Maude Brown's Baby (23 page)

“I’m back,” Donald called from the shed. “I’ll be over in a few minutes, Ma.”

“I’ll have the coffee on.”

Donald filled his wash basin from the pitcher and again splashed water on his face to wake up. That’s when he recalled the tone in Naomi’s voice. Not as cheerful as she usually was, especially afte
r Donald had been away for several days. He rushed to dress.

“Did you and Jake have a good trip?” Naomi said as Donald entered the kitchen. She
crossed the room to hug him. He’d never seen her looking so sad.

“
We found Elton. He’s all right.”

“I’m glad.”

“What about Cletus? Any news?”

Naomi nodded toward the table, but didn’t look that way herself. Donald stepped over and reached for an envelope. It had been sent from a military hospital in England.

“I don’t even know where Essex is on the map.” Naomi’s voice caught and she put her hand over her mouth. Tears filled her eyes. Donald opened the envelope and unfolded the letter, which had clearly been read many times.

Sobraon Barracks Military Hospital

Colchester Garrison, Essex, U.K.

3 August, 1918

Dear Mr. and Mrs. Stokes,

I am writing on behalf of your son, Cletus, who is convalescing here at Colchester. Cletus asked me to let you know that he is well and will be returning to the States as soon as he is stronger and transport can be arranged.

Your son’s outfit was attacked with nerve gas two weeks ago. Some of his American comrades died and many were injured, since the attack occurred at night and the men in the trenches had little warning. Cletus has suffered lung and eye injuries. He cannot see from either eye, although the doctors here say that it is not uncommon for men to recover some or all of their visio
n. We pray that is so for your son. His lung injuries could also improve over time.

I know that you will wish to write to Cletus, but he is here for only another two weeks at most. By the time you get this letter, he will likely be at a
transport center or on a troopship home. I am sorry that we have no more detailed information at this time.

Cletus is in good spirits and sends his love to you and to his brother, Donald.

Sincerely yours,

Gladys Hansford, VAD

British Red Cross, Sobraon

Donald turned the letter over and back again in his hands, although he knew there was nothing more on the other side. He looked at Naomi, who still had one hand over her mouth, eyes open wide. Donald crossed the small kitchen and hugged her.

“That was written more than a month ago,” Naomi said between quick, deep breaths. “It came yesterday.”

“It will be all right
. Cletus will be home soon.”

At that, she
broke down, shoulders heaving. “My boy is blind!” she sobbed, hugging Donald as if he was a life preserver, and she, about to drown.

“Here, Ma.” With one hand, Donald reached for the back of a chair, pulled it away from the table and slid it to Naomi’s side. After a moment she sat, legs to the side, steadying herself with one hand on the back of the chair, the other clutching a handkerchief to her nose.

“I reckon you seen the letter,” Clarence said from the hall.

“Hi, Pa. Yeah, I saw it. How are you doing?”

“Fair-to-middlin’ I suppose.
” He dropped into his chair by the window, leaving one knee bent and his gimpy leg straight. He hadn’t shaved. “I’m thankful Cletus is still alive, but it’s sure goin’ to be rough on him, tryin’ to get a job if he can’t see. How will he support himself now?”

“Papa, we just have to help him out,” Naomi said. “And I’m sure Donny will help, too.” Naomi patted Donald’s hand, then pressed it with both hands to her wet cheek.

“Of course, Ma.”

S
till holding Naomi’s hand, he struggled to think. For the last few days, his world had been expanding. Now it was closing back in.

Donald left his folks’ kitchen after breakfast, Clarence washing dishes while Naomi dried. Later he saw her tossing table scraps to the chickens from her old cookie sheet.

Registration day.

Yesterday in Galveston, and then riding home on the Interurban last night, Donald had begun to see himself as part of the cause. A soldier in uniform, marching with thousands of others to the front, brave men trusting e
ach other with their lives. Yes, men were dying. Others were coming home sick and injured and worse. But his world was small and the war was big. War consumed everything.

Donald dropped to his hands and knees, fishing under his bed until he found the poster. He unrolled it on his bed.

“I want YOU for the U.S. Army!” Uncle Sam still called.

“Let’s see if you do or not!” he said to the poster. The registration form lay on top, edges curled from being rolled inside. Donald flattened it on his desk and found a pencil. Ten minutes later he was walking
quickly down Dennis Street toward Main.

The line at the recruiter’s office was already out the door. A pair of fresh-faced junior officers
sat at separate desks inside. A third recruiter moved up and down the lines, completing forms for those who couldn’t read.

“NEXT!”

Donald stepped forward and handed the lieutenant his form. The man didn’t look up.

“You Donald Brown?”

“Yes, sir,” Donald said to the top of the man’s head.

“This your correct address?”

“Yes, sir.”

The recruiter pounded a rubber stamp on
an ink pad, then again on a piece of paper. He scribbled the date and looked up. “Here you g …”

The lieutenant peered at Donald’s thick glasses before handing over the card. “Here you go. Expect something in the mail in a few days. That will tell you when to take your physical.”

“That soon, sir?”

“Could be. NEXT!”

Donald moved aside. Another young man took his place. Sooner than he expected, he was back on the street, reading the little card in his hand:

REGISTRATION CERTIFICATE

To whom it may concern:

In accordance with the proclamation of

the President of the United States
…

After all the worry, it was done. Printed there, right under the eagle and the shield, was Donald’s name and registration number. This card proved that he, Donald Brown, was no slacker. Yes, sir! You see here? Donald Brown is registered for military service!

Surprised and relieved, he tucked the card in his wallet. He stopped by the post office,
dropped a postcard in the mail slot and walked home.

Clarence was outside when he got there, replacing a length of chicken wire that had worked loose from the wooden fence.
             

“So, you done it?”

“Yeah, I registered for the draft.”

“Well, your ma won’t like it, ‘specially after the news ‘bout Cletus, but I reckon there was nothin’ you could do. Paper says there was more
slacker raids just yesterday. Personally, I’m proud my two boys is standin’ up for their country. Don’t seem right to shirk your duty.”

“I knew you’d feel that way, Pa.
”

“Women just see things different from men.”

Clarence dug to the bottom of his wooden tool box for more staples. He put two between his lips and held a third between the thumb and forefinger of his left hand. He nodded his head toward the fence.

“Here, Donny, pull this here wire taut,” he mumbled past the staples.

Donald reached over Clarence and tugged with both hands, stretching the chicken wire flat against one of the posts.              

Clarence set the staple over a length of wire, tapped lightly, then hammered the staple into the fence with two perfect blows. He reached lower on the fence post and repeated the process twice more, taking the staples
each time from between his lips.

“There, that ought to do it. Your ma found a couple of her chickens strollin’ down Albany yesterday, and she throwed a fit. To hear her tell it, you’d think I let them damn birds out of the yard on purpose.”

Donald helped Clarence take down his temporary workbench and put away his tools. He stayed in the garage as Clarence used an oily rag to wipe the sweat from the hammer, wire cutter and pliers he’d used.

“Pa?”

“Yeah, son?”

“Are you happy being married?”

Clarence put down the pliers. “Happy? What makes you ask that?”

“Just wondering. What’s it like to be married as long as you and Ma?”

Clarence considered that a serious question and gave it some thought before answering.

“Well, Donny, I suppose we’re like most married folks. When we was your age, we called it ‘love.’ After Cletus was born, we got down to serious business, raisin’ that little boy. And when the storm came in 1900, all hell broke loose. Them next few years we worked like a pair of draft mules to build this house and start over.”

“How about now, Pa, are you happy?”

“Now? Well, now we’re older. Things has settled down. You and Cletus is grown. Like most couples our age, we just take turns getting’ in the way and aggravatin’ each other.”

“So, you’re not happy being married?”

Clarence smiled and turned back to his tools.

“Donny, don’t get me wrong. I couldn’t live without that woman.”

Naomi watched Clarence and Donald from the kitchen window. She loved the easy way they talked. She’d grown comfortable in her life. On good days—and there were many—she considered herself lucky. Yesterday, after the Essex letter turned up in the mail, the day turned bad. Things could be worse, of course. At least Cletus was alive and he’d be home soon. No telling what would happen after that. She turned from the window, wiping flour from her hands to the sides of her apron.

“Any milk left
?” Donald called through the screen door. Clarence was right behind.

“Plenty.”

The kitchen smelled warm and moist and sweet. Donald headed straight for the cookie jar. It was empty.

“There’s a fresh batch just out of the oven,” Naomi said over her shoulder when she heard the lid of the co
okie jar clink. “Give them a minute to cool.”

Clarence returned from the icebox with
fresh milk for Donald and buttermilk for himself. Clarence broke chunks of cornbread into his glass, then filled it to the brim. He used a teaspoon to stir the soggy lumps into a yellow slurry that clouded the inside of the glass. A sharp, sick smell of milk gone bad assaulted Donald’s nose. He finally had to look away.

“H
ow can you eat that stuff, Pa?”

“You don’t know what you’re missin’ boy.”
Clarence stirred again, spooned another mouthful and answered as he chewed. “Cornbread and buttermilk is one of the seven wonders of the world.”

A
t the counter, Naomi smiled. My boys, my boys, she thought.

Donald spent the
rest of Thursday in his shed, first processing negatives from the last few days in Galveston, then printing them.

“I brought you fresh towels,” Naomi called as she opened the screen door.

“Hi, Ma. I’ll be right out.”

She knew not to touch the black curtain that served as a darkroom
door. Instead, Naomi turned to the black-and-white prints drying on a short length of twine strung between nails across a corner of the room. She reached for the spectacles dangling from a thin chain around her neck, pinched the lightweight frames onto her nose and tilted her head back. She gently touched the bottom of one print to angle it toward the light.

“Sweet children. Where did you take these pictures?”

“In front of Jake’s rent house. I think they live across the street. Those prints are for the family.”

Naomi adjusted her spectacles to look at the next set.

“And who is this pretty young lady?”

“Just someone I met in Galveston.”

Donald drew the darkroom curtain aside and stepped out with two more paper prints in a white porcelain tray. Different shots of Clara.

“Excuse me, Ma.”

Donald placed the wet prints against a sheet of glass, then used a squeegee to remove most of the water. He attached the prints to his drying line with clothespins. Naomi stepped up for a better look.

“She has a sweet smile,” Naomi said. “What’s her name?”

“Clara Barnes. She’s a student nurse. Jake and I rented a room in her guest house for three nights.”

“Is she married?”

“No, Ma.”

Naomi turned, looking at Donald over the tops of her readers. “Is she one of Jake’s lady friends?”

“No, Ma, he just rents a room from her when he goes to Galveston.”