Lost Boy Found

by Kirsten Alexander

  Chapter Six

  Opelousas woke early, not only on rice, cotton and tobacco farms, not only where cattle, roosters and horses demanded it, but also in the town center. On this warm September morning, seven weeks to the day after Sonny Davenport went missing, as John Henry and Mary ate breakfast in silence and Esmeralda remade beds, Main Street bustled. Horses pulled buggies past the stately bank and lawyers’ offices, fragrant French bakeries, outdoor markets, the Methodist, Baptist and Catholic churches, sharing the street with bicycles and the increasing number of motor cars. Ben Fleury opened the doors to his haberdashery store and paused to stretch his arthritic fingers. Barber Smith tightened the holdbacks on his shutters. The breeze smelled of hair cream, fresh bread, horse droppings and trash.

  Tom and Eddie, along with reporters from the Bugle, the Opelousas Daily and Louisiana Times, milled outside the Davenports’ front gate. They rested against tree trunks and sat on the stone steps in front of the iron gate, shuffling sideways to make room for visitors. The police turned a blind eye to the newsmen, except when the pack amounted to more than a dozen, at which time they told them to skedaddle.

  When left in peace, the men talked among themselves and played cards. They were amiable but suspicious of one another, and always had an eye on the house. Occasionally a departing visitor or nurse would give the reporters a snippet of gossip: “He’s drinking so much coffee his skin is gray,” “She’s barely awake before the hysteria rises and they rest her again,” “There were bruises on young George’s arm, and they weren’t from roughhousing.”

  Some days the reporters from the Bugle and the Opelousas Daily hung about at the back of the house, where deliverymen came with meat, milk, ice and wood, hoping to find news there. But none of them got what they wanted: no useful information and no sign of John Henry or Mary. “I don’t know if they have an underground tunnel or they’re coming and going at midnight,” the Bugle’s photographer said. “But I’ll be skinned alive if I give my editor one more picture of boys piddling about in grass.”

  Tom and his sunshine-colored dog Walter showed up about nine each morning. On their way to the Davenports’, Tom threw whatever stick Walter had laid claim to so the dog could fetch it and swagger back, proud as if he’d found gold. Walking offered Tom valuable thinking time: he thought about how to get his story, how he’d begin his article, how to describe John Henry’s voice, Mary’s eyes. Sometimes Tom would stop and flick through his notebook to check a sentence he’d copied from his reading: a gem of construction by Conrad, an evocative turn by Sinclair, a wise aside from London (though he’d become less inspiring after his well-publicized bouts of drunken bragging). Tom had a good idea of what he wanted his story to be, but he had to get the facts first.

  “Facts are everything, Tom,” his editor, Mr. Collins, said. “Our job is to make sense of the world, tell the truth of things, and you can’t do that without accurate, provable facts.” This, from the man who’d told Tom to use crush instead of defeat, despicable over bad, to make liberal use of adjectives and imagined dialogue. “Keeps the readers’ interest.”

  At a reminder of this, Mr. Collins said, “Not contradictory, no. The facts are your skeleton, Tom. They’re vital, but not enough to make the thing live and breathe. You need to add meat: the blinding glare, the deafening roar, the turn of an ankle.”

  Sitting out front of the Davenport house hadn’t got Tom what he needed. And it wasn’t as easy as Mr. Collins made out. Everyone had heard the facts of Sonny’s disappearance and the sheriff’s search, but after that it was speculation. Tom knew not to dress that up as news.

  When he arrived this morning, Tom greeted the group, told Dan Hardy from the News he’d enjoyed his piece about the musical show at the Athenaeum, was thinking about going along to see it himself. Eddie, who’d been at the house since the crack of dawn, patted Walter as he spoke to Tom. “Nothing, same as yesterday. They have to be getting some kind of cabin fever in there. And the boys, never let past this gate.”

  “Can you get cabin fever in a mansion?” Dan asked. “I’d bet there are rooms none of them has ever set foot in.”

  Tom stepped up to the fence and looked beyond the metal spikes at the trimmed flowerbeds, the clipped lawn, the persimmon and peach trees heavy with fruit, the towering Victorian house with its many balconies and chimneys. Dan wasn’t wrong to call it a mansion. A tortoiseshell cat sat on the porch, flicking its tail, unblinking, watching a swallow that chirped, oblivious, on a branch not high enough to guarantee its safety. Tom’s eyes traveled from cat to bird, but he lost interest in the fate of the swallow when the side door opened and Esmeralda walked out of the house carrying a wooden paddle. She headed to the patch of yard designated for chores, and when she came to a stop, she sighed, a sigh not heard by Tom but visible in the rise and drop of her chest. She lifted her paddle and began thumping the carpet slung on a length of rope between two trees.

  Although she was only a housekeeper, Tom hoped Esmeralda might be his way into the story. She worked for the family six days a week, not confined to the kitchen or nursery but roaming around the house, able to see and hear everything. She’d been at the lake, a part of the drama from the beginning. And she’d met Tom more than once. Here was his advantage, his spy inside, if he could recruit her. Problem was, Esmeralda never stood still long enough for Tom to have anything like a conversation with her. She watered pots of mint, threw open windows, whacked rugs, swept, bossed the maid: she was always doing. On the most recent occasion Tom had called out to her, Esmeralda replied, “No, sir. Mr. Davenport says we’re none of us to talk to you.”

  The tricks Tom used to win over white girls didn’t feel right with Esmeralda. He tried joking, cajoling, even complimenting. One time he stayed at the back of the house for hours, sure she’d come out sooner or later. And she eventually had, opening the door and standing to one side as the maid lumbered out leaning under the weight of a full bucket.

  “Let me help you ladies with that,” Tom had said. Esmeralda ignored him and watched as the maid poured dirty water onto the grass. “It’s me—Tom, from the lake.”

  “I know who you are, doesn’t matter a whit.” She hadn’t even looked up.

  But today, after Esmeralda had beaten the carpet clean, she glanced toward the front gate. Walter stood on his hind legs, his front paws sliding on the iron posts. Tom shouted out, “Walter says good morning.” And Esmeralda, wonderfully, came toward them.

  “Why’d you give him a man’s name?” She pushed her hand into her apron pocket. Walter’s nose twitched. “I’ve never met a man as big-hearted as this dog.”

  “Invite me into the yard awhile. I’ll tell you about it.”

  “Uh-uh, no sir.” Esmeralda fed some biscuit to Walter, then stuck her arm through the palings to scratch his head.

  “Well now, that’s something. Thank you.”

  “Thank you for what?”

  “In my line of work it’s important to get things right, and you’ve corrected my belief that Negroes don’t like dogs. You’ve been nothing but kind to Walter.”

  Esmeralda straightened up. The man seemed to think his bluntness was endearing. Or else it didn’t occur to him to exercise the good manners he’d show a white woman. She thought, but didn’t say, that there were “beliefs” about men like him, too, beliefs that white men had nothing more substantial than a lead pencil dangling between their legs, that even the dumbest of them suffered the delusion they were smart, that they grew old but not up.

  “I don’t like dogs raised to hunt. But it seems to me your dog isn’t the killing kind. Maybe he’s not even a dog. Maybe you’ve got yourself a rabbit, a giant rabbit.”

  Tom laughed. “You might be right.”

  “Either way, you’ll want to keep him out of Mr. Davenport’s sight. He wouldn’t need much excuse to call the dog-catcher.” She didn’t care about Tom, but Esmeralda had no desire to see Walter get hurt. And Mr. Davenport had a strange aversion to dogs.

  Minut
es after Esmeralda had gone back inside, a motor car stopped at the house. The driver yanked on the brake and leapt out to push open the driveway gates. Tom lifted his hat to Mrs. Billingham and Gladys Heaton, neither of whom acknowledged him. They’d never spoken to Tom, but he’d read plenty about them in his newspaper and others: Mrs. Billingham was celebrated in Opelousas for her charitable donations, and Mrs. Heaton for her appearance at fashionable gatherings, always in the latest dresses.

  Tom’s girl, Clara, had told him more than once about Gladys Heaton’s renowned style. “If you do meet Gladys Heaton in real life, Tom, ask her where she has her gowns made. Paris, of course, but where exactly.”

  Tom had scoffed. “If I get to speak to her, I won’t waste my time talking about ladies’ clothes. I’ll ask what Mary Davenport says, if there’ve been fresh leads. That’s what I’ll ask.”

  He walked toward the idling car, close enough to hear Mrs. Billingham say to Gladys that the day was gallingly sunny, and the weather ought to be on the turn by this time of year. Gladys replied, “Mother, last week you couldn’t tolerate the gray afternoons, said the sky was too low. I’m not sure the weather can have any notion of how to please you.”

  When the ladies were inside the house, Nanny Nelly, carrying a hamper of clothing, came outside with George and Paul. Nelly sat in a garden chair, selected a pair of trousers, and began to darn. Nelly, Tom thought, seemed more amenable than Esmeralda. Maybe she could be his spy—a second-rate one, though, since everybody knew she was the dimmest light in the house.

  Tom watched the two boys chase the cat, then howl at the unfairness of it outsmarting them with a sudden leap onto the fence. Walter didn’t notice the cat until it was airborne, at which point he barked excitedly, wedged his jaw between the railings as if to push through the narrow opening, then yanked himself back and bolted along the sidewalk toward the neighboring yard. George remained po-faced at Walter’s foolishness, Paul fell about laughing: that seemed their usual way.

  “He might have more luck than you,” Tom called out, smiling at Paul.

  “Only if he can fly,” Paul answered. But before Tom could take advantage of this chance to talk, George whispered in his brother’s ear and the two walked closer to the house.

  None of the reporters had been let anywhere near the Davenport boys, and they’d found that distance infuriating.

  “They’re witnesses,” Dan Hardy said.

  “Instigators, maybe,” Eddie added.

  Tom figured that if the boys knew anything of importance it would’ve got out by now, but they were the last ones to see Sonny, so he wanted to talk to them. He had a way with kids, and he had Walter. He was about to shout out, see if he could convince Nanny Nelly to let the boys pat the dog, when Eddie nudged him in the ribs.

  “Clara’s here.”

  Most days, Clara showed up at the Davenport house with lunch for Tom, made by her family cook under her mother’s watch. She’d bring sardines with crackers or pork with an apple, in a tin container. Sometimes she had pralines to share with the other men, too, the ones not so lucky to have a girl.

  Walter kept their spirits up when things grew dull, chasing sticks and barking at birds, but Clara was the true ray of light in their days. When the newsmen saw her turn the corner on Westbury Grove then cross Mulberry Street toward the Davenport home, they perked up. Clara—curly-haired, slender, winsome—felt terrible for the family and admired Mary’s dignity during such a time. “She’s so brave,” she’d say to the reporters, who were disarmed.

  As the newsmen were watching Clara Tisdale cross the street, John Henry Davenport walked to the gate and cleared his throat. Clara saw him first, made wide eyes at Tom, and tipped her head toward the house. The reporters whipped about as one to face John Henry. Those who’d been seated leapt up, notebooks and cameras at the ready, alert as a pack of prairie dogs.

  Tom saw that John Henry did indeed have ashen skin and dark circles beneath his eyes.

  “Tom McCabe.”

  “Sir?”

  With the other newsmen watching in silence, John Henry reached over the fence and shook Tom’s hand. “First time we’ve formally met, I think. You still have those lucky coins?”

  “I sure do.” Tom tried to hide his pleasure at being picked out from the crowd.

  “Let’s put them to work, then.”

  Tom could feel the other reporters watching, but didn’t want to lose time to a cocky win. He’d grab the rope John Henry was throwing him. “I hope you know I’m doing everything I can to keep attention on your story, Mr. Davenport.”

  He saw from John Henry’s frown this was a poor choice of words. A man’s son was not a story, and why would anyone’s attention have wavered? But before Tom could say more, John Henry held out an envelope. “My wife wanted this to go to you. To print.” Noticing Walter, John Henry jerked his hand back then turned and walked toward the house.

  Were it not for the other reporters, Tom would’ve torn open the envelope right away. All the while he’d been figuring out how to get the inside story through a servant, and here was John Henry Davenport handing it to him, just like that. The reporters closed around Tom, jostling and yipping.

  “Open it, McCabe.”

  “Tell us what it says.”

  Tom pushed his way out of the pack, grabbed Clara’s free arm, whistled for Walter to follow, and made for the Clarion office. The others trailed him, imploring him to be reasonable: hadn’t they waited day after day, too; didn’t they deserve to see what was in that envelope?

  When they got to the Clarion, Tom ushered Clara inside then turned to the reporters who’d followed them. “Fellows, you’d keep a letter like this to yourselves, too. You know it.” Walter nuzzled his way through the men’s legs into the foyer. Tom told Clara to wait on the settee, then bounded up the stairs and marched through the editorial room into Mr. Collins’ office.

  Mr. Collins looked up from his reading, over the top of his gold-rimmed glasses. “Mr. McCabe, it’s customary to knock—”

  “Mr. Davenport gave me a letter, said the Clarion was to print it.” Tom, panting, handed the sealed letter to his editor who made a firm, fast slice with his letter-opener, skimmed the page, then passed it to Tom.

  “Two thousand dollars.” Tom whistled.

  “No questions asked.”

  Tom read the sentence again to be certain he’d made no mistake: “A two-thousand-dollar reward for any person who delivers our boy to us unharmed.”

  “Is he giving this to any newspapers out of state?”

  “No idea.”

  “Find out. And talk to Sheriff Sherman. See if he knows about this. Make him give you some information in return this time. Tell him we’re printing the reward in tomorrow’s paper, front page.”

  Throughout that steaming summer it had been hard to escape the story of Sonny Davenport. People in Opelousas discussed their personal theories for weeks after the boy’s disappearance. “Missing” posters plastered store windows, and the St. Landry Clarion and Opelousas Daily published countless articles of increasing implausibility about the fate of young Sonny.

  But the story had become less captivating and more unnerving the longer the boy was gone. Even Mrs. Billingham had grown weary of telling how she’d managed the Half Moon Lake house during the most urgent days of the crisis.

  So when the Clarion printed the reward notice, on an otherwise uneventful autumn morning, the people of Opelousas snapped back to attention. Mr. Collins’ accompanying Editor’s Letter said the Clarion hoped the reward would prompt a useful lead, but cautioned it might also bring forth scoundrels wanting the Davenports’ money. (Which, in its own way, could be just as thrilling. “Sharks descend on Opelousas to feed on cash,” Eddie said. “You can have that headline for free.”)

  Mr. Collins would give his readers the latest news on the Davenports, but he was determined to also print stories from far afield to make the Clarion essential reading. Aside from the troubles of one local family, the mood
of the year had been optimistic. It was an exciting time for the world, “a golden age of advancement, unparalleled.”

  “Unless Europe insists on warring,” Mr. Collins said to Tom, waving his glasses in one hand. “You’d think the Balkans would’ve exhausted them but Britain and Germany both seem intent on owning the seas. France and Russia are bulking up their military. Everyone trying to out-muscle everyone else. I can’t see where that’ll lead other than stalemate. But I could be wrong.” He pointed at a copy of the Atlanta Georgian on his desk, its top headline reading, “War Spirit Flares Over All Europe: Clash Near.” “I’m dead sure of two things, though: if there is a war it’ll be short and swift, and it won’t involve us.”

  Tom shifted his weight from foot to foot. He wanted to leave Mr. Collins’ office, but his editor wasn’t done.

  “The important thing is that America’s holding our own, McCabe. We’re the future. Readers need to be assured of that. New York’s port is busier than London’s. Our railways are expanding their reach, steel mills are springing up, six million telephones connect the country…And President Wilson’s push for a central bank is smart. Yes, it’s a time of enormous promise. And that includes us right here.”

  Opelousas didn’t feature in international headlines, but Tom agreed there were changes—good changes—afoot in his town. Main Street had been transformed in recent years, with cars zipping alongside buggies, a busy nickelodeon, restaurants serving fine foods. The population had tipped past 4,600. There were still one too many saloons for the comfort of some, but overall the town was advancing along with the rest of the world.

  And Mr. Collins was right about it being a time of promise in more ways than one. The Davenport story wasn’t going away, not with such a big reward. That development might be picked up by national newspapers, even international ones. The story had the potential to carry Tom from local reporter to something bigger. At the very least, he’d met the most influential family in Opelousas. John Henry had handed him that letter personally. He’d remembered Tom, and so had his wife. The question was how Tom could make the most of that.