Maude Brown's Baby (19 page)

He let his fingertips bump lightly along the tops of the other volumes,
pausing at some, tipping out others, then dropping to the next shelf down. He stopped at a biography of Clara Barton. Everyone knew her as the famous Civil War nurse and founder of the American Red Cross. He remembered his teachers telling stories of Barton’s life, and how news of her death in April, 1912 was quickly overshadowed by the horror that the great ocean liner
Titanic
had gone down.

A small envelope marked the center of the book. It was from Barton herself, addressed to Martha Barnes, Clara’s mother. Knowing that most people would consider it
snooping, yet hoping that Clara wouldn’t mind, he pulled out a single handwritten sheet of Red Cross stationery.

Galveston, December 10, 1900

My dearest Martha,

Now that the immediate suffering from this terrible storm has abated and I am preparing t
o return to Washington, I want to tell you how much your friendship has meant to me over these last three months. Your darling little girl charmed us as well, and I was most honored to learn that you had named her after me.

Thank you, dear Martha, for your tireless assistance. I wish you the best in your career, for you are an excellent nurse. I have recommended that you be given a permanent position at the hospital. Please keep in touch, and now and then, give little Clara an extra hug for me.

Very truly yours,

Clara Barton, President, Am. Nat. Red Cross

Donald read the note again, then slipped it back into the envelope. He promised hims
elf to tell Clara that he’d seen it.

“Oops!” someone called from the hall. Donald turned, now conscious of his bare feet and shirtless torso, which was covered with patches of green paste. A young woman stood in the doorway looking equally startled. It took a moment for her to recognize him.

“H
ello, Jennifer,” Donald said.

Like him, she was shoeless, although stockings still covered her feet. She was wrapped in a long quilted robe, face bare of makeup, and brown
hair flowing over her shoulders. She clutched a towel and a handful of toiletries.

“I didn’t know anyone was in the house,” she said. “Do you need in there?” She nodded
towards the washroom. She looked again at Donald, stepped back and pulled her robe tight under her chin. “What’s that all over your arms and waist?”

“Poison ivy. Clara applied a poultice, and I’m letting it dry before I put on a clean shirt.”

“Are you contagious?”

“No, Jenny, I just itch.”

She grimaced, but eased the grip on her collar and turned toward the washroom door.

“Well, I won’t be long.”

“Long” is a relative term, Donald learned. Water thundered into the large claw-foot tub for the first ten minutes, followed by splashing. That’s when Jenny began to sing.

“Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer do …”

Donald eased his bedroom door closed
to give her more privacy, and to prevent Rebecca from seeing him shirtless if she came downstairs as well. Jenny’s voice carried through, increasing in volume as she turned the bath water on once more. She drew out words, adding syllables at random. The noise came easily down the hall. For the next half hour, Jenny favored the chorus above all.

“… I'm half ca-RA-zy, all for the love of YOUUUU! It won't be a stylish MAR-riage, I can't afford a CAR-riage, but you'll look SWEET upon the SEAT, of a bicycle built for TWOOOO!”

Donald watched a light rain fall until darkness settled in, obscuring his view of the garden. He clicked on the electric banker’s lamp. Jennifer had finished her bath and gone upstairs a few minutes before, so it felt safe to venture out. He returned to the steamy bathroom to retrieve his wet shirt from the
towel rack.

Jennifer’s wet stockings
—she’d washed them in the sink as Donald had done with his shirt—hung from the same rack. As carefully as possible, he removed his shirt, but one of the stockings fell to the floor. He was just returning it to the bar when Jake peeked in.

“Not your size, p
al,” Jake said. “Besides, they look better on the ladies.”

Donald laughed. Sometimes that was all you could do.

“This poultice is dry enough for me to put on a shirt now. Should we try to move Elton?”

“That’s why I came t
o get you. Let’s put him in our room.”

“Where will you sleep?”

Jake rolled his eyes to the ceiling. “Oh, I’ll find someplace.”

Donald hung his wet shirt over the back of the wooden desk chair and placed it near the electric lamp. He pulled a clean work shirt from his bag, then followed Jake next door. Moving Elton was easy. He was strong enough to walk downstairs by himself, although Jake went first to catch him in case he fell. Donald and Clara followed with extra pillows and a light blanket.

“Would you like some soup, Jake? I made it earlier for Elton.”

“No thanks, Clara. We’ve all had a long day. I’m ready for bed.”

Personally, Donald could do with something sweet. The sopapillas he’d had earlier were delicious, but the little Mexican pastries were mostly air.

The men helped Elton settle in, while Clara stayed behind in the main house changing the sheets on her bed. Smoothing the fresh linens, she was tempted to turn in early, but figured that Donald would like a snack before going to bed. She enjoyed their kitchen visits, and besides, a glass of milk
would help her sleep. She’d only been down a few minutes when Donald returned.

“Elton’s already asleep
,” he said. “We tucked him in, and it was like turning out a light.”

“Would you like some cookies and milk?”

Donald grinned and sat in the nearest chair.

“Are you still returning to Houston tomorrow afternoon?” Clara asked as she set out their snack. “You’re welcome to stay longer. My classes don’t resume until next week.”

“Thank you.” Donald faced Clara. “I don’t even know if I can pass the physical with these eyes, but, … .”

“Yes?”

“I guess I’m restless to get on with my life. I’ve never been anywhere or done anything special. Maybe the Army is the push I need. Does that make sense?”

“Will you let me know what happens?”

“If the Army takes me or not? Sure, if you’d like.”

“I would.”

They grew quiet after that. Clara ate a cookie. Donald had two. Outside the open window, dozens of tiny chirping frogs, encouraged by the recent rain, called for each other in the garden.

Elton was dreaming when Donald returned to their room, perhaps yelling in his own mind, but the sounds he made were nothing more than quiet squeaks and moans. Donald stopped in the bathroom to brush his teeth, then returned to the room. He could tell that Clara had just been there, probably to check on Elton. He smelled her lavender perfume.

To keep from turning on the electric light, Donald lit a candle he found on the bookcase and placed it near the base of the green desk lamp. He stripped to his BVDs, put on his nightshirt and crawled into bed. He reached for the copy of
Cyrano
, but it was gone from the shelf. He laid on his back and stared at the ceiling instead.

The candle’s flame, sometimes still, sometimes flickering in its holder, cast a shadow of the green glass lamp shade on the ceiling. Without his glasses, the shadow seemed more alive than it would have been to a person with sharp vision. Normal eyes would have seen the crisp edges of
the lamp shade on the ceiling and the shadow of its brass neck against the wall. To Donald it was a huge soft capsule, glowing pale green where candlelight filtered through the glass shade.

With each flicker, the capsule bounced side to side, like the shoulders of a huge drunken man lurching down the street. He moved, but not toward Donald or away. The man on the ceiling, swaying back and forth, was
only marking time.

Donald began weighing
the choices he needed to make—or those that would be made for him—in the next few days. He’d never been more than fifty miles from home. Now, after a few weeks of training, he could be on a troop ship heading for France. What if he didn’t register for the draft, or lied to the draft board as he suspected Jake had done? In that case, he’d forever be called a slacker, by others and more importantly, by himself.

He closed his eyes, but voices entered Donald’s half-conscious mind as though he and his twin were debating what to do.

“What if I register and the Army doesn’t accept me?”

“Mr. Booth said the draft board wanted anybody who could still stand.”

“I’m fit enough, except for my eyes. Some boys memorize the eye chart just to get in.”

“No. If they want me as I am, fine, but I won’t lie.”

“All right. But what will you do if the Army doesn’t take you?”

“I'll accept the
Chronicle
job.”

“And watch while other guys go to war while you’re safe at home?”

“If the Army doesn’t want me, I’ll find something useful to do here. You don’t have to carry a gun to help win a war.”

“We’ll see,” Donald said aloud.

“Hey Don, you awake?” Donald hadn’t noticed that Elton was no longer talking in his sleep.

“Sorry if I woke you.”

“Not at all. I was dreaming about that night on the beach. I’m glad to be awake.”

“You sound better.”

“The swelling in my jaw has gone down. The aspirin and Clara’s remedies helped.”

They were quiet for a while, Elton thinking about his recent past and
Donald about his near future. The flickering candle light, its faint green shadows on the ceiling, the humid salt air and sounds of the frogs outside in the garden made them both feel like they were sitting around a campfire. Questions that might not have aired in daylight came easily in the dark.

“Elton?”

“Yeah?”

“Did you register for the draft?”

“Sure. Didn’t Jake tell you?”

“No, what?”

“I took my physical last month. I report to Camp Logan next week.”

Donald propped himself on one elbow and looked over. Without glasses he couldn’t make out his friend’s features, but in the candle light he could tell that Elton was still gazing at the ceiling.

“No, Jake didn’t say anything. I thought your asthma would keep you out.”

“It might have in the beginning, but they need more men now. Besides, the asthma attacks don’t come as often as before. The recruiter said I should be proud to serve my country. He said I could be in France by November.”

“Are you scared?” Donald blurted.

Elton waited to speak. Donald laid back on his pillow to watch the shadows on the ceiling. A breeze picked up, momentarily lifting out the curtains on his side of the room and sucking them against the screen beside Elton. When the curtains relaxed, Elton answered
.

“Yes.”

“You’re scared?”

“
I guess I am.”

The floorboards above them creaked. They heard voices, but Donald and Elton
couldn’t tell which of the girls’ rooms Jake was in.

“Elton?”

“Yeah?”

“Jake said he introduced you to Maye.”

“Sure. I met a lot of women when we came to Galveston a few months ago.”

“When you took pictures of the clubs?”

“Jake photographed the clubs. He brought me along to meet women.”

“Why?”

“I told him I’d never had a lady friend, and he said it was time.”

“So it was all Jake’s idea?”

“I was interested, but yes, he suggested it. He said ladies in Galveston were different from the ones I knew in Houston.” Elton laughed, then hugged his broken rib. “Jake was right,” he said between groans.

Donald thought back. Sitting around th
e kitchen table Monday morning—hard to believe it was only the day before—Jake sounded surprised that Elton was spending time with Maye. Now Donald wondered if Jake had known all along. Jake pushed Elton, perhaps not to Maye herself, but toward women like her.

“Did Jake know you were seeing Maye?”

“It never came up. He knew I was visiting someone here, but he didn’t know who.”

“Did he encourage you?”

“Oh, yeah. I think Jake enjoyed it. He said it was time for me to be a man, especially if I was going into the Army.”

Accidently or not, Donald thought, Elton nearly died because of Jake.

“What did you think about it?”

“I didn’t want to go without ever having been with a woman.”

A gust of wind made the curtains flap and the candle go out. Donald patted the nightstand for his glasses. The rain clouds were gone, replaced by stars and a half moon. Its pale blue light filled the room. Donald lowered the window and looked back across the garden toward the house. The electric light on Clara’s desk was on, and she was sitting near the window, reading a book with a bright red cover.