Maude Brown's Baby (9 page)

“Glass,” Clara repeated. “I remember.
Sometimes Mama and her friends found glass negatives, or pieces of them, but after laying out in the sun a few days, the image was gone.”

Donald nodded. He stood and walked around the table, opposite where Clara sat. He rested his palms on the back of a chair, but didn’t bother to put on his glasses. It was easier to think when he couldn’t see.

“My parents may have taken the picture, but this print is not from a professional studio.
If it were, the name of the studio would be printed on the back.”

Donald looked toward the box, squinting to see. Frustrated, he retrieved his glasses and pointed to different cards.

“That one is from a portrait studio in Columbus, Ohio. Here’s one from Steubenville, Indiana, and that’s from a Galveston studio. See? They all have the studio name and fancy artwork on the back.” He turned over two prints. “The format is called
carte-de-visite
.”

“Yes,” Clara said, “we had a box full before the storm. I don’t think photographers make them anymore. People nowadays prefer to frame their prints or keep them in books.”

Clara pulled more cards from the case, each with similar art. The remaining photos were of poor quality. Most were out of focus and badly composed. She reached across to the picture of Donald, turned the card over, noted the catalog number and began looking for it in the journal.

“Number 47,” she said, glancing up. “A low number means that the card was found soon after the storm.”
Clara found the page and laid the journal flat on the table. Donald walked back around to sit beside her, and their shoulders touched as Clara read aloud. She traced her finger along the edge of an entry that began near the bottom of the page:

No. 47 – found by Henry Booth, Saturday, September 15, 1900, in the upstairs remains of a house.

“The upstairs remains of a house,” Donald read again. “Do you know the man who found this picture?”

“Yes! Mr. Booth
fixed a broken window for me just last month. He owns a hardware store and makes small repairs for people in the neighborhood.” Clara turned the page, where the journal entry continued.

Mr. Booth discovered the photograph when he was with three men searching for victims in the buildings along 12
th
Street near Avenue J. Mr. Booth said the home was not in its original location. He could not identify the house or its owner.

After an awkward silence, Donald looked back to the table. “This is a lot to think about,” he said, placing the photo of himself back on the table. “My parents were probably lost in the storm. I’ve always wanted to know what happened to them, but I figure after eighteen years, there isn’t much hope. Now this. I don’t know what to make of it.”

“Would you like to talk to Mr. Booth before you go back to Houston?” Clara asked. “I could introduce you. Perhaps tomorrow?”

“Of course. Thank you. I …” Donald watched as Clara resorted the prints and returned them to their compartments within the box. She glanced up before placing the picture of him in its proper tray. The small journal rested again in the top section. Clara gently closed the lid and slid the latch into place. She smiled at Donald.              

“Sleep on it, Mr. Brown. It’s late.”

Donald slept, but not well. When he heard giggling at the front door he waited, eyes closed, for Jake to enter the room. Jake finally did come in, but only to retrieve his bag. The carriage house was quiet after that, until Donald heard more laughing upstairs.

Donald woke at sunrise, at first padding around the room in his socks to keep from waking the others. The indoor washroom was a luxury. He brushed his teeth, then shaved, using the straight razor, brush and soap he carried in his duffel along with a small folding camera, extra film and spare glasses.

When he crossed the arbor to the kitchen next door h
e carried his journal and Mrs. Carhart’s book. The parlor had good light and a comfortable chair. After his late night, it might be a while before Jake was ready to go.

As Donald crossed through the kitchen, past the landing of the stairs and into the parlor, he noticed a patch of flooring where the oak was a different shade from the rest of the wood. He went to one knee and lifted back the heavy oriental rug that hid most of the damage. The repair was at least a foot wide and three feet long.

“That’s where our neighbor chopped a hole in the floor during the storm,” Clara said from the stairs behind him. Donald jumped to his feet, dropping the corner of the rug.

“I’m sorry I startled you, Mr. Brown.” she said, heading for the kitchen. “Would you like some coffee?”

Donald followed, laid his books on the table and watched Clara move easily about the kitchen. Her
skirt reached only to mid-calf—the new wartime fashion—but her high-necked blouse, black stockings and laced shoes were from an earlier time, probably things her mother had worn. Clara’s hair was in a tidy chignon, coiled above the nape of her neck.

A breeze stirred the white lace curtains above the sink, and once more, Donald smelled lavender. From the magnolia tree outside, a mockingbird ran through its repertoire of chirps, twills and tweets.

“Would you mind grinding the coffee?” Clara said, placing the mill and small burlap sack in front of him. Donald scooped a handful of beans.

“I’m sorry for being so curious about your house,” he said as he gripped the handle on the side of the wooden box and began turning the
crank on top. He raised his voice above the noise of the crunching coffee beans. “I have talked to storm survivors, but I’ve only been to Galveston twice before. Did you say your house was raised to the new grade level?”

“Yes, the whole end of the island was raised. This house sits a few feet higher tha
n it did before the storm. The land at the seawall is seventeen feet higher.”

“That must have been something to see.”

“It was. I was still in elementary school when the workers got to our part of town. This house and all of the other buildings to be saved were jacked up on stilts. For blocks and blocks, it looked like every house had spider legs. We still lived here, and there was a catwalk from our porch to the neighbors next door.”

“I’ve seen pictures of barges dredging sand from the bay and pumping it under the houses.”

“Every day the mud rose until we could no longer see the piers. The smells and mosquitoes were terrible! For weeks it looked like we were living in a lake. I asked Mama if our house was sinking, but finally, the muck covered the piers and the workmen stopped the pumps. When the ground dried, other workers came and rebuilt our chimney, right on top of the old one.”

Clara pulled
the drawer from the coffee mill and emptied it into the basket of the enameled pot on the stove. She struck a match, lit the gas flame and adjusted the burner.

As the fresh-b
rew smell filled the room, she took biscuits from the breadbox and put them to warm in the oven, then set out two plates, two napkins and two knives. She stowed the bag of coffee on a cupboard shelf and returned with two cups.

“Mr. Brown, would you get the butter and cheese
from the icebox please?” He didn’t mind a bit.

For the next few moments the only sounds in the kitchen were the soft clicks of cups and saucers. The cheese and butter plates, along with the biscuits, passed easily back and forth. Donald extended his cup for more coffee.

“I
appreciate your offer to see Mr. Booth today,” He said after a sip.

“Certainly. We can go later this morning. When do you have to return to Houston?” Clara stood to begin clearing the table.

“It depends on what we learn about Elton. Jake has permission from his editor to stay at least two days.” Donald nodded in the direction of the carriage house. “He’s going out to photograph the seawall this morning, so I think our visit with Mr. Booth will be fine.”

“Do you know Jake well?”

“We met some years
ago, before I went to live with the Stokes. He came to photograph the orphanage, and I couldn’t stop watching him work. I thought he was a hero. I’m afraid I made a pest of myself.”

Clara laughed. “And Jake didn’t mind?”

“No. It surprised me, really. I wore glasses by then, and Jake noticed some of the other children were joking about them. After that, whenever he was nearby, he’d stop and ask for me. Later, when I went to live with the Stokes, he began teaching me photography.”

Donald paused, then added,
“Jake helped me feel good about myself, and he never made fun of my glasses.”

Clara raised her eyebrows and Dona
ld recalled her remark about looking like an owl. He lifted both hands, palms out.

“Oh! I didn’t mean anything by that, only that Jake helped me accept the way I am. He said my eyes are a special gift.”

“A gift?”

“Once I repaired a camera that Jake thought was too damaged to fix. I took the shutter apart and found a tiny burr on one leaf. It was easy.”

Donald hesitated, then decided to bring up something that had been on his mind. “Last night,” he said, “you mentioned that you knew Jake through your friends.”

“Ah. Well, I think I understand why Jake might be able to learn more about Mr. Sparks than our sheriff
can. Rebecca told me once that Jake knows some of the people who run gambling clubs in Galveston. One of them is a cousin.”

“Isn’t gambling illegal here?”

“It is, but the laws are not enforced. The sheriff ignores them. People say gambling is good for business because it attracts tourists.”

“I suppose. Pa
—my adopted dad—says that, uh, when … ”

Clara, still at the cupboard, turned to face Donald. Soft light filtering through white curtains glowed on the side of her face. Cropped just so, it would have made a beautiful portrait. Donald stared.

“Yes, Mr. Brown? You were saying?”

He forgot.

He struggled for words.

“Um
… oh! Do you know Elton?”

“Elton Sparks? I met him a few months ago. He and Jake are quite good friends. They stayed next door and spent most of their time with Rebecca and Jenny.”

“Do you know if Jake introduced Elton to anyone else?”

“Probably so.
I only hear these things secondhand, but Jenny said Jake hired a jitney for the day and took Elton to see all the clubs.”

“That doesn’t sound like Jake. He’s not one to throw money around.”

“He didn’t. Rebecca said that when she and Jenny were with them, nobody paid.”

“Are you talking about me?” Jake said from the arbor. Even through the screen door, Jake looked like he could use another two hours’ sleep instead of the cigarette in his hand. Hinges on the wooden door creaked as he stepped into the kitchen.

“Morning Jake,” Clara said a bit stiffly. “Outside with the cigarette.”

The screen door creaked, then slammed behind him as Jake stepped back onto the arbor and flicked his lit cigarette into the vegetable garden. The door slammed once more when he came back into the kitchen. He eased his camera bag to the floor.

“I see you’ve met young Mr. Brown. Is he giving you an earful?”

“Not at all, Jake, and please don’t let that door slam again.”

How strange to hear someone give Jake orders, D
onald thought as Clara went on.

“I was telling Mr. Brown that you came
to Galveston with Elton in April. Rebecca and Jenny said the four of you had fun in the clubs.”

“Yes, we had fun. Got any more coffee?”

“On the stove,” said Clara, staring at Jake, but not moving from her chair. Jake stared back, but he was first to blink. He found a cup, poured his own coffee and sat down. Clara took a sip from hers before speaking.

“Did you find your missing friend last night?”

“Not yet. Jen said Elton has been back a few times since April, but I knew that. I think he’s seeing someone he met on our first trip. Rebecca thought so too.”

“A
ny idea who it was?”

“
I’ve been trying to think. We met a lot of people.”

Jake reached to take a biscuit from the plate in the center of the table and used Donald’s knife to cover it thick with butter. “Got any jam?” he said, chewing as he spoke.

Clara didn’t respond.

“My cousin owns three
clubs.” Jake glanced at Donald and Clara. Seeing no surprise in their expressions, he continued. “He thought I could get him some favorable publicity. On days when there isn’t enough real news, newspapers need fillers to take up the blank space. So-and-so having a good time at the club. The so-and-so club has a new singer. Everybody smiling and looking at the camera.”

“
Free advertising?” Clara asked.

“Nothing’s free,” Jake said, che
wing another biscuit. “Businessmen like my cousin pay good money to advertise in the paper, and they expect something extra in return.”