My Heart Remembers (17 page)

Aaron’s face lit with pleasure. “Why, sure I would! As soon as we get back to the market, I’ll look it up for you.”

“Thank you.”

Isabelle trotted along beside Aaron, taking a step and a half to each of his long-legged strides. Her skirts swished across the walkway, and she kept her gaze on her toes to avoid stumbling on a warped plank. As they neared the market, Isabelle became aware of a change in the tone of the street sounds. There was a sense of urgency that made her look to Aaron in concern, although she wasn’t sure what had prompted the sudden rise of worry.

His brows pulled low and his mouth twisted, Aaron was focused on something ahead, and Isabelle turned to what held his attention. A bustle of activity on the curb outside the market made her heart leap to her throat.

“Aaron, what—?”

His fingers wrapped firmly around her elbow, he propelled her forward. “Come on!”

Isabelle’s skirts tangled around her ankles, making rushing impossible. She jerked loose of Aaron’s grasp. “Go ahead. I’ll catch up.”

Without hesitation, he broke into a run, pushing his way to the center of the circle. Even over the other sounds, Isabelle heard his cry of distress. Disregarding propriety, she snatched up her skirts and raced forward, pushing her way to his side. And when she saw what lay on the dirty street, her heart nearly stopped beating.

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY
-T
WO

Maelle

Shay’s Ford, Missouri

April, 1903

M
aelle pulled back on Samson’s reins. A chattering circle of people stood in the street, blocking her passage. Her scalp prickled. Setting the brake, she leapt over the side of the wagon and dashed to the back to retrieve her camera. After her week of portrait shooting, her supply of plates was low, but if she could manage to push her way to the inside of that circle, she might capture one or two worthwhile photographs.

“Excuse me, excuse me,” she murmured, crushing the camera to her chest and working her way slowly through the throng. When she reached the center, her throat felt tight, and for a moment she forgot about operating the camera.

A small, white-faced boy lay on the cobblestone street. A gray-haired man knelt on the ground beside him, holding a bundle of rags against the child’s leg—a leg that was notably shorter than its mate. A young, distraught couple hovered over the man’s shoulder. She read in their expressions the same horror that gripped her, and her gaze returned to the child. He lay perfectly still, his mouth open in a silent cry of agony. Newspapers scattered across the ground identified him as one of the many little newsboys of the city.

Suddenly she realized the opportunity that lay in front of her. Right before her eyes existed inarguable proof of the danger these children faced on the streets. The voices of the crowd faded into the distance as Maelle swung her camera into position. She centered the boy and his benefactor in her viewfinder. But she didn’t push the shutter.

The picture, although telling, fell short of expressing the whole story. Her mind raced as she processed the best way to reach the hearts of those who would view this photograph. A close-up of the child’s pale, motionless form might repulse some people, but empathy could be achieved by capturing the genuine distress on the faces of the onlookers. She needed a broader view.

“Please . . . back up for a moment,” she directed, looking right and left. But no one budged, their focus on the child rather than her.

Someone in the throng yelled, “I hear the ambulance comin’!”

The crowd shifted, people turning to peer down the street. Maelle dashed into a narrow opening between onlookers, aimed her camera, and shot. There was only time for the one picture, but the glimpse through the viewfinder sent a quiver of awareness from her scalp to her toes. If the picture turned out, it would be a masterpiece of emotion.

The child, arms outflung, helpless in the street. The older man, his chin quivering in despair, his bloodstained hands cupping the boy’s bloody stump. The younger man, leaning forward, his hands fluttering uselessly over the boy’s still frame. And the young woman, her red hair disheveled, tears raining down her cheeks, her fingers covering her lips, appearing to be holding back a scream of anguish. The woman even wore black and clutched a Bible, as if ready for the child’s funeral.

She heard the pounding of horses’ hooves along with a harsh shout, “Get back!” People scurried from the cobblestone street to the boardwalk, jostling Maelle along with them. She cradled her camera, her focus riveted on the man and boy who remained alone in the street. The crowd, which had been jabbering in nervous excitement, now fell silent, all eyes aimed toward the fast-approaching vehicle.

The moment the horses drew to a stop, two men leapt out of the back of the black enclosed wagon. The men carried a canvas stretcher, which they spread on the street beside the boy. Tenderly yet deftly, they transferred the tiny, unresisting form onto the stretcher. The older man released his hold on the rags as the men lifted the stretcher, but he remained on his knees in the street as if too tired to rise.

The men pushed the stretcher bearing the child into the back of the ambulance and hopped in behind it, closed the doors, and the driver slapped down the reins while calling, “Giddap!” With a clatter of hooves against cobblestone, the horses turned the vehicle in a sharp U and galloped down the street.

The crowd slowly drifted away, muttering in excited tones, leaving only Maelle and the three people who had closely surrounded the boy. The young man, who had been holding the woman in his arms, released her to step into the street and offer his hand to the older man. Maelle waited until the pair stepped back onto the walkway before approaching them.

“Excuse me? Can you tell me what happened to the boy?”

The woman stumbled toward the building and leaned against the slatted siding, her head low. The young man crossed to her, and the older man turned to answer Maelle’s question.

“He jumped from the trolley, like he always does—like I’ve told ’im a dozen times not to do—an’ he slipped.” Tears glimmered in the man’s faded gray eyes. “The trolley took his foot clean off, then just kept goin’. It never stopped.”

Apparently this man wasn’t a stranger to the child. “You know the boy?”

“His name’s Petey . . .” The man’s round face twisted into an expression of pained fondness. “He’s a scrappy mite. If anyone could come out of somethin’ like this with a grin an’ a whistle, it’ll be Petey.”

“And what’s your name?”

The man sent her a wary look.

She held out her camera. “I’m hoping to sell the photograph of the accident to the newspaper. A reporter will probably need to ask some questions. Since you witnessed it, it would be best if you gave the information.”

The man heaved a sigh. “My name’s Ralph Rowley. I own Rowley Market, right here.” He gestured to the whitewashed two-story building. “But I don’t know about talkin’ to some reporter.”

Maelle offered a quick, silent prayer for his cooperation. “Mr. Rowley, your explanation, along with the picture I took, could do a lot of good in trying to get children like Petey off the streets. People need to be aware of the dangers these wee ones face.” Sighing, she admitted, “I don’t know whether or not someone will even care enough to do an article. It doesn’t seem that many are concerned about the plight of the newsboys, but—just in case—would you talk to a reporter?”

The big man gave a slow nod. “If it’ll help Petey, an’ others like him, I’ll talk.”

Maelle smiled her thanks. She backed up, patting her camera. “I’m going to go develop my photograph now. Can I come by your store later to find out how Petey’s doing?”

The man nodded. “My wife’s the one who ran for the ambulance. She’ll be stayin’ with the boy at the hospital, I’m sure, but she’ll send word.”

“Thank you.” Maelle turned and strode to the back of her wagon. After carefully removing the plate and placing it between layers of burlap, she put the camera away and closed the hatch. Stepping back around to the front, her gaze fell on a scene that brought her up short.

There in the street, with newspapers riffling in the breeze around them, Mr. Rowley and the young couple knelt in a tight circle. With their heads bowed and hands clasped beneath their chins, they obviously were praying for Petey. A lump of longing rose in Maelle’s throat, and for a brief moment she considered joining them. But then she remembered she didn’t know Petey. She had no connection to the child. She didn’t belong in their circle.

As quietly as she could, she climbed onto the driver’s bench and picked up the reins. She whispered, “C’mon, Samson.” The wagon rolled alongside the silent trio, and Maelle glanced at them again as she passed. Even without a photograph, she knew the image would be forever burned into her memory.

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY
-T
HREE

Molly

Shay’s Ford, Missouri

April, 1903

I
sabelle opened her eyes and immediately focused on Mr. Rowley’s clasped hands. Hands stained with Petey’s blood. Tears distorted her vision. “Petey . . . Oh, Petey . . .” The child’s still, silent form appeared in her mind. How tiny and helpless he had looked!

An unexpected feeling filled Isabelle’s breast, a feeling so intense it threatened to topple her. Love . . . She loved Petey. When had she grown to love that little mop-headed urchin? She didn’t know, but in those moments she realized he was important to her—as important to her as anyone had ever been.

Aaron rose, gently lifted her to her feet, and escorted her to the curb. Mr. Rowley stood, too, and followed. He gave her a tender look. “You okay, Isabelle? That wasn’t a pretty thing to see.”

Isabelle’s stomach churned, and she wasn’t altogether sure she would hold down her breakfast. But she said staunchly, “I’m fine. But I’m concerned about Petey. Should we go to the hospital? He shouldn’t be alone.”

“Helen is there now,” Mr. Rowley said. “She ran for the ambulance when . . . when it happened.” He shook his graying head. “Won’t be able to pull her home ’til that child is on his feet again, I’m sure.” He winced. “His foot . . . Oh . . .”

Aaron stepped forward and embraced his father. Looking on, Isabelle felt fresh tears sting her eyes. Their shared torment, while heartrending, somehow seemed beautiful. If only she still had a father . . . or a brother . . . to embrace her and offer comfort.

After a long moment, the men separated. Mr. Rowley looked at his hands and grimaced. “I better go wash up.” He headed for the store.

Aaron called, “Pa, do you want me to stay here an’ help you, or can I take Isabelle to the hospital?” He glanced at her, understanding in his eyes. “I think she’ll be happier there with Ma.”

Mr. Rowley paused in the doorway, looking back at them. “I can handle the store on my own—people will be patient, considerin’ what happened. You go ahead an’ take her.”

Looking down at Isabelle, Aaron asked, “Do you want to put the Bible away before we go?”

Isabelle clutched the Bible to her breast, hugging it the way she longed to be hugged. “No, I’ll take it with me. Let’s just hurry.”

Aaron placed his hand on her back and turned toward the hospital. They had gone only a few yards when they heard someone call Aaron’s name. Turning, they spotted a teenage boy running toward them. He waved a brown envelope in the air.

“Mr. Rowley! Hold up!” The boy panted to a halt beside them and thrust the envelope into Aaron’s hand. “Jackson Harders sent it. Said it’s for Miss Standler—something about those papers she brought in.”

“Thank you.” Aaron withdrew a coin from his pocket and offered it to the boy.

The boy grinned, curled his fist around the coin, and shot off down the street.

Aaron held the envelope toward Isabelle. “Well, that was quick.”

Isabelle stared at it, her heart pounding.

His brows pulled down. “Don’t you want to open it?”

Isabelle licked her lips as confusion filled her. A part of her wanted to rip it open, devour its contents, and discover that the documents were all fake and her life would return to normal. But another part of her—the stronger part, she realized—feared discovering that she could return to Kansas City and her old life.

Taking the envelope, she slipped it inside the cover of her Bible. “I’ll look at it later. Right now I want to get to Petey.”

Aaron nodded, a soft smile on his face. Although Isabelle turned her gaze forward as they moved quickly in the direction of the hospital, the image of Aaron’s smile lingered in her memory. The feeling that had struck as she’d knelt in the street, near the spot where Petey had lain, returned. Only this time it centered around Aaron Rowley.

Isabelle leaned her head against the hard back of the wooden chair and sighed. The room was dark, the shades drawn. A cup of coffee, long grown cold, sat on a little table at her elbow. On the bed, Petey lay silent and motionless, not even the familiar whistle-buzz of his snore keeping her company.

Aaron and Mrs. Rowley had left about an hour earlier. Mrs. Rowley’s exhaustion from the long day had finally caught up with her, and Aaron insisted she must go rest. Isabelle’s promise to stay near Petey had convinced the older woman she could leave. So now Isabelle sat alone, waiting for Petey to rouse.

She tried to keep her eyes on the child’s face rather than the lumps under the blanket. Earlier she had glanced at the place where his foot should have created a bulge, and the smoothness of the plain blue blanket had turned her stomach. Her heart ached at the child’s loss. How would he support himself now? Begging? What kind of life would that be? Why, she wondered with a hint of bitterness, had God allowed such a horrible thing to happen to this sweet little boy?

A slight rustle captured her attention. She jerked upright, fingers grasping the edge of the seat, her gaze on Petey’s face. The child grimaced, and the blanket shifted slightly, indicating a movement. She looked toward the middle of the bed and saw the lump created by Petey’s left leg begin to shift—he was thrashing his good leg, she realized.

Afraid he might bump his injured leg, she jumped up and crossed to the edge of the bed, placing a hand on Petey’s forehead. “Shh, darling, lie still.”

His eyes still closed, the child moaned, “Hurts . . . Foot hurts . . .”

Isabelle swallowed and placed her hand on his left foot, massaging through the covers while murmuring soothing sounds.

But Petey shook his head violently, his face pinched into an expression of discomfort. “Nooo, t’other one.”

Tears spurted into Isabelle’s eyes. The doctor had mentioned the probability of phantom pains—a hurt in a limb that no longer existed. But he hadn’t told her how to explain it to Petey.

She didn’t dare touch the leg that had been damaged. When the child tried to sit up, his hands reaching toward the injury, she let out a squawk of protest.

“Nurse!” she called, cradling Petey against her chest. “Come quickly! I need help!”

A woman in a blue dress rushed in. She took one look at Isabelle and ran back out. Isabelle continued to hold Petey, who wailed and thrashed against her, for what seemed hours until a man hurried in. He held a syringe, and without a word he threw back the covers, lifted Petey’s nightshirt, and jabbed the needle into the child’s hip. Petey cried out, causing Isabelle’s heart to constrict, and then the child relaxed into her arms.

Gently Isabelle lowered him onto the pillow. Tears impaired her vision as she smoothed the blanket beneath the little boy’s chin. She looked at the man, whose gaze remained on Petey’s face. Finally he looked at Isabelle. Despite his abrupt treatment, she saw sympathy in his eyes.

“That’ll help him sleep. Sleep is good medicine,” he said, his voice kind.

Isabelle swallowed. “He said his foot hurt. What . . . what do I tell him if he wakes and says that again?”

The man touched Petey’s head. “Tell him the truth. Children are resilient. He’ll take it better than most men, I’d wager.” With a brief, sad smile in her direction, he left the room.

Isabelle sat back in her chair, watching Petey’s once-more-still form. She closed her eyes and willed herself to sleep.

Fingers of sunlight crept around the edges of the window shade, teasing Isabelle awake. She stretched, grimacing, her back stiff from sitting up all night. Slowly she opened her eyes, blinking as her vision adjusted to the light. Her gaze drifted from the ceiling to the head of Petey’s bed and then to Petey himself. His eyes were open, watching her.

She stumbled to the edge of the bed and touched his tangled hair. “Petey. You’re awake.” Tears tightened her throat, deepening her voice.

He nodded. “Yeah. Been layin’ here quiet so’s not to bother you. You okay?”

The tears came again. In a hospital bed, one leg cut off above the ankle, there was Petey, asking if she was okay. What a sweet child.

Smoothing his hair, she assured him, “I’m just fine. How . . . how about you?”

He wrinkled his nose. “My foot’s really hurtin’. C’n ya pull the covers back? They feel heavy.”

Isabelle’s chin quivered. “Petey, about your foot . . .”

The child’s bright eyes were wide and innocent. How could she bear to tell him his foot was gone? Yet she had to—he had to know. As gently as possible, she explained what the trolley had done. “Petey, do you understand?”

Petey scowled, his little forehead crinkled. “It’s cut clean off? The whole foot?”

She nodded, tears stinging. “I’m afraid so.”

“But it hurts. I c’n feel it.”

Stroking his hair, she nodded. “I know. The doctor said your body doesn’t quite understand the foot is gone. That’s why it feels like it hurts.”

He stared at her, his lips puckering. “But it’s really gone?”

Isabelle nodded.

“Lemme see.”

Sucking in a breath of fortification, Isabelle folded back the blankets.

Petey propped himself up on his elbows and stared for a long time at the bandaged stump, his big blue eyes unblinking. Finally he sighed and slumped back against the pillow. “Yep. It’s gone all right.”

She waited for him to cry in anguish or rail in unfairness or scream in anger. But in his familiar little-boy voice, he said, “Think I c’n get a peg leg?”

She jerked back, stunned. “A . . . a what?”

“Peg leg. Seen a man at the docks with one. He strapped it where his foot used to be. He said a fish bit his foot off, but I didn’t b’lieve him. Still, that peg leg . . . that was somethin’. Can I get one, too?”

A peg leg. That’s all he was concerned about. Get a peg leg, strap it on, and walk again. This child was amazing. Isabelle cupped his pale cheek. “Petey, whatever you want, I’ll be sure you get it, I promise you that. I’ll get you the finest peg leg ever.”

He smiled weakly. “Thanks.” Suddenly he scowled, but the expression seemed thoughtful. “You don’t gotta worry. I’ll be okay, y’know. Jesus said so.”

Isabelle’s eyes flew wide. “Jesus . . . said so?”

Petey nodded. “He come to me when I was layin’ in the street. He said not to worry—I’d be okay. Said I’d be walkin’ an’ jumpin’ in no time. So you don’t worry, neither.”

Too stunned to reply, Isabelle merely nodded.

Petey’s eyes slid closed. “I’m tired.” This time, when he drifted off, his whistle-buzz snore filled the room.