Lost Boy Found Page 11

  Inside their private carriage, John Henry closed the door to the corridor and pulled down the blind. The room became dark and oppressive, the small light above them doing little.

  Mary had seated the boy next to her and now, to John Henry’s unexpected annoyance, wouldn’t leave him be, tucking his hair behind his ears, pulling up his socks and patting his knee. John Henry wanted her to stop fussing, but he bit his tongue. She was trying to find ease with the situation, renewing her familiarity with the boy. He would have been more irritated had she been cold or aloof with him, but her actions felt bothersome in a way he couldn’t articulate.

  The boy gave nothing back. He didn’t respond to Mary’s affection or murmurings, nor answer when John Henry asked, “Are you happy to be going home?” He looked scared and confused. What John Henry wanted to ask, but did not, was, “Do you know who we are? Do you know who you are? What happened to you?”

  The whistle blew, the engine chugged, and the train rocked from side to side. Once they were clear of prying eyes, John Henry pulled up the blind then sat down with an emphatic thump. But the day’s glare showed the worry lines and dark circles on his wife’s face, the red eyes and quivering lips of the boy, and the October breeze was so strong that mother and child both slid across the seat away from the window.

  * * *

  The child was in a state of shock, Mary reasoned, and had suffered. But it was unnerving that he was so unresponsive. None of her efforts at comforting him worked.

  Still, she had him by her side. They’d found him. They were going home. And now that she had all her pieces again, she could put them back together. If Mary had learned only one life lesson, it was to persist, to block out doubt and forge ahead. She took a slow breath and glanced out the train window at the blur of trees and fields. And then, as if she’d planned to do so, Mary lifted her chin and sang the opening words to Sonny’s favorite nursery rhyme, “Three Blind Mice,” ignoring the child’s quizzical expression and John Henry’s scowl, her tempo speeding up in time with the train.

  The same commotion waited at the other end of the line, though it was dusk when they arrived. The lamplit Opelousas platform and the road that led to the station swarmed with people who’d come to be part of a moment the town had yearned for: the happy ending. John Henry carried the child tight to his chest. The boy seemed overwhelmed by the number of people, the flash of newspaper cameras, the headlights of the fire truck, the noisy chatter. He hid his face in John Henry’s coat. Mary followed close behind her husband, not responding to the multitude of flowers, cards and toys thrust at her.

  Tom and Eddie stayed on the train as long as they could, enjoying, again, the high and unimpeded vantage point.

  “What are the chances these so-called wellwishers are going to leave them in peace?” Eddie asked.

  Tom shook his head. “Zero to none.”

  Esmeralda had made her mind up in Mobile: the boy was not Sonny Davenport. But Mary had declared he was and the train had, quite literally, left the station. Now they all had to pretend.

  “Isn’t it wonderful he’s back?” Mary asked. They were alone in the bedroom, as John Henry was reading downstairs. Esmeralda helped Mary out of her dress, petticoat, corset, stockings and into her nightgown, then put the jewelry back in its case, draped ribbons over their hook, placed Mary’s shoes on the floor of the closet, even though all this was a job for the new maid. Esmeralda was tired beyond words after the uncomfortable journey, but Mary insisted on her company, wanting to share her happiness at her son’s return.

  Esmeralda could hear the edge of pleading in Mary’s voice turn to annoyance and knew she had to do more than nod and grin. “He sure will sleep soundly tonight.” She folded back the bedspread and smoothed the sheet with her hand. Esmeralda had never met her great-great-grandfather but it was family lore that he’d been taken from the arms of his ailing grandmother in Senegal, shackled and shipped to the Mississippi Delta, where his life beared no thinking on. He’d have been more confused than this boy, treated more roughly, sickened by the unfamiliar food. The world had a long history of people convincing themselves that children forget.

  Mary put her hand on top of Esmeralda’s. “That’s enough. Do let me lie down. I’m exhausted.”

  Esmeralda said goodnight.

  After she left Mary’s room, Esmeralda looked in on the boys and saw the young one was asleep. George and Paul were not.

  Paul whispered loudly for Esmeralda to come into the room. She sat on the end of his bed as he wriggled out from under the sheets to sit close beside her.

  “Why’re the grown-ups saying that’s Sonny?” Paul asked.

  “Hush, don’t wake him.” She tapped Paul on the nose. “You know that whisper of yours is no whisper, don’t you?”

  George, lying on his side in his own bed, joined in. “I don’t know who that kid is, but he’s not our brother.”

  “Your mom and pa say he is.”

  “What, have they got rocks in their head? He’s nothing like Sonny,” George said.

  “Not a thing like him,” Paul agreed.

  “Have you said this to your ma?”

  “She shouted at him,” Paul said, then put his hand to his mouth.

  “Stop chewing on your fingers,” Esmeralda said. “You’ll make them bleed.”

  “Already bleeding.” Paul held up one hand as proof.

  She spit on her handkerchief and dabbed at his fingers. “You come to me tomorrow, I’ll put some salve on them.”

  Esmeralda saw that George was staring at the sleeping boy. “How about you be kind to that child, no matter who he is. He’s been through a lot.”

  “But he’s not Sonny,” George said.

  “I know, I know. And you can keep saying that to me. But I’d button my lips with everyone else if I were you. Until Sonny shows up, the boy’s here. Let’s make that as agreeable as we can.”

  Paul perked up. “When Sonny comes home we’ll have two brothers. Four’s better than three for games.”

  “You’re so stupid.” George flopped onto his back. “That’s not how things work. He’ll have to go wherever his own house is.”

  Esmeralda patted Paul’s arm then stood up. “It’s not so stupid to make this a game for now, both of you. Play along. Wait and see what happens.”

  “They’ll find Sonny though, won’t they, Esmeralda?” Paul asked.

  “Sure they will.”

  Paul felt relieved. He had only now to think of what he’d say to his real brother when he came home.

  Word spread of the first encounter between mother and child. Perhaps Mrs. Bird spoke out of turn. Perhaps Eddie was too loose with his telling. It wasn’t clear who let slip the story, but the rumors became a public symphony: church and saloon chatter at first, then the newspapers rang in, tentatively—the Daily trilled “Not Confident Lad Is Her Missing Boy”—and then with a swell of sure sound, the Alabama Times trumpeting “Boy Does Not Recognize His Mother” and the Times-Picayune booming “This Boy Is Another Child.”

  A divide formed among the citizens of Opelousas, fanned and fueled by the newspapers.

  Camp A believed Sonny had been reunited with his true family, having been yanked onto a train as it passed near Half Moon Lake by the tramp Gideon Wolf, who’d used the poor boy for begging purposes. These people said that naturally the child was shocked and muddled; he’d been taken from his loving family, stolen away by a man he’d never previously laid eyes on, and then lived a terrible two years. You only had to hear about the boy’s ulcerated feet, lousy hair and torn clothing to know he’d endured horrors. He was covered in sores, and had burn marks on both arms. It would take time for the boy to remember the life of a normal home and tell his story. And the relief of the parents was palpable. To anyone who suggested they’d laid claim to another boy, people in Camp A asked, why would any person do that, take in a stray who could carry any illness, any blood? The accusation was churlish and made no sense. It was clear the tramp had invented the othe
r mother, since there was neither hide nor hair of her. The St. Landry Clarion and the Bugle held to this line of reasoning. They celebrated the reunion of a respected family after years of anguish. Tom, of course, continued to write that story.

  Camp B claimed they were being responsible citizens, more responsible than those grabbing at a quick end to the sorry saga. Dan Hardy from the News talked to the doctor who’d examined the boy, and he said on record that the boy’s injuries had been grossly exaggerated: “Case of head lice. Dumbstruck. Aside from that, fit as a fiddle.” Camp B argued, further, that any child, no matter how long they’d been separated for, would recognize his mother and father, that this boy’s silence was eerie. And any natural mother would have no uncertainty when faced with her offspring. Mary’s initial indecision, followed by her bullish conviction, seemed unhinged, and people knew she’d suffered mental strain. Also, the tramp who’d been found with the boy claimed he’d known him only a few weeks. They were confident that once Grace Mill was found, the Davenports would have to give the child over. The Daily, Times-Picayune and Alabama Times were committed to this thread of inquiry.

  The Louisiana Times alone hedged its bets.

  Dan Hardy claimed he’d also spoken to young Paul through the bars of the family’s front gate and the boy had said, “He won’t play soldiers. Doesn’t remember any games. He’s no fun.” That was strange, the naysayers agreed, was it not? Children, while of limited capacity, had no agenda. In response, Camp A noted how often children lied, for amusement, out of jealousy or when coerced by reporters.

  Many people questioned why Gideon Wolf would have come up with a tale so easily checked. He’d told authorities where to find the woman, more or less. And Sheriff Sherman was on his way back out of Opelousas to fetch her. If there was a “her.”

  For John Henry and Mary, this bout of scrutiny was more awful than the last. Previously their family had been the subject of unhelpful and prying sympathy. Now they were in the center of a savage storm of accusations and conjecture at a time they’d hoped would bring joyous relief.

  John Henry felt the lashes more sharply than his wife. Mary had the boys—her three boys together again!—and shut herself away from society. She managed the boys’ days, instructing their tutors on how to include Sonny in lessons, working with Cook on the week’s menus, alerting Esmeralda to the things the new maid, Sula, should know but seemed not to, scheduling with Nanny Pru the boys’ time with their mother and father. Mary was busy from dawn to dusk. But John Henry had to consider the impact of the rumors and newspaper articles on his business, his reputation, his plan to run for local office. He was in the public sphere more often than his wife so he noticed the drop in temperature when he entered a room.

  The unexpected turns in life exasperated John Henry, mocked his attempts at planning. He’d lost more than two years to searching for Sonny, and now a tramp and a farm girl were sending his family into another spiral. Which had consequences beyond his immediate aspirations or his wife’s contentment. He’d long hoped his three sons would attend Westwood Academy once Sonny turned five, but that marker had come and gone; Sonny would be seven in a matter of months. Paul would be nine, George ten. John Henry had hired the finest tutors, but having the boys educated at home agitated him. And Mary was stubbornly resisting letting them out into what she perceived as a hostile world.

  “They can memorize the McGuffey Readers here just the same as in some faraway place. Why would you send them there?”

  John Henry had explained this countless times. His sons needed to be with other boys. And it wasn’t far away. “Even if they stop for every snail on the sidewalk, it’s impossible to take more than ten minutes to get to the Academy. And they study more than the Readers.”

  John Henry had nearly launched into an explanation of the Academy’s adoption of the progressive Agassiz method, adding natural history and laboratory science to standard teachings of classics, geometry, logic, music and the rest. He knew his sons would benefit from the Academy’s approach of studying in both classroom and field, adopted to cultivate the mind and body. “The Best Moral and Spiritual Environment. And Splendid Intellectual Atmosphere,” their brochure promised. The school would build on his sons’ Scout training. But mentioning the outdoors component to Mary would have been the kiss of death, so he didn’t. Instead, he said, “They need to meet other children from good families.”

  Mary paused. “That is true.” She felt a stabbing memory of the loneliness she’d felt as a child. She wouldn’t wish that on her sons. John Henry stood as still as if he was drawing out a deer. But she pulled back. Her boys were so recently reunited; she wanted them at home. “The year is almost done. It doesn’t seem the time to start something new. For now, they have one another for company.”

  Housekeepers, maids and cooks from other houses grilled Esmeralda whenever she left the Davenports’. She waved away their questions, partly out of loyalty, partly from fear of word getting back, and partly because she intended to follow the advice she’d given George and Paul.

  When it was safe to do so, she talked to Cook.

  “The truth will win out. It always does,” Cook said. “When his mama comes to town the Davenports will realize their blunder, give the boy over and keep searching for Sonny. That day”—Cook pointed her whisk for emphasis—“is when she’ll need you most. She’s bound to fall back into her dark pit. And he’ll take off around the country again.”

  Cook came from farming stock, had led a sheltered life, but Esmeralda was constantly surprised by the woman’s naïveté. “When have you seen either of the Davenports admit they’re wrong about anything? No, here’s what I think: the woman will see her child, they’ll both get so worked up that Mr. Davenport will say the woman is hysterical and the boy overwhelmed. They’ll keep him until they find their own son and then…”

  “And then?” Cook swapped her whisk for a wooden spoon, added flour to her bowl.

  Esmeralda pointed at Cook’s metal tins. “You making two cakes?”

  “Don’t we deserve a treat, too?”

  Esmeralda felt sorry for Mr. and Mrs. Davenport sometimes. The reunion hadn’t brought them the peace they’d yearned for. She heard their arguments, barely muted by closed doors. And Mrs. Davenport’s mood changed at the whim of the child; she was happy when he ate without complaint or played contentedly with his wooden blocks, distraught when he threw himself onto his stomach and pounded the floor with his fists.

  “Whatever that child has been through changed him,” Esmeralda told Cook, “and all of them have to live with it now.”

  When she could, Esmeralda studied the boy. If she was right, and she was sure she was right, he had family somewhere. Maybe the woman she’d heard about, maybe not. Maybe his mama was dead. Still, she thought, he has memories of another place and little understanding of why he’s in this house. She’d have another word to George and Paul, make sure they were being kind. It was a difficult time for everyone. But the Lord always had his reasons. The boy, whoever he was, had been sent as a lesson or a test.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Clara was thrilled Sonny Davenport was home. “I’m so glad for them.” She spoke over the music coming from the band: renditions of “Ballin’ the Jack,” “Aba Daba Honeymoon” and, her current favorite, “On the Beach at Waikiki.”

  Tom could tell Clara was glad about the Davenport news, and everything else that’d passed her mind that night. They’d come to their favorite club, a buzzing, crowded room where slick-haired waiters zigzagged between ecstatic patrons dressed in their finest feathers, furs, suits and sparkles. Clara wore her new outfit, a red Oriental satin gown copied by a local seamstress from a photograph in Les Modes. “A copy of a Jeanne Paquin,” Clara had said in the car on the way to the club. “She dresses the Astors and Vanderbilts, you know. Even has a store on Fifth Avenue.” She’d showed Tom an article cut from the Times-Picayune. Tom took it and read aloud, “Paquin, Inspired by Old Pictures of Costumes Designed for Fam
ous Personages of Other Days.” He’d laughed. “So you’re wearing a copy of a copy of a copy?” She’d put a finger to her painted lips. “But don’t tell a soul. I’m pretty sure I can pass it off as the real deal.”

  Tom was happy to be out, drinking cocktails and listening to music. And he was relieved for anything that offered a break in the tension between him and Clara. It hadn’t been rosy lately. Clara was confounded by Tom. “You asked me to marry you, after all. Why won’t you agree to a date?”

  Tom had a hundred reasons but not one of them rang true, even to him. He’d proposed to Clara after traveling to New Orleans with John Henry. He was right, Tom thought: to love and care for a woman was an honorable thing. Marriage and children—these were what came next in life. Sporting houses, gambling, gadding about were fun, but you couldn’t do that forever. And Clara was affectionate, cheerful and well bred. Tom saw the way other men ogled her; she’d be snatched up in a minute if he walked away. So why did he so often have the urge to walk away? The idea of committing to a wedding date made him scratchy. He watched Clara, her shoulders jigging up and down to the sounds of clarinet and trombone, mouthing the lyrics. She glanced Tom’s way and blew him a kiss.