Lost Boy Found Page 10

  Chapter Sixteen

  Gideon Wolf had been locked up for six days when the hurricane made landfall, hitting Grand Isle, Louisiana, early on the morning of September 29. John Henry had hoped news of the oncoming storm had been exaggerated, and that they’d be able to travel to Mobile to see the boy as planned. But there were sixty-mile winds in New Orleans at sun-up, and when the hurricane passed through Opelousas, at seven o’clock that night, he was relieved they’d stayed put.

  John Henry, Mary, Esmeralda and Cook had prepared the house as well as they could, closing windows and sealing gaps around doorframes, wrapping furniture in sheets, storing paintings, clothing and rugs in the cellar. Mason carried in outside chairs and took down the porch swing. George and Paul had the job of preparing an emergency kit.

  Now, having eaten a cold supper of meats and bread by candlelight, the family huddled in the back of the living room, with camp beds set up for the boys, so they could be together if they needed to evacuate in a hurry. The servants were together, too, in the kitchen.

  The strong winds shook the house, hurled rubble at the walls, smashed chimneys and tore at the upper porches until they were hanging by a thread. The Davenports heard the damage from downstairs but could do nothing other than imagine what wreckage was being wrought as the storm entered the house: the saturated carpets, rain-lashed couches. The storm lasted through the night, and while Mary feared for her Opelousas home and family she also worried about Sonny.

  “Sheriff Bird will keep him safe. He’s a good man, responsible,” John Henry reassured her. “Try to sleep. I’ll sit up.”

  They stayed in Opelousas for three more days to direct the cleaning and repair of their home and John Henry’s factory. The damage their town had suffered—roofs ripped off and flung about, destroying buggies and cars, buildings; livestock crushed under fallen trees; church towers collapsed onto rooming houses and schools—was a fraction of what Mobile had endured. The Press-Register building was ruined but the heroic staff managed to print an edition nonetheless. When their train arrived in Mobile on the night of October 2, 1915, John Henry bought a copy of the paper and, standing on the platform under lamplight, read the front-page headlines to Mary: “The City Emerges from Worst Hurricane Experience,” “Barometer Lowest on Record,” “Wind Velocity Greatest Ever Reported.” “More than two hundred and seventy lives have been lost,” he said.

  “And yet the sheriff’s house stood,” Mary said.

  “Yes. Sheriff Sherman promises me they’re all fine. A miracle, truly.” John Henry was as eager as Mary to see the boy, but found her disinterest in the wider devastation troubling. The past two years had hardened his wife.

  Mary, meanwhile, felt gladdened by her husband’s use of the term “miracle.” That augured well, somehow.

  “Thousands made homeless throughout Mississippi and Alabama and as far as Tennessee,” John Henry read, “hungry and destitute, with nothing but wet clothes on their backs.”

  “Do you think the car will be here soon?”

  The Davenports hadn’t traveled alone to Mobile; Sheriff Sherman, Tom and Eddie had been on the same train in the cheaper seats, and Esmeralda had sat in the colored carriage at the rear. They would all travel by car to the Birds’ house, where the boy had been cared for by Mrs. Bird following his rescue.

  While John Henry read the Press-Register to Mary and waited for Sheriff Bird to arrive, the rest of the group watched porters unload their luggage onto the platform. Esmeralda, who had one small bag, stood as close to the Davenports as decency permitted, waiting on instruction. She’d never been to Alabama but knew it to be a dangerous place.

  Once everyone’s belongings had been accounted for, two cars—one driven by Sheriff Bird, the other by one of his men—crisscrossed the debris-strewn streets through the town center and up the hill. The third car, carrying Esmeralda and the Davenports’ luggage, followed.

  “What a shame that my first ever sight of Mobile is like this. I’d heard it’s such an attractive city.” Mary looked for beauty in the ravaged streets, illuminated by a full moon and what lights remained.

  “It will be again,” Sheriff Bird said.

  As reported, the Birds’ compact home, though wounded, had held up better than many of the houses around it. It still had its roof. Several of the windows were unboarded and had glass in them. And its position on high ground had spared it from flooding, though the garden had been demolished. John Henry and Mary had been so focused on the terrors the storm might have brought that they hadn’t anticipated the Birds’ lawn would be filled with local reporters, concerned citizens and nosy neighbors.

  “A goddamn circus,” Sheriff Bird said. Sheriff Sherman agreed.

  Mrs. Bird was as level-headed as her husband, and she’d been a sheriff’s wife for long enough to know how to stand her ground. She hadn’t been shy about addressing the seething, edgy crowd that showed up on her muddy front lawn. “Only ones coming into my house are the momma and poppa, the sheriff that brought them and the sheriff that lives under this roof. So y’all might as well go home. What’s wrong with you, showing up to gawp and gossip?” Of course, no one had gone anywhere.

  Mrs. Bird was on her porch scolding the crowd again when the cars pulled up, but her tone changed when she saw Mary Davenport. Her pointing arm softened and took the curved shape she used to hold her children and to dance at weddings with her husband. She stepped forward and ushered Mary into the house where the boy slept. “Come here. Oh, what a time for you.” Mary let herself be comforted by an unfamiliar woman as though she wasn’t the wife of one of the most important men in Opelousas. They were, at that moment, mothers above all else.

  If Tom and Eddie were annoyed by their unforeseen lack of access at a crucial time, Esmeralda was even more so. Esmeralda had thought she’d be standing behind Mary, ready to help Mr. Davenport if his wife became overwrought. What in the heavens was she here for if not to be at Mrs. Davenport’s side during the most stressful part of the journey? That Sheriff and Mrs. Bird weren’t the ones for that job. They might well be fine people, but they hadn’t seen the pain of the past two years, didn’t understand how Mrs. Davenport shut down when overwhelmed. And who was laying out Mrs. Davenport’s clothes, unpacking her luggage?

  Left to stand outside after arriving last, then told by Mrs. Bird’s skinny white house girl that she hadn’t been instructed to let any Negro lady inside, no way, Esmeralda walked back to the front yard. As if being in Mobile wasn’t unnerving enough, she wasn’t sure what was supposed to happen next. “I don’t know what to do, I don’t,” she said to Tom and Eddie.

  “Seems you’re out in the cold with us.” Tom looked around. The yard bore signs of the recent hurricane but Tom could see the efforts of the Birds to assert their will over the wind in the raked lawn, the neat stacks of chopped branches. Two tricycles, a broom and a rocking chair framed the front door. “What should our next move be, Mrs. Somerset?”

  Eddie walked away from them toward the house, searching the crowd for anyone who might be worth a photograph.

  Esmeralda was glad of a familiar face in this strange situation but she did not consider Tom McCabe a friend. “There’s no ‘our.’ I should be inside with Mrs. Davenport.”

  “Well, we’ve traveled here together, we’ve spent more than a few hours in one another’s company sharing stories, and I know you like Walter—”

  “Everyone likes that big-hearted rabbit-dog. And those stories weren’t for my benefit.”

  Tom sucked in his breath. Esmeralda flipped from civil to hostile, light to heavy without warning. She confounded him, but she was still—usually—useful, so he tolerated their unpredictable interactions. “Mrs. Somerset, you know by now that my motives are pure: I want to tell this story as it should be told. I’ve never lied or judged or in any way betrayed John Henry or Mary. What will it take to earn your respect?”

  “Hmph.”

  “You must admit it’d be wise to help one another find a way to see insi
de. Don’t you want to know what’s going on?”

  “Of course I do. I should be in there.”

  Tom studied the house. “Which room do you think they’re in? I figure—”

  “Little boy’s been sleeping with the other children. Bedrooms are upstairs. But they wanted the boy on his own tonight so they put him down in the living room. He’ll be asleep on the sofa, poor child.”

  “How do you know that?” Tom asked.

  “I listen.”

  “You’d make a fine reporter. Now, why wouldn’t they keep him awake?”

  “It’s eleven o’clock. Child can’t stay up that late. The Davenports got here as quick as they could, but that’s as early as it was ever going to be.”

  “The living room. All right, what are we standing here for, then?” Tom signaled for Eddie to rejoin them and, making sure no one noticed, the trio slipped down the side of the house, dropping into the shadows. Tom walked in front toward two windows through which dim light shone. The three crouched in a line outside the lamplit room, peeking over the window ledge. Eddie set up his tripod so his camera was only visible in the bottom corner of the window, where the lace curtain was twisted and had created a patch of clear glass. It’d be hard, but he could get some version of a photograph.

  Tom didn’t like being outside, snooping on the Davenports. They weren’t only news; they were John Henry and Mary. And watching them through a window felt undignified, entirely wrong. But Eddie was going to take a picture and Tom would write a story no matter what Tom’s personal misgivings. Mr. Collins expected them to come back with something. This was a front-page moment. The problem was, once Eddie took his picture the flash would alert the Davenports to their presence, which would be unpleasant, shameful even.

  They watched Mary through the window as she knelt beside the sofa where the boy was cradled in Mrs. Bird’s arms.

  “She’s not sure,” Tom said. “She’s not sure that’s her boy.”

  The three held their breath as Mary buried her face in one hand.

  Esmeralda exhaled a circle of steam onto the glass.

  Mrs. Bird had walked into the room first, carrying an oil lamp. She turned and whispered to Mary, “Storm took out the electricity.” The two sheriffs entered behind Mary and John Henry, and stood near the sofa, near enough to observe while not getting in the way. Everyone shuffled into place, murmuring what few words needed to be said, making sure that Mary was able to stand close to the child, who was sleeping under a knitted blanket. Mrs. Bird raised her lamp so Mary could see the boy’s face more clearly. “You tell me if you need anything—water, a chair.” She watched Mary for her reaction.

  Mary clutched Sonny’s toy rabbit, Hop, by its thin wrist. She felt the warm air close in around her. She stared at the boy, then knelt down on the rug. “The shadows.”

  Mrs. Bird took a step toward the sofa. The lamp swayed and shadows formed on the boy’s face, rendering his nose bulbous then beaky, his lips cupid bows then a sneer.

  Mary scowled in agitation. It was so hard to tell. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. The crowd of people outside, though only chattering among themselves and separated from her by a wall, were shouting in her mind, jostling one another in the mud, braying for an answer. She could sense the impatience of the sheriffs, hear her husband’s short, sharp breath, could smell the warm doughiness of Mrs. Bird, the smoke from the fireplace. And that useless lamp! She couldn’t think straight. And where was Esmeralda? How selfish of her not to be here, to dillydally at the station when Mary needed her.

  “I’ll wake him,” Sheriff Bird said, watching Mary twist and bend to examine the boy.

  “Don’t.” Whether it was a mother’s instinct not to wake a sleeping child or fear that he might be startled by her looming over him in the dead of night, Mary didn’t know. “Please.”

  “I think it might be the best way to see him,” Sheriff Bird insisted. He lifted the boy to sitting position, sleepy rag doll that he was, then patted him on the cheek. “Child, open your eyes.”

  “Oh, let me.” Mrs. Bird passed her lamp to Sheriff Sherman and sat on the sofa holding the boy close to her, gently patting his back.

  The boy rubbed his eyes. Mary held Hop up to show him, then felt foolish when the boy looked from her to the toy and back again, uncomprehendingly. He snuggled closer into Mrs. Bird.

  Without warning, Mary sank to the floor and buried her face in one hand. As he watched her cry, the boy began to cry, too, his mouth open without issuing a sound.

  “It’s all right, all right,” Mrs. Bird crooned.

  In response to John Henry’s gentle touch on her shoulder, Mary whimpered, “Why don’t I know?”

  “You’re spent from the journey and the unfamiliar—” John Henry said. “And it’s been two years. It’s natural—”

  Mrs. Bird cocked her head, mystified. Mrs. Davenport appeared to be in as much need of comforting as the child. Sheriff Bird remained silent. Sheriff Sherman placed the lamp on the mantel. He had high regard for Mrs. Davenport and could see she was overcome, but it was strange for a mother to be unable to tell if a boy was hers, and for mother and child to both be reduced to tears by their reunion. The conclusion was clear, and he now considered how to get the Davenports from the house to the inn with as little fuss as possible.

  Mrs. Bird cradled the boy in a way her own willful six-year-old would never have tolerated and rocked him back and forth, his sobs becoming jerky and shallow. He turned his head sideways, still buried in Mrs. Bird’s clothing, to look at the other adults. Mary, likewise quieted, was at his eye level.

  “Why is he silent?” Mary asked. “I don’t understand.”

  “Hasn’t spoken yet. Little darling.” The boy grabbed a fistful of Mrs. Bird’s sleeve and turned his face back into her chest.

  “The scar,” Sheriff Bird said, and Mrs. Bird pulled up the boy’s sleeve.

  Mary leaned in close. “Why, it’s much bigger than it was. Lighter, too. And I don’t recall this red outline.”

  “Scars can change over time,” John Henry said.

  “I gave him quite a scrubbing this evening. The redness could be my doing. It’s all right, all right,” Mrs. Bird whispered to the boy.

  “Mary?” John Henry asked.

  Sheriff Bird moved his weight from one foot to the other.

  “His hair is coarser.”

  “No one has cared for him the way you did, my love.”

  “He doesn’t seem to recognize me.”

  John Henry knelt on the carpet beside his wife. “What do your instincts say?”

  “My instincts are talking in tongues.”

  Mrs. Bird noted the chill that had entered the woman’s voice.

  John Henry forced himself to speak evenly, to control his rising panic. This boy seemed no more familiar to him than any other, but if Mary sent a signal it was Sonny he’d trust in that. He’d seen too many photographs, met too many children, and this boy was two years older than his mind’s picture. But Mary would know.

  Sheriff Bird pulled Sheriff Sherman toward the door. “There’s an army of reporters outside,” he said. “I’ll need to tell them something. What are you thinking?”

  “Is there a back lane? The driver could meet us there,” Sheriff Sherman replied. “I’d like to get the Davenports to their hotel with as little drama and upset as possible, talk to the press tomorrow.”

  While the sheriffs discussed the logistics of their exit in muted whispers, Mary moved closer to the boy. The curl of hair around his ear, the line of his neck, his bitten fingernails—she’d seen all this before. Did that mean he was Sonny or did the child resemble Paul when he was six? Not George, but possibly Paul. Or was she calling up a longing for a past time? She didn’t know, couldn’t trust her own mind. But if she were to leave now, let this child slip through her grasp, and later, when she was more composed, realize a mistake—No, it had to be the wiser choice to hold him close and slowly assess. What harm could there be in ending two years of
suffering while caring for a homeless boy, a boy who may well be Sonny? Two years of aching loss, sleeplessness, a fractured marriage. Two years of judgmental sneers from her father. Oh, and two years of tumult for George and Paul: the gnawing absence of their brother, their parents’ failure. Not another day of any of it.

  “Yes.” The word came out louder than she’d meant.

  “Yes?” John Henry asked.

  “It’s him.”

  “Now, Mrs. Davenport,” Sheriff Sherman said, “don’t feel pressured by—”

  She spoke firmly. “This is our son.”

  A hush of air escaped from a hot log in the fireplace. The boy was still in Mrs. Bird’s lap, his face buried in her skirt. The sheriffs stood behind the kneeling Davenports, as if witnessing a nativity scene gone awry.

  “It’s dark, you see, and when he cried his face seemed different, but now I can tell—”

  “Yes,” John Henry said.

  Mary let out a sob of joy and John Henry embraced her, ignoring Mrs. Bird’s troubled expression, her husband’s groan.

  The lamplight shone onto Mary’s and John Henry’s faces. Depending on the angle, they looked either beatific or devilish. Mary had spoken, and John Henry had agreed. They said the boy was Sonny. And so he was.

  Chapter Seventeen

  It seemed the whole population of Mobile played hooky that morning to be at the train station when John Henry, Mary and the boy left for Opelousas. People crowded the narrow platform from one end to the other: men in serge suits with their coat collars turned up; men wearing overalls; children hanging off lampposts; and enough women, Eddie said, that it looked “like a suffrage parade.”

  Tom and Eddie had boarded the train as early as they were permitted, in order to see the action on the platform from an elevated position. Eddie leaned out the window to get a shot of the crowd and saw photographers on the platform below turning their cameras back at him. He gave a thumbs-up in collegial recognition. Tom watched as Sheriff Sherman forced the crowd to part for the Davenports and Birds. The boy, in the center of the group, resisted when his fingers were pulled off Mrs. Bird’s coat, clearly distressed at being taken from her and pushed toward Mary. Tom watched Mary, too, to see if she could comfort the boy, but she seemed shaken by the attention of so many strangers, tentative in her actions. John Henry held the boy’s shoulder and steered him and Mary through the crowd and onto the train.