Maude Brown's Baby (37 page)

“I saved his bag. Soldiers brought all of the luggage off the ship after you left.”

Dona
ld hoisted it with one hand. Not much, he thought, for someone who had been gone more than a year.

Clara slipped her arm through Donald’s as they walked past the long open warehouse and out onto the city streets. Donald loved the easy way Clara touched him,
without hesitation or reserve.

“Are you leaving soon?”

“I thought I’d go back tonight in case Naomi and Clarence need help with Cletus.”

“Your brother seems like a nice man.”

“Pa worries he won’t be able to work.”

Near the end of the wharf, a flock of raucous gulls swarmed after
a bucketful of fish heads, guts and tails that fishermen had thrown into the water. The sounds and the warm salt air felt thick and comforting and real.

“I hope Cletus will recover,” Donald said. Clara looked at him as they walked.

“I’ve seen men come back from much worse injuries. Some regain their eyesight completely after a mustard gas attack, but his breathing problems can last longer.”             

“You must be exhausted, Clara.”

“I am—and hungry. Let’s stop by my house, then find a restaurant. I don’t feel like doing another thing today.”

They
walked as far as Avenue C, lost in their own thoughts. Clara still worried about the wounded she’d seen, and Donald wondered how his family would change, now that Cletus was home.

“I hear the telephone,” Clara said as she put her key in the lock. She left
it there after opening the door and hurried to answer the call.

“Hello? Yes, this is Clara Barnes. Yes, operator, I’ll take the call. Oh, hello
, Mr. Payne. Yes, fine, thank you. Yes, Donald is here. Just a moment.”

She handed
the receiver to Donald and went to retrieve her house key from the lock. Donald stood, resting his hand on the sloping front of the telephone.

“Hello, sir. Yes, we just got in. Yes, the Stokes are driving Cletus back to Houston now. Me? I was going to return on the Interurban this evening.” Clara watched for a moment, then stepped out of sight into the parlor.

“Tonight? Yes, I think that would be fine. Just a moment.”

Donald put his hand over the mouthpiece and called out.

“Clara, would you like to go back to Mr. Payne’s home? He said he had something to discuss with me.”

“Of course, that would be lovely.”
             

Donald spoke into the receiver, holding the heavy earpiece tight
ly to his ear only out of habit. The connection was quite good.

“Yes, sir, we’d like to come. In an hour? Yes, we’ll be ready.”

Donald hung the earpiece on its hook and turned to Clara.

“Clayton is coming in an hour to pick us up.”

Clara tugged at the sides of her skirt and curtsied.

“A chauffe
ur is coming for us in Mr. Payne’s Rolls Royce? Yes, Mr. Brown, that would be lovely, indeed.”

Geoffrey Payne himself opened the door. “Donald, Clara, welcome. I hope you weren’t rushed.”

“Not at all, sir,” Donald said. He, at least, was telling the truth. Donald had only to put on a clean shirt and wipe the dust from his shoes. Clara needed another fifteen minutes to get ready. Seeing her was worth the wait, but not until they reached Mr. Payne’s home and she removed her shawl did Donald see the full transformation.

Clara’s floor-length gown, although years out of style, retained every bit of its original elegance. A single strand of pearls made her look like a princess, and each time she moved, Donald caught a fresh breath of lavender. He wanted to touch the delicate color she’d brushed on her cheeks and lips.

“You are ravishing, my dear,” Geoffrey said, kissing her hand. Englishmen are funny about hands, Donald thought.

Geoffrey motioned them into the house, but rather than the dr
awing room, he showed them to his private study. The room was surprisingly small, with barely enough room for the three leather chairs, a round table, and an oval writing desk in the corner. Even the fireplace was small, although there was no need for a fire just then.

“My little retreat,” he explained. Donald thought of Mr. Booth and his “office” at the back of the hardware store. Mr. Payne’s had a small stained glass window, mounted within a carved frame that seemed equally old. The whole thing was lit from behind by four discrete electric lights. Clara asked about it first.

“Saved from the ashes,” Geoffrey said. “When the Earl of Essex began dissolving the monasteries in 1525, many of their beautiful stained glass windows were destroyed. This little gem reminds me of the tribulations mankind has managed to survive.” He raised his hand to the window, looked at his glass of Scotch and set it down without taking a sip.

Clara looked to Donald and back. Although they’d met him only the day before, they bot
h saw a change in Geoffrey. He rang a bell and Bridget appeared in the doorway.

“Yes
, sir?”

“Please bring some hot tea and sweets.” He thought better, then asked, “Or would you two prefer coffee?”

“Tea is fine, sir,” Donald said. Clara smiled and nodded her head. She hoped that no one else heard her stomach rumble.

“Fine. Tea it is,” Geoffrey said, “and please, Bridget, take away this
drink.”

Geoffrey motioned for Clara to sit, then he and Donald took their own chairs at the round table. Clara and Donald looked puzzled.

“Are you all right, sir?” Donald asked.

“Yes, perfectly well, and far better than last night.”

“Last night, sir?”

“I’m afraid I was in my cups. Too much to drink, my boy. You may have noticed that I’m quite fond of spirits. In the excitement of finding you, I forget to count.”

“That’s all right, sir. It was a wonderful dinner.”

Geoffrey laughed. “If you say so. I don’t recall the last few bites.”

Clara felt a rumble again. She’d been on her feet all day and was looking forward to more of Bridget’s cooking. Hidden below the edge of the table, she pressed her hands to her stomach.

“So you see, Donald, I’ve had more time to think, this time without the benefit of Scotch. What I would like to discuss is your future. What are your plans?”

“I want to be a photographer, sir, and possibly a writer. I have a position waiting that may include both.”

“What sort of position?”

“I would be on call to photograph stories for a new magazine.”

“On call. I see. And what about the draft, Donald? Are you registered?”

“Yes, sir. I signed up in Houston last week
and will take my physical at the end of this month.”

“So soon? Dear me.”

“The military needs a lot of men.”

Bridget entered, jolly as the night before. She winked again at Clara as she set the tray of tea and scones on the table. Clara noticed that Bridget was careful to position the silver tray in a way that kept the dented corner away from Geoffrey’s view.

“I’ll serve,” Clara said after Bridget had gone. She slid forward in her chair, held her hand over the top of the pot to keep the lid from slipping off, then poured tea into three cups. She gave Mr. Payne the one that wasn’t chipped.

“Pass the scones, please. Thank you, Clara.”

Clara held the tray for Geoffrey, passed it to Donald, then selected a scone for herself and immediately took a bite.

Geoffrey
spent longer than necessary loading his biscuit with the proper amount of marmalade and cream cheese. He spent the time gathering his thoughts.

“Donald, you may have guessed that I am a man of some influence.” Clara and Donald glanced at each other, unsure what to expect.

“I’ll be frank. Perhaps I could speak to someone on your behalf, to keep you out of this terrible war.”
Geoffrey took a large bite of his scone, chewed forcefully and wiped a dab of orange marmalade from his chin. Still chewing, he settled back in his chair to wait for Donald’s response.

At first, Donald didn’t know what to say. When he finally spoke, Clara and Geoffrey were
both shocked by the certainty of his reply.

“No
!”

“But
, Donald …”

“Sir, I appreciate your offer, but I cannot have you or anyone else intervene on my behalf.”

“What if you are drafted?”

“Then I will serve.”

“And if you are rejected because of, well, because of your eyes?”

“Then I will have been rejected, on my own merit, not for some other reason.”

“Have you thought this through?”

“Yes
, for quite some time.”

“Donald, then what about a job
—a real job—either now or after you serve? What do you like? Shipping? Banking? Manufacturing? You have a bright future. I know many people who could help you. A word from me is all it would take to get you started. Think of what the money and position could mean, should you ever want to, say, get married and have a family.”

Geoffrey leaned forward, placing both hands on the table. He looked eagerly at Donald.

“Thank you, sir.” Donald’s eyes glowed behind the thick lenses. He’d never been more certain in his life.

“Photography makes my blood flow.” He smiled gently at Geoffrey. “If I don’t follow my dream, I fear I will regret it for the rest of my life.”

Geoffrey laughed at that and dropped back into his chair. He raised his hands to shoulder height, then slapped them hard on the table. The silverware jumped.

“Oh, my, Donald, it does me good to hear those words again.”

“Again, sir? How so?”

Geoffrey
, still chuckling, raised his teacup in a toast.

“You sound exactly like your mother.”

“I was simply hungry before we went to Mr. Payne’s house,” Clara said, tugging her shawl tightly around her shoulders. “Now I am famished.”

Donald looked through the open glass panel to the electric clock on the dashboard of the Rolls Royce. Still early in the evening. He leaned forward to talk to Clayton, who was driving them home.

“Clayton, do you know the Mexican restaurant at 14
th
and Market Street?”

“Of course.”

“Could you take us there instead?”

“
Certainly.” Clayton turned left from Broadway, made a right on Market and stopped smoothly near the front door.

Inside, several patrons with tables by the windows began pointing. Seeing the
commotion, the owner of the restaurant crossed the room, put her forehead to the glass and peered out. The largest automobile Blanca had ever seen was by the curb, and a chauffeur in a smart grey uniform had just stepped out. He paused with his hand on the rear passenger door.

“What kind of car is that?” one of her customers asked.

“Steering wheel on the right. Must be British,” offered another.

“A Rolls Royce, I think,” said someone from the next table over.

“Blanca, are you expecting royalty?”

“Not tonight,” she said, curious as the rest.

Clayton opened the door and spoke quickly to his passengers in the darkened rear seat.

“Make a good show, you have an audience.”

Not ten feet away, a dozen faces now pressed against the restaurant windows.

Donald,
nearest the curb, stepped out first. He turned and offered Clara his hand. To Clayton’s credit and Donald’s amusement, Clayton had become the symbol of a proper English chauffeur: shoulders back, hand resting on the door and eyes fixed in the distance, all in his crisp, military style.

Clara stepped out next, placing her foot delicately on the running board. Her burgundy gown looked all the more elegant under the gas
street lamp.

“Thank you, Clayton. W
e can walk home from here,” she said.

Clayton touched his hand to his cap.

“If it’s all the same, miss, I’ll stay with the car until you’re ready to leave. We don’t want to spoil the effect.”

Blanca greeted them at the door. Clara had never seen her face so red. “I’ll explain later,” Clara whispered before her friend could ask. A waiter appeared, but Blanca turned him way. She’d take their order herself.

The glances and stares from other tables grew less frequent, and by the time their main course arrived—more quickly than normal—Donald and Clara felt at ease.

“Enchiladas,” Blanca said
, placing two steaming plates on the table. Clara took her first hungry bite, then another, even before Blanca walked away.

“Delicious!” Clara said, wiping her mouth with her napkin. She sipped her
Triple-X
cream soda, fingers on the top of the paper straw and eyes on Donald. He smiled back.

“Clara, you look radiant.”