by Dan Walsh
She also had to swear that she wouldn’t leak a word about the reward money to the press. Both men made it clear the search parties were being assembled now and would be sent out within the hour, but only because it was the right thing to do. The money part—if it became known—would cause everyone to get the wrong idea, like they were only doing it for the money. Surely she could understand how that would look.
Katherine understood perfectly.
But no matter. Help was on the way, the first real hope injected into this dismal situation. The only thing she insisted was that they send someone over to pick her up and drive her to Collins’s home. She’d go insane just sitting there doing nothing with Patrick out lost in the cold.
Thirty
Rummaging through the trash for food. His humiliation was now complete.
Two days out from Christmas and now he’d been laid off his job, for no good reason. ’Cept his rich white boss said he don’t need no driver no more. What, he going to drive his big Caddy around by himself? Ezra Jeffries wasn’t no fool. He heard what the folks ’round the house’d been whispering, the other hired help working for the Radcliffes. They all say Mr. Radcliffe gonna fire your butt before Christmas day, and they right. They say Mr. Radcliffe gonna give his job to some old white friend’s out-a-work nephew, or some other thing.
Things no better here for the black man than they’d been in the Carolinas. He only been up here four months, got the tip on this job from his cousin Alvin, who worked next door from the Radcliffe place. Since then, Ezra never miss a day, never been late, never let a scratch get on that car. Always keep it clean, shiny as a top, say, “Yes, sir” and “No, sir,” even, “As you wish, sir,” something the butler said rich white folk like to hear. He gave him the paper every morning, got that door open ’fore he even had to ask. They never once complain about the way Ezra worked, not even once. Then . . . they just let him go, just like that. Two days out from Christmas.
Now, what he gonna do?
Ezra had four mouths to feed. His wife Ruby’s paycheck didn’t barely cover the rent, and that was due the week after Christmas. He just spent his last bit of money buying one Christmas present each for Ruby and their two kids. Now he don’t even have enough cash to buy food. So here he is, out in the freezing cold and snow, maybe a mile from home, digging in trash boxes like some old tomcat.
Ruby’d been getting on him about all his complaining, said we gotta trust the Lord for the good and bad come our way, but, “Jesus,” he said, looking up, “I’d sure like to see just a little more good, if you please.” About the only good thing he could say going on here now was no one out walking around in weather like this, see him fumbling through the trash this way.
It was plenty dark down the alley and plenty cold. But he figured the cold and snow might just be his friend. It got all the stores to close early tonight, and the weatherman say this storm might keep ’em closed another day or two, maybe even till Christmas. He figured that might cause the grocery men to be putting food out in the trash tonight that still was fit to eat, the cold might keep it from going bad.
Judging by all these boxes piled up in the alley next to Hodgins’s Grocery, Ezra had it figured just about right. He passed by this store every day on his way back to the Radcliffe estate. He might just get lucky and find something they could all eat that didn’t look like it came from the trash.
He hadn’t told Ruby about losing his job yet, couldn’t see worrying her so close to Christmas. She worked so hard every day, first cleaning her white folks’ place, then coming home to clean theirs. And he knew she’d make him take back the Christmas present he’d bought her and buy food. But no way Ezra would. He couldn’t get a present for her last year and still hated the feeling he got every time he thought on it.
As he opened the lid to the first box he came to, he noticed the snow was up past his ankles now, coming down real hard. He maybe only had one or two hours at most to do what he came here to do and get back home, ’fore he got himself stuck out here in the snow.
The first box was just full of smaller boxes and old newspapers. He set it aside and went after the bigger box underneath. Now this looked promising. It had several loaves of bread and two bags of odd-sized rolls. He had to take his gloves off to check, but two of the loaves hadn’t hardened up yet. He emptied out the first box and put them inside. “Give us this day our daily bread,” he mumbled.
Moving on to the box underneath, he almost gagged as he opened the lid. It looked full of newspapers, but it stank like rotting fish. He closed the lid quickly and set it aside.
Just then, he heard a strange noise.
He stopped and looked about. Couldn’t see no one. But it sounded like somebody moaning. Maybe just the wind, he thought. He walked out to the edge of the alley and looked down the street.
Instantly, the snow and wind slapped him in the face, and he pulled back. But he didn’t see a soul. He rushed back to the pile of boxes, moved the first row aside, and got to work on the next. The first box in the second row brought a big smile to his face. It was full of cans. All dented and mangled but none of them open.
He held each one up to a dim light by the side door. Some labels were too ripped to read, but he found two decent cans of green beans, a big can of corn, and three cans of chicken soup. Now this was somethin’. If he stopped now, they’d have at least one good dinner and a passable lunch. After putting them in the box with the bread, he decided to keep going. No telling if this storm would let him out of the house again once he quit.
There was that noise again.
He could tell it was coming from farther down the alley, not the street. It wasn’t a cat or a dog; it was something bigger. “Who’s there?” he yelled. “Who’s back there?”
No one answered.
He looked around and saw an old wooden pallet. He broke a board off, held it up like a bat. “You better answer me,” he yelled, walking slowly in that general direction. “I don’t want to hurt you, but I will if I have to.”
Still no answer. He stood there a few moments but heard only the wind. He turned back toward the boxes, took one step and, there, there it was again. He spun around. “All right, now, I know somebody’s back here.” He swung the board back and forth.
He heard the moaning sound once more, but this close he could tell it was low, down by the pavement. And it sounded more like a child, like one of his kids with a sour stomach. He squatted down and talked a little softer. “Are you hurt? Somebody hurt you? ’Cause I ain’t here to hurt you.” He waited a few moments. “Where are you?”
Still no answer. He put the board down now and moved slowly toward the sound. The back of the alley was darker, but his eyes were starting to adjust. He could just make out a few large boxes leaning up against a fence. He thought he saw something moving in the corner by the biggest one. He reached out his hand, praying it wasn’t a bad dog or some old crazy man gonna jump out and attack him.
“I ain’t gonna hurt you none,” he said. “You okay?”
There was no reply, but his hand felt the arm of an over- coat. He gently squeezed and could tell it was the arm of a child. “Hey,” he said softly. “Are you okay? What you doing out here all alone?”
The child did not answer. He felt his way toward its head. It was wearing a hat and scarf, but it was trembling all over. Just then, it moaned again.
“Good Lord,” he said. “What a child doing out here at a time like this?”
About ten minutes later, Ezra had the situation sized up. But it didn’t look good.
Bad enough he was out here in the snow snooping for food in the trash, but now he got this little frozen white boy to worry about. He couldn’t get the boy to wake up, his little mouth be chattering something fierce. He held him tight, trying to get him warm, but it was no good. His whole body was still trembling. He had to get him out of this place but quick. He tucked him back against the big box and walked out to the edge of the alley. Still not a soul in sight.
He went back and picked up the boy, tucked him in his right arm, and carried him to the box of food he’d been working on. He tried picking it up with his free hand, see if he could carry them both, but it was just no use. Ezra was strong, but with this storm, he knew he’d drop one or the other before he made it two blocks down the road.
Of all the crazy fool things . . . How was he gonna explain this to Ruby? What if anybody saw him carrying some white boy around out here in this storm? How he gonna explain that, and who was gonna believe what he said?
He set the boy down again and started shoving cans in his coat pockets, any opening he could find. He tucked the boy tightly against his flannel shirt, then wrapped his coat around him and buttoned him inside. Look as big as Alvin now, he thought. He wondered how he gonna carry all this weight back to their apartment. In the middle of a storm, no less.
But if he left the boy to get help, he’d surely be dead before he get back. He got to the edge of the alley, took one look back—maybe saying good-bye to all that food—then stepped into the icy wind.
It was way worse than he figured. Even with the streetlights on, he couldn’t see fifty feet in front of him. The snow on the sidewalk was up past his shins in spots, past his knees in others. He pulled his scarf up to cover his face, leaned forward, and started walking.
“One foot in front of the other,” he said. “That’s how we gonna do this.”
Thirty-One
As Katherine pulled up to Collins’s home, she noticed another squad car parked outside, and then another car she later learned belonged to a lieutenant with the fire department. Once inside, there were four men gathered around the dining room table, going over a map of the area. Probably planning their strategy, she thought.
Mrs. Fortini and Mr. Collins were both sitting in the living room. Collins looked straight ahead, staring at the wall. Mrs. Fortini instantly rose to greet her, gave her a big hug. “Miss Townsend, I’m so glad you’re here.”
“Katherine, remember?” she said, still in the grip of the hug.
“Katherine, yes. Come in, let me get your coat. You want some coffee, hot chocolate? I made both.”
“Some coffee would be great. Any word on Patrick? Anything at all?”
“No, but there were at least ten men here just a few minutes before you arrived. They’re out now looking in different sections of the neighborhood. And these other men at the table are about to join them, searching around the business district. There’s another man in the kitchen on the phone, talking with the Transit Authority. He’s seeing if there’s any chance Patrick may have taken a bus.”
“A bus? By himself?”
“I know,” said Mrs. Fortini. “Doesn’t seem likely a bus driver would let a boy that small get on without an adult. I didn’t argue. I’m just glad they’re finally doing something.”
“Do they know about the apartment on Clark Street?” Katherine asked. “Think there’s any chance Patrick would have tried to go back home?”
“Mr. Collins told the man on the phone about it. He said they’d send a car there just in case.”
Then Katherine remembered the first night she brought Patrick here and told him he could call her anytime, day or night, that he didn’t even need his grandfather’s permission. What if Patrick was out in the snow trying to find her? What if he left the house to find a telephone, someplace he could call her without Collins finding out? But there was no one at the office now, and she wasn’t at home.
The front door opened, letting in a surge of cold air. Everyone instantly looked up. Just another policeman, his hat and shoulders covered in snow. He looked past them to the officers in the dining room. “No sign of him yet. It’s slow going, but we’ve already scoured three blocks in every direction.”
“Tell ’em to keep at it,” one of the officers said. “He couldn’t have gone far.”
Another officer came out of the kitchen and added, “No sign of him on Clark Street, sir. Harrison said he knocked on all the neighbor apartments; no one has seen a little boy out and about since the storm began. And the Transit people heard back from those two bus drivers, the ones made their last runs within a few blocks of here. Neither one reported seeing a little boy get on. Dead ends all around, I’m afraid.”
The man she guessed was the captain made a face at the officer, pointing with his head in the direction of the living room. The officer seemed to get the message. “But I’m sure he’ll turn up soon, it’s just a matter of time.”
Katherine looked at Mrs. Fortini, then at Collins. They all got the first message. This wasn’t looking good.
Collins decided he just couldn’t sit there anymore. He needed an occupation, something, anything to get his mind off the growing dread inside. Every single one of the men involved in the search, at one time or another as they walked by, shot him a look that said: “So, you’re the one drove this little boy out into the cold.” The angry comebacks, so easy to dish out on any other day, just weren’t there. Because it was true. He was the reason Patrick was missing, the only reason. He couldn’t sit there anymore and absorb the stares, didn’t have the energy to resist the thoughts behind them.
Mrs. Fortini hadn’t said a cross word to him, though she had every right. Even the Townsend woman seemed to look at him with more sympathy than disgust. But he felt enough disgust inside to make up for them both. He stood up, almost startling the women.
“Where you going, Ian?” Mrs. Fortini asked.
“I don’t know, maybe I’m just stretching.”
“You want any coffee?”
“No thanks.”
What he wanted to do was just put on his coat and boots and head outside to help. But the police captain had forbidden it. “Besides,” he’d said, “you need to be here to greet Patrick when we bring him home.”
But Collins knew . . . his face was the last face Patrick would want to see if—when—he walked through that door.
Then it came to him. He suddenly knew exactly what face Patrick would want to see.
The wooden soldier.
He would go up right now and get it down from the attic. No . . . better yet, he would stay up in the attic and finish carving the soldier, even paint it.
“Where you going?” Mrs. Fortini asked.
“Something I’ve gotta do,” he replied. “May be upstairs awhile. You keep things running down here for me? Get the men whatever they need?”
“You mean like I’ve been doing since I got here?”
Collins smiled.
So that was the plan. He would finish the wooden soldier in Shawn’s honor and have it done before Patrick came home. And he would give it to Patrick as his Christmas present.
He may not have a way with words, but he knew how to carve right well.
Thirty-Two
Ezra moved more by instinct now than sense. He couldn’t feel his fingers or toes, but he could still feel the boy under his coat, and his legs were still pushing through the snow. The streetlights were out on his block, but he found his way by the odd light shining here and there through the tenement windows.
He looked up through the wind and snow and could just see on the left the turnoff to his apartment, an alley much like the one back at Hodgins’s Grocery. ’Cept his alley led up a rickety flight of wooden steps to three rooms and a bathroom they shared with a couple next door.
Ruby would be worried something fierce ’bout now, he figured. Get to that place where he better be dead or she’d kill him for making her fret so. But he reckoned she’d stop being sore soon as she laid eyes on the boy. She might be right proud of him for saving his sorry life.
Man, but he was cold. Every muscle in his legs and arms felt like they might just pop loose any minute. At least the boy wasn’t shaking as bad as when they first started out. Hope he ain’t dead, Ezra thought. He stayed as close to the walls as he could, cut down on the wind. Just a little ways to go now. He sure hoped Ruby got that heat going. That radiator upstairs mooed like a small cow, but it woul
d be music to his ears at this point.
As he rounded the corner into their alley, he looked up at the window overlooking the stairs. There she was, his Ruby staring down at him. Her brown shawl wrapped around her shoulders, arms crossed. Didn’t look like she’d seen him, but she was looking.
The snow was up past the second step. He steadied himself on the rail, trying to clear it with his foot, but his foot felt like a wooden club about now. He stomped down a few times, trying to get some feeling back. Ruby must have heard him. She flung that front door open quick as you please. The wind caught it, and it slammed against the back wall.
“Ezra, that you? Please be you,” she cried.
“It’s me, darlin’, I’m all right. Colder than I ever been in my life, but I’m all right.” She started climbing down to meet him. “Now you get back in the living room, darlin’. You ain’t dressed for this. I’ll be up directly.” She obeyed, and he could hear her crying over the sound of the wind.
“Your daddy’s home, boys. God brung him back just like we prayed.”
Ezra made it to the last step. Just one more deep breath, he told himself, just one more will do it. The next thing he knew he was safe inside. He dropped to his knees and feared he might drop right over, crushing the little boy under his weight. Ruby closed the door. “Open my coat, Ruby, would you please? I can’t even move my arms.”
She was on him in a flash, hugging and holding him tight. So were his two boys, all wrapped around him like a rope. “Daddy, you’re so big,” his youngest, Joseph, said. “You got presents in there for us?” Joseph pointed to his coat. “Christmas presents?”
Ruby started unbuttoning his jacket. “Afraid not,” he said. “But wait till you see—” Before he finished, the little boy plopped out of his coat and fell to the floor.
“Good gracious, Ezra.”
“We gotta get him warmed up right quick,” Ezra said. “Is he breathin’? Check and see if he’s breathin’.”
