Lost Boy Found

by Kirsten Alexander

  “I lied?” John Henry thumped the chopping table. “It’s you who dreamed up a pack of lies. And to go to the sheriff and McCabe behind my back—By God, Esmeralda, the damage you’ve done.” He narrowed his eyes. “We’ll go to the sheriff right this instant and you’ll tell him you were wrong. That’s what will happen. And then you’ll leave this house.”

  “No, sir. The boy belongs with his real mama. You can make this right.”

  Cook made a fast suck of air.

  “Oh, I’ll make it right. Even if I have to drag you by your nappy hair, on your knees. You will tell the sheriff you lied.”

  Esmeralda shook her head.

  “So help me, I’ll beat you to within an inch of your life if you don’t do this, Esmeralda.”

  While John Henry was speaking, Esmeralda inched her way around the table.

  “None of this is your business. You have no right to any opinion,” he snarled at her.

  As Esmeralda made a move toward the door John Henry lunged at her again, but she remained out of reach. Esmeralda flicked her eyes down the corridor that led to the cellar. John Henry smirked. “Go on. I’ll leave you there to die.”

  Esmeralda made for the back door, desperate to be outside, gone. But this time John Henry was so fast she couldn’t avoid him. He pushed her hard, his lead-heavy hands on her chest, and she stumbled backward until she was against the kitchen wall. She looked entreatingly at Cook, who whimpered but did not, could not, do anything.

  John Henry brought his face close to Esmeralda’s, breathed hotly on her eyes. He poked his finger into her ribs, digging it in until she thought he would pierce her. “You’ll do as I say or I’ll make your life a misery. I’ll come after you at night. I’ll come for your children.”

  Esmeralda pushed back, with all the force she could muster. John Henry swore at her, told her she’d swing from a tree, and Esmeralda hit him. She hit John Henry’s face as hard as she could, striking his cheekbone and shocking them both.

  Mary came rushing into the room, the three boys behind her, to find out the cause of the noise.

  “John, no!” Mary shouted. She put one arm out to stop her sons from getting any closer.

  John Henry raised his arm and punched Esmeralda once, twice, knocking her to the floor. Mary ran forward and grabbed his wrist mid-flight, barely deflecting his aim, as he brought it down to strike Esmeralda again. John Henry roared, and shook his wife off so ferociously that she stumbled back and fell against the oven, sending Cook’s full pot crashing to the floor.

  The boys ran over to help their mother.

  “Get out of this house and never come back,” John Henry shouted. “If I lay eyes on you again you’ll be to blame for what happens.”

  Esmeralda, breathing hard, struggled to stand.

  John Henry clenched his fist again. “Now.”

  “John, what is this about?” Mary’s voice was shaky and small.

  “Go upstairs, Mary.”

  “But I don’t understand.”

  “I feel sorry for you both,” Esmeralda said, her voice shaky and hushed. “Whole world in your hands and look what you do with it.”

  She walked out of the kitchen. And after a blink, Cook scurried out behind her, the smell of burning pie in their wake.

  Part Four

  Judgment

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  On Monday, February 10, 1916, the first morning of the trial, Barbers Smith Senior and Junior sat at their kitchen table eating bowls of puffed wheat with milk and drinking strong black coffee, while Mrs. Smith juiced oranges. Outside, the air was colder than it should have been, a low fog still hovering over the garden bench. Mrs. Smith let herself enjoy the pleasing thought of the coming hours, when she and her tabby would have the house to themselves. Were that to last forever she wouldn’t be entirely sad.

  Once the two men had finished their breakfast, they would walk to the courthouse to sit on the jury for the Davenport-versus-Wolf case. It was exciting and annoying, an unrequested break from routine, a chance to be part of the biggest show in town, a day’s lost earnings.

  “Still,” Barber Smith Senior said, “civic duty is not optional.” He smoothed the newspaper with a wooden block. The St. Landry Clarion had published a front-page article by Tom McCabe describing how Grace Mill had been shown the boy pre-trial and neither had recognized the other. Tom’s article argued that this alone should be sufficient evidence to put Wolf’s ludicrous story to rest. Furthermore, he wrote, people had a right to know Grace Mill was holed up in the Penny farmhouse on the outskirts of town refusing to talk to reporters. She spent her days lounging about while the farmer’s wife cared for the baby Grace Mill had had by an unnamed man.

  Barber Smith Senior tapped at the story as he spoke to his son. “You should read this before we go.”

  “I’ve already heard enough to last me years. I’m fed up of these people’s names, this pointless arguing over a child. It’s not like either woman can’t have another one, is it?”

  Mrs. Smith thumped the two glasses of juice onto the table. “The things you say. Have another one—maybe that’s what I should’ve done. Traded you in for another son, one with a heartbeat?”

  “Now now, Mrs. Smith,” her husband said. “Rest assured we’ll be fair and reasonable.” He drank his juice and patted dry his mustache. “A man’s life hangs in the balance.”

  She looked down at him. “A man, two mothers, a father and a child. There’s more than one life that’s about to change.”

  Paul Davenport saw the front page of the Clarion that morning, too. The newspaper wasn’t something he had any interest in, but after breakfast, when his parents had left the house, he’d snuck into his father’s library to reclaim the ball that had been taken away from him when he’d been caught kicking it indoors. He didn’t find his ball, but while he was exploring the off-limits room, he caught sight of his name on the newspaper that lay on his father’s desk—his last name, in any case. That was enough to pique his interest. He was excited to see the article was written by Tom, and after he’d read enough of it, he had an idea. Paul folded the newspaper, hid it under his vest on the chance he bumped into Mason, and bolted upstairs to George.

  Mary Davenport sat at the front of the crowded courtroom next to her husband and had to twist in her seat to look around. She saw Gladys and Ira, Tom, Eddie, two young women she assumed were their companions, Sheriff Sherman and seemingly all of her sons’ tutors. Everyone was there, but Mary had no idea how their presence helped anything other than to feed public curiosity. John Henry had said the only people in the courtroom who mattered were the judge and jury. And surely they wouldn’t be swayed by the number of spectators the Davenports or Wolf had drawn to the room.

  The jury seats were empty and Judge Roy had not yet arrived. Mary placed a gloved hand on John Henry’s. He twitched, then patted her briskly in response. She’d been told countless times by countless people that the case was a rude formality, that she was not to worry, so she was troubled by his palpable tension. Like her, he was unaccustomed to being in a courtroom, but Judge Roy wouldn’t let anything bad happen to them. Hank would keep the factory running smoothly. Was there a real chance they could lose the case, lose Sonny?

  Mary felt a wave of nausea roll through her. Even after sunrise there’d been a layer of frost on her lawn, but the courtroom was oppressively warm. Surely there was no reason to have let so many people in. The room was already stale with hot breath, the smell of damp coats and hats, oft-worn cotton.

  And—Mary thought, as she pulled her hand back onto her lap, dropping it on the other with a quiet slap—as if the waiting, the clammy air, the hard seat and her roiling stomach were not enough, she had to find a new housekeeper, and cook. Her house was bedlam and she had no time to attend to it. Sula was sloppy and forgetful, and to have Mrs. Billingham’s cook on loan was a temporary assistance but not without emotional cost. While it was a kind gesture, knowing Mrs. Billingham was staying with Gladys and Ira add
ed enormous pressure for Mary to find someone quickly. More than anything, she missed Esmeralda to the point of tears.

  John Henry still hadn’t credibly explained why he’d struck Esmeralda. He said he’d caught her stealing, that Cook was part of it, too, but no matter how Mary pressed, he wouldn’t say what had been stolen. Mary looked in the obvious places and couldn’t see that anything was missing. Esmeralda was important to Mary—it would be wrong to say she was a friend, but she was more than a servant—and John Henry didn’t seem to realize the impact on Mary of his impulsive behavior.

  She worried, also, that the boys would never forgive John Henry for what they’d seen. Mary had offered them ambiguous answers in an attempt to explain the unexplainable: “would never be angry without a good reason,” “sorry for frightening you,” “she’s welcome back if she’s willing to apologize.” Mary had taken to eating breakfast with the boys rather than with John Henry, and had made time to go outside with them in the afternoons and sit on the porch while they played. At first, they’d treated her presence as an oddity, but after a while they included her, Paul showing the bird’s nest or strangely shaped rocks he’d found, and George and Sonny letting her help with their pictures. They’d been delighted at how good she was at drawing. Against John Henry’s wishes, she’d granted the boys a month away from studies, to play as they wished. He was aware she was working to repair the damage he’d caused, so aside from grumbling his objections he did nothing.

  Mary had asked Sonny that morning if he’d like a kitten, since they were most definitely the best pets to have, “soft and gentle.” She’d promised to take him to the postmaster’s house after Mother and Father’s business—not trial, but business—was finished, as Mason said the man had a litter of kittens to be homed—not drowned or made mousers, but homed. All three boys had greeted her suggestion with such joy that she’d finally felt she had their approval. Which, of course, had been the point of her tireless attention. Sonny had beamed when she told him the kitten would mostly be his, so he could pick it from the litter. That had sustained her on the way to court. She’d expected John Henry to be more pleased with her victory, but he’d merely said, “Better than a dog.”

  Composed. She needed to remain composed. She glanced toward the back of the room again. John Henry had told her to be prepared to see Grace Mill and to ignore her, but Mary had never laid eyes on the dreadful woman so wasn’t sure who to look for. As she perused the faces, she ended up at Tom. He smiled, and she wished he could sit beside her. She’d missed his company.

  * * *

  The day before the trial, while John Henry was at his factory, Mary had sent for Mrs. Capaldi. It seemed wise to gird herself for the coming days. Usually, Mrs. Capaldi made Mary feel calmer, stronger, but the moment the spiritualist had sat opposite her at the table, Mary willed her to leave. Everything about the woman was irksome, from her patchily powdered cleavage to her hideous jewelry. Mary looked for something to ease her eyes. A vase of white camellias sufficed until she saw a crack in the porcelain where none had been before. And the fold mark on her freshly laid tablecloth would not stay smooth.

  “Mrs. Davenport.”

  The tablecloth was fine as long as Mary’s hands were pulling it flat, as long as she was observant, but when she relaxed—She lifted her hands. The crease bounced back. Was this a new thing, for a crease to be ironed in? Who was she to talk to about it?

  Mrs. Capaldi watched. “Perhaps you would prefer to sit on the sofa.”

  Mary shook her head. She was cross at her tablecloth, at Esmeralda for vanishing, at Mrs. Capaldi for not being more attuned to her mood and for smelling so strongly of vetiver. She was cross that Tom never came to visit, cross at her father for his cold silence, at John Henry for letting things get to this point, at the woman who would take her son away. That Mary had to even appear in a courtroom was ridiculous.

  She used her water glass to press on the crease. “I think you ought to lay out the cards now. Right here.”

  Mrs. Capaldi was taken aback. Mary never directed the course of their time. “Prego.” She placed her tarot cards on the table, thinking she had precious little chance of accessing truths while Mary’s emotions bubbled like boiling water in a pot. The cards needed stillness to unpack the present and anticipate the future.

  “Composure is the idea you must hold center of mind, Mrs. Davenport. Be serene and at ease. Donna dignitosa. You have been wronged, but you are composed.”

  “Yes.” That seemed a wise approach. “Composed.” She looked away from the crease. What was it to her anyway?

  Mrs. Capaldi placed her arm on the table, palm up. “Please, give me your hand.”

  The medium’s hand was plump and warm. Even her rings gave off an almost living heat.

  “Your heart line is strong. You have many loves.”

  “Many?”

  “Your husband, sons, the things that enliven you—your music, your beautiful dresses. Your life will sing often if you let it.”

  Mary stared at her palm.

  Mrs. Capaldi held Mary’s hand between her own as though she’d caught a tiny bird. “Love can be a tiny flutter or a great soaring roar. Accept whatever form it takes, Mrs. Davenport. Be sure and still.”

  “Composed.”

  Mary watched the jury file in and arrange themselves on two long wooden benches. One by one they were sworn in by the bailiff. She glanced at the lawyers’ tables in front of her, one either side of an aisle as though they were at a wedding. Everyone stood as the judge entered the room and took his place with three flags behind him: one for the nation, one for the state and one for the Confederate.

  She and John Henry had been spared the indignity of sitting with their lawyer, but Gideon Wolf sat, rather self-importantly Mary thought, with his legal team of two.

  She turned around to see the upstairs gallery was full as well, the colored people having found their seats via the internal back stairway. Would Esmeralda risk an encounter with John Henry in order to watch the trial, to wish Mary well? It seemed not.

  Judge Roy reproached Gideon Wolf for talking to the jury.

  “Forgive me, Your Honor. I was asking Ben whether his arthritis was still troubling him. They say it’ll ease if you give up the good things in life. But a good life’s better, eh?”

  Several members of the jury laughed at this. John Henry noticed the casual affection they were showing Wolf, and Mary noticed John Henry’s clenched jaw. As she turned back toward the jury, she saw a young juror—the barber’s son—glaring at her. The air was so hot, her collar too restricting. She’d never wanted to run from a room more.

  It occurred to her in a panic that John Henry had somehow found Esmeralda with the blue dress. Mary hadn’t told her husband she’d given it as a gift for young Sally, hadn’t thought to do so. And now Esmeralda had been beaten, fired, thrown out of their home. That would explain him thinking she was a thief. But she had Mary’s permission to have the dress—more than that, Mary had given it to her. If only Esmeralda had spoken up when Mary had come into the kitchen. She reached out for John Henry’s arm then pulled back—he was radiating prickly fury, and although she was desperate to tell him about the dress, she saw this wasn’t the moment to do so.

  Mary hadn’t looked carefully at the colored section. Esmeralda didn’t sit front and center—she wasn’t a fool—but she was there, wouldn’t have been anywhere else.

  She’d walked to the courthouse staying to the edges of the street, near closed shop fronts with drawn shades, and thought that once she got into the courthouse she would blend in with the upstairs crowd. Some part of her wanted Mr. Davenport to look her in the eye and feel ashamed at what he’d done, and see she was unbowed. But the consequences of being seen were terrifying. She didn’t dwell on that, instead put one foot in front of the other.

  The day was picture-perfect, with a clear blue sky and honey-yellow sun. Esmeralda noticed that the people around her—all walking in the direction of the courthouse—see
med upbeat, were babbling to their companions.

  But if everybody thought this bright, sunny day bode well for them, some of them had to be wrong. The verdict would either allow them to congratulate themselves on their prediction or bemoan the unfairness of the system, to cheer the underdog or stand up for the respectable elements of society.

  Esmeralda joined the swarm of people shuffling up the courthouse steps then squeezing together to funnel through the doorway. In the passageway, before colored people went one way and white people the other, the townsfolk mingled like river stones. Their clothes carried smells from factories, stables, grand mansions: oil, cabbage, cigar smoke and rosewater. Esmeralda imagined the talk floating over her like a cloud, the men’s baritone staying close to hat height, the women’s higher notes soaring above. Once the crowd split in two, the air felt lighter and less pungent, the building more spacious, and Esmeralda relaxed.

  She moved close to the railing and looked down on the main room, where the white men and women were dropping into their seats. When there were no seats left to fill, they stood in rows at the back. And when there was no room there, an official closed the doors.

  Esmeralda saw John Henry and Mary Davenport sitting near the front. Behind them, Mrs. Billingham clutched a white handkerchief to her nose. At the back of the room there was Tom McCabe, holding his notebook, and Eddie, without his camera. No sign of Grace Mill or the Pennys, though. She glanced at Mary in time to see her look toward the colored section. Esmeralda eased herself back from the railing.

  “You like to live dangerously.” Joe sat down beside her.

  “Hush. It’s only dangerous if some boob lets the Davenports know I’m here.”

  “No different from hiding in plain sight, I guess.”

  Esmeralda was staying with her sister. The three-room wooden house, which would have fit ten times over inside the Davenports’, was already sleeping Annalise, her two children and Esmeralda’s three. It could hardly hold one more person without bulging at the seams, but it did. Esmeralda hadn’t once worried that staying there would endanger anybody, including herself. Her sister lived a fifty-minute walk from the Davenports, so it wasn’t as though she’d taken extreme measures to hide. Her safeguard was simply that nobody had ever asked where her sister lived—those who cared she had a sister—so that once she left, they were confounded.