Maude Brown's Baby (17 page)

“What did you learn at the club?” she asked Donald.

“Quite a bit,” he said. “For one thing, we talked to Maye. She’d been staying with a friend since last Thursday.”

Jake turned to Elton. “What were you thinking? She’s a married woman!”

“Ah din … know that,” Elton said, speaking slowly and swallowing between words so he wouldn’t cough again. “She … din … tell … me.”

Clara turned to
the nightstand, where she had a small pan of hot water on a dish towel. Inside the pan sat a clear glass bottle with a cork stopper. She retrieved the bottle, wiped it dry with a cloth, removed the cork and poured a tablespoon of warm syrup. It smelled of lemon. She held it to Elton’s lips, cupping her hand under his chin to catch any drops.

“What’s that?” Donald asked.

“Mother’s cough remedy. It’s a mix of herbs, honey, lemon juice and bourbon. Elton had a slight fever, so I added a little Aspirin powder to this batch.”

“Ish good,” Elt
on said, “but … she won’t … give me … as much … as I want.”

“It’s the whiskey he
’s after,” Jake said, patting Elton’s head. “Now I know he’ll survive.”

Donald turned to Clara. “What did he tell you?”

“You were right about the hotel room,” she said. “Beno kicked in the door soon after Elton took that second photo of Maye. He said Beno was like a rogue elephant, bellowing in Italian and kicking the furniture. Maye screamed, so Beno hit her, then went after Elton. Maye told Elton to run, but Beno got to him first. That’s what happened to Elton’s jaw. Then Beno threw him across the room, and that may be when he broke his rib, but Elton got out of the window and onto the fire escape before Beno caught him again.”

“Quick for
a big man,” Elton added, again swallowing between words. The cough remedy improved his speech. “It surprised me.”

Clara continued the story.

“Beno drug him to the alley, but Elton doesn’t remember anything more until he woke up in the dunes behind the seawall. It was dark, but there were electric lights around the construction site. At first, Elton didn’t know where he was.”

“Did you see any workers?” Jake asked. “There should have been a night crew.”

“No,” Elton said before Clara stopped him. She picked up the story again, referring briefly to her notes.

“Elton saw several large men on the top of the seawall, next to a wooden enclosure that had been constructed over the pilings. The men were in suits. There was a scuffle, then Elton saw one of the men topple into the concrete form.”

“S
ounded … like someone … dropped a big rock … onto gravel,” Elton said.              

“Wet concrete,” Donald said. “What happened then?”

Elton started to speak again, but Clara put her hand on his arm.

“Elton said he could hear the man cursing from inside the wooden
form, even over the noise of the cement mixer. The men on top rolled the machine on its rails to the edge and tipped the mouth of the mixer over the form. Elton said it looked like a huge pot of batter being poured into a cake pan.”

“After
… after a while … the yelling stopped,” Elton said. “But the men … on top … kept pouring … ”

“It went on for another ten minutes.” Clara said, again checking her notes. “Then the men
climbed down from the seawall. A short time later the night crew returned.”

“Elton, did the men look around for you?” Jake’s voice sounded urgent.

“How did you get away?” Donald added.

Elton looked first at Jake. “I don’t
… think so.” He turned slightly to Donald. “I waited … I guess … until … about 4 a.m. Not sure. I lost … my watch.” He held up his empty left wrist as proof. Clara picked up the story from there.

“Elton told me that before the sun came up, he found a fishing shack a quarter mile up the beach from the construction area. There was enough food and water for him to hide there until Sunday. That’s when he risked calling the police station.”

“I couldn’t … talk … very well … before that,” Elton said. “I don’t think … the officer … on the phone … believed me … when I told him … somebody was … ”

“They thought you were drunk,” Jake said. “The police were out there, but they’re not going to do anything more.”

Clara shuddered and Donald put his hand lightly on her back.

“We thought either you or Maye were in the seawall,” Donald explained. “Now we’re pretty sure it’s Beno.”

“But … why … ?”

“Beno was a problem,” Jake said. “Sergio told me he fired him when he heard about you and Maye. I think Beno’s enemies took over from there.”

“Elton was afraid they were looking for him,” Clara said. “After he regained his voice enough to make the phone call, he returned to the fishing shack.”

“I
… ran out … out of food … yesterday.”

“Yes,” Clara added, filling in for Elton. “He ran out of food and water, but he thought you’d be looking for him and guessed that you might come here.”

Jake nodded as Clara continued. “He walked all the way to the bay side of the island, then kept near the shore, trying to avoid people. He hid behind the carriage house until he was sure he had the right place.” She put her notes on the night stand and looked up.

“Elton was outside the window when Donald called, then he entered through the kitchen. He was injured and exhausted, so when I appeared on the stairs with Papa’s Webley, it was too much. He fainted.”

Elton slowly raised his hands and spread them wide in front of his chest. “Big
… damn … gun,” he said.

Clara and Donald gathered the soiled pillowcases and towels to take downstairs. Neither spoke until Clara began piling the linens into a large wicker basket in the mud room. Rather than leave the rumpled mess showing, she spread one white towel neatly over the top.             

“What are your plans now?” she asked, tucking the edges of towel into the basket.

“I need to return to Houston to register Thursday for the draft,” Dona
ld said. “Thanks to you, Elton’s much better. I talked to Jake. If it’s all right, we’d like to stay here until tomorrow afternoon.”

“Certai
nly. By then I’ll know if Elton is out of danger. He can stay until he’s ready to travel. With your help,” she added thoughtfully, “he could stay in the carriage house. It would be nice to sleep in my own bed again.”

“Of course. We can move him this evening.”

Clara touched her stomach. “Donald, are you hungry? I haven’t had anything since you and Jake left this morning. Let me see what’s in the pantry.”

“I’m starving, but I don’t want you to cook. Do you know a good restaurant?”

Clara smiled in relief. She needed a rest. “Oh, yes. Do you like enchiladas?”

“Sure.”

“There’s a wonderful Mexican restaurant nearby. Give me a minute.”

Donald smiled as Clara left for the washroom. He climbed the stairs and found Jake sitting with Elton, who was drifting in and out of sleep.

“How’s he doing?”

“Still a little fever, I think, but not as much pain as last night.”
             

“Jake, what are enchiladas?”

“Mexican hot dogs, but you eat them with a knife and fork.”

“Thanks. Clara and I are going to get some. You want to go?”

“No. You’re on your own. Enjoy yourselves.”

Donald was happy to have Clara to himself, but worried what they might talk about. He’d never invited a woman to lunch – or to anything
for that matter. He waved goodbye to Elton, who looked back through half-closed eyes and raised one hand from the sheet.

When Donald returned downstairs, Clara was by the door, pinning her hat in place. She started to take her mother’s parasol, then decided to leave it in the umbrella stand.

“Ready,” she said, smoothing the front of her dress.              

“Wait.”

“What?”

“Your collar is twisted.”

Clara glanced in the mirror, adjusted herself and turned back in mock civility. “Why, thank you, Mr. Brown.”

“Certainly, Miss Barnes.” Donald bowed deeply, gesturing like the gentleman comic in a vaudeville play.
             

The restaurant
was a ten-minute walk from Clara’s house, and Donald enjoyed the chance to see more of her neighborhood. Most homes in this part of town, she explained, had survived the 1900 storm.

“Water from the gulf side pushed everything this way, until the debris wall itself formed a barrier that protected the core of the city.”

“And your house?”

“The gul
f-side wall formed at N Street, but to the northeast, it was much closer. John Sealy Hospital was barely a block inside.” She slipped her arm through Donald’s as they walked.

Mrs. Carhart spoke in Donald’s mind: “Walk tall, my boy
. Back straight, chest high. Be proud of yourself.” Her words never made more sense.

Donald studied the two-story wooden building as they approached
the restaurant. The corner entrance included three steps up to the front door. Even from the street, the restaurant smelled of fresh tortillas, salsa and spiced avocado. Donald held open the door.

“M
ama loved this,” Clara said as they entered. “We ate here at least once a week, but now I don’t often come by myself. Blanca is the owner, and …”

Blanca herself interrupted Clara with a hug and kisses on both cheeks. “It has been too long,” she said, now gripping Clara’s shoulders and inspecting her at arm’s length. Blanca released her and turned to face
Donald. “And you have brought a handsome young man!”

“Donald, this lady who is trying her bes
t to embarrass me is Blanca Alvarez, a good friend and fabulous cook. Blanca, meet Donald Brown, a journalist who is visiting from Houston.”

“A journalist! How exciting.”

Donald felt his cheeks warm. He’d never heard himself described as such, but he liked the sound of it.

“Pleased to meet you, Miss
Alvarez.”

“Mrs.,
” she corrected. “My husband is the genius, he says, who keeps our business alive. At least he leaves me alone to run my kitchen. Please, have a seat. I’ll send someone to take your order.”

Blanca directed them to a table near a pair of windows that overlooked a row of young magnolia trees along Market Street. It was mid-afternoon. Only a handful of other patrons were in the restaurant. Donald heard the clatter of luncheon dishes being washed as Blanca retreated through double swinging doors at the far end of the room.

Clara hung her shawl and handbag on a nearby stand. Donald placed his cap on the hook beside them, then held her chair as she sat. He faced her across the table set for two. Suddenly lost for words, Donald looked up to study the exceptionally high ceiling, then the ornate stairway to his right. Without thinking, he began to scratch the inside of his right arm through the fabric of his jacket and shirt. He would have been more comfortable in the simple denim pants and workman’s shirt he typically wore.

“Blanca
and her family live upstairs,” Clara said. “This was once a private home, but the banker who owned it left Galveston after the 1900 storm. Blanca and her husband restored the building and turned it into a restaurant.”

“I like it,” was all Donald thought to say. He tapped his foot. He gripped his left wrist, slowly rotating it back and forth in his hand. He rubbed his lower back against the back of his chair. He was relieved to see the waiter finally approach.

“We’ll both have enchiladas,” Clara said before Donald could speak.

“Good choice,” the waiter said. “And what would you like to drink?”

“A
Triple-X
cream soda for me, please,” Clara said, turning to wait for Donald.

Donald grinned. “Same here.”

Blanca was known for her cooking, but not her speed. Donald and Clara found themselves sipping their cream sodas slowly, with plenty of time to talk.

“Donald, are you certain you want to register for the draft on Thursday?”

“I don’t have a choice.”

“Of course. Are you worried about being sent to fight?”

“Sure. I know war is not so heroic as the Four-Minute Men claim, but I don’t want to be a slacker.”

“Slacker,” Clara said, shaking her head. “I hate that term, and I’m ashamed that I’ve used it myself.”

“When?”

“Last year, after President Wilson asked for a declaration of war. I felt patriotic, like everyone else. We believed it would be easy.”

“I know. The papers said Kaiser Wilhelm would surrender as soon as Americans joined the fight.”

“And now it’s September
, seventeen months later. Who knows how much longer it will last?” Clara twisted her dinner napkin in her hands, saw what she was doing and stopped. She leaned close, speaking softly as if to share a secret.

“I’m worried about my brother. In his letters, he sounds discouraged. I’ve read awful things about the trenches, and at the hospital, I’ve seen some of the young men who’ve come back. Their families hardly recognize them.”