Maude Brown's Baby (26 page)

Clarence tapped his finger on the page.

“This here’s an article about buildin’ a crystal radio set. With one of these, you could listen to signals from around the world!”

“But
you don’t know Morse code.”

“You sound just like your ma.” He put that copy back in the pile and dug for another. A fat silverfish, annoyed by the light, scurried down the outside of the crate.

“How about this?
Build Your Own Apple Press for Five Dollars
. I might want to do that some day. Your ma is always after me to do something with the extra apples from her tree.”

Donald laughed. “All right, Pa. I see your point. Let me help you put them on the high shelf above your workbench. Ma won’t see them there.”

Clarence relaxed. “Good idea, son. Let’s do it afore she comes back out here to check on me.”

From her kitchen window, Naomi watched Donald carry the box of smelly, roach-infested magazines into the garage. She let the curtain fall back into place
. “My boys,” she said aloud, smiling and shaking her head.

A minute later, Clarence came up the
back steps and into the kitchen.

“Jus’ need matches for the burn barrel,” he s
aid, grabbing two from the dispenser near the stove, then walking quickly back toward the screen door.

“Did everything fit?”

“Yep, I’m fixin’ to light the fire now.”

“That’s fine.”

Clarence looked at Naomi, sensing trouble. He stopped, one foot already on the back porch.

“Anything else afore I go?”

“No, just tell Donald to wash his hands good before he comes in the house.”

“How was the luncheon?” N
aomi said as Donald took his seat at the kitchen table. Clarence was right behind, but he hurried down the hall to the safety of the bathroom. Naomi was surprised when Donald didn’t go straight to the cookie jar, as he normally did.

“The luncheon was fine, Ma. I met some interesting people. One of them is a publisher from New York. After talking to him, I mad
e a decision about the newspaper job Jake lined up.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. I’m not going to take it.”

“What will you do?”

“Well, everything depends on the Army now, but if they don’t want me, I’ll photograph for Mr. Hoffman. He’s starting a new kind of magazine, one that features pictures just as much as the stories.”

“Like
Collier’s Weekly?”

“No.
Collier’s
has illustrations. Hoffman’s new magazine will use only photographs.”

Naomi finished rolling
her pie crust and began pressing it into the bottom of a well-used pan. She used a knife to trim the excess dough, which she mashed back into the larger lump still in her mixing bowl. She patted the sides of her apron, then wiped her hands on a dish towel before turning to Donald.

“When do you start?”

“That’s up to the Army.”

“Have you heard from the draft board yet?

“No, Ma.”

Naomi leaned forward and glanced down the hall to see if Clarence was within earshot, but he remained in the bathroom.

“Did you hear from Clara?”

“Yes, she sent a card, and you got a letter.” Donald fished them both from his pocket and laid the letter and card side-by-side on the table.

“You don’t sound happy. What did Clara say?”

“Not much, Ma, just that she enjoyed meeting me.”

“That’s all?”

“Yes.” Donald rested his chin in the palm of one hand, elbow braced on the table. Naomi thought for a moment before speaking.

“Donny, did you write to her?”

“Sure, Ma, I mailed it Thursday morning.

“A letter?”

“No, a post card.”

“A post card? Donny, what were you thinking?”

“Well, Ma, I didn’t have time to write much, so I figured a quick note would be all right.”

“You go to your room this minute and write that girl a proper letter! A post card! Good Lord.”

Naomi fussed at Clarence, but seldom raised her voice to Donald. Still, the thought of writing to Clara cheered him. He headed for the cookie jar, selected four, then poured himself a cool glass of milk.

“Good idea, Ma.” Hands full, Donald pointed toward the table with his chin. “Don’t forget your letter.”

Naomi watched Donald carry his snack across the yard. He’d spoil his appetite for supper, eating so late in the day, but she didn’t mind. She eased the screen door closed after Donald disappeared into his shed. White smoke from the burn barrel drifted across the yard. Its woody smell permeated the kitchen.

D
own the short hallway behind her, the toilet flushed. Naomi turned to the letter on the table, picked it up and froze.

“You’d better see this,” she called as soon as Clarence opened the bathroom door. “We got another letter from the Red Cross.”

Clarence stood behind his wife briefly, resting his hands on her shoulders. Naomi didn’t move.

“Let’s see what it says.”

“I’m afraid.”

“Well, don’t be. If
it was bad news, the Army would’ve sent a telegram, don’t you think? Sit down.”

Clarence took the envelope
from Naomi’s hand, rolled his hips to the right in his chair and pulled a knife from his left pants pocket. He folded open the blade, slipped the point under the flap, then pushed it neatly from one side to the other.

The typewritten letter inside was on Red Cross station
ery—American this time, not British. As before, someone else was writing for Cletus, but this time the letter was less than a week old, and it had come from New York.

As Clarence r
ead, Naomi reached for his hand and his strength.

Am. Nat. Red Cross Service Center

New York, N.Y.

September 7, 1918

Dear Mr. and Mrs. Stokes,

Cletus has asked me to convey that he arrived safely in New York and that our medical personnel have cleared him for transport by hospital ship to either the Port of Galveston or Port of Houston in the next few days, depending on the available vessel.

Your son is doing as well as can be expected, considering the effects of
nerve gas on the body. He says he feels stronger each day, although only a portion of his eyesight has returned thus far. He is able to walk for short distances. One of our staff will advise you as soon as we know his approximate arrival date. Cletus sends his love to you and his brother.

Cordially yours,

Willa M. Grimes,

Assist. Transport Document Coordinator

Clarence read the letter aloud a second time, then laid it on the table. He patted the top of Naomi’s hand, which was still gripping his own. Her eyes, brimming with tears, never left the window as she spoke.

“When do you think our boy will be home?”

Clarence cleared his throat. “Well, let’s see. If he did leave a few days after this letter was mailed, that means he could’ve left New York Wednesday or Thursday. Today’s Saturday, so I figure he’s somewhere at sea, like the letter says, on one of them hospital ships.”

“How long would that take to get all the way from New York?”

“By sea? I reckon the better part of ten days, maybe two weeks dependin’ on the kind of ship and the weather. It’s still hurricane season, you know. If a storm come up sudden while they was in the gulf, they’d likely have to put into port somewhere to ride it out.”

“So when could he be here?”

“For certain by the end of the month.”

Naomi squeezed her husband’s hand once more, then pushed her chair from the table.

“I’ve got to tell Donny.” Naomi was already at the screen door. “He’s writing to that girl in Galveston, the one I told you about.”  

Donald took the news about Cletus as a positive thing, although he could see the pain on Naomi’s face. He hugged her, lightly stroking her back.

“Things will work out, Ma. It’s just going to take Cletus time to heal.”

“I hope you’re right, Donny, I certainly do.”

Naomi clung to Donald a moment more. “Well, st
anding here won’t bake the cornbread and cook the beans.” She stepped back, brushing flat the front of her dress. “Will you be ready to eat in an hour?” She glanced at the three remaining oatmeal cookies and the glass of milk waiting on Donald’s desk.

“Sure, Ma, I’ll be hungry.”

Naomi wasn’t so sure, but at least she felt better about Cletus when she walked back to the house to start supper.              

In his shed,
Donald pulled a tablet from his desk, sharpened a pencil, took a bite of cookie and began. The words flowed so easily that he wrote for half an hour without stopping, and only then to light his kerosene lamp.

Saturday, September 14, 1918

Houston, Tex.

Dear Clara,

Thank you for your card, which arrived today. So much has happened in the last few hours, so much has changed, I hardly know where to begin.

First
, let me say that I did register for the draft on Thursday a.m., as you knew I planned to do. For all the worry it has caused over the past few months, the actual thing took only minutes, and I was greatly relieved when it was done. Now I must trust fate. I expect to receive the notice to take my physical any day now. That is the next step for everyone. Whether the Army wants a soldier with eyes like mine, I do not know. I am certain that I can contribute in some way, even if it is not at the front.

Maybe it will be the same for Elton. Despite his asthma, he was accepted for military service and is due to report to Camp Logan soon. By the way, Jake let me know that he will meet Elton at the train station
Sunday afternoon, and I plan to accompany him. By the time you receive this letter, he will be home.

Another big event is that Cletus will be coming home. His eyes and lungs have been damaged by nerve gas, but there is hope he will recover. I don’t know the day yet, but he is coming by ship, either to Galveston or the Port of Houston.

The “change” I mentioned above came as a surprise earlier today at the home of Mrs. C
arhart, where I was invited to lunch. Four of the guests were in the publishing business: two writers, one newspaper editor and one book publisher. The other guest, besides myself, was the banker who is financing a new magazine for Mr. Leonard Hoffman. You may know of him, since his New York company has printed several medical textbooks.

Mr. Hoffman is
starting a new kind of magazine, one that features more photographs and fewer words. He says faster film and better lenses are making it easier to get good pictures “in the field.” Those were the words he used. I like the sound of them.

When Mrs. Carhart
introduced us, Mr. Hoffman’s attitude was cold and his questions tough, but I knew he was testing me. When he saw that we have the same ideas about photography, he warmed considerably. We spent the rest of the time talking about how pictures should be made. “Making” pictures is another of his terms. He uses it the same way Mrs. Carhart does.

The very best thing is that Mr. Hoffman offered me a job, making pictures for his new magazi
ne! I told him “yes” right away, but later wondered if I had made a mistake. It is not a regular paying job. That worry was completely gone after I talked to Clifford Murray. He is a writer who gave me a lift home in his car. It looks like Cliff and I will be working on magazine stories together before long.

I hate to tell
Jake that I do not want the newspaper job after all. Everything, of course, depends on the draft. Uncertainty has become the most difficult thing for me.

Well, Ma is calling me for supper, so I will end for now. I am enclosing one of the pictures I made of you on Wednesday. I hope your nursing studies go well, and that you have time to write to me soon.

All the best,

Donald Brown

“What do you mean by that?” Clarence said, dipping
cornbread in the juice of the red beans on his plate. “How can you call it a job if they don’t pay you regular?”

Naomi and Clarence had been grilling Donald for ten minutes, ever since he mentioned the position with Leonard Hoffman’s new magazine. Donald squirmed in his seat and his neck began to ache.

“I’d be a stringer, Pa.”

“Ha! A stringer is what you put fish on after you catch ‘em.”

“In the news business, a stringer is someone who works for a newspaper or magazine, but only when there’s something to write about or photograph.”

“Like part-time work?”

“You could call it that, Pa, except I’d be keeping my eyes open for news stories all the time.”