Maude Brown's Baby (22 page)

“I like her already,” Clara said. “Tell me, who are her friends?” She took another bite of her hot dog and waited. Donald looked at Clara, lightly touched the corner of his own mouth, and she quickly wiped a dab of mustard from hers.

“From what I see, Mrs. Carhart spends most of her time on charity projects. Her Ladies Guild still supports the orphanage where I lived as a kid. She also works for the Women’s Suffrag
e movement, and against the Anti-Saloon League.”

“So Mrs. Carhart is against Prohibition?”

“She says Congress can’t legislate morality. She claims that banning liquor will create more problems than it solves. Lately she's been traveling a lot, but doesn't talk about that.”

“What an intriguing woman.” Clara sipped her cream soda and looked outside.

“Occasionally she invites me to dinner parties,” Donald added. “I think she selects people who would be good for me to know. In her own way, she’s teaching all the time.”

Clara laughed and pointed out the window, where a man was chasing his straw boater down the street.

“People are losing their hats in this wind.”

“Don’t worry, it will die down in time for the mosquitoes to come out.”

“Stop it,” Clara laughed. “Finish telling me about the dinner parties. What do you remember most?”

Donald sipped his soda thoughtfully before answering. “What do I r
emember most? I’d say it was a dinner last year. There were nine of us altogether, including Mrs. Carhart and her mother. One guest was a publisher, I think.” Donald began counting on his fingers.

“Yes. And there was a musician and two writers. Dr. Covington was guest of honor.”

“Benjamin J. Covington?”

“Do you know him?”

“I know his work. The Army Medical Corps is testing his formula to help flu victims. And I know he plans to expand his clinic into a proper Negro hospital after the war.”

“One thing he said has stayed with me,” Donald said. “A writer there asked about his childhood. Dr. Covington said he was ‘born in the sixth year of freedom.’ Those were his exact words, and that impressed me the most. Just think, Clara, how it would be to mark your own family history as either before or after the time your parents were slaves.”

Jake remained on the swing with Rebecca until it was clear that neither of them had more to discuss. He stood, taking a moment to stretch after the swing bumped to a stop on the backs of his knees.

“Well, I’d better pack my things. Don and Clara will be home before you know it.”

Jake walked with Rebecca back to the carriage house and retrieved his duffel from her room. They kissed briefly at the top of stairs. He turned and started down.

“Let me know the next time you’re in town,” she called to his back.

“I will.”

The door to Donald’s room was open. Elton was asleep with a book upside down on his chest. Jake picked it up and thumbed the first few pages.
Private Pete
was the personal account of a young Canadian soldier, injured early in the Great War, now telling his story to the world. Across from the title page, a photo showed Harold Pete himself, grinning despite his injuries. He carried a large folding camera in one hand. For a moment, Elton’s face, then Donald’s, replaced Pete’s on the page. Jake snapped the book closed and laid it flat on the desk near Elton’s bed.

“Hey
, Jake,” Elton said, eyes half closed.

“How are you feeling,
pal?”

“Much better, thanks. Still groggy, but Clara says that’s normal.”

“Did you see? I bought you something to wear.”

“Thanks, Jake, I’ll pay you back when we get home.”

“Don’t mention it; I owe you that much at least.”

“I’m too tired to argue. Thanks for the new duds.”

Jake tossed his duffel on the empty bed. He rifled through to the bottom before deciding the clothes on his back were the cleanest he had.

“You need anything before I go?”

“No, Jake, I’m all right.”

“How about cash? I’ll leave you five bucks. That’s enough to get you home.”

Elton’s voice wavered. “You’re always watching out for me. I don’t know what …”

Jake stiffened. “No, El, you really don’t know what!” He turned toward Elton, fists clenched. The words came stronger than he intended. When he saw the hurt in Elton’s eyes, Jake softened his voice and relaxed his fists.

“Don’t you see, El? If it hadn’t been for me, you
wouldn’t be laying here now, busted up. It’s all my fault.”

“Let’s get inside before we’re eaten alive.” Donald flicked a mosquito from his ear and took Clara’s hand as they skipped up the front steps. They found Jake and Elton in the kitchen, eating chunks of buttered bread, and downing the last of the soup. A blackened pot was soaking in the sink.

“Sorry about that
,” Jake said, jerking his head toward the sink. Clara checked the damage, then laughed. She poured out the cold water, added a spoonful of Rinso and refilled the pot, leaving suds flowing over the top.

“That’s all right, boys. A little charcoal adds flavor to the soup.”

“I left the rent and extra money for food in an envelope on your desk. Let me know if it’s not enough.”

“Thanks, Jake, I’m sure it’s fine.”

“I’ll be ready in a few minutes, Don.” Jake stood, taking Elton’s elbow to help him from the table. Donald retrieve
d his bag from the carriage house and was happy to see Clara waiting when he returned.

“I almost forgot this.” She handed Donald one of his work shirts, clean and folded neatly as the day Sears mailed it to his house.

“Thanks.”

“And here is more ointment for your rash. Apply this when you get home. There’s enough here for three days.”

“Great.” Donald tucked the Mason jar toward the center of his bag and placed the folded denim shirt on top.

“And you might enjoy this while you’re waiting for the poultice to dry.” She held a book with a bright red cover. “
Cyrano
is one of my favorite plays. I’ve read it several times. Let me know what you think.”

“Thanks, Clara. I’ll bring it back to you soon.”

She smiled. “I hoped you’d say that.”

They stood for a moment, each still holding a corner of the book. Neither wanted to let go.

“Clara, I …”

The screen door slammed. Heavy footsteps echoed through the kitchen into the parlor.

“Hey, there you are,” Jake said. “Come on, Don. If we miss the seven
o’clock train, we’ll be cooling our heels for an hour at the station.”

Donald stared up at Jake as he tucked the book into his duffel, then turned back to Clara.

“Well, goodbye. Thanks for everything.”

“G
oodbye, Donald. Goodbye Jake. Don’t worry about Elton; I’ll have him on the four o’clock to Houston this Sunday.”

“You
’d better run,” the cashier said. The metal bars of the ticket window made him look like a chicken in a cage.

Jake and Donald shouldered their bags, jogged again across the platform and boarded as the conductor was closing the doors.

“Close!” Jake panted, crossing his legs and dropping his hat on his knee.

Donald settled into the leather seat, moving right and left several
times to scratch the rash on his lower back. He looked forward to more of Clara’s poultice when he got home.

As the trolley crossed the causeway over West Bay, Donald glimpsed the
single light of a fishing boat motoring slowly toward its berth. He crossed his arms and settled back into the corner of his seat. The window glass felt cool against his cheek. His eyelids grew heavy as the car sped north through the night, clicking rhythmically over the rails that stretched on and on, straight across the open prairie.

“Hell of a trip, eh
, Don?”

Startled awake, Donald fought to get his bearings. He wished Jake wouldn’t talk that way in public. He sat up straighter in the seat before answering.

“Yeah, things turned out all right, considering how bad they could have been.” He stretched his arms over his head and yawned. What seemed like a blink had been a good forty minutes. Jake wanted to talk, so nap time was over.

“So you’re going through with it? You’re signing up with the draft board tomorrow?”

“Sure, Jake, first thing in the morning.”

“What will your folks think?
”

“Pa will be proud. Ma will worry.”

“Do you wonder what basic training is like?”

“Can’t be much fun.” Donald said, still struggling to wake up.

“The first weeks of football practice weren’t much fun either.”

That woke Donald. He leaned forward in his seat and studied Jake’s profile in the trolley’s dim light.

“You’re not thinking about joining! After all you said about the war?”

“Just thinking.”

“What about your invalid parents?”

“Mom has her bridge and garden clubs. Dad plays golf four times a week when he’s not hunting or fishing with his buddies. They’re fine.”

“Did your folks ever ask why you weren’t already in the Army?”

“They think I’ve got flat feet.”

Donald leaned back in his seat and sighed. “I wonder how they got that idea.”

The back gate opened smoothly when Donald lifted the latch. Bosco loped to Donald’s side, first licking his hand and then his face when Donald leaned down. There were no lights inside the house, so Donald went straight to his shed in the back yard. Feeling his way through the darkened room, he found the box of safety matches and lit the kerosene lamp near his bed. Bosco whined at the screen door. Donald invited him in, folded an old blanket on the floor, and Bosco settled in for the night.

Naomi ha
d been there. She’d left a towel by his wash basin, clean underwear folded on the bed, and a fresh shirt hanging on the length of baling wire that served as Donald’s corner closet.

P
eople say dogs don’t snore, but Bosco did. It was good to be home.

Donald liked chickens. He liked eggs. But that rooster, that wretched rooster, he could do without. Most nights, the hateful thing perched on a fencepost just outside the shed. The window was usually open for air, so when the bird began crowing half an hour before sunup, it was like a bugle call from ten feet away.

A bugle call. Draft registration day.

How lo
ng before I wake up to a bugle every day, he thought. If the Army does need all the men it can get, I could be at Camp Logan in a couple of weeks. What then? At least the camp is nearby. I could walk home in half an hour—if I ever got a pass.

The rooster crowed again.

“Oh boy,” Donald said without joy.

He
rubbed his eyes. Camp Logan. A year ago Clarence Stokes was one of the thousands of craftsmen who rebuilt the old National Guard camp deep in the woods west of Houston. In less than a month, thirty thousand recruits were training there.

Every night, Clarence would sit
exhausted at the dinner table, telling Naomi and Donald one new story after another.

“F
urious work,” he’d say. “Men swarmin’ all over the place. Why, we built a whole darn mess hall in two days! The whole thing!” Then, at some point in the meal, Clarence would lower his voice, shake his head and say, “I never seen the like.”

Donald felt
Bosco’s warm fur against his feet. The old dog blinked sleepily toward the window, then at Donald. He stood, stretched his front legs, shoulders low, rump and tail high in the air, then jumped to the floor, nails clicking wood as he padded to the screen door. He nosed it open and stepped into the yard, looking for a new place to pee.

“Life is simple en
ough for you,” Donald called as he watched the dog go. “Eat, sleep, chase squirrels, take a dump now and then. What more could you want?”

Bosco was too busy to respond.

Sunlight slowly filled the room. It was hopeless trying to sleep, so Donald snapped the covers back and sat on the edge of the bed. He felt his forearms, wrists, and then his waist. Clara’s poultice had worked. The poison ivy rash still itched, but it wasn’t bad. He reached for the jar and applied more of the greenish goo, lightly this time, so it would dry faster.

Donald brushed his teeth and used cold water and bar soap to shave. He spent another few minutes unpacking his bag, stacking dirty clothes on the chair by the door. He put the shirt Clara had washed in the drawer with his clean underwear and socks. It was so beautifully folded, he hated to hang it up.

Electric lights went on in the house. Bosco bounded up the steps to the kitchen door and waited, nose pressed to the screen, his tail wagging hard. Naomi opened the door, patted the dog’s head and slipped a morsel of food in his mouth before refilling his water dish.