Free Maude Brown's Baby by Richard Cunningham Page A

table, spread on dish towels to dry.”
    “Was your mother able to identify the people?”
    “Only a few. And sometimes strangers who learned about her collection would come here. If they recognized a family member and asked for the picture, Mama always gave it to them.”
    “But she kept the rest?”
    “Yes, wait here.” Clara hurried upstairs. When she returned, she found Donald pacing the kitchen.
    “Here,” she said, setting a handsome cherry wood case on the table.
    “Wow! My pa—I mean Clarence—would be impressed with the craftsmanship.” Donald ran his hand over the lid. The box had recessed hinges and handles made of polished brass. The wood reflected the kitchen’s electric lights. “Look,” he said, “these joints fit so perfectly that you can hardly see the seam.”
    “Father Shannon made it,” Clara said, resting he r hand on the top. “He wanted something to honor all the people he’d lost in his parish.”
    Clara stood to Donald’s right, facing the box. She released a small latch and lifted the lid, which opened silently until it came to rest on two brass supports. Inside were a mix of vertical compartments and trays for different sizes of prints. Clara removed a book from the top tray, opened to the first page, placed her finger along the edge and began reading aloud.
     
    Dear Reader:
    September eighth, 1900 began a night of terror from which those of us who survived shall never fully recover. For some of the dead, these few photographs are the only proof they ever lived. Please guard them with all of the loving care they deserve. — Martha Barnes, January 10, 1901
     
    “The only proof,” Donald repeated, lightly touching his head.
    “Mama made a lot of entries in the first three months,” Clara said. “After that, most of the photographs she found were too badly damaged to save.”
    “Yes, the paper would have deteriorated quickly after it got wet, or the sun would have faded the image.”
    She handed the journal to Donald. The second page began a sequence of numbered entries. Each was the same: first an image number, then the date and place where it was found, along with the name of the person who found it. Following that, a paragraph—sometimes as much as a page—told anything more that was known about the people in the picture. The last entry, number 324, was made on June 23, 1901.
    Clara stood over the box. Two trays were on the table, and she was leafing through a collection of cards in the third tray when she pulled one out.
    “Ah, here,” she said, examining the card closely.
    For a moment, Donald couldn’t breathe. On the b ack he saw the familiar inscription: b. January 1, 1900 .
    “P lease,” he said.
    Clara handed him the photograph . He stared at the date a moment more, then turned the card over in his hands.
    Clara lowered herself into the ch air beside him.
    “Is this the picture you described?”
    “Yes,” he whispered, “that’s me.”

Chapter 7
    Thirty seconds passed with only the sound of the clock ticking in the parlor. Clara leaned gently toward Donald, waiting.
    “So, there were at least two copies,” he said, finally looking up and tapping the print against the fingers of one hand. “The card I have in Houston has writing on the front. Other than the number your mother added, this one is blank.”
    Clara pulled away, amazed to see Donald remove his glasses and study the print like a jeweler inspecting a diamond ring.
    “Then what …” Clara struggled to regain her composure. “What does it mean, the fact that there’s a second photograph?”
    “I’m not sure. I need more,” Donald said, looking with unfocused eyes toward the far wall. “A name, an address; anything would help.”
    “Do you think your parents took the picture of you? Your father might have written your birth date on the back. Your mother could have written ‘Maude Brown’s baby’ on the front.”
    Donald turned to face Clara. “If my parents did make this