Maude Brown's Baby (29 page)

“Clara? Clara? Thank you. Can you hear me?” The static grew momentarily louder, then the line cleared.

“Donald?”

“I’m here. Y
ou said it was important that I come to Galveston this weekend.”

“Yes
. The man in the photograph.”

“S
orry?” The connection faded again.

“The man … (static) … hol
ding a little girl … (static) …”

Donald strained to
hear. The hallway, lit only by electric lights from the kitchen, grew darker. Donald glanced toward Naomi and Clarence, who were standing at one end, watching and worried. He turned back to the phone, almost shouting in the mouthpiece.

“Yes, Clara? The man in the photo? What about him?
”

“
Don…” Clara’s voice cracked, but the line was clear. She drew a deep breath.              “Donald, I found him.”

When Naomi, Clarence and Donald returned to their meal,
none of hem noticed that the scrambled eggs and red beans were cold.

“You
said she found someone?”

“Yeah, Ma, that
new photograph gave her the idea.”

“Sounds peculiar to me,” Clarence said, taking the cracker tin Naomi had left on the table
. “Pass the cheese. Thanks. Sounds peculiar, someone turnin’ up after eighteen years.”

Clarence used his knif
e to cut four squares of cheese. He thoughtfully stacked four soda crackers beside them on his plate before speaking again.

“Your lady friend has a lot of gumption.”

“She’s not my lady friend.”

Clarence
smiled, but didn’t press the point. “So anyhow, she shows that picture of the man holdin’ a little girl to a fella at the port. Then what?” He took his first bite of cracker and cheese, then leaned back in his chair as he chewed.

“Clara recogn
ized the old Port of Galveston, the way it looked before the 1900 storm. The photograph was taken in an area where immigrants used to register when they arrived.”

“
Your folks was immigrants?”

“I
’m not sure. I couldn’t understand everything, but a port supervisor said one man in the photo was an immigration agent, and it was October, 1899. He was certain because of a ship in the background. It was the last time that vessel was in port before it sank.”

“October? Donny, that was less than three months b
efore you were born. Did the supervisor recognize the man holding the little girl?”

“I don’t know
, Ma. The line got so bad after that, I couldn’t understand anything Clara said.”

Clarence finished the las
t of his red beans and sopped the juice with cornbread. He took another bite of cracker and cheese.

“Some of them immigrants had it near’s
bad as slaves when they come here. They borrowed money for passage, then worked years payin’ it back. You figure that’s how it was with your kin?”

“I don’t know
. That’s all the information I have.” Donald looked up at Clarence and Naomi. “Whoever the man is, Clara thinks she found him. She wants me to come to Galveston Saturday.”

“You’re going, aren’t you?” Naomi said. Without looking down, she tapped her fork on the plate, even though she’d finished the last of her eggs.

“Will you be all right?”

“Pshaw, Donny, why wouldn’t we?”

“I’ll still be with you when Cletus comes in, and Clara has offered to help.”

“Of course. Don’t worry about us, we can certainly find our way to Galveston. You can meet us at the station when we get in. Go see Clara and find out what she knows about your real family.”

His
real
family? Naomi wasn’t worried about the trolley ride to Galveston. Donald slid his arm across the table and squeezed her hand.

“Ma, you and Pa and Cletus are my real family.
Whatever Clara found in Galveston is just history.”

Fo
r once, Donald woke before the rooster. Briefly, he considered finding the arrogant fowl and waking him. In a fit of foresight the night before, Donald had left his glasses where he could find them easily in the dark.

Bosco lay sideways on his blanket, legs twitching in a fitful doggy dream. When he heard bare feet on the floor, he raised his head, blinked a few times, then squeezed his eyes shut when Donald lit the kerosene lamp.

Clean pants, shirt, underwear and socks were folded neatly in the chair. Donald’s new shoes, freshly polished, sat on the floor nearby. His travel bag waited by the door. The first Interurban left Union Station at 6:00 a.m., and Donald planned to be on it.

He peeked outside. The Stokes’ house was still dark, but Naomi and Clarence knew he was leaving, so they’d said their goodbyes last night
. He planned to meet them in Galveston Sunday morning. With any luck, Clara would know by then when the hospital ship would be in and how long it would take for Cletus to be examined and released.

Donald used a bar of soap to lather his face. He flipped open his razor and wiped the steel blade several times across his leather strop to hone the edge. With the fingers of his left hand tugging up on his cheek, Donald raised his chin, stretched his neck, lifted the razor and cut himself on the second stroke. A minute later, he did it agai
n, this time nicking his cheek.

Donald
swore quietly but clearly each time. Bosco ignored the remarks, knowing they weren’t aimed at him. Seconds later, the screen door creaked.

“Where’d you learn to talk li
ke that?” Donald turned to see Clarence peeking through the screen. Behind him, the kitchen lights were on.

“Morning, Pa.” Donald turned back to the hand mirror hanging by a nail on the wall. “I thought you weren’t getting up until after I left.”

“Your ma had different ideas. She’s in there now making coffee and something for you to eat on the train.” Clarence stepped into the shed, squatted for a moment to scratch Bosco’s head, then steadied himself on the end of the bed to stand up.

“Oof! That’s getting’
harder to do each year.” Clarence rubbed his knees. “Reckon I’ll need a cane afore long.”

“Y
ou’re tough as a boot.”

“Boots wear out, you know.”

Donald rinsed the last of the soap from his face, trying hard not to get blood on the towel. He studied the little mirror, first turning his neck, then his cheek and upper lip to survey the damage. He fished a scrap of tissue paper from the drawer, tore off three small tabs and stuck them over his wounds. Blood stuck the paper to his skin.

“Looks like you come up two bits short in a knife fight,” Clarence said. “Got your bag packed?”

“I’m not taking much, since we’ll be back Sunday night.” Donald looked over to Clarence, who had settled into a chair by the door, rubbing the top of his leg. Not like him, Donald thought.

“You all right, Pa?”

“I’m fine. I was jus’ wonderin’ about the car.”

“The car?”

“How hard you figure it’d be to drive down to Galveston instead of takin’ the train?”

Donald turned from the mirror to face C
larence. “Don’t try it, Pa! Driving a motor car is different from driving a buggy.”

“Folks at the Ford dealer says it’s easier. At least a car will go where you point it and stop when you want. They
showed me how to start the engine and where to put the gas and oil. I even drove ‘round their parkin’ lot with the salesman while your ma waited in the office. Didn’t hit a thing. Drivin’ ain’t so hard.”

“You’ll be a fine
driver before long, but please don’t take your car to Galveston tomorrow.”

“Donny?” Naomi called from across the yard. “Donny? Don’t leave yet. I’ve got something for you to take.”

Donald walked to the screen door, raising his voice for Naomi to hear. “Just a minute!” He turned back to Clarence. “Promise me you won’t.”

“All right! All right,” Clarence said, raising his hand in defeat as he unfolded stiffly from the chair. “Thunder, you’d think that Ford was a damn steam locomotive! I seen women drivin’ the things, but all right, I reckon I can wait a few days to get some lessons.”

“Donny?”

“Coming, Ma.”

In the kitchen, Donald slipped Naomi’s sandwich bag into his duffel. He wrapped an extra shirt around the coffee thermos and put it next to his folding camera, journal and pouch of unexposed film.

“Is that one of Nina Carhart’s books?
” Naomi asked, pointing to the red one.

“No
, that’s from Clara’s library.
Cyrano
is a play about a soldier who loved a beautiful lady, but never told her because he had a funny nose and was afraid she’d turn him down.”

“You
done read it?” Clarence asked.

“Finished last night. I may read it again on the way to Galveston.”

Naomi left the kitchen briefly and returned with a small but elegant envelope she’d closed the old fashioned way, with a dribble of red wax and her initials pressed into it while the wax was still hot. The seal had been a gift from Clarence, and Naomi saved it for special correspondence.

“What’s this, Ma?”

“A note for Clara. Just give it to her when you get there.”

“Y
ou don’t even know her.”

“That doesn’t matter. J
ust give her the note, and don’t open it first.”

He
hesitated, so Naomi pressed on.

“
Donny, your friend offered to help with something that’s very important to us. I just want to tell her how much we appreciate it, and that we look forward to meeting her.”

Donald watched the sun rise over the prairie south of Houston as the Interurban made its way toward Galveston
. The car was surprisingly full, but many of the passengers were trying to sleep.

Too alert to doze, Donald fished his duffel for Clara’s book. He slipped off
his glasses, put the open page almost to his nose and began to read. A minute later, he was in Paris in 1640, with Cyrano, sword drawn, confronting a rival.

The 21
st
Street depot was alive with businessmen and tourists when the car pulled in. Soon the trolley would reload, possibly adding a second car, and of the many people now waiting on the platform would be on their way to Houston.

Donald slipped Clara’s letter between the pages of
Cyrano
to mark his place, then searched his shirt and jacket pockets for his glasses.

They were gone.

He stood too quickly and bumped a fellow traveler trying to retrieve his satchel from the overhead rack.

“Careful there
!”

“Sorry, sorry.”

Donald had only minutes. He jammed his hands in his side pockets and again came up empty. He squinted at the seat, patting his hand back and forth across the leather several times without luck. Most passengers had left the car when a kindly, high-pitched voice behind him spoke up.

“Look there, sir, just beneath your seat.”

Donald squinted and saw only the shape of a slender young woman, dressed in white.

“Thank you, Miss.”

Donald got to his knees and began patting the floor. Nothing. He bent farther over and looked for himself. Finally a bit of sunlight caught the edge of a lens, and he was relieved to find his glasses were none the worse for having spent most of the trip on the floor. He slipped the loops behind his ears, settled the heavy lenses on his nose, then stood to face his helper. She wasn’t so young after all, but behind her own thick lenses, her green eyes sparkled.

“Thank you again,” Donald said, touching his cap.

“I understand completely, young man.” Donald returned her wide, sweet smile.

“I was beginning to get nervous!” he said.

“And I was delighted to help.” She touched her elegant white hair. “Besides, it has been a very long time since anyone called me
Miss
.”

Donald checked his pocket watch against the station clock. Seven fifty-five. Plenty of time before meeting Clara at noon. He needed to get his bearings and wanted time to think.

A man reading a newspaper caught his attention. He had the bearing of a soldier, but dressed in civilian clothes.

“Excuse me, sir, is there a city park nearby?”

The newspaper dropped to the man’s lap. Donald jerked back. What he saw resembled a face, but it was not the face of a man. The left half, including the entire nose and chin, was a mask. A very good mask, Donald thought, and like nothing he’d ever seen. It was expertly painted to resemble flesh. Spectacles without lenses looped behind the man’s ears to help hold the device in place.

“Yes?” the mask said.

“A … a park, sir. Do you know if there’s a public park nearby?” Donald had grown up being the butt of jokes. He knew the startled looks of strangers. Now he feared how his own reaction must appear. Still, he could not stop.

“
I’m sorry to have bothered you, sir.”

“No trouble. A park you say? Well, the closest is Central Park, just over there, about two blocks.” He pointed with his cane. The mask spoke clearly enough, but the painted mouth didn’t move. The sound it made
was muffled only a bit.

The man’s good eye focused on Donald, who was growing more curious than shocked. The mask was beautiful in its way, clearly crafted by an artist with love and great skill.

“I’m sorry to stare at you, sir,”

“
I’m used to it now.” The man lifted his newspaper, flipped it twice to straighten the pages, then resumed reading.

“Sir?”

The masked man put his newspaper down slowly. The painted eye showed no annoyance, but the working one did.

“Yes?”

“May I ask you, sir, about your …”

“My mask? Good G
od! Most people aren’t so direct!”

“I don’t mean to be rude, not in the least, sir.” Donald heard his own words as if listening to someone else.

“What, then?” the stranger said with growing impatience. Donald looked side to side, then back. No one was close. Why had he spoken at all? When he saw the poor fellow’s condition, why couldn’t he just look away, or if he must talk, then pretend not to notice the mask?

Donald remained rooted to the spot, silent, staring, and waiting to
hear what, if anything, would come from his own mouth next. Finally, something did.

“I’m a journalist, sir. Your mask fascinates me.”

“Ha! Now you’re mocking me?”

“No, sir! I am not
making fun. I suspect that you’ve been injured in battle. I’ve heard of wounded soldiers fitted with masks, but never expected that they were so masterfully made.”

The man’s good eye softened and his shoulders relaxed. D
onald guessed him to be about thirty, although he sounded much older. He’d been handsome, too, judging from what remained of his face.

“A journalist, you say? What newspaper?”

“Not a newspaper, a magazine. A whole new type of magazine, in fact, with shorter stories and more photographs than words.”

Again, the man grew tense. He tightened the grip on his newspaper until half of it was just a wad in his hand. He barely contained his rage.

“Is your magazine a
freak show
?”

“Not at all! Nothing like that, sir!” Donald half expected a blow from the man’s cane. He felt the strap of his
duffel digging into his shoulder and shifted it to the other side.

“The publisher is
Leonard Hoffman. He prints books of all kinds; important texts and references.”

“I
know his books. I was a teacher before the war. Go on.”

The former soldier released the grip on his ruined newspaper and let it fall beside him on the bench. Donald continued, recalling Hoffman’s enthusiasm
when he described the project over lunch.

“The magazine—
he hasn’t named it yet—will tell stories with photographs. Some people call them ‘photographic essays,’ but the idea is to cover important subjects, respectfully, accurately and without bias.”

“And you think my mask is something people want to know about?”

“I think it is something people
need
to know about, sir. Newspapers talk of war like they are reporting a football match, with a winning team and a losing team and people cheering from the stands.”

The wounded soldier held up his hand wearily. “Believe me, it’s much more than that.”

“I know!” Donald didn’t mean to raise his voice. Now he lowered it again. “At least, sir, that’s what I am coming to know. I think most civilians don’t understand the terrible sacrifice soldiers make. We buy war bonds. We sing war songs and plant victory gardens, but all we really see of war are the posters and flags and parades. Someone needs to tell the whole truth.”