as I hurried to the master bedroom.<\/p>\n

Inside, I leaned against the closed door, my heart and lungs thumping in my chest. Each breath rasped between my teeth as I scanned the room\u2019s luxurious furnishings. Prisms of light spun around me. I blinked at a crystal chandelier.<\/p>\n

The room was larger than the shanty where my mother and son huddled together, sipping lemon juice to survive. Enraged by such excess, I crossed the room, opened the bureau drawer, and tossed undergarments to the floor.<\/p>\n

Loaded and ready, the nickel-plated revolver fit perfectly in my hand, just as it did the many times I had aimed it at Blanchard\u2019s bed pillow.<\/p>\n

Sliding a finger along the gun\u2019s short barrel, I wondered about my husband\u2019s last thoughts. How had our child\u2019s future, without a father, seemed like a better outcome? Did he expect me to take up whoring to feed our son? I spat on the floor.<\/p>\n

I set the gun on the bed and stepped through the door to the adjoining room. An abundance of lace and silk adorned the late Mrs. Blanchard\u2019s spacious bed chamber.<\/p>\n

I paused at the dresser mirror and glared at the emaciated stranger who stared back at me. I shimmied out of the baggy uniform and kicked my tattered loafers across the room. I pulled the pins from the chignon at the nape of my neck, letting my hair swing to my waist.<\/p>\n

From the walk-in closet, I selected a pale blue tea dress with a drop waist and layered hem. After Madeline Blanchard\u2019s demise, keeping her room pristine became my responsibility. I was familiar with every dress, hat, purse, and pair of shoes in the vast wardrobe.<\/p>\n

After grooming my hair with Madeline\u2019s silver-plated vanity brush, I wound the tresses into a bun and tucked it under a cloche hat. Carmine lipstick, white stockings, and a pair of silver trimmed T-strap sandals completed the ensemble. I returned to the master bedroom.<\/p>\n

As I picked up the revolver, I glanced at my reflection in the Cheval mirror. I raised the snubby, blew across the end of the barrel, and kicked up a heel. A strange tinkling laughter escaped my mouth. I tucked the gun into Madeline\u2019s finest beaded clutch and blew a kiss at the delirious woman in the mirror.<\/p>\n

***<\/p>\n

I descended the stairs, one hand sliding along the oak banister, one clutching the purse.<\/p>\n

\u201cExcuse me, madam. May I help you?\u201d The housekeeper gazed up from the landing.<\/p>\n

I halted my descent, barely recognizing the woman\u2019s voice. Such politeness. She had no idea she was speaking to the discharged maid.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhy, yes, you may. Mr. Blanchard and I have a lunch date, and I seem to be lost.\u201d A slight British lilt supported the charade.<\/p>\n

\u201cHe\u2019s in the den, ma\u2019am. Please follow me.\u201d She tipped her head in respect.<\/p>\n

I stifled a giggle, wondering if she\u2019d curtsey when I reached the bottom step.<\/p>\n

At the doorway to the den, I strode past the housekeeper. \u201cThank you for your assistance. I will manage from here.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYes, ma\u2019am.\u201d She huffed at the dismissal but walked away.<\/p>\n

Mr. Blanchard looked up when I closed the door. I approached his massive desk. \u201cFranklin, delighted to see you.\u201d I slipped my hand into the clutch. \u201cI\u2019m here to collect on a debt.\u201d<\/p>\n

His face transitioned from an expression of surprise to a pinched-brow scowl. \u201cWhat? What debt?\u201d He stood up, his chair rolling across the hardwood floor. \u201cWho are you?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWe met just this morning.\u201d I pulled his gun from Madeline\u2019s purse. \u201cI\u2019m Audrey. The plate-licking maid.\u201d I eyed the cookie dish on his desk. My stomach rumbled.<\/p>\n

He backed up, raising his hands. \u201cI\u2019m not giving your job back.\u201d Like a cornered rat, his gaze shifted from side to side.<\/p>\n

\u201cOh, I know better than to work for the likes of you.\u201d My stomach growled, and I grabbed the last snickerdoodle. \u201cYou\u2019re going to save my son\u2019s life.\u201d The cookie crumbled as I shoved it into my mouth.<\/p>\n

\u201cHow can I do that? I\u2019m no doctor.\u201d<\/p>\n

I pointed at the safe behind him. \u201cHis salvation is right there. You\u2019re going to pull money out of that vault.\u201d I swallowed and licked my lips, imagining the biggest steak in town on my son\u2019s plate.<\/p>\n

The banker pulled out his money clip. \u201cI\u2019ll give you your week\u2019s pay and not a penny more.\u201d He tossed seven one-dollar bills on the desk. \u201cNow go!\u201d<\/p>\n

I gripped the revolver with both hands. \u201cOpen the safe.\u201d<\/p>\n

He scoffed. \u201cI don\u2019t take orders from little girls.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou don\u2019t believe I\u2019ll shoot?\u201d I cocked the gun and pointed it at his groin. \u201cPick one. Left, or right?\u201d<\/p>\n

He dropped to his knees, both hands across his loins. \u201cWait! I\u2019ll open it.\u201d<\/p>\n

I laughed as his bravado melted to a whimper. \u201cWise choice.\u201d<\/p>\n

He crawled to the vault, fumbled with the dial, and opened the door.<\/p>\n

\u201cSet the cash box on the desk and move back.\u201d<\/p>\n

I lifted the lid and thumbed through stacks of bills. \u201cHave you been skimming?\u201d Like an accusing finger, I shook the revolver at him.<\/p>\n

He flicked a glance at the vault. \u201cNo, of course not.\u201d<\/p>\n

I stepped back and pointed my chin at the safe. \u201cPlace those ledgers on the desk.\u201d<\/p>\n

I flipped through the pages. \u201cYa know, I wasn\u2019t always a maid. Before the crash, I was a bookkeeper. Oh, my! The bank would be interested in these discrepancies.\u201d<\/p>\n

Blanchard paled. \u201cNo! Please. You can have your job back. I\u2019ll double your pay. Give me another chance to make it right for you and your dear son.\u201d<\/p>\n

A quick flick knocked the cookie plate clattering onto the floor. \u201cKeep your crumbs.\u201d I tapped the leather-bound books. \u201cI\u2019ve got what I need. You\u2019ll see to it that my dear <\/em>son never starves again.\u201d<\/p>\n

I tucked the ledgers under my arm and picked up the cash box. \u201cBesides, you don\u2019t believe in second chances.\u201d<\/p>[\/et_pb_text][\/et_pb_column][\/et_pb_row][\/et_pb_section]\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

A Short Story by Sandy Juker CrumbsApril 1931 – The Great Depression My four-year-old son tugged at the frayed hem of my maid\u2019s uniform. \u201cGrammy\u2019s hungry, Mama.\u201d His translucent skin, stretched over protruding cheek bones, stirred an ache deep in my gut. A pain sharper than the rumble of hunger. \u201cI know, Raymond.\u201d His hair […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"parent":0,"menu_order":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","template":"","meta":{"_et_pb_use_builder":"on","_et_pb_old_content":"","_et_gb_content_width":"","_ti_tpc_template_sync":false,"_ti_tpc_template_id":"","footnotes":""},"class_list":["post-1528","page","type-page","status-publish","hentry"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/sandyjuker.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/1528","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/sandyjuker.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/sandyjuker.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/page"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/sandyjuker.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/sandyjuker.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=1528"}],"version-history":[{"count":3,"href":"https:\/\/sandyjuker.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/1528\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":1533,"href":"https:\/\/sandyjuker.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/1528\/revisions\/1533"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/sandyjuker.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=1528"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}