Maude Brown's Baby (24 page)

“Where are her folks?”

Donald returned to the darkroom, pulled the curtain closed and began lightly massaging the back of his neck.

“Dr. Barnes died in the 1900 storm. He was with some men in a restaurant when a printing press fell through from the second floor.”

“Oh my! I remember reading that at the time. What about her mother?”

“Martha Barnes was a nurse who worked at John Sealy Hospital. She got sick and passed away last year.”

“Any other family?”

“Clara’s brother
Henry is in France. He’s in the Signal Corps, same as Cletus.”

“I see.”

“Ma?”

“Yes?”

“I like her a lot.”

Naomi smiled. “Yes, Donny, I guessed that.”

The telephone was ringing when Naomi went back to the house. Clarence, who could sleep through a hurricane, was taking a nap.

“Hello?”

“Mrs. Stokes?”

“Yes?” The line was surprisingly clear.

“Hello, Naomi, this is Nina Carhart. Is Donald there?”

“He’s back from Galveston, but he’s working in the darkroom now.”

“Well, don’t disturb him. Could you give him a message, please?”

“Certainly.”

“I’m having a luncheon this Saturday. It’s very important. There are some people in town that I would like for Donald to meet.”

“That’s very kind of you, Nina, I’ll give him the message. What time?”

“Noon will be fine. Thanks, Naomi.”

“Thank you, Nina.”

After Mrs. Carhart hung up, Naomi waited, hand over the mouthpiece of the telephone, for the click that would tell her someone had been listening on the party line. None this time, although she half hoped there would be.

Naomi hung the earpiece back on its hook. She always felt strange calling the famous Mrs. Carhart by her first name, but Nina insisted. Naomi imagined the distinguished and handsome Governor Hobby, or the lovely and gracious Miss Hogg saying “Nina” this and “Nina” that over tea, but not the likes of Naomi Stokes, a carpenter’s wife who lived next door to former slaves in Houston’s Fourth Ward.

For a society lady, Nina Carhart was certainly down to earth.             

“Hello, Mr. Hanson.” Donald pointed over his shoulder with his thumb. “How are they selling?”

“I could sell more if you’d just make them faster,” the store owner told him. “My customers like your tripods better than the ones I get from New York.” He pointed to the window display. “That’s the last one I have in stock. Can you bring me three more?”

“Sure thing. How about Wednesday morning?”

“Perfect. What can I do for you today?”

Although he was a good businessman, Hanson had the annoying habit of hovering over his customers. Donald made his choices fast, leaving with four rolls of film, some darkroom chemicals and a box of printing paper.

“Just take this off what you owe me for the tripods.”

“I’ll do that now,” Hanson said, opening his ledger.

The thought of selling three more of his tripods to Hanson at a profit of five dollars each left Donald feeling wealthy. His next stop was the dry goods store, where he spent nearly four dollars, the most he’d ever paid for a new pair of shoes.

From a distance, it looked like Clarence and Naomi were having an outdoor market. Several men were examining a collection of planes, chisels and files sitting on the sawhorses and door that Clarence used for a temporary workbench. A neighbor was carrying away Naomi’s old sewing machine. Donald saw her slip some bills into the pocket of her dress, then speak to a woman who was looking at glassware in a crate.

Donald looked into the garage. Except for old Mr. Hammers examining the sleeve of an overcoat hanging on a nail, the space was empty. Clarence had everything in the yard. Donald started to ask, but Clarence spoke first.

“You been
Saturday shoppin’ I see. Your ma said to remind you about goin’ to Mrs. Carhart’s today.”

“I didn’t forget, Pa. Say, what’s all …”

“What’s she got in store for you today? More books, you reckon?”

“No, just someone she wants me to meet. Say, Pa, what’s all …”

“And you bought yourself some new duds it looks like.”

Clarence was prying; something he seldom did. Naomi waved at Donald from across the yard, saw Clarence, then turned quickly to a prospective customer.

“You have time to stop by the post office on your way home?”

“Sure, Pa, I was going to anyway.”

Clarence grinned like a fisherman with a bite. “You expectin’ mail?”

“Maybe.” Donald said, certain now that Naomi had told him about Clara. Donald refused the bait.

“What are you doing, Pa, having a sale?”

Satisfied with teasing Donald, Clarence was ready for the next topic. He looked around the yard.

“Didn’t plan to have one; the sale jus’ happened. I went to clean the garage this morning, and afore I knew it, folks passin’ by was askin’ if this or that was for sale. Your ma and I raised near twenty dollars already, and we’re just getting’ started.”

“But what made you want to clean out the garage today, Pa?”

“We’re thinking of gettin’ an automobile and needed a place to store it.” Clarence pulled Donald closer. “We figured with Cletus comin’ home and him bein’ blind, a car might come in handy.”

“Good thinking, Pa.”

“How much for that chair?” A man pointed and Clarence turned away from Donald.

“D
ollar-fifty, and I got three more jus’ like it yonder round the side.”

The man took a couple of steps to see where Clarence was pointing. “Sold,” he s
aid, shaking Clarence’s hand.              

Back in his shed, Naomi had laid out Donald's
best trousers, a clean white shirt, a tie and his dark blue jacket. His new shoes would go just fine.

“First
impressions make a difference, dear boy,” Mrs. Carhart said in Donald’s mind.

“Who's coming?” Donald asked aloud to his empty room.

“Just be sure you make a good impression,” the room answered back. Donald laughed at himself as he buttoned the fresh collar and cuffs onto his best shirt.

From his window Donald noticed Clarence helping the man who’d bought the chairs tie them in the back of his buggy. A lady sitting up front holding the reins was smiling broadly. Two
neighbors, along with several people Donald had never seen, were milling about. One man carried a bow saw that Clarence no longer used, and a woman standing beside him held one of Naomi’s old lamps. The chickens, lacking interest in the neighbors or the sale, gathered at the far end of the yard to peck the ground near the burn barrel.

On impulse, Donald pulled a shallow wooden crate from under his bed. Inside were two Kodak Hawk-Eyes, one given to Donald and the other a two-bit purchase from the pawn shop. They’d been easy to repair and both looked good as new. He brought them to Naomi, who took her time inspecting Donald head to toe.

“You look just fine!” she said. “And you bought new shoes. Very nice.”

“Thanks, Ma.” Donald held up the two cameras. “Would you mind putting these out for sale?”

“Glad to.” Naomi took the cameras, holding both against her stomach with one arm. She shaded her eyes from the sun with her free hand. “How much do you want for them?”

“Seventy-five cents each would be fine. Both of them work like new.”

“If you fixed them, I’m sure they do. I’ll ask a dollar-seventy five for each.” She set the cameras on a nearby table. “You’d better run now, you don’t want to be late for Nina’s luncheon.”

Donald didn’t run, but he did hurry to the trolley stop. New shoes always took a few days to break in. He was happy to sit for the rest of the trip to the Carhart estate in the Heights.

On most visits Donald would enter through the back garden. Today he paused to admire Albino’s prize pittosporum bushes and two stately date palms before he rang the bell at the front door.

“Good day, Mr. Brown. M
ay I take your hat?”

“Hello, Ka
mal. Nice to see you.”

Nina Carhart’s butler
was one of the most exotic persons Donald had ever met. His lean dark face was deeply lined, but when he smiled, his near-perfect teeth made him look young. As far as Donald knew, Kamal was the only name the Moroccan ever used.

“The others are in the library, Mr. Brown. Would you care to join them?”
Kamal’s concise English held a slight French accent. He handled Donald’s simple leather cap as if it were a gentleman’s silk topper, then gestured toward the room Donald knew so well.

Elsie was moving among the five guests with a tray of dry sherry. She handed the last one to Donald as he walked in.

“Thank you, Elsie.”

She nodded and gave a faint smile. “You’re welcome, Mr. Brown.”

Her formality surprised him. Donald wondered if he had offended her on his last visit, but now was hardly the time to ask.              

He studied the crystal glass in his hand, enjoying how the slightest movement
made light sparkle. The library windows opened to a view of the south garden with its curving pergola. Four men stood in the book-lined room, two and two, engaged in conversation. Of the four, Donald recognized only Jules Davenport, president of the Heights Regional Bank and Trust, and a frequent guest at the Carhart home.

Mrs. Carhart’s mother, Frederica Johnston, occupied a small sofa in an alcove, like a queen receiving her subjects. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Johnston,” Donald said, bending slightly at the waist and extending his hand as Mrs. Carhart had taught him to do.

“Ah, hello, Donald, so good of you to come.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

Frederica Johnston turned to the woman beside her. “Donald, have you met Miss Ida Templeton, the writer?”

“Oh, Miss Templeton, I’ve read some of your articles. It’s a pleasure to meet you in person!”

“Please call me Ida. Won’t you join us?”

Just looking at her, no one would guess that the handsome woman sitting politely on the sofa with Nina Carhart’s mother was the f
amous—infamous, her targets would say—muckraker who attacked industrial tyrants and corrupt politicians with equal skill. Donald sat in a nearby chair. Frederica Johnston spoke first.

“Ida was telling me about her next series.” She turne
d toward Miss Templeton. “Do go on.”

Ida took a sip of
sherry, then held the glass over an embroidered napkin in her lap. “I’ve been looking again at the oil industry,” she said. “It has been several years since I’ve written much about it. I’m afraid that the situation for workers is quite grim. I fear that ...”

Raised voices interrupted her thought. She turned toward the noise and Do
nald followed her gaze. A lanky man with grey curls hanging over his collar was jabbing his index finger on a younger man’s chest.

“I’m telling you, Clifford, that approach won’t work in a monthly.” Having made his point, the older man removed his finger, took a long pull of his drink, then held his glass straight down to his side, fingertips spaced evenly around the rim. “Our readers will get in-depth reporting, not the claptrap they see in the daily press!”

“Claptrap?” one of the group objected, “Claptrap?”

“Nothing pe
rsonal, Mitch. I don’t mean
your
newspaper.”

All four men laughed. The accuser held up his near-empty glass. It held a sliver of amber liquid, but Kamal stood waiting with an identical glass on a small tray.

“Don’t mind them,” Ida said to Donald. She sipped the last of her sherry and nodded once when Elsie offered her another. “This argument has been going on for months in our New York office. We all work together except for Mr. Davenport. He is our banker, and …”

Ida turned toward the library door.

Donald stood at once.

“Ah, Donald, welcome,” Mrs. Carhart said as she crossed the room. “I see that Mother and Ida are keeping you entertained.
” Turning toward them she added, “May I introduce this young man to the others?”

Donald nodded to Mrs. Johnston, then
turned to Ida Templeton. “I look forward to reading your new reports.”

Ida raised her sh
erry glass. “I hope you won’t be disappointed.”

Nina Carhart looked on approvingly, then guided Donald by the arm toward the first two men.

“If you gentlemen can stop fighting long enough, I’d like for you to meet someone.” She drew Donald near and introduced the finger-pointer’s victim, a man in his early forties, with bright blue eyes, blond hair and a sportsman’s deep tan.

“Donald, this is Clifford Murray, an excellent writer who has a
special gift for discovering the truth behind stories.”

“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Murray.”

“That’s my dad’s name,” Murray grinned, shaking Donald’s hand. “Call me Cliff.”