Maude Brown's Baby (30 page)

“Son?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Have a seat.”

Clara
said to wait for her at the front entrance of Sealy Hospital. A light rain had begun, so Donald climbed the steps to the second floor entrance and took shelter under the tall portico. The base of the concrete arch was damp and cool to his touch. Only after he laid his duffel in a dry corner and leaned back against the side wall did Donald recognize where he was. It came like an electric shock.

              …
Saturday, upon returning to the hospital from the restaurant, I was standing at the entrance pouring water from my boots when a woman clutching a baby rushed by me through the door. I followed and found her pleading with a nurse ...

Donald looked down at his own wet boots. Was this where the doctor stood? Are those the steps the frightened woman climbed with me in her arms? He pushed open the heavy doors and stepped into the hospital lobby, still hearing the doctor’s words to his wife.

              … The poor woman’s clothes were soaked through. … She was sobbing, trying to explain that she had been caught out when the street cars stopped running … another child nearby … she could no longer manage the rising water with a baby in hand. Would the nurse please keep him until she returned?

“Until she returned,” the woman had said. But she did not return.
So this is the place, Donald thought. He stood motionless, fighting tears. He felt a gentle hand on his back.

“I didn’t think, when I asked you to meet me here.”

He turned to find Clara, her hand now touching his shoulder.               “Donald, are you all right?”

“H
ello, Clara.”

“I
s this where you were left on the day of the storm?”

“Yes. I didn’t realize it until just now.” Still troubled, he looked around. “It’s smaller than I imagined.”

Clara laughed. “And you were much smaller the last time you were here!”

“You’re in uniform,” was all he could think to say.

“All the student nurses wear the same smocks and caps. Next year I’ll get my proper uniform.”

“Clara?”

“Yes?”

“It seems longer than ten days since I saw you.”

“Did you get the cookies I sent?”

He laughed. “T
hey were a great help. I couldn’t have survived this long without them.”

Donald and Clara almost touched hands, but stopped
when they saw a pair of grim-faced matrons glaring from behind the reception desk.

“Where’s your bag?”

“By the entrance.”

Donald held the door as Clara stepped out under the portico. He retrieved his
duffel from the corner, hoisted the strap over his shoulder and glanced to the clearing sky.

“The rain
has stopped. Let’s find somewhere to eat. I’m anxious to hear what you know about the man in the picture. The telephone connection wasn’t clear.”

Clara smiled and took his arm as they
stepped down toward the street.

The restaurant she
suggested was two blocks away. As they drew close, Donald wondered if this, too, could be the place mentioned in the doctor’s letter. Was this where he ate his last meal before the storm?

“The light’
s better near the window,” Clara suggested. Donald held her chair, then sat across from her. Curtains over the lower panes shaded the table from glare, leaving the upper windows framing the sky.

“Did you bring the photograph?”

“Of course.” Clara opened the handbag in her lap, but a waiter appeared before she could hand over the print. On his suggestion, they ordered the Saturday lunch special: breaded speckled trout with fresh vegetables.

“Here,” Clara said when the young man had gone. Donald took the envelope, lifted the flap and removed the print.

It was just as Clara described on the telephone. A man holding a child was talking to an immigration agent who was seated at a table. In the background, a harbor. It could have been a boring photograph, but it was not. There was a sense of action, even though the man was standing still. There was tension between the two men, and restlessness in the child. The photographer had captured it all in one shot.

Clara leaned forward when she spoke.

“See, the print is not mounted on cardboard like the other three. That’s why I overlooked it the first time I went through Mama’s collection.”

Donald removed his glasses, set them on the table and raised the photograph near the tip of his nose.

“I
also brought the picture of the man lifting the little girl,” Clara said, handing over the print.

Donald held the second print next to the first and flicked his eyes back and forth between them. “Thanks, Clara. You’re right, there’s a similar style to the photographs, and this may be the same man in both. His face is turned a little too far to
… ”

“Your bread,” the waiter said, placing a basket between them on the table.

“Thank you,” Clara said, leaning back.

Donald looked briefly toward the waiter, then res
umed studying the prints.

“Anyway, the man’s face is turned a little too far to be sure it is the same one, but the …”

“And your salads,” the waiter said, placing small plates of greens first in front of Clara and then Donald, who had to move his elbows to make room.

“Thank you,” Clara and Donald both said at the same time.

Donald waited to see if
there was anything more, but the waiter had gone to another table. Donald couldn’t be sure without his glasses, but he could see that Clara held her napkin to her mouth. He suspected she was hiding a smile.

“Clara,” he said, once more
looking at the print, “you found this man? Did you meet him yourself?”

“No, but I talked to someone who recognized him.”

“Who?”

“An Anglican priest.”

Donald dropped his hand and the photo to the table, but did not replace his glasses before looking up.

“A priest?”

“An Anglican priest. Church of England. I thought about how the man in the photograph was dressed and the way he trimmed his moustache. And look here.” She pointed to the print. “See the walking cane draped over one arm? Very British.”

Donald raised the print back near the tip of his nose.

“But why the Church of England?”

“Just a guess. Immigrants look for familiar things when they come t
o a new country. If this man did come from England, he was most likely Anglican and might have joined a local church. There were two in Galveston in 1900. At the second one I visited, an older priest took one look and recognized the man as a member of his congregation. He’d been coming to the same church for the last eighteen years.”

“Did he mention a family? A wife or daughter?”

“No, the priest said he keeps to himself, and always comes to church alone.”

Donald placed the photos on the table. He slipped his glasses back on so he could see Clara’s face. He wanted to touch her hand, but held back.

“Have you spoken to him?”

“Only by telephone.”

“How did he sound?”

“Skeptical.”

Clara took a bite of her salad. Donald hadn’t touched his. “You told him that you had a photograph of me?”

“I told him I had a photograph of Donald Brown as a baby, and I thought that the two of you might be related.” She cut a slice from the quarter baguette the waiter had left on the table. Donald did the same for himself.

“He wouldn’t recognize my name. The nurses at Sealy called me Donald.”

“That’s what he said, that he didn’t know anyone named Donald Brown.”

“But his last name is Brown?”

“No, it’s Payne, Geoffrey Payne.”

“Was he excited at all?”

“I thought he would be, but it was odd. He was reserved. I don’t think he believed me.”

“Did you ask if he’d lost anyone in the storm?”

“He said yes, but nothing more. I think it made him suspicious that I wanted to know.”

“Where does he live?”

“He didn’t say.”

“But you asked if we could meet?”

“Yes. At first he refused. Finally, I convinced him that the two of you should at least see each other once. He softened a bit and agreed to meet us in Central Park at three o’clock today.”

“Today.” Donald slid his fork under a leaf of lettuce.

Clara’s fork clattered
into her plate. He looked up, surprised to see the beginning of tears. She drew a sharp breath and covered her face with both hands.

“What is it, Clara? Did I say something wrong?” She shook her head but didn’t sp
eak. Seconds passed before she put one hand on the table and eased it forward. Donald did the same until their fingertips touched.

“Oh, Donald. I was so
sure
at first, so excited! I called you as soon as I got home from talking to the priest. When I reached Mr. Payne the next day, I thought he would be overjoyed to hear that someone he thought was lost had survived the storm. I wasn’t prepared for his reaction. You warned me not to assume things. I wish I had listened.”

Clara withdrew her hand and reached into her bag for a handkerchief. More than anything, Donald ached to comfort her.

“At least he agreed to meet us, Clara. That’s something.”

“Yes. I’m sorry.” She dabbed her eyes, then continued. “I’m sorry,” she said again, struggling for the right words, “sorry that it’s not different. I don’t know if this man is related to you, I just wanted it to be true. It had to be true. I couldn’t believe my luck when the old priest recognized Mr. Payne. We may just be bothering some man who’d rather be left alone. I was expecting too much.” She looked down, holding the handkerchief to her nose.

This time Donald took Clara’s free hand in his own and held it tight. He waited a moment for her to recover.

“Clara? Look at me. Clara? Listen. This is extraordinary what you’ve done. However it turns out, I will never forget how much you’re trying to help. That means more to me than discovering my whole family tree.”

The sunshine felt good on their faces. Only a few damp spots lingered on the sidewalk to remind them of the brief midday rain.

“The park is less than a mile, and we have to walk past my house. You can leave your bag on the way.”

“That’s a relief, I’m tired of lugging this around.” Donald grinned as he tugged at the duffel strap and slung it over his shoulder.

Clara’s street
looked familiar; Donald was learning the lay of the town. Galveston was beginning to feel like home.

His home.

“No one has your room in the carriage house this weekend,” Clara said as they crunched up the shell driveway between her bungalow and the guest house next door. Clara waited under the arbor while Donald put his bag away. She was surprised at the look on his face when he returned.

“Are you all right?”

“Sure.”

“You look pale.”

Donald wiped his jaw with one hand. He adjusted his cap.

“Are you nervous, Donald? Do you need to sit? We have time.”

“No, let’s go.”

“I was here two hours ago,” Donald said as they walked down one of the park’s wide paths that led toward a monument in the center. “I sat with a man on that bench, right over there.” He pointed to Clara’s left.

“I didn’t know you had other acquaintances in Galveston.”

“I didn’t unti
l this morning. We met at the trolley station.”

“Do you often strike up conversations with strangers?”

Donald laughed. “I guess I do, but this man needed to talk.”

He stopped walking. He thought of the soldier’s mask, and how his face looked without it. He shuddered, closed his eyes and drew a deep breath. He let it out slowly, remembering every scar.

Clara pressed his arm to her side.

“Donald?”

He opened his eyes.

“Donald, what is it?

“Too many things at once.”

They walked on.

“Look, Donald,” Clara said a moment later, “is that him, near the monument?”

Ahead, a lone man sat in a wheelchair, legs covered by a red plaid blanket. Donald asked Clara for the photographs she’d brought. He stepped from the center of the path into the shade of a tree. Clara looked again at the two prints in Donald’s hands, then away toward the wheelchair and back.

“It could be,” she said.

Donald recognized the walrus moustache, although it was now white. Eighteen years will do that, he thought. The man was heavier, too, and he wore a bowler hat.

“The poor fellow,” Clara said, “sitting there alone.” She heard Donald breathing deeper and turned to face him straight on.