The Strange Case of Baby H

by Kathryn Reiss

  Then she smiled down at the squirming infant. “Can you sit up on your own, little fellow?” She pulled him to a sitting position and steadied him with a hand on his back. He managed alone for a few seconds, then toppled backward onto the pillow with a chortle.

  “Well,” Clara told him, “I’m glad you can find something to laugh about. Because whatever happened to you today certainly looks to be more terrible than what has happened to us. But don’t worry, little one. You’ve got a home here now.”

  The baby stared up at her with dark eyes. He had no hair at all, so his dark eyebrows and lashes seemed even more pronounced.

  “You’ll have dark hair when it finally does begin to grow,” she told the baby, running her hand over the bald head—then she paused, perplexed. Instead of smooth skin against her palm, she felt the rasp of bristles.

  She sat the baby up and bent closer to examine his head. She noticed a scrape at the back of his neck like the ones Gideon had on his chin when he’d practiced shaving with Father’s straight razor. “For goodness sakes!” she exclaimed. “You’re not naturally bald at all—someone has shaved your head!” What a strange thing to do to a little fellow, she thought.

  She unfastened the dirty, poorly fitting sailor suit. The child’s flannel diaper was sodden. Clara unpinned the diaper—then stopped. “And you’re not even a little fellow!” she cried out in surprise. “You’re a bald-headed baby girl!”

  The baby stared up at her solemnly. Clara stared back at the baby, at the sailor suit and flannel she’d just removed, at the bristly shaven head. She felt a strange little prickle of unease at the back of her neck.

  Why would anyone shave a baby girl’s head, and dress her in boys’ clothing?

  It was almost as if … as if the baby were in disguise.

  CHAPTER 4

  PIECES OF A PUZZLE

  Thoughts in a whirl, Clara tugged open her top dresser drawer and pulled out a soft cotton chemise. Folded, it would work as a diaper for the baby. But what might work as a dress? Her eye fell on Delilah—on Delilah’s poor headless body. The doll wore a pretty, flower-sprigged dress that Mother had sewn several years ago. And Delilah was a large doll—bigger than the baby …

  The dress fit. Clara buttoned it up and smiled with satisfaction. “All right, little lady. You’re ready to go back out and meet the lodgers, bald head or no,” she murmured. “Likely you’ll be wanting something to eat, too.” Do babies this young eat porridge? she wondered as she reached for the quilt to take along to the yard.

  Something fell out of the folds of the quilt and dropped to the floor with a clang. Something else drifted to the floor with a whisper.

  Clara reached down to pick up the first thing and found she was holding a silver rattle. The silver was clean and untarnished, gleaming almost white in the dusk of the room. How had a poor baby like this come by such a fancy toy? There was something engraved on the rattle. Clara peered at it closely: a fancy, curlicued letter H.

  The second thing from the floor was a scrap of paper. On it, oddly, were letters cut from a newspaper, glued together to form words. There were only four words on the scrap Clara held, but the words made her shudder:

  Satchel To Cliffhouse

  Clara couldn’t think what the words might mean, but any mention of Cliff House, that castlelike eight-story building at Ocean Beach near the Sutro Baths, took her breath away. For it was there, on the rocks at the base of Cliff House, that Father’s steamship had wrecked in the storm. What could Cliff House have to do with this baby girl?

  The baby gurgled—a small growly sound like Humphrey made when he was playing—and reached for the silver rattle. Clara jiggled it, listening to the tinkling bell inside, thinking hard. Such a raggedy baby, dressed in boys’ clothes, head shaved—turning out to be a girl. And such an elegant silver rattle, clearly the plaything of a wealthy child. Where had the baby come from? Where, until today, had this baby been living? And with whom? Even if the parents had died in the earthquake or the raging fires, someone had brought her to Clara’s house, so someone must know who she was. That same someone must know what the words on the scrap of paper meant.

  Why not just bring the baby right to Mother and ask her to help in this emergency? Why keep the baby’s identity a secret? If the clothing and shaven head were meant to disguise—then someone was hiding something.

  Could what was being hidden be the baby herself?

  A pulse of alarm thudded inside Clara, but she pushed the feeling away. Maybe the scrap of paper was a clue to who the baby really was, and maybe Clara would try to figure it out—but first there were more practical concerns. This baby was hungry, fires were spreading across the city, another quake might come at any moment … it was no time to be standing inside the house playing detective.

  “Come on, now, Little H,” Clara said to the baby, lifting her from the bed. “You won’t be a new son for Mother after all, but let’s go show everyone how fetching you look in Delilah’s dress.”

  Outside again, Clara coughed in air full of drifting ash. She could hear shouting in the distance. Kerosene lanterns had been set on the table, their flames flickering in the dusk.

  Mother and the lodgers stood talking to a military officer. Clara edged closer, the baby against her shoulder. “What’s happening, Mother?”

  “He’s taking the men to clear the streets of rubble so the fire engines might pass through.” Mother shook her head in irritation. “I think most people would help willingly. There’s no need for high-handedness!”

  Young Mrs. Grissinger, with her two little boys clutching her skirt, clung to her husband. “How long shall he be gone?” she implored the officer. “When shall I see him again?”

  “We require the men as long as they’re needed, ma’am,” replied the officer grimly. “Who can say how long? The fire is spreading fast, and the water mains are broken. People are trapped everywhere, with the fire moving in on them. We have orders to create firebreaks—to stop the fire by any means. You folks here by the park appear to be safe, as long as the wind doesn’t change. You are the lucky ones!”

  Mrs. Hansen looked to be near tears. “It’s nearly dark,” she whispered. “Perhaps our men can wait till morning light?”

  Her husband patted her hand. “Fires don’t mind the dark. And they surely are making enough light to see by. I’ll be back soon enough.”

  The officer cleared his throat impatiently. “Make haste! This is by order of General Funston!”

  Mr. Midgard and Mr. Stokes were eager to go. Mr. Hansen and Mr. Grissinger hugged their wives good-bye as if they were marching off to war.

  “Who elected Funston?” Father inquired from his wheelchair. “Has Mayor Schmitz declared martial law? Has President Roosevelt?” His mustache trembled.

  The officer stared down at Father from his great height. “Perhaps you don’t understand the full extent of this disaster, sir. The city is practically destroyed. Troops have been aiding the police and maintaining order. There are thousands of people homeless already, man! And more to be soon if we don’t get these men working!” He shouldered his rifle. “All right—all you able-bodied men!” He glanced down at Father in his wheelchair. Clara saw Father’s shoulders slump. “Let’s march!”

  Hiram Stokes and Geoffrey Midgard, followed by Mr. Grissinger and Mr. Hansen, marched out of the yard and up the street with the officer. Father glowered after them.

  “Oh, do stop looking like a thundercloud, Frederick,” snapped Mother. “It does no good—although a real thundercloud and plenty of rain would be helpful right now. You know you’d be quick enough to march along with them if you could. You’re just in a foul temper!”

  Clara hated hearing her parents bickering. She spoke hastily, plunking the baby down on Father’s lap. “Look, Mother, Father, we were fooled! This isn’t a little boy at all. It’s a girl, and look at this—” She held out the silver rattle. “It says ‘H’! Why should a girl with a silver rattle be dressed as a raggedy boy? I think it�
�s very strange, don’t you?”

  Father shrugged. Mother took the rattle and turned it over. “Looks to be fine quality,” she agreed. “But strange? I don’t think so. I’m sure whoever brought the baby here was fleeing the fires and simply took the first things that came to hand.” She picked the baby up out of Father’s lap. “Hello, sweeting,” she crooned. “We jumped to conclusions, didn’t we—seeing how you were wearing boys’ clothes and have such a look of our own Gideon about you?” She glanced over at Clara and smiled. “But she has a look of you about her, too, Clara. I see it now. When you were a baby, your lashes were just as long and dark … And maybe when her hair grows, it will be red like yours.” She turned back to the baby, nuzzling the soft cheek. “We’ll take care of you just as if you were our own daughter. That’s a promise. And don’t you look like a living doll in your new dress!”

  Clara felt uneasy. “The baby’s head is shaved, Mother! Why would somebody do that?”

  “I reckon her hair caught on fire after the quake. I daresay someone shaved off the singed bits.” Mother turned away with the baby on her shoulder. “Now let’s find some supper and make you a bed for the night.” And she walked across the yard to Miss Chandler and Miss DuBois as Clara sank down onto a pile of fallen bricks near her father’s chair.

  “She needs another child again,” Father remarked. “Never mind where it comes from or what circumstances bring it. Maybe this catastrophe is a blessing in disguise.”

  “But I think there’s something strange about the baby, Father, don’t you? There’s no sign of any burn on her head.” Clara fished in her skirt pocket. “And there was this. It was folded into the quilt with the rattle.” She handed him the scrap of paper.

  “Satchel to Cliff House?” He frowned at the words in the flickering lamplight. “Doesn’t make sense.”

  “That’s just it,” Clara agreed eagerly. “It doesn’t make any sense, and look how the letters are all cut from a newspaper and pasted together to make the words. It reminds me of a story we read once in school where a boy was kidnapped, and the kidnappers made a note from newspaper type—just like this—asking for the ransom money to be left in a trunk somewhere … and satchel reminds me of trunk …”

  Father patted Clara’s hand. “Don’t let the quake rattle you, daughter,” he said wearily. “That baby’s not kidnapped. He—she—is right here with us, and we’ll keep her safe until things settle down. Then we’ll decide what to do with her.”

  “But the note—”

  He held up his hand. “Enough. I’m sure it was part of a child’s game, interrupted by disaster. Remember, Clara, the quake interrupted many thousands of lives today. Who knows what was going on in any particular home when the earthquake hit this morning?” He opened his fingers, and the scrap of paper fluttered to the ground.

  But his offhand question rang in Clara’s ears with a sinister echo as she stared over at Baby H, nestled in Mother’s arms, sucking porridge off a spoon: Who knows what was going on when the earthquake hit? Who knew what was happening to this particular baby? Clara shivered in a gust of smoky wind that sent the little scrap of paper flying across the yard.

  She flew after it.

  CHAPTER 5

  AN AFTERNOON WALK

  No one slept well that night. The children fretted and the baby wailed for hours, refusing to be comforted with sips of water from a cup or with spoonfuls of thinned porridge. Clara felt uncomfortable on the hard ground under the oak tree. The air she breathed felt thick and heavy, and roots from the tree poked her in the back. She lay between her parents, listening to the night sounds—the shouting in the distance, the grunting of unfamiliar lodgers nearby, the crooning song Mother sang to the baby—and marveled at how everything could change in an instant.

  But then she’d already learned that, hadn’t she? Father’s boat, strongly built and freshly painted, had been reduced to splintered boards in an instant. And Gideon, champion swimmer on the boy’s team at the Sutro Baths, had sunk in an instant and drowned in the cold Pacific.

  Miss you, Old Sock, Clara thought sadly, staring into the darkness of the backyard.

  Humphrey circled the tree three times, then lay pressed against Clara’s feet. Finally, exhausted, they slept.

  The morning after the earthquake dawned thick with smoke clouds overhead and the clang of alarm bells. Clara sat up in panic as a thudding boom made the ground tremble.

  “It’s another quake!” Mother wailed, reaching out for Baby H, who had been nestled for the night in a long dresser drawer.

  “The end of the world,” murmured Father, lying next to Clara with his eyes still closed. “I’m ready… but I’m sorry for my Clara.”

  “Father!” Clara shook his shoulder. “It’s not the end of the world! It’s another gas main exploding. Or—I don’t know what it is!” She covered her ears as another boom, louder than the gas-main explosions, thundered in the distance.

  “Sounds like war!” cried old Mr. Granger. He was struggling out of his bedroll over by the back fence. “I remember cannon fire at Gettysburg!”

  “No,” called Miss Chandler. “Not war—it’s dynamite! Remember what the officer told us yesterday. They must be blowing up buildings to create firebreaks that the flames cannot jump.”

  Mrs. Grissinger and Mrs. Hansen helped their children to roll out of their blankets and quilts. Mother busied herself with changing the baby, and Clara helped Father into his wheelchair. They gathered by the stove. Mother directed Clara to start frying yesterday’s leftover porridge into fritters while she herself made the coffee.

  Everyone was talking in hushed tones about the explosions, and fear spread quietly among the group. Miss Ottilie Wheeler sat on a kitchen chair under the oak tree and stared into space. Her sister, Amelia, rubbed her shoulders and spoke to her in comforting tones. But everyone was frightened; they feared that the Curfmans’ home—their safe haven—might not be so safe after all. From all over the city came booming explosions as homes fell. Mother whispered to Clara and Father that their house would be next, she just knew it. Why shouldn’t further calamity strike them after so many other terrible things had happened?

  “We’re going to be all right, Alice. Calm yourself.” Father rolled his wheelchair over to the water barrel. “After all, people are being sent to Golden Gate Park for safety. You can see them passing in front of our house. And the park is only two blocks from us.”

  “You were the one just predicting the end of the world, Frederick! Which is it?” Mother pressed her lips together, but her eyes were wide with worry. She had looked like that, Clara remembered, the morning Father and Gideon set off for their steamship journey down the coast—the trip that had cost Gideon his life.

  The men who had marched off with the officer the night before had not returned. Their wives fed breakfast to the children and sat by themselves, murmuring uneasily to each other. Miss DuBois and Miss Chandler peeled potatoes. Old Mr. Granger entertained the Wheeler sisters with tales of battle in the War Between the States. Mother fed Baby H more of the thinned porridge. The baby slurped every bite off the spoon. Father guarded the water barrel and doled out scant cupfuls when people were thirsty.

  Clara scanned the backyard. It had become quite a camp. Mattresses lay on the grass. Blankets aired on the washing line. Chairs and tables and even the leather settee had been carried from the house and set up in a makeshift parlor under the oak tree. The children climbed the tree and played on Clara’s childhood swing. Baby H cried fretfully as Mother patted her back.

  “Don’t you cry, little lady,” Mr. Granger said to the baby. “I’ll make you a swinging cradle out of that laundry basket!”

  Clara watched Mother try to soothe the baby. Surely the baby was missing her own mother and father. Poor little orphan! Mother jostled the baby on her shoulder until Mr. Granger’s swing was ready.

  “There now, there’s a lamb, my little Henrietta,” crooned Mother, settling the baby into the basket.

  “Henrie
tta?” asked Clara in surprise, giving the basket a little push.

  “Why, yes,” said Mother. “I’ve decided to call her Henrietta, after my dear old aunt. You remember, Clara. The one who lived to the ripe old age of ninety-seven.”

  Clara only vaguely remembered Aunt Henrietta, but she nodded.

  “It’s a good family name,” Mother continued, swinging the basket gently. “And of course we must call her something that begins with H, seeing as that’s the letter on the rattle.”

  “Of course,” agreed Clara. But the rattle in her skirt pocket felt heavy as she gazed out toward the street, wishing she could follow the people headed for the park two blocks away. Someone, somewhere, she felt certain, knew who this baby really was.

  Satchel to Cliff House. The words echoed in her head as she fingered the scrap of paper in her pocket.

  The morning passed with background noises of explosions, alarms, and shouting—and the billowing smoke made everyone’s eyes sting. But we are the lucky ones, Clara kept telling herself as she folded the bedclothes and tidied the yard. We’re not in the path of the explosions, she reminded herself as she started boiling beans for lunch in a pot on their makeshift stove. Water might be scarce, but at least there would be enough to eat for a while. And at least we can stay on our own property, she thought as she stood by Father’s wheelchair in front of the house and watched streams of homeless people straggle toward Golden Gate Park. At least she and her family would not need to join the soup lines … at least not yet.

  “Let’s follow along, Clara,” Father said suddenly. He craned his neck to watch the crowds round the corner at the end of the block, heading for the park. “I want to see what’s happening. Can’t just sit home forever twiddling our thumbs!”

  Clara smiled tiredly. She knew Father hated feeling useless. He hated the numbness that afflicted his legs and made them too shaky for walking. Nerve damage, the doctors had pronounced after the shipwreck. Both legs had been broken when the wreckage slammed against them as Father tried to reach his son. After the broken bones had healed, doctors hoped that the feeling would return and the legs grow strong again. But here it was, nearly two years later, and still Father sat in his chair.