The Leap Year Boy (31 page)

Before Abe could answer, something slammed on the second floor and Hannah’s voice yelled out, as if she were in physical pain, “Damn it all.”

The sisters grabbed each other’s hands. Lillie shouted, “Hannah, what happened? Are you all right?

“Yes, I just banged my knee.” Then, in a quieter voice, she said, “I’m fine, I’ll be down in a second.” She went back to searching through the Carson Home album and the rest of the desk, hunting for the missing adoption certificate. Where could it be, where could it have gone, things don’t just grow legs and walk away.

She hadn’t looked at the papers for two years, not since she held the album open on her knees as she sat on the floor and wept for hours and made her aunts stay away as she held a corkscrew up to her throat like the handsome boy had done with the garden shears, and finally she wrote Blood Money! on the receipt on the last page, and then took all of her family photographs and tore them to shreds and was about to light them on fire when her aunts grabbed her and convinced her to calm down, none of it was her fault.

No one knew about the album and the papers except her and her parents and her aunts. No one else had been upstairs in the house for years except her and her aunts.

And Alex.

“Hannah?”

She swallowed hard. “In a minute. I’m changing. Give Abe some lemonade.”

She dropped her lace dress in a heap at her feet. It felt so good she wanted to run downstairs in her underwear, and if her aunts weren’t there and it were just Abe, she would have. She slipped on a yellow sundress.

With the missing certificate and what Abe had said about adoption, now it all made sense. Her little Alex must have taken it. There was no other explanation. She loved him so much, but well, even the best little boy in the world could misbehave, and she made up her mind to give him a good talking to, or maybe a little more, just until he told her what he’d done with it, just until he absolutely understood very well it was wrong to take things that weren’t his.

Two minutes later she was downstairs with a smile on her face. She implored her aunts not to be cross with Abe, it wasn’t his fault about the flask, other women her age can take a drink, so naturally he would bring one along, and how should he know she didn’t imbibe? It was Abe that had the decency
not
to let her drink, and also wasn’t it true, even though the aunts said they’d seen them together, that they didn’t see
her
drink, did they?

Belle said, “I guess that’s true.”

Oh, Belle, she went on, if it was anyone’s fault it was her own, the eggs made her woozy, and thank goodness Abe had the maturity and wisdom not to try to force alcohol on her, he’d only offered it out of concern for her, he’d actually done an honorable thing with his gesture, and instead of criticizing him they should thank him for being so kind and concerned.

“Well,” Lillie said, “when you put it that way.”

The entire time Hannah spoke Abe was silent, his mouth slightly open.

“Anyway,” Hannah said, turning to him, “thank you for such a wonderful day in the park.” She kissed him on the cheek with decibels less intensity that her open-mouthed kisses an hour earlier. “I’ll see you tomorrow with Alex, bright and early.”

Abe said his goodbyes, feeling happy about his reprieve and not clear at all as to why he’d received it.

After the screen door closed behind him, Hannah said, “Aunt Lillie, can I help with dinner?”

The sisters looked at each other. “Well, you could put some water on to boil and shuck the corn. We’re having cold chicken.”

Hannah skipped off to the kitchen, humming. Lillie took her sister’s arm and walked her to the front porch. “I’m getting too old for this girl. But I have a question.”

“I know what you’re going to say.”

“Go ahead.”

“Since when is she allergic to eggs?”

*

Upon learning that Alex was suffering from a headache, Dr. Malkin was quite concerned, primarily for his own future, for if there were something seriously wrong with the boy beyond his limited medical understanding, and the boy was confined by some sort of special treatment, his plans to show off him at the impending conference on childhood diseases, and beyond, could be in jeopardy. He was counting on the little freak to be healthy.

“If I may,” he said to Delia, “I would like to touch it this instrument to the boy’s head, just to make it here the preliminary examination.” He dug his stethoscope from his medical bag and held it up to Alex’s forehead.

“Ain’t that thing for listening to his heart and lungs?” Delia said.

“Yes, of course, I was merely testing it to hear if there was an abnormal pounding of the blood, you see. This is done as a precaution in some medical circles, and I have learned it myself from my Uncle Dmitri, may he rest in peace, an excellent physician also.”

“Well?”

Alex said, “Well?”

“Ah, the boy talks, it is a good sign. But perhaps it would be it the best idea if you could bring him now to my surgery, where I have it the more elaborate medical equipment to conduct the assessment of the boy’s headache condition. I am sure his father would want me to have it a thorough look.”

“The last time Abe saw you he socked you in the nose.”

Malkin winced. “But surely we must let it the bygones be the bygones. I bear him no bad will and have instructed my attorney of law not to proceed in the matter further or in any way.”

Alex took his orange cap off and rubbed his head.

Delia watched his face twist in pain. This was all she needed now. A headache in a little boy, that could be a sign of something worse. A sick Alex would ruin her one shot at leaving The Wheel and the stink of the city behind. This Malkin was a damn odd bird, but maybe in his long-winded way he could help the kid get some relief, and she hated to see him suffer. It was worth a shot, anyway. She knew Abe would hit the roof when he found out she let Malkin put his mitts on the kid, but she could deal with him later. She glanced again at the pain on Alex’s face. “Your office nearby ?”

“Yes, just several stops from here.” A fat man and two children pushed by him. “Ah, a seat two rows back. I shall take it and come when it is time to get off.”

*

Traveling in the opposite direction from Alex, Delia and Malkin, Abe stared out the window of his trolley, watching the rain and trying to make sense of the day’s events. They go on a picnic. The girl gets sick. Then she gets well and she’s all over him like a tigress. He takes her home. She runs upstairs. Her aunts lay into him with both guns blazing. She runs downstairs and explains it all away like she’s a city hall lawyer, and by the time he leaves, everything with her is hunky-dory again.

So what was he supposed to do now, get married? She seemed hell-bent on it. But something was off with the girl. Maybe it was her parents’ death, that might explain some things, but not everything. He thought about how she had almost passed out when he had said the word “adoption.” Strange. The whole situation made his head hurt, which made him think of Alex. The boy had been complaining of headaches off and on. It was time he took him to a real doctor. Probably Hannah or her aunts knew a good one, but if she found out something was wrong with Alex she’d probably go into a fit like she did at the park.

He picked up a newspaper from the empty seat across the aisle. More countries ready to get into the damn war.

The streetcar jolted to a halt. He could see a horse-drawn cart stopped in the middle of a curve in the tracks. The horse was slumped on its forelegs. In the gutter, blood mixed with rainwater. What a goddamn world.

*

Had Dr. Malkin been practicing medicine—or at least his brand of medicine—in the mid-1800s, his specialty may well have been phrenology, also known by the less flattering term, “bump-ology.” Malkin was intrigued by the idea that a person’s aptitudes, talents and tendencies could be ascertained by feeling the bumps on their head. What’s more, becoming a phrenologist seemed to require no special training or expensive equipment, only educated fingers.

In his possession was a tattered, half-century-old copy of
The American Phrenological Journal
, and although he wasn’t much for reading, he’d carefully studied the cover illustration that divided the human brain/skull into approximately 35–45 distinct sectors. There were specific cranial locations designated for everything from self-esteem to sublimicity.

Delia was having a cup of tea on the first floor with Malkin’s second cousin Masha while the doctor examined Alex’s head. Alex didn’t mind Malkin’s probing fingers, and his head felt better when he pressed lightly in certain places.

Every so often, Malkin paused to consult the journal to orient his fingers on Alex’s skull. With his eyes closed, he felt Alex’s imperfections, as if by touching them he could divine the truth about some condition of his brain. He worked his way to the left temple. “Aha, I think I have detected the center for se-cre-tive-ness. What secret are you holding, my boy?” He took a cloth measuring tape and wound it around across Alex’s forehead.

The circumference was in the normal range for a one and one half year old boy. However, neither Malkin’s measurements nor his cursory understanding of phrenology could tell him was this: that while Alex’s skull size was normal, his brain was close to the size of an adult’s, 25% larger than the space allowed for, and growing, albeit imperceptively, bigger by the day.

Malkin wrote down his measurements in his file entitled, “Little Miller.” He had documentation on Alex’s height, wingspan, arm length and inseam, and now added this latest measurement. All he needed was a quick look at his genitalia, just to see what proportions they were in relationship to his overall size. The opportunity had eluded him at The Wheel. Here was a second chance, and with no rough men around. “Now, little Alex, if you will, please remove them for me your pants so that I may conclude the examination, and then you will be on your way.”

“No.”

“No? But I am your doctor. You must do it what the doctor has said. This is required.” When Malkin reached for him, he screamed for Delia.

“Quiet, my boy, you shall wake them up the dead.”

Delia pounded up the stairs. Malkin and Alex had reached a standoff. “What the hell is going on here?”

Malkin stepped back. “Nothing. Nothing at all. The boy is most uncooperative, but I think he is ready to go now, he was merely calling it out to you to take him.”

“What about his head?”

“Yes, I have conducted it the thorough examination, and now as you are leaving, I will give it to him a teaspoon, a child’s dose, so to speak, of my special medicine for a children’s headache, which may be due to a slight temporary swelling of the brain, such as when a person has it a hangover, which of course could not be the case here. I am sure it will bring it relief from the pain.” He uncorked a bottle of his tonic, the same tonic he sold weekly to Davy O’Brien. “Here, take it one spoonful.”

Alex made a sour face as the burn traveled down his throat and into his stomach. Within a few minutes, the pain in his head had subsided, thanks to the palliative effect of the alcohol.

Malkin put the bottle in a brown paper bag and handed it to Delia. “Have the boy take it for the pain. That will be seventy-five cents. Please.”

Alex took Delia’s hand and ten minutes later he was asleep on the trolley, his head on her lap. Forty-five minutes later, as they walked up Mellon Street toward his house, he asked her for another teaspoon.

Chapter 25

Dear Dee,

I can’t tell you how excited I was when I got your letter that you wrote back to me. Just seeing your handwriting on the paper brought back so many good memories, and to think we’re soon gonna see each other, I get goose bumps.

I gotta say, this little knife thrower of yours, from the way you described it, he sounds almost too good to be true. In the circus they’re always looking for the unusual, something that will grab people—how do you think I got my job? Your kid sounds like a natural for the sideshow, if not the big top.

Anyways, I talked you up good to Mr. Markham, the talent man what books the new acts, and it’s all set. I explained to him real good yesterday about the knife-throwing midget of yours, but he kept hemming and hawing, so I had to give him what shall I call it, a special favor. Markham is a real pig, what can I say, but you gotta do what you gotta to help out an old friend, right? Plus now he owes me because of what we done, which was definitely against circus rules, Rule 24 in the handbook, do not take strangers or friends into dressing rooms without permission
,
although I guess I did give him permission, and he ain’t no stranger and he ain’t no friend
.

I didn’t talk money with him because I know he won’t talk money until he sees the boy throw. Like I told you, I pull down $70 a week, so the dough’s plenty good, plus they give you room and board and the food ain’t half bad, either, so you can save there, too.

Anyways, here’s how we’ll play it. You meet me at the main ticket booth around four o’clock. If for some reason I ain’t there, just tell them you’re here to see me and Mr. Markham. I’ll leave word so you’ll be all set and they’ll give you directions to Markham’s wagon. Markham will have knives like the kind the knife-thrower throws—won’t he be fit to be tied when your little Alex shows up! Me, too!

We got darts, too, in case the kid wants to toss a few, so you don’t need to bring nothing, just show up with him is all. Geez Oh Man, Dee, a knife-throwing midget, it could be a hit! If Markham takes the kid on we’ll be together, just like the old days! Can’t wait to see you.

Love you to death,

Lotte, the Elastic Lass (hokey, I know it!)

PS

That fellow I was living with, Mojo the Sword Swallower? The lousy mug took off with a gypsy tightrope walker when we had a layover in Toledo on account of a tornado two weeks ago. Men—you can’t trust them!

PSPS

We’re here just two days over Labor Day, Dee. Don’t miss it! Can’t wait to see you