Maude Brown's Baby (7 page)

All he saw
was a tangle of ruffles and lace.

“Hold still, Miss Barnes,” he said, slipping his glasses into his pants pocket. He put his hand on her back, lightly at first, and then with more conviction. He felt the warmth of her skin through the fabric of her blouse.
He leaned closer. A wisp of auburn hair brushed his cheek. He felt her breathing. He felt his own.

Donald’s v
ision sharpened as he peered in. Without glasses, his keen eyes following the fibers as easily as others might view a fishing net. He caught a tiny flash of silver.

“I see it!” he said. “Yes, a small pin is caught in the seam of your blouse and collar. It must have dislodged when you tried to remove your jacket.”

“I believe you! Just hurry!”

A bit of lace snagged the pin, forcing the point deeper. “Ouch!” she cried again.

Donald hesitated, then without asking, released the top two hooks at the back of her blouse. A trickle of blood marked the spot where the tip of the pin went in. He lifted her collar aside and noticed the gentle arch of the woman’s bare neck.

Clara’s skin glistened under his hand. Donald eased out the pin and took a few seconds more to work it through the hem and the lace. He left his own hand underneath, a barri
er in case the pin slipped. When it was free, Donald used his fingertip to wipe a drop of blood, then let the fabric fall back to Clara’s neck.

“There, that should feel better,” he said, suddenly aware that he’d been breathing on a stranger’s neck, and barely knew her name. Stepping ba
ck too quickly, he bumped a chair with the backs of his knees and sat with an awkward thump. He froze, holding the tiny pin at arm’s length.

“Here you go. T
his was the problem.”

“T
hank you!” he heard her say, but even the short distance between them meant he no longer saw her clearly. A moment before, he could have counted the hairs on her head. Was she smiling? He wasn’t sure.

“Are you all right, Mr. Brown?
”

He squinted back.

“Oh yes, I just forgot, I mean, wait.” he said, first patting the front of his shirt, then each of his pants pockets before finding his glasses. He bent forward, looped the metal arms smoothly behind his ears and twitched his nose to settle the lenses on his face.

“There!” he said, looking up.

Clara giggled.

“Oh! Forgive me!” she said, hand
over her mouth. “But those glasses make you look like an owl.”

Donald’s face reddened as
he stood, and Clara quickly changed the subject.

“Are you one of the newspaper photographers?”

“Not yet, but I might be soon. I go with Jake on some of his assignments.”

“You’re on an assignment?”

“Yes. We’re here to document the new section of the seawall, but we also want to learn what happened to Elton Sparks, one of the
Chronicle
photographers. He came down Thursday and we haven’t heard from him since. The police are looking for him too.”

“Oh
, my goodness!”

Donald thought Clara was reacting t
o his words, but instead, she’d caught her reflection in the mirror behind him.

“Please excuse me for a moment, Mr. Brown.”

“Of course!”

Donald turned. H
ands clasped behind his back, he rocked slightly heel to toe, pretending to study the parlor as Clara worked to repair her hair. He stifled the urge to hum.

The room was sparsely furnished. A small dining table with six chair
s stood near the center, but the most prominent feature was a reading chair and footstool in a corner with five tall windows. A low bookcase extending from the east wall formed a cozy nook. Most of the books were within arm’s reach of the chair, and one lay open on the side table.

Clara mumbled something past the hair comb held between her lips.

"Pardon me, Miss Barnes?"

Removing the co
mb, she said again, “Is your friend in trouble?”

“We’
re not sure. Jake wants to make some inquiries.”

“From what I’ve he
ard, he certainly knows who to ask.”

“How do you know
Jake?” Donald asked, happy she hadn’t called him Foots.

She hesitated. “Mainly through Rebecca and Jenny
.”

Clara fitted the last comb in her hair. Glancing at Donald’s shoulders in the mirror, she paused, then gave each of her
cheeks a pinch and a pat.

“You may turn now, Mr. Brown,” she said. “I’m going to make tea.
Would you like some?”

In the kitchen Clara slipped a blue gingham apron over her head and tied it behind her waist. She filled the kettle with water from a pitcher by the sink, placed it on th
e stove and took a safety match from a metal dispenser hanging on the wall. Clara struck the match on the sandpaper strip and turned one of the four gas valves. Gas hissed as she eased the flame toward the burner, which ignited with a solid thump.

“Where do you live?” she asked, surprised
and pleased to see Donald take his own pie plate and empty milk glass from the table to the sink.

“Houston. And you? Have you lived in Galveston long?”

“All my life. My brother and I were both born in this house.”

Donald’s hand cupped the cool edge of the sink. “So this hous
e survived the storm.” He gazed blankly around the kitchen. “Do you remember it?”

“Of course. To
day is the anniversary.”

Donald shook his head.
“You wouldn’t know that by reading today’s newspaper.”              

“I’ve been thinking about it all day. I was four years old, but I still recall every detail. We spent the night here.”

“Where are your parents now?”

Clara
paused and Donald was sorry he’d asked. The question caught her by surprise. Tears formed as she spoke.

“Miss Barnes, I shouldn’t have…”

“No. I’m
all right.” She took a deep breath and went on. “It was a Saturday, and Papa had gone to meet some friends for lunch. Nobody knew how bad the weather was going to get. When water filled the streets, they stayed in the restaurant.”

Clara paused, then straightened her back before continuing. “The men were still there when a printing press fell through from the second floor. It killed Papa and six others.”

“Terrible,” Donald said weakly, looking down at his hands. He tried to think of what to say next, but the only sound was the kettle water trying to boil.

Clara cleared her throat, gathering strength to finish her story.

“I was young, but I remember him well. Papa taught at the medical school. He read bedtime stories to me and my brother every night. I think that’s why I enjoy books so much now.”

“Are those your books in the spare room next door?” Donald asked, eager to change the subject.

“Yes, I use that as a study because the afternoon light is so nice. My parents had quite a library before the storm, but almost everything was ruined.”

“It’s n
ice of you to share your books with Rebecca and Jenny.”

Clara laughed. “They don’t read, I’m afraid. They prefer having a good time in the clubs.”
             

She turned to the stove, so her back was to Donald when she spoke next. “We lost Mama last year. Consumption. I think she contracted it working with patients at the hospital.”

“I’m sorry, Miss Barnes.” Donald’s voice was soft.

“Thank you. It’s not so bad now. I rent the rooms next door to help pay the bills and keep from being lonesome.” She turned back toward Donald, forcing a smile. “My brother is in France. From what the newspapers say, the war may be over in a few months. I hope he’ll be home soon.”

When the kettle began to whistle Clara turned off the burner. She scooped tea leaves from a jar into a small strainer fitted to the top of a porcelain pot. As she slowly poured steaming water from the kettle through the strainer, the smell of fresh tea filled the room.

“There’s a small lemon tree outside that door on your right,” Mr. Brown. “They’re just beginning to ripen. Would you mind getting one for our tea?”

Clara set out a plate of cookies and filled their cups. She hung her apron by the cupboard, then noticed Donald washing the lemon at the sink. She sat watching as he used his pocketknife to quarter the fruit. He placed the small cutting board and fruit on the table before taking the chair across from hers.

“Are you always so polite, Mr. Brown?”

“What?”

“The lemon.”

“The lemon?”

“Yes. Another man would have simply handed it to me.”

“I’m sorry. I’m used to helping out at home. I wasn’t thinking.”

“Please
, don’t apologize!” She smiled and reached for the sugar bowl, quietly enjoying the way Donald squirmed in his chair.              

He added a spoonful of sugar to his own tea and squeezed a slice of fresh lemon, cupping one hand over to avoid spraying the juice. Clara smiled again.

Donald hesitated. “Can you tell me more about your family? About that night?”             

“Of course. It helps to talk about it.” Clara looked directly at Donald. “Especially today.” She turned in her chair toward the parlor, recalling the scene in her mind.

“Mama took me, my brother and our dog upstairs when water reached the front door. Many of our neighbors were here, too. Papa always said that if a bad storm came, this house was the place to be. It’s stronger than most, but I still remember watching from the upstairs landing when a big man with an axe chopped a hole in our living room floor. As soon as he broke through, water gushed in.”

“Ah,” Donald said, “That probably saved your house from floating off the foundation.”

“Yes. The storm peaked around midnight. Mama said the water was three feet deep upstairs. I remember the house shaking and I heard debris striking the outside walls, like angry men hammering to get in.”

“The noise must have been terrifying.”

“Oh yes. But it got worse when the wind died down. That’s when we heard people screaming for help. It was dark, but then lightning would make everything bright as day. Suddenly, for a second or two, we’d see them, people and horses and mules and cows, all trying to keep their heads above water. Even as a little girl, I wanted to help, but there was nothing I could do. I still have nightmares about it.”

Donald looked toward
the window. The curtains lifted slightly in the evening breeze. Clara raised her teaspoon and studied a pattern on the handle. She traced it lightly with her finger.

“The men pulled in more than a dozen people through the upstairs windows. Some didn’t even have clothes. Then I heard my mother scream. She wouldn’t stop. My uncle said later that a body floated in one
window and bumped against her legs in the dark. Someone pushed the body out again. Nobody knew who it was.”

Donald shuddered. He reache
d for a cookie, raised it halfway to his lips, then returned it to the edge of his plate.

“It’s hard to talk of
these things,” Clara said, “but we must, don’t you think? Where were you that day, Mr. Brown?”

He sipped his tea, then set the
cup gently in its saucer. He gazed out the back window and into the darkened yard. They sat that way for nearly a minute. Clara gently swirled the liquid in her cup and watched the tea leaves settle to the bottom. She was about to ask a different question when Donald spoke.

“I was here. I was nine months old, so I don’t remember.”

“You were born in Galveston?”

“I don’t know.”
Donald nudged the cookie on his plate, but didn’t pick it up. “I was raised as an orphan in Houston. When I was seven or eight, one of the matrons told me all she knew, but it wasn’t much. She said a woman left me at Sealy Hospital around midday, before the worst of the storm.”

Clara waited for him to continue
. His voice sounded far away.

“The woman who left me
… ” Donald took a breath and started over. “The woman told the nurse she had a little girl nearby and was afraid she couldn’t carry me any more with the streets full of water. She handed me to the nurse and never came back.”

Donald
removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. The kitchen blurred, but part of the doctor’s letter seemed to hover above the table.

… The poor woman’s clothes were soaked through. Her hat and combs were gone, her long hair matted about her face. She was sobbing, trying to explain that she had been caught out when the street cars stopped running ...

After a moment, Donald looked toward Clara. He swept one hand across the table, found his glasses, tipped his head and slipped the loops behind his ears. His eyes focused and once again she was there, head down, her hand clutching a teaspoon.

“I have a photograph of me,” he said.