Ellis scrambled to his feet. “Mr. Gale?”
The man continued over with an inquisitive look. A lump of chewing tobacco bulged from his bottom lip. “Call me Walt.”
“Ellis.” They traded a handshake.
“What can I do for ya?”
Thankfully, Walt took no convincing at all to step outside and speak in private.
Chapter 18
A hint of white smoke greeted Lily as she neared an open door inside the modest-size building, roughly a mile’s walk from the train depot.
Not smoke, she realized. Chalk dust. At the blackboard, before several rows of wooden desks, a young, freckle-faced boy in a sweater vest and woolen knickers pounded two chalkboard erasers together, creating a fresh cloud. He sneezed twice in quick succession.
“Bless you,” said a woman in the corner. Seated at the teacher’s desk, she was the only other person in the room. She had short, black hair and a face as full as her figure, set off with high cheekbones. A Spanish-like skin tone gave her a touch of exoticness. “Now, keep at it, Oliver. I prefer not to be here all afternoon.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he mumbled, white dust on his cheeks.
The two-room schoolhouse was on the back side of a church, where it doubled as a Sunday school. The cordial pastor, freshly assigned to the area, had directed Lily here for possible insight into the situation.
“Pardon me. Mrs. Stanton?” Lily said upon entering.
The teacher twisted in her seat, her ample bosom stretching her blouse. “May I help you?”
“I certainly hope so. Pastor Ron sent me your way.”
Mrs. Stanton brightened. “This is regarding the blanket drive?” she ventured. Without turning, she declared, “I don’t hear any erasers, Oliver.”
The boy resumed cleaning with another whack, and Mrs. Stanton waited for Lily to go on. Due to the topic, Lily moved closer before explaining. “Pastor Ron mentioned you might be able to shed some light on a matter. One involving a former student of yours.”
Mrs. Stanton looked intrigued, though still cheery. “And which child would that be? I’ve taught quite a few.”
Lily smiled kindly. “I’m sure you have.” Conscious of the boy’s presence, she lowered her voice. “Her name is Ruby Dillard.”
Mrs. Stanton’s mood changed, doused like a flame. After a beat, she gave her throat a quick clearing. “Oliver, that’s enough for today.”
The boy perked up for only an instant before he abandoned the erasers and sprinted for the door.
“And don’t forget!” Mrs. Stanton called out, halting him. “Next time you choose to lick a classmate, what should you expect?”
He sighed. “The paddle.”
She motioned her thick chin toward the door. “Off you go.”
The boy’s infraction played out in Lily’s mind, an amusing scenario that vanished when Mrs. Stanton leaned forward, elbows on her desk. “Has something awful happened, with the man who took those sweet children?”
“To be honest, Mrs. Stanton, that’s precisely what I’m trying to find out.”
The teacher’s brow creased. “I don’t understand. You’re not a child worker?”
“No, I’m…” How could Lily describe herself in the simplest form? “I’m a friend of a reporter who recently connected with the family.”
“I see,” Mrs. Stanton said. “The reporter.”
Unable to gauge the woman’s tone, Lily hurried to inject a note of compassion on Ellis’s behalf. “That same friend last visited the Dillards in the fall, when he delivered another batch of donations for the family. So, you can imagine his surprise when he stopped by last week and discovered the news.”
“Yes, well. The situation was a surprise to many of us.” More graveness than resentment echoed in Mrs. Stanton’s words, encouraging Lily to press on.
“Would you know where the children are now?”
Mrs. Stanton shook her head, a solemn motion. Then her gaze drifted to the middle of the room, perhaps visualizing Ruby at her desk.
“Do you have any idea why they were…given up?” A milder term for it. “I’d have thought the donations would’ve made such a thing avoidable.”
Her eyes still distant, Mrs. Stanton spoke as if thinking aloud. “I would’ve offered to help out with Ruby—her brother too—if only I’d known of her condition earlier.”
Lily blinked at this. “Condition?” The word sent her mind spinning.
Was this the reason Geraldine had given away her daughter? Had she viewed a wealthy banker as a solution, ensuring better medical care for a sick child?
But then, why send her son off too? Why take the money in exchange?
“Are you saying Ruby was ill?” Lily asked. “Mrs. Stanton?”
The teacher broke from her thoughts. “Oh, no, not the girl,” she said, causing but a flash of relief. “I was referring to Mrs. Dillard.”
Chapter 19
Scents of diesel and farmland intensified as the afternoon sun elbowed its way through the clouds. Its filtered rays cast shadows across the railroad tracks. On the side of the train depot, Ellis had found a quiet spot of shade to stand and talk.
“Now, like I said,” Walter Gale reiterated, “I only caught what I could see and hear from my motorcar.”
“Completely understand,” Ellis assured him. He wished he could jot details on the notepad in his pocket, but given the subject matter, Walt didn’t feel comfortable going on record of any kind. It didn’t matter that Ellis, as the author of the related article, was just following up now for personal knowledge.
“So, what can I tell ya?” Walt hitched his hands on the denim trousers that hung a bit loose and short on his thin frame.
“At the Dillards’ house that day, do you remember there being a sign? The one that was in the paper.”
“About them kids for sale?” Walt thought hard, using his tongue to adjust the tobacco under his lower lip.
Ellis feared that leaving the jagged board behind had somehow led to this.
Walt’s prominent Adam’s apple shifted before he replied, “Don’t recall so.” Then he dropped his chin toward Ellis. “But you wanna know something interesting about that sign? The folks down the road…the Joneses? They posted one just like it before they up and moved.”
Heat, like a current, zipped down Ellis’s spine. He braced for the damning conclusion.
“Gave Mrs. Dillard the idea, I’d gander.” Walt shrugged. “At any rate, that man did hand over a hefty pile of green for the two little ones. That I did see clear as day.”
A mix of relief and shame continued to burn within Ellis as he aimed to focus. “Got anything else you could tell me about him?”
“Oh, I’d say he was…six feet or so. Average build. Mustache and glasses. Wore a hat, so can’t say about the hair.”
Ellis nodded along, despite the common description. If he were sketching a wanted criminal, half the men in the country would qualify for the lineup. “Anything more?”
“He was fairly soft-spoken. Seemed nice enough…as bankers go.” Walt’s derision over the occupation wasn’t rare these days. But for Ellis, the detail might prove a benefit. It was the same tidbit the postman had passed along.
“Did the man specifically mention working at a bank? Or is that just a guess?”
Another casual shrug, though this time with a look of pride. “I worked at Penn Station, over in Pittsburgh, long enough to tell. Watched passengers come and go. That fella? Had a silk suit and fancy, polished shoes. Those were my first clues. When he first paid me to wait, I saw his bills were in neat order. All ones, twos, fives, and what have you. ‘Accountant or banker?’ I asked. ‘Banker,’ he says. He looked right confused, but didn’t take the time to ask how I knew, like most people do. Just went on to handle his business about the kids.”
His business. The two wor
ds sliced through Ellis, razor sharp. Blades of his own making. He had to remind himself that he wasn’t the only one involved.
“Did Mrs. Dillard… Was she upset at all?”
Walt spat his dark saliva onto the road. “Hard to say. Didn’t show it much. But for folks around here, during these times, they grow used to not having a whole lotta choices.”
“What about the kids? How’d they behave through all of it?”
“After hugging their mama? The boy took some cajoling to get in the car. He was confused some. But once we were on the road, he got pretty darn excited about taking a real train ride. Asked lots of questions.”
“And the girl?”
“Heard her sniffling during the drive. Otherwise, didn’t make a peep from what I recall.”
Ellis fought to block out the scene, not wanting to imagine that little girl’s spirit broken into pieces. “You didn’t hear where they were headed, did you?”
Walt shook his head. “Afraid that’s everything I know.” He wiped some spittle from his lip and glanced at his watch. “Well, if that does it, I’d better get a move on. Got errands to run before supper.”
Ellis dreaded releasing his sole witness, but it seemed the man had shared all he could. “Thank you, Walt. I appreciate your help.”
After a handshake, Walt strode over to a dusty car parked across the road. He climbed inside and started the engine.
Ellis was still well short of a sensible explanation. He hoped Lily was having luck gathering more clues.
“Come to think of it!” Walt suddenly hollered, his window down. “You might ask Blanche, inside there, about tickets sold—the last week of October. She’s likely to know where that train of theirs went.”
Ellis glanced back at the depot, connecting the name to the clerk. “You remember the exact week?” he yelled back, not meaning to sound incredulous. Fortunately Walt didn’t appear to view it as a challenge.
“Wedding anniversary’s on the twenty-eighth. With the fare from that banker, bought the missus a jar of cold cream she’d been hankering for. Well, good luck to ya!”
Ellis raised a hand in gratitude.
With a final spit, Walter Gale drove away.
Chapter 20
The sign on the front door of the house hung a bit crookedly, but its message, printed in block letters, was abundantly clear.
UNLESS EMERGENCY
DO NOT DISTURB DR. BERKINS
ON WEEKENDS
Lily paused a mere moment before knocking. She had come too far, in every way, not to see this through. It had taken another half mile of walking to reach the town doctor. Akin to her family’s deli, his home doubled as an office. It was a one-level house, painted rust red with white shutters. A woven welcome mat appeared well worn from use.
She knocked again.
Rising warmth from the sun, absorbed by her coat, caused her lower back to perspire. Her palms slickened around her purse handle as she observed the area. Another house stood to the right and one to the left, a half acre between each, yet she could hear only the soft chirping of birds. Perhaps the weather had lured the neighborhood out for a spring picnic.
Then footfalls echoed from inside. Shoes on a hardwood floor.
Lily straightened, assembling her greeting.
The door opened to a man who looked to be in his midsixties. He had a slender frame and a pleated forehead, and held a linen napkin in his grip. “Yes?”
“Dr. Berkins? Hello, my name’s Lillian Palmer. I apologize for bothering you on a Sunday.”
“Feverish?”
“Pardon?”
“Your face, it looks flushed. Other symptoms?”
Thrown off, she had to reset her thoughts. Classical piano music, with light static, played in the background. “No, sir. I’m here about a personal issue.”
He released a heavy breath, acknowledging the nonemergency. Nonetheless, he stepped aside. “Come in, then.”
Appreciative, she nodded. After he shut the door behind her, she followed his slightly hunched form into a room just off the entry. There he clicked on a lamp, set upon a rolltop desk against the wall, before shuffling over to a window to close the curtains. A brass chandelier glowed over a doctor’s table in the center of the space, and a china closet displayed medicine bottles and other supplies, more evidence of a converted dining room. Fittingly, the air smelled oddly of chicken soup and antiseptic.
“I’ll be finishing my dinner in the kitchen while you remove your undergarments,” he said. “When you’re ready, open the sliding doors over here.”
It finally hit Lily how her personal issue had been interpreted. She wouldn’t be surprised if her flushed cheeks were now beet red. “But…Doctor—”
He flicked his wrinkled hand. “Nothing to be ashamed of.” His tone dragged, having clearly spent decades comforting modest women with the very same words.
“Truly, though. I’m not here about an illness. I mean, that is why I came. Just not about mine.”
He tossed aside his napkin and crossed his arms, signaling her with a weary nod. Another familiar tale.
“If I may, I’d like to ask you about Geraldine Dillard.” Lily paused, allowing the name to register.
Dr. Berkins said nothing. Yet he knew her. More than that, he knew something about her. That much was plain in the set of his jaw, the firming of his lips.
“Please understand, I normally wouldn’t intrude upon another person’s privacy. But Ruby’s teacher, Mrs. Stanton, shared that Mrs. Dillard had a ‘condition.’ I was hoping you could tell me more. You see, I have concerns about her children for good reason.”
The doctor’s arms were still folded, but he appeared curious about Lily’s motives. A predictable reaction. Reporters and physicians had this much in common: at their core, they were solvers of puzzles and riddles.
“Go on,” he said, hence Lily gladly did.
In essence, she repeated what she had told Mrs. Stanton, stressing how much it would mean to learn the true factors behind the fate of the children. To know that their outcome was the best one possible.
The doctor seemed unmoved. When he responded, his manner was professional and measured. “I have a policy, you understand, of not revealing patients’ records. Particularly to those who have no ties as kin.”
Why had she expected otherwise? She was a stranger off the street, not even from their community, asking for a person’s intimate information.
She was running out of ideas—and time. The drive to Philadelphia still lay ahead.
“That being said,” he continued, “these are unique circumstances.”
Stunned for a moment, Lily neglected to answer. She simply watched him bend beside his desk and finger through the low file cabinet.
“I gather she had suspicions for a while, of it being tuberculosis,” he said. “When she came to me in the fall, she was coughing a fair amount of blood. Soon after, without the children to care for…” He pulled out a folder and skimmed his notes. “Indeed, I recommended she consider the Dearborn Sanitarium, over in Bucks County. There are nicer places, of course, but it’s an acceptable facility for those of limited means.”
Lily vaguely noticed the classical tune had ended. The soft static from the needle on the inner record had become the sole sound in the house.
She pushed herself to ask, “How long do you think she has left?”
“Had, I would say, sadly. I estimated no more than…two months. Three at best.”
She recalled the woman in the picture, fingers splayed, half turned away. Same as the chief, most readers had viewed the pose as one of shame. They had no idea they were seeing a mother whose stunted life would not include the young boy and girl huddled before her.
Lily’s heart sank, weighted by the unfairness of it all.
Now she understood—not just why Geraldine had gi
ven up her children, but why she would take money in return. Care at a sanitarium would not be free.
These were the thoughts that persisted in Lily’s mind as she soon walked toward the depot. In fact, she startled when she glanced up and stood a stone’s throw from her destination.
“Lily,” Ellis called to her. He had been leaning against his car, waiting. He stepped toward her looking eager to confer. But his expression quickly dimmed, undoubtedly mirroring hers, as she prepared to share the news.
Chapter 21
Three days after returning from Laurel Township, Ellis was still dwelling on the official word he got from Lily. She’d taken it upon herself to phone the sanitarium, said she couldn’t fully rest until knowing for certain. The director only confirmed what the doctor suspected.
Geraldine Dillard had passed away.
In hindsight, Ellis recognized the clues. The dark circles under her hooded eyes. The weariness and ashen skin. The coughing.
Her look of desperation when he’d handed her those two crumpled dollars took on new meaning. He hated more than ever to think of how he’d benefitted from her being in that photo. His one consolation was the donations the article had gained for the family—and now, a seemingly better home than an orphanage for the kids.
That wasn’t enough, though, to let Ellis rest. His mind remained jumbled and his writing blocked, his nightmares preventing any decent rest. The favorable description of the banker should have given him a sense of peace, but didn’t.
Millstone—that was the man’s name. Ellis had learned it from the ticket clerk. Walt the cabbie had been spot-on about asking her for details, although she didn’t exactly celebrate the request. Her initial curt response had wavered only after Ellis offered a small fee—a tactic proven reliable with more than switchboard operators and hotel bellboys. A little skimming through the late-October travel logs, and there it was on the twenty-fifth of the month. Reserved under Alfred J. Millstone were three first-class tickets. The man had even splurged on a private train car.
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