Free Maude Brown's Baby by Richard Cunningham Page B

photograph, it means that they probably took more—lots more. Whoever made this image used good equipment and knew how to handle the light. They may have had a darkroom to process the negatives and make prints. In 1900, the negative for a print this size would have been glass.”
    “Glass,” Clara repeated. “I remember. Sometimes Mama and her friends found glass negatives, or pieces of them, but after laying out in the sun a few days, the image was gone.”
    Donald nodded. He stood and walked around the table, opposite where Clara sat. He rested his palms on the back of a chair, but didn’t bother to put on his glasses. It was easier to think when he couldn’t see.
    “My parents may have taken the picture, but this print is not from a professional studio. If it were, the name of the studio would be printed on the back.”
    Donald looked toward the box, squinting to see. Frustrated, he retrieved his glasses and pointed to different cards.
    “That one is from a portrait studio in Columbus, Ohio. Here’s one from Steubenville, Indiana, and that’s from a Galveston studio. See? They all have the studio name and fancy artwork on the back.” He turned over two prints. “The format is called carte-de-visite .”
    “Yes,” Clara said, “we had a box full before the storm. I don’t think photographers make them anymore. People nowadays prefer to frame their prints or keep them in books.”
    Clara pulled more cards from the case, each with similar art. The remaining photos were of poor quality. Most were out of focus and badly composed. She reached across to the picture of Donald, turned the card over, noted the catalog number and began looking for it in the journal.
    “Number 47,” she said, glancing up. “A low number means that the card was found soon after the storm.” Clara found the page and laid the journal flat on the table. Donald walked back around to sit beside her, and their shoulders touched as Clara read aloud. She traced her finger along the edge of an entry that began near the bottom of the page:
     
    No. 47 – found by Henry Booth, Saturday, September 15, 1900, in the upstairs remains of a house.
     
    “The upstairs remains of a house,” Donald read again. “Do you know the man who found this picture?”
    “Yes! Mr. Booth fixed a broken window for me just last month. He owns a hardware store and makes small repairs for people in the neighborhood.” Clara turned the page, where the journal entry continued.
     
    Mr. Booth discovered the photograph when he was with three men searching for victims in the buildings along 12 th Street near Avenue J. Mr. Booth said the home was not in its original location. He could not identify the house or its owner.
     
    After an awkward silence, Donald looked back to the table. “This is a lot to think about,” he said, placing the photo of himself back on the table. “My parents were probably lost in the storm. I’ve always wanted to know what happened to them, but I figure after eighteen years, there isn’t much hope. Now this. I don’t know what to make of it.”
    “Would you like to talk to Mr. Booth before you go back to Houston?” Clara asked. “I could introduce you. Perhaps tomorrow?”
    “Of course. Thank you. I …” Donald watched as Clara resorted the prints and returned them to their compartments within the box. She glanced up before placing the picture of him in its proper tray. The small journal rested again in the top section. Clara gently closed the lid and slid the latch into place. She smiled at Donald.              
    “Sleep on it, Mr. Brown. It’s late.”
    Donald slept, but not well. When he heard giggling at the front door he waited, eyes closed, for Jake to enter the room. Jake finally did come in, but only to retrieve his bag. The carriage house was quiet after that, until Donald heard more laughing upstairs.

Chapter 8
Monday, September 9, 1918
    Donald woke at sunrise, at first padding around the room in his