The Strange Case of Baby H (4 page)

Father grunted. He reached out and took a slice of cake.

Mother reached out a finger and traced the baby's cheek. “We will take care of him, of course. People have to help each other out in times of trouble.”

“You're a good woman, Mrs. Curfman,” said Miss Chandler.

Mother handed the baby over to Clara with a sigh. “Take him indoors and clean him up, best you can, Clara. Find him something clean to wear. But don't stay indoors long. It'll be getting dark soon, and we mustn't light lamps in the house.”

Clara climbed the ramp with the baby in her arms. She carried him up to her sunporch and laid him on her bed.

Then she smiled down at the squirming infant. “Can you sit up on your own, little fellow?” She pulled him to a sitting position and steadied him with a hand on his back. He managed alone for a few seconds, then toppled backward onto the pillow with a chortle.

“Well,” Clara told him, “I'm glad you can find something to laugh about. Because whatever happened to you today certainly looks to be more terrible than what has happened to us. But don't worry, little one. You've got a home here now.”

The baby stared up at her with dark eyes. He had no hair at all, so his dark eyebrows and lashes seemed even more pronounced.

“You'll have dark hair when it finally does begin to grow,” she told the baby, running her hand over the bald head—then she paused, perplexed. Instead of smooth skin against her palm, she felt the rasp of bristles.

She sat the baby up and bent closer to examine his head. She noticed a scrape at the back of his neck like the ones Gideon had on his chin when he'd practiced shaving with Father's straight razor. “For goodness sakes!” she exclaimed. “You're not naturally bald at all—someone has shaved your head!”
What a strange thing to do to a little fellow
, she thought.

She unfastened the dirty, poorly fitting sailor suit. The child's flannel diaper was sodden. Clara unpinned the diaper—then stopped. “And you're not even a little fellow!” she cried out in surprise. “You're a bald-headed baby
girl
!”

The baby stared up at her solemnly. Clara stared back at the baby, at the sailor suit and flannel she'd just removed, at the bristly shaven head. She felt a strange little prickle of unease at the back of her neck.

Why would anyone shave a baby girl's head, and dress her in boys' clothing?

It was almost as if … as if the baby were
in disguise
.

C
HAPTER
4

P
IECES OF A
P
UZZLE

Thoughts in a whirl, Clara tugged open her top dresser drawer and pulled out a soft cotton chemise. Folded, it would work as a diaper for the baby. But what might work as a dress? Her eye fell on Delilah—on Delilah's poor headless body. The doll wore a pretty, flower-sprigged dress that Mother had sewn several years ago. And Delilah was a large doll—bigger than the baby …

The dress fit. Clara buttoned it up and smiled with satisfaction. “All right, little lady. You're ready to go back out and meet the lodgers, bald head or no,” she murmured. “Likely you'll be wanting something to eat, too.”
Do babies this young eat porridge
? she wondered as she reached for the quilt to take along to the yard.

Something fell out of the folds of the quilt and dropped to the floor with a clang. Something else drifted to the floor with a whisper.

Clara reached down to pick up the first thing and found she was holding a silver rattle. The silver was clean and untarnished, gleaming almost white in the dusk of the room. How had a poor baby like this come by such a fancy toy? There was something engraved on the rattle. Clara peered at it closely: a fancy, curlicued letter
H
.

The second thing from the floor was a scrap of paper. On it, oddly, were letters cut from a newspaper, glued together to form words. There were only four words on the scrap Clara held, but the words made her shudder:

Satchel To Cliffhouse

Clara couldn't think what the words might mean, but any mention of Cliff House, that castlelike eight-story building at Ocean Beach near the Sutro Baths, took her breath away. For it was there, on the rocks at the base of Cliff House, that Father's steamship had wrecked in the storm. What could Cliff House have to do with this baby girl?

The baby gurgled—a small growly sound like Humphrey made when he was playing—and reached for the silver rattle. Clara jiggled it, listening to the tinkling bell inside, thinking hard. Such a raggedy baby, dressed in boys' clothes, head shaved—turning out to be a girl. And such an elegant silver rattle, clearly the plaything of a wealthy child. Where had the baby come from? Where, until today, had this baby been living? And with whom? Even if the parents had died in the earthquake or the raging fires,
someone
had brought her to Clara's house, so
someone
must know who she was. That same someone must know what the words on the scrap of paper meant.

Why not just bring the baby right to Mother and ask her to help in this emergency? Why keep the baby's identity a secret? If the clothing and shaven head were meant to disguise—then someone was hiding something.

Could what was being hidden be the baby herself
?

A pulse of alarm thudded inside Clara, but she pushed the feeling away. Maybe the scrap of paper was a clue to who the baby really was, and maybe Clara would try to figure it out—but first there were more practical concerns. This baby was hungry, fires were spreading across the city, another quake might come at any moment … it was no time to be standing inside the house playing detective.

“Come on, now, Little H,” Clara said to the baby, lifting her from the bed. “You won't be a new son for Mother after all, but let's go show everyone how fetching you look in Delilah's dress.”

Outside again, Clara coughed in air full of drifting ash. She could hear shouting in the distance. Kerosene lanterns had been set on the table, their flames flickering in the dusk.

Mother and the lodgers stood talking to a military officer. Clara edged closer, the baby against her shoulder. “What's happening, Mother?”

“He's taking the men to clear the streets of rubble so the fire engines might pass through.” Mother shook her head in irritation. “I think most people would help willingly. There's no need for high-handedness!”

Young Mrs. Grissinger, with her two little boys clutching her skirt, clung to her husband. “How long shall he be gone?” she implored the officer. “When shall I see him again?”

“We require the men as long as they're needed, ma'am,” replied the officer grimly. “Who can say how long? The fire is spreading fast, and the water mains are broken. People are trapped everywhere, with the fire moving in on them. We have orders to create firebreaks—to stop the fire by any means. You folks here by the park appear to be safe, as long as the wind doesn't change. You are the lucky ones!”

Mrs. Hansen looked to be near tears. “It's nearly dark,” she whispered. “Perhaps our men can wait till morning light?”

Her husband patted her hand. “Fires don't mind the dark. And they surely are making enough light to see by. I'll be back soon enough.”

The officer cleared his throat impatiently. “Make haste! This is by order of General Funston!”

Mr. Midgard and Mr. Stokes were eager to go. Mr. Hansen and Mr. Grissinger hugged their wives good-bye as if they were marching off to war.

“Who elected
Funston
?” Father inquired from his wheelchair. “Has Mayor Schmitz declared martial law? Has President Roosevelt?” His mustache trembled.

The officer stared down at Father from his great height. “Perhaps you don't understand the full extent of this disaster, sir. The city is practically destroyed. Troops have been aiding the police and maintaining order. There are thousands of people homeless already, man! And more to be soon if we don't get these men working!” He shouldered his rifle. “All right—all you able-bodied men!” He glanced down at Father in his wheelchair. Clara saw Father's shoulders slump. “Let's march!”

Hiram Stokes and Geoffrey Midgard, followed by Mr. Grissinger and Mr. Hansen, marched out of the yard and up the street with the officer. Father glowered after them.

“Oh, do stop looking like a thundercloud, Frederick,” snapped Mother. “It does no good—although a real thundercloud and plenty of rain would be helpful right now. You know you'd be quick enough to march along with them if you could. You're just in a foul temper!”

Clara hated hearing her parents bickering. She spoke hastily, plunking the baby down on Father's lap. “Look, Mother, Father, we were fooled! This isn't a little boy at all. It's a girl, and look at this—” She held out the silver rattle. “It says ‘H'! Why should a girl with a silver rattle be dressed as a raggedy boy? I think it's very strange, don't you?”

Father shrugged. Mother took the rattle and turned it over. “Looks to be fine quality,” she agreed. “But strange? I don't think so. I'm sure whoever brought the baby here was fleeing the fires and simply took the first things that came to hand.” She picked the baby up out of Father's lap. “Hello, sweeting,” she crooned. “We jumped to conclusions, didn't we—seeing how you were wearing boys' clothes and have such a look of our own Gideon about you?” She glanced over at Clara and smiled. “But she has a look of you about her, too, Clara. I see it now. When you were a baby, your lashes were just as long and dark … And maybe when her hair grows, it will be red like yours.” She turned back to the baby, nuzzling the soft cheek. “We'll take care of you just as if you were our own daughter. That's a promise. And don't you look like a living doll in your new dress!”

Clara felt uneasy. “The baby's head is
shaved
, Mother! Why would somebody do that?”

“I reckon her hair caught on fire after the quake. I daresay someone shaved off the singed bits.” Mother turned away with the baby on her shoulder. “Now let's find some supper and make you a bed for the night.” And she walked across the yard to Miss Chandler and Miss DuBois as Clara sank down onto a pile of fallen bricks near her father's chair.

“She needs another child again,” Father remarked. “Never mind where it comes from or what circumstances bring it. Maybe this catastrophe is a blessing in disguise.”

“But I think there's something strange about the baby, Father, don't you? There's no sign of any burn on her head.” Clara fished in her skirt pocket. “And there was this. It was folded into the quilt with the rattle.” She handed him the scrap of paper.

“Satchel to Cliff House?” He frowned at the words in the flickering lamplight. “Doesn't make sense.”

“That's just it,” Clara agreed eagerly. “It doesn't make any sense, and look how the letters are all cut from a newspaper and pasted together to make the words. It reminds me of a story we read once in school where a boy was kidnapped, and the kidnappers made a note from newspaper type—just like this—asking for the ransom money to be left in a trunk somewhere … and
satchel
reminds me
of trunk
…”

Father patted Clara's hand. “Don't let the quake rattle you, daughter,” he said wearily. “That baby's not kidnapped. He—
she—
is right here with us, and we'll keep her safe until things settle down. Then we'll decide what to do with her.”

“But the note—”

He held up his hand. “Enough. I'm sure it was part of a child's game, interrupted by disaster. Remember, Clara, the quake interrupted many thousands of lives today. Who knows what was going on in any particular home when the earthquake hit this morning?” He opened his fingers, and the scrap of paper fluttered to the ground.

But his offhand question rang in Clara's ears with a sinister echo as she stared over at Baby H, nestled in Mother's arms, sucking porridge off a spoon:
Who knows what was going on when the earthquake hit
? Who knew what was happening to this particular baby? Clara shivered in a gust of smoky wind that sent the little scrap of paper flying across the yard.

She flew after it.

C
HAPTER
5

A
N
A
FTERNOON
W
ALK