Nadine’s Northeast follows the life of Nadine Burnett (née Pulliam), who was born in 1921 and spent most of her life in Northeast Kansas City, where she raised ten children amid the city’s rapid changes in the 20th century. Written by her granddaughter, Betsy Cochran, these historical fiction stories draw from Nadine’s lived experiences, local history, and a little family lore. Each installment stands alone while weaving into a larger portrait of Nadine’s past. For a deeper dive, visit betsycochran.substack.com, where you can subscribe for free or choose a paid plan for extended content.

June 9, 1921
Kansas City, MO

Eddie slipped out of the shadowy alley where he’d been hiding ever since he’d left the apartment on Park Avenue. His mother had just given birth to another baby. Just swell. At this point, St. Aloysius was liable to run out of holy water just baptizing her babies.

Odds were, new baby was a girl. They were always girls. He was already sleeping most nights under the 12th Street Viaduct anyway. It wasn’t comfortable, but at least nobody was crying, whining, or lecturing.

Back in Covington, Kentucky, things hadn’t been rosy, but they were familiar. Their house had been tiny, dirty, and smelled like soot, but at least Eddie had a room with the cedar chest he and his Pa, Frank, built together. That was back when Frank’s hands were steadier.

Most of Frank’s handcrafted furniture got left behind when they moved to Kansas City, but that cedar chest made the train ride, packed full of everything they owned. Eddie remembered stepping into Union Station for the first time, the ceiling arching up like it could swallow a whole town. Outside was the Kansas City noise: streetcars clanging, horses snorting, the faint stink of the stockyards. And ringing above it all, the Angelus bells, same as back home.

Now, though, Kansas City wasn’t a wonder, it was the place he wandered. He knew the alleys behind 12th Street and Grand, the grocery crates behind McClure’s, the best viaduct pillars to sleep behind when it rained. And he knew where the cops patrolled, especially today.

He kicked a rock. Frank had talked him into the heist —“just a little score,” he’d said. Zulfet Hardware was easy; Eddie knew the layout. When the back door popped open at 4 a.m. with barely a jiggle, he should’ve known it was too easy. He went straight for the cash register, stuffing bills into his bag, stinky pantyhose mask itching like crazy.

He was reaching for one of the pistols in the display case when a voice behind him whispered, “Eddie?”

Bobby. His only friend. Of all people.

“Jesus, you scared me,” Eddie hissed.

“I’m doing inventory,” Bobby said, staring at the floor.

“Look, Frank’s in real trouble at the Hey Hay Club,” Eddie muttered. “I’m trying to help Ma and the girls. I’ll cut you in, swear.”

Bobby shook his head. “My mom’d kill me.”

Eddie’s legs were already carrying him out the back door. As he bolted into the muggy June night, Bobby called after him, “Five minutes! I’ll give you five minutes!”

Eddie had sprinted straight home, but Frank wasn’t there. It was just Ma, pale and exhausted, the new baby wrapped up on her chest. The sight knocked something loose in him. He got out fast, knowing the cops may be on their way.

Now he drifted through the sharp heat of early afternoon, past the Cathedral of the Immaculate Conception with its golden dome shining like a warning sign. He squinted. Not far away, just past Central, was Hotel Troy. This was one of Frank’s favorite joints when the Hey Hay Club tossed him out.

Inside, the air was stale and cool, the lobby half-asleep. Eddie didn’t bother with the clerk. He went straight to the back room. Frank sat at the bar, sleeves rolled up, tie loose, nursing a drink like it was keeping him alive.

“Thought I’d find you here,” Eddie said.

Frank blinked up at him. “Kid. What time is it?”

Eddie slid onto the stool next to him. “I got the money. But Bobby saw me.”

Frank cursed under his breath. “You wear the pantyhose mask?”

“Yeah.”

Frank sighed, rubbing his temples. “Alright, hand it over. We’ll sort this out – fair and square.”

Sure. Fair like Ma sitting at home with a newborn while Frank drank his paycheck. Eddie dropped the bag onto the bar. He didn’t wait for Frank to open it. He pushed through the door, blinking hard at the sharp sunlight.

He kept walking until he reached the rail yards, the metal tracks shimmering in the heat. Under the shade of a loading dock, he sat down. His breathing steadied. A shadow fell across the gravel. 

“Well, look who washed up,” said Red, one of the hobos he’d met under the viaduct weeks ago.

Eddie huffed a tired laugh. “Guess I’m back.”

Red settled beside him with a grunt. “Westbound rolls at four,” he said, nodding toward the tracks.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “West sounds about right.”

Eddie leaned back, and closed his eyes, letting the heat settle on his skin.

Kansas City had knocked him down plenty, but the spirit of the town had settled deep in him, the kind you don’t shake loose — even when you know you’re never coming back.

…

If you’ve written a story or a poem, or if you’ve created a piece of artwork or a comic that you’d like to see published in the Northeast News, email us at NortheastBuzz@gmail.com to share it with us! Look for more historical fiction and other creative works by Betsy Cochran, Jerry Potocnik and others in upcoming issues of Northeast News!