by Jo Schaffer
Stanley furrowed his brow and raised his hands in confusion. Lincoln shook his head, and motioned toward the road. They watched as a gang of ten white guys with closely clipped hair and dark trench coats walked past the alleyway. Lincoln waited for a moment then leaned over to Stanley.
“Some weird new gang, man. They’re bad news, from what Mama Jefferson is hearing. Rumors are they’re snatching kids from our neighborhood, but I think that’s just bull.”
Stanley shook his head. “It’s not, or at least, it’s not about to be. I think I know who they are.”
“Okay, who?” Lincoln asked.
“Just take me to the kid. I’ll tell you later.”
Lincoln stared at him for a moment and then said, “All right. But I need to know who is invading my neighborhood, and you owe me.”
Finally, they reached a small, wooden, shotgun house, and three old women sat on the front porch, rocking.
“Who’s your friend there, Link? He’s awful white,” one asked, and they all cackled.
Lincoln took off his hat. “Ma’am, he might be, but he’s a saint, I can promise you.”
Stanley nudged him and then said, “I’m here to see the kid. He’s been asking for me.”
The three ladies looked each other. “So, you’re Stanley? The kid who fought that crazy boy from Lindell?” one with white hair said.
Nodding, Stanley bowed. “At your service, ma’am.”
One of the ladies stood up. She was full-figured and had a kerchief wrapped around her head. “Look at you, ain’t you pert? Well, well, Stanley the Knight, I’m Mama Jefferson. You’re welcome in my house. You a good, young man, I can tell. Come on in, and I’ll get you some coffee.”
Lincoln nodded toward the house. “Go on in, I’ll stay out here with the other ladies and entertain them. Sort of paying the gatekeeper, you know.”
Stanley went inside, the floorboards squeaking beneath his feet. Old Mama Jefferson’s house was neat, but sparse. She obviously insisted on keeping her little house neat and tidy. And it smelled of freshly baked bread. Stanley found himself wishing he could just stay here and hide from the madness that was engulfing the city.
Mama Jefferson swept into the kitchen and poured him a steaming cup of coffee. “Now, sit yourself down, and let’s gab a spell. Then you can go see that boy. He’s laying down in my bed. I’ve been payin’ attention to all the news, and I’ve seen the little newspapers that are going out. You have somethin’ to do with that?” She sat down in her rocking chair and gave him a pointed stare.
“Well, not sure I can answer that question, ma’am,” Stanley said, sipping his coffee.
“Ah, you think ole Mama Jefferson is gonna turn you in? Chile, you don’t know me at all.” She chuckled. “But I see your mind and respect it. You keep your secrets. But just know, all of us here are behind you. You just tell us what you need, and you have it.”
He’d never met Mama Jefferson in his life. Yet here she was, asking him to name whatever help he needed. Stanley swallowed hard and felt the tears welling up in his eyes. Embarrassed, he looked away. He was more overwhelmed than he’d thought.
She reached over and patted him on the arm. “Yes, yes. I know. You’ve suffered. Our precious Jesus knows. He suffered himself, you see.” She pointed to a huge picture of Jesus that hung on her wall. “He wants us all to rest in him and fight for good. That much I know. Lord knows, you have fought, chile, you have fought the good fight, as the preacher says.”
“Thank you.” It was all he could manage and sipped his coffee some more. Taking a few deep breaths, he said, “So, tell me about the kid.”
She nodded. “Someone beat him up good. His eye is swollen shut, and I can’t see how bad it is inside. Not even sure if he’s gonna be able to see out of it. He’s covered in bruises head to toe.”
“Stanley … they’re coming … Stanley.” The shout from the back bedroom made Stanley’s skin crawl. There was a tone of desperation and pain that he’d never heard before.
“Maybe you should go see for yourself, chile,” Mama Jefferson said gently. “I’ll be along directly. Bedroom is on the right side, opposite of the kitchen.”
Stanley didn’t have far to walk, and he opened the door. A small, frail form lay encased in a mountain of mismatched Afghans and quilts. He approached the bed and held back a gasp.
Teeth. Or whatever was left of him.
Sitting on the bed, Stanley touched Teeth’s slight form, and the boy stirred. Mama Jefferson had been right about the eye. Teeth opened his good eye, which widened when he saw who was on the bed.
“Stanley. I got away. Aren’t you proud of me? I got away,” he rasped. Stanley poured a glass a water from the pitcher on the nightstand and gave it to Teeth, who drank deep.
“What do you mean, you got away, Teeth? What happened?”
The kid shook his head. “Legion got me and gave me this.”
He held up his arm and showed Stanley the tattoo of numbers, the mark of the Veiled Prophet.
“Spin the story, kid.”
Teeth laid back down and closed his good eye. “Sorry, Stanny, my head hurts.”
“It’s okay, kid. But I need you to tell me, and then you can rest.”
Teeth frowned. “Don’t remember much. I was at the clinic, and the doctor gave me a shot. I started feeling sleepy, and next thing I knew, I was in this weird train station with a bunch of other kids.”
Stanley nodded. “Where is this station, Teeth?”
The kid scrunched up his face. “Well, couldn’t see much. They gave us a bunch of shots and herded us into a boxcar.”
“Just one?”
“Nah. Three of them. But …” He paused, and his face lit up. “I do remember something!” Teeth said, trying to sit up.
Stanley placed a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t get up. Just tell me.”
“Well, when we pulled out of the weird, little station or whatever it was, I saw the Eads Bridge.”
Eads Bridge. Not far from here. But Stanley couldn’t remember ever seeing a train station anywhere near there.
“Are you sure? There’s no station there.”
Teeth sat up. “You calling me a liar?”
Stanley pressed him back down. “Easy, killer, I’m just saying, I can’t think of where …”
He stopped. That was not entirely true. Just on the other side, was a collection of warehouses, and a new train line had gone up there a few years ago. Everyone said it was just to ship goods from the tugboats up north. But he wondered now.
“Okay, kid, I’ll go check it out. What else?”
Teeth lay there for a moment, breathing heavily. “Well, I can’t remember how long the train ride was, seemed like hours, but maybe not. It was all hazy. They got us out and put us on a boat. It was dark, but I saw an island with trees, with lights glimmering there. And just as they tried to put me in a boat, I kicked one of the guards, and they beat me something fierce. But then, other kids tried to escape, and it all got nutty. Somehow, I crawled out of there and hid in a fallen tree. They never found me, motherless bastards,” Teeth spit.
“Watch your language, kid. You did good. And you just followed the river?”
“Yeah, I remember you tellin’ me the river flowed south, and I thought we’d gone north. So I walked. Dunno how long, Stanny, I kept fainting, and I couldn’t see.”
Poor kid.
So Brother Martin was right. They did have an island someplace, and they were taking kids there. At least they had a direction where they could start: north. He’d have to take the Knights on a walk and see if they could find it. Maybe as a Christmas outing, Stanley thought with irony.
“You did aces, Teeth. You did real good.” And then he kissed the kid on the forehead.
“Aw, Stanny, kissin’ is for girls.”
“Nah, it’s for friends too. Brave friends,” Stanley said. “And I’m gonna send Frisky down here, would you like that?”
> “And ole Haze too? I’d prefer their kisses,” Teeth said, looking eager.
“Easy, tiger, one of those dames is mine.”
Teeth closed his eyes and smiled. “I’ll fight you for her.”
“Maybe someday. Rest,” Stanley said and left the room.
Mama Jefferson sat on her rocker, and he heard Lincoln singing on the porch, strumming a guitar that one of the ladies must have gotten for him. He wailed “Dark was the Night and Cold was the Ground” by Blind Willie Johnson.
“Dark was the night, and cold the ground
on which the Lord was laid;
his sweat like drops of blood ran down;
in agony he prayed,
Father, remove this bitter cup
if such Thy sacred will;
if not, content to drink it up
thy pleasure I fulfill.”
The lyrics reached into Stanley’s ribcage. He trembled, feeling as though something huge was coming. Something he would have to give up. Stanley had lost too much already, and the thought of more sacrifice terrified him.
The old lady fixed him with another glance and said, “What about you, boy? You ready to drink the cup the Lord has for you?”
Stanley twisted his hat in his hands. “I don’t know. I think about runnin’ sometimes, off to the mountains and forget all this.”
She nodded. “Sure. All of us do. Some of us don’t have no choice. And you don’t either. You gotta go and do what you can do.” Mama Jefferson got up out of her rocking chair with a groan and then said, “Come over here and give me a hug now. Let Mama Jefferson bear you up.”
She hugged him with strength that surprised him. And she said, “Lord bless you, boy, you got a road before you.”
Stanley nodded and said, “I hope I have enough strength to travel it.”
“Sure you do. We all will bear you up. You ain’t gotta worry. You ain’t alone, not by a long shot.”
She let him go and then spanked his bottom. “Go on now, and get to it.”
He forced a grin, put on his hat, and tipped it to her. “Yes ma’am.”
When he emerged from the house, Lincoln stopped playing the guitar and looked up. “What’s shaking? You know the kid?”
Stanley nodded. “You know those warehouses just above Eads Bridge?”
“Yeah, sure. We don’t go near there much. Some gang has the charge over that area.”
“Wanna go poke around with me a bit?” Stanley said.
Lincoln grinned and put down the guitar. “Sure enough, boy. Let’s go.”
They walked back to the river and cut down through the city to Eads Bridge. They stole down through the pillars and into the warehouse complex. It didn’t take long for them to find the train tracks.
“Here, look, Stanley, they go between the buildings and then …” Lincoln pointed to a large, brick building hidden among the rest of the warehouses.
“How in St. Peter’s name did neither of us ever seen that before?”
Lincoln frowned. “Dunno. It’s like it’s designed to be hidden or something. Or maybe we just weren’t looking with the right peepers. Besides, we don’t spend time on this side … heard rumors the gangs here are rough.”
They watched the building for a moment, but no one seemed to be stirring. Walking up to a door, they tried to open it, but it wouldn’t budge.
Lincoln pointed up to a window. “Looky there. An open window. Think you can climb it?”
Stanley looked up to see a wide, open window about twenty feet up. He looked at the jagged bricks and picked out a few toe and hand holds. “Yeah, but the last, little bit will be hairy. I’ll have to jump.”
“Well, you’s tall enough. Use that.”
Furrowing his brow, Stanley said, “Thanks a lot, Lincoln.”
“I aim to please,” he said, grinning.
Stanley gripped onto the first hold and climbed up. He still had a good three feet, when he ran out of places to grip. The window sill was just out of his reach. With a deep breath, he jumped, and his fingers caught the edge of the wood. Grunting, he scrambled up, trying not to think of the drop below him. He pulled himself in and dropped onto a catwalk.
Looking below, he saw the train tracks dip down to meet a platform about forty feet below him. He noticed rows of crates on the platform. No … not crates; they looked more like cages, designed to hold hundreds of people, he guessed.
A huge banner covering the wall at the opposite wall from where he stood, depicted a tree with gnarled roots, just like in Evelyn’s diary. It read: Eugenics is the self direction of human evolution.
“See anything?” Lincoln called out in a stage whisper.
“More than I ever wanted to …” Stanley shook his head. “I’ll be right there.”
He walked down the catwalk to a set of stairs down to the platform. Walking around, he saw dark spots on the floor. Bending down, he saw they were red, probably dried blood. Other than that, everything looked wiped clean.
Stanley shook with fear. This was the place. Or maybe one of them. He didn’t know. Maybe there were places like this all over the city, hiding in plain sight. There had to be. And how had he missed them? Stanley took pride in knowing the ins and outs of his city. But this place made him realize secrets could still be kept, especially if you didn’t bother hiding them. He suddenly had that prickling at the back of his neck. He was being watched.
He spun around and didn’t see anyone. Stanley hurried to the door, unlocked it, and went outside. Lincoln stood there with his hands in his pockets.
“You okay? You look like you saw a ghost.”
Stanley nodded. “You said it, pal, you said it. Let’s make tracks and blow this place. I gotta get to Father Timothy and fast.”
They ran back to the bridge and followed the road into the city.
“I gotta get back, Stanny. My momma and Pops are waiting for me.” Lincoln reached out his hand, and Stanley shook it. “If you need anything, white boy, you just tell me.”
Stanley smiled. “Thanks, pal. I’m gonna send you a crazy redhead by the name of Frisky. She’s kinda like Teeth’s mom. Let her help Mama Jefferson, if you don’t mind.” He paused for a moment and then said, “If something happens to me, get to Father Timothy, over at St. James parish. Tell him what we found.”
Lincoln nodded, smile gone. “May the angels watch over you, Stanley Fields.”
“Hope so, Lincoln, and thanks.”
They parted ways, and Stanley hurried to catch the trolley back to Forest Park.
Mumsy opened the cardboard box, and what Hazel could only describe as the Christmas ornament smell, rose from inside of it. Her mother smiled, and a wistful look passed over her face. “Remember this one, Hazie?” She pulled out a red, felt Santa that Hazel had made in school when she was little. It was crooked, and one of the button eyes was missing.
“Yeah.” She peeked into the box at the assortment of colorful glass and crystal ornaments mixed with homemade ones from her childhood.
Mr. Malloy stood in the arched doorway of the living room, holding his pipe and watching them with a content look on his face. He crossed the room and surveyed the tall pine tree that Roberts and Willy had brought in and secured. “That’s a fine tree,” he said, taking a puff on his pipe.
Hazel breathed in the spice of the pine tree, tinsel, and sweet tobacco; it was like breathing in her childhood. Mumsy stood and went to the phonograph to put on her favorite Christmas record. There was a plate of fudge and sugar cookies on the coffee table. Hazel’s parents were not somewhere else.
It felt like the proverbial calm before a terrible storm. Hazel wanted to stay cocooned in this moment.
Mr. Malloy hung the lights on the tree, and she and Mumsy had fun hanging the ornaments and reliving old memories. When they had finished, her father crowned the tree with a large, gold star. Then the three of them sat, gazing at the tree. Her parents held hands.
Growing up, Chri
stmas was about presents, family, and good food. It was the time of year when Mumsy’s drinking was festive rather than embarrassing, and Mr. Malloy was home more because business took a break. Mrs. Flannigan always made sure there were plenty of delicious things to eat, and Peggy always had little surprises for her. It was the time of year when Hazel felt the safest and most loved.
It was a little less shiny this year. Probably because it was the first Christmas since Evelyn died, the kidnapping, and everything else that frayed Hazel’s sense of security and peace. Maybe this was how adults experienced Christmas every year. The realities of life pressed down on them all the while. She thought of how many people suffered and went without year round. She wondered if that made Christmas a more painful time or a happy distraction.
Stanley had once told her about the Christmas when he was ten years old. His uncle got drunk and almost burned the house down because he thought he could make a flaming pudding his ma used to make back in Ireland. They beat the fire out of the curtains together. Stanley was ready for his uncle to explode in rage over it. But Seamus laughed, slapping his knee and hooting to the roof. Then he made them hot chocolate, and they decorated a wreath to hang on the mantle. That was the Christmas that his uncle handed him a package wrapped in newspaper and said, “Open it, boyo. You’re big enough now.” Inside was the faded, flat cap that Stanley still wore. It had been his father’s. Stanley said it was one of the happiest days of his life, even though they had nothing but each other. It was too bad it couldn’t always be that way.
Hazel arrived at the clinic that afternoon with a check from her father in her coat pocket in case she needed an excuse for being there. She hoped to slip back into the file room without being seen. If the doctor knew she was there, there would be no way to excuse herself to go rummage. She had Jennings pull up to the back of the building by the alleyway. Her father had instructed the old chauffeur to wait to bring Hazel home.
Henri hopped out of the car behind Hazel, and they walked down the alley to where they confronted Arthur. The large trash bin had not been moved, and Hazel could see that the window was still open. She could hardly believe her luck. That supply room was usually locked, and nobody went inside, and the cluttered alleyway was no place the doctor and Marie would stroll, so the open window had not been discovered.