Small Blessings (34 page)

Henry shoveled in pancakes nonstop while Agnes talked.

“So,” she finished, “does that sound like a plan, Henry? You ready to tell the police that you want to live here?”

Henry stopped eating, put his fork down carefully, and appeared to be thinking. Tom and Agnes watched him and waited. Children, Tom suspected, made big decisions in increments, dealing only with the question of the moment. For Henry to tell
them
he wanted to stay here was one thing; for him to tell the police was quite another.

The kitchen faucet dripped; a car rumbled down the back alley. Finally Henry nodded. “After I tell the police I want to stay here, can we call Rose and see if she'd like to play soccer?”

“Sure,” Tom said, flooded with relief, wonderfully aware of the doomed Serafine Despré's delicate stamp on her son's hair and mouth and skin and
being.
Surely her parents had tried as hard as Agnes had to keep their daughter safe. And neither one had managed to hold damage at bay.

So what had made Serafine think she could best keep Henry safe by sending him here? How had she even known that
here
existed?

*   *   *

A woman answered when Agnes called the Mississippi State Police. Agnes identified herself and went right to the point. “Six-year-old Henry Putnam is playing upstairs in my home.”

There was an intake of breath in Mississippi. “Hold, please.”

Agnes was not on hold for very long. Sergeant First Class Hoskins's voice was deep and male. “I'm told you have information about Henry Putnam, a six-year-old boy reported as missing yesterday by Mason Brownlow of Picayune.”

“Well, not exactly,” Agnes said, enjoying herself. “I have Henry Putnam. He's upstairs at the moment, getting dressed to go play soccer.” There was a slight click on the phone line. “I can give you my address if that would make it easier for you to come check us out,” Agnes said sweetly.

“Yes, ma'am,” Sergeant First Class Hoskins said. “Please.”

Agnes gave it to him. “It's the fourth house on the left, just at the end of Faculty Row.”

“Yes, ma'am.” Agnes pictured a red alert speeding throughout law enforcement. The address she'd given verified that Henry had crossed state lines, so FBI involvement was now officially permitted. Sergeant Hoskins cleared his throat. “And what, may I ask, is your connection to Henry Putnam, who is, I'm sure I don't need to remind you, a minor?”

“Certainly you may ask. I am his father's mother-in-law, housekeeper, and lawyer,” Agnes said, with a slight emphasis on “lawyer.”

“You are with Henry's
father
?”

To Agnes's finely tuned ear, Sergeant Hoskins sounded nicely disconcerted. “Yes. My son-in-law, Tom Putnam, is Henry's father.”

“According to who?” Sergeant Hoskins demanded.

Agnes had to enunciate carefully around the big lump of butter in her mouth. “According to his birth certificate.”

Papers rustled briskly in Mississippi. Voices murmured as well. A female voice declared, “Got it!”

“I'm going to put you on hold for a moment,” Sergeant Hoskins announced briskly. “I'm sure we can straighten all this out, but please, do not attempt to change locations or move Henry Putnam. The police are on their way.” The phone line went briefly mute before an annoyingly sweet-sounding female voice came on offering safety tips for highway driving.

The Putnams' doorbell rang. Agnes waved to Tom to answer it. With her free ear she heard him cross the foyer and open the front door. “Good morning, Clarence,” Tom said. “Come in. Come in.” Agnes could picture him offering his hand to affable Clarence Mayhew, a retired elementary school teacher and the college's chief of police. “I'll bet you've been told to come here and investigate me for kidnapping.”

Clarence Mayhew made a soft choking sound that was probably meant to be laughter.

Sergeant Hoskins was back on the line. “Is your name Tom Putnam?”

“No,” Agnes said sweetly. “My name is Agnes Tattle.”

Out in the foyer, Tom and Clarence laughed in chorus, probably at some gentle joke of Tom's about his status as a wanted felon. Henry thudded down the stairs. “I'm ready to go play soccer when you and Agnes are done with the police,” he shouted. Agnes heard Tom introduce the boy to Clarence.

Down in Mississippi, Sergeant Hoskins drew in a sharp breath. “I'm sorry, ma'am. I meant to ask if you're
related
to Tom Putnam. Henry Putnam's birth certificate does name a Tom Putnam as his father, but we were told by Mason Brownlow that it was a made-up name. That Tom Putnam wasn't a real person.”

“Well, he most certainly
is
real,” Agnes said, theatrically indignant. “He's right here! And, as I told you before, I'm Tom Putnam's mother-in-law, housekeeper, and lawyer.” Again the slight emphasis on “lawyer.”

“I see,” said Sergeant Hoskins. “Is Mr. Putnam available to speak to?”

Distant sirens sounded.

Henry appeared in the doorway. He looked excited. “The police are coming!” he said happily.

“Excuse me a moment,” Agnes said into the phone. She pressed
HOLD
and beckoned the boy to come over. “Henry, I've got a policeman from Mississippi on the phone. Would you like to talk with him? I'm sure he's got some questions you could answer better than anyone.”

The sirens were coming closer. “Sure,” Henry said.

Agnes took the phone off hold and handed it to him. Henry drew himself up to his full almost-seven-year-old height. “Hello.”

There was a short pause.

“This is Henry Putnam. Agnes says you're a policeman in Mississippi, and you're looking for me.”

Another pause. Slightly longer. The sirens reached screeching level, then stopped abruptly.

“My mama put me on the train. She put my birth certificate in my backpack. She says it shows I belong here with Tom and Agnes. Would you like to see it?”

A man's face appeared at the kitchen window. Another man's face appeared at the back door. Both faces were topped with Virginia State Police hats. Agnes smiled and waved them in. The faces disappeared, the back door opened, and a half-dozen troopers filed in, each one carefully wiping his feet on the doormat. Guns and various other weapons hung from their persons like Christmas tree ornaments.

Agnes made a shushing sign and pointed to Henry. “He's on the phone with the Mississippi State Police,” she mouthed.

Tom and Clarence Mayhew appeared in the hall doorway. Clarence looked abashed to find himself in the presence of the state police. Tom, however, went over to each officer and shook his hand, introducing himself sotto voce as “Henry's legal father, Tom Putnam.”

“Yes, I want to stay here,” Henry said emphatically. “I belong here. My name is Henry
Putnam.
”

Agnes went over to inspect the coffeepot. There was only a cup or two left from breakfast. She picked the pot up and used it to gesture, first to Clarence and Tom, who both nodded yes, and then to the state police, who pretended not to notice. Agnes shrugged and went about making a fresh pot.

“Forever!”
Henry announced in a loud, strong voice.

He listened again and then held the phone out to Agnes, who was in the middle of emptying old grounds into the wastebasket.

Tom stepped forward. “I'll speak to them.”

Henry shook his head. “He wants to speak to Agnes.”

“Okay. Agnes it is. I'll finish making the coffee.”

Agnes and Tom did a do-si-do. Agnes took the phone from Henry. “Yes?”

There was a loud clunk. Tom had hit his head while opening the kitchen cabinet where the coffee was kept. “Daggone it!” he muttered.

“Do you know Tom Putnam's present whereabouts at this time?” Sergeant Hoskins asked from down in Mississippi.

Agnes could not remember a time when she'd enjoyed herself more. “Why, Tom Putnam's right here, banging his head on cabinet doors. Would you like to speak to him?”

“Yes, please.” It was pleasantly obvious to Agnes that Sergeant Hoskins was losing his cool.

Agnes held out the phone to Tom. “He wants to speak to you.”

They did their do-si-do again, and Agnes went back to putting the coffee together.

“Hello. This is Tom Putnam.”

At that exact moment, Clarence Mayhew farted. Loudly. Henry, who had inched over to stand beside Clarence so as to be able to examine his holstered gun, giggled. One of the Virginia state troopers also snickered involuntarily, then turned red. There was a general shifting of feet among the police.

“Sorry,” Clarence said, turning scarlet as a tanager. Henry continued to giggle.

Agnes smiled. How many major turning points in human history, she wondered, had been enlivened by farts? Probably most, and yet not a single one had been recorded.

“Certainly I can prove I am Henry's legal father,” Tom was saying. “My name is on his birth certificate, and his mother sent him here. I have the—”

He stopped midsentence as Sergeant Hoskins obviously interrupted him. Tom's face darkened as he listened, and he shot Henry a quick, protective glance, but Henry, who had finally stopped giggling, had also stopped listening. He was busy inching the tip of his finger toward Clarence Mayhew's weapon. “Yes, I am aware of what happened in the St. John the Baptist lockup,” Tom said. “But there hasn't been an opportunity yet to talk with Henry about that. And I'd appreciate the time to do it.”

Henry's finger reached its goal. He was standing there, his pointer on a real gun's shiny leather holster, lost in a six-year-old's nirvana.

“Certainly, I understand,” Tom said.

The front doorbell rang. “I'll get it!” Clarence offered, happy to get out of the room.

Agnes, busy pouring water into the coffeemaker, nodded her thanks. Clarence trotted off. Henry, his shoulders drooping, turned and watched him leave.

“I understand that Mr. Brownlow was named as his legal guardian,” Tom was telling Sergeant Hoskins. “And he's welcome to call me or come and visit us anytime. But Mr. Brownlow also needs to understand that I'm Henry's legal father, his mother sent him to me, and Henry wants to stay right here. And, according to my lawyer”—here he shot a look at Agnes, who gave him a thumbs-up with her free hand—“as I am named as his legal father on his birth certificate, I have every legal right to have him live with me.”

Tom, Agnes noted with approval, had not told a single lie. He'd claimed legal, not biological, parenthood. If Sergeant Hoskins or Mr. Brownlow chose to muddle the two, it was too bad; or, actually, in this case, too good.

Clarence returned with Rose Callahan in tow.

“Rose!” Henry sang out, skipping across to her. “Have you come to play soccer with me and Tom?”

Rose immediately knelt down and hugged Henry. Their two heads looked like a platter of froth.

“Certainly, I'd be happy to talk with Mr. Brownlow anytime,” Tom said. “I completely understand his concern. As I said before, he's more than welcome to call or come visit.”

Henry pulled back from Rose's hug. “Have you come to play soccer?” he asked her again.

Clarence Mayhew tapped the boy on the shoulder and made a shushing gesture with his finger. “Oops!” Henry whispered loudly. He clapped his hands over his mouth and did a little dance.

“There are actually six Virginia State Troopers here, Sergeant,” Tom said. “Would you like to speak to one of them?”

Rose's hand had drifted protectively to Henry's shoulder, but her eyes, Agnes noticed, were on Tom.

Tom held the phone out toward the line of Virginia State Troopers, who had begun to remind Agnes of the Village People. The trooper in the middle stepped forward and took the phone. “Trooper Davison.”

This was it, Agnes knew; the moment they found out if they were in any immediate trouble. And if they were, how much.

Everyone stared anxiously at Trooper Davison. Even Henry.

“Yes, sir!” Trooper Davison said. “Certainly, sir!” He hung up the phone.

No one breathed.

Trooper Davison turned to his men. “I think we're done here,” he said. “Mississippi will notify the FBI that the child is safe and with his legal father.”

There was a collective sigh of relief, followed by a general buzz of congratulatory chatter. Even the state troopers seemed pleased with the outcome.

Prying eyes be damned. Tom and Rose threw their arms around each other. Agnes smiled. It was at moments like this that people did what they had to do.

She herself was going outside for a smoke. To hell with resolutions!

*   *   *

When Tom opened the front door for the state troopers, he found a good-sized crowd gathered on his front lawn. Knots of grown-ups murmured together while children raced about among the troopers' cars.

Tom shook hands with each trooper in turn as they filed past him; then, feeling rather like the pope on his balcony, he stepped out on the front porch and waved briefly to his assembled neighbors. “All's well,” he called, knowing that everyone, constrained by their good manners, would now have to go home. Concern was permitted; nosey-parker-ness was not.

Back inside, having closed the front door, Tom stood for a moment in the cluttered foyer and tried to figure out how he felt. This had been irrelevant for so many years, he wasn't quite sure how to do it anymore. At first he tried to
think
about how he felt, to figure it out intellectually. But then it came to him that the thing to do was to do nothing; he simply needed to stand there and feel.

Just as he reached the point of realizing that what he felt was
alive,
Rose Callahan slipped in from the kitchen, came straight toward him, put her arms around him, and kissed him as he had not been kissed since … since
never.
This was what he'd dreamed about as a teenager upstairs in his room staring at Farrah Fawcett in her bikini, combined with the calmest, steadiest realization that he needed to hang on to this woman, forever and ever, amen. Was this how true love happened? Could it possibly be this uncomplicated?