Pulgrum reached out for the photo. Constance could not let go of it and stared at the blurred images frozen in space, unmoving, Benton still alive, not dead, looking at that young man he had not known to be her but then suddenly had. The last moments of life, here in black and white, before her. Here in her hand, his last inhalation. She saw the look in his eyes, not on this scrap of photo paper, but in her memory, her being, her deepest self. She saw how he saw her eyes.
Analee leaned over and gently pried the photo from her grasp, then handed it to Pulgrum with only a glance. This was not something she wished to see. Constance looked up then, looked around at all of them, these people around her, this room, this crocheted afghan beneath her other hand. She felt herself pulled out of memory into the moment and into this place from somewhere else, somewhere that did not exist except in that photo. When she became fully present, she took a deep breath, straightened herself in the chair, handed the afghan to Analee.
“What now, Officer Pulgrum?” Constance rose of her own accord.
“We are holding him, of course. He is charged with the murder of your husband. The evidence is clear. He has given his confession. We are trying to take advantage of his guilt to pry important information from him regarding the Black Hand. Bargaining with him in exchange for consideration of clemency.”
“Clemency? What clemency?” The idea elicited Constance’s clenched fury and her fear.
“A reduced sentence of some sort. A lengthy prison term instead of the death sentence. He knows, actually, that staying in prison would offer him some protection. If he ever escaped, he’s a dead man. The Black Hand would see to that. It would spare us an execution.”
“Will I be called upon to testify?” She imagined herself in the courtroom, face-to-face with that man, the courtroom filled with spectators, some of them women from the Mardi Gras krewe.
“Possibly. But I believe we can spare you that, ma’am. The evidence we have is clear, though if we could ever locate that young man in the photo, we would need his testimony. We haven’t any leads, however, and probably won’t spend a great deal of effort to find him, since the evidence we have in the photo is enough for a conviction.”
Constance stood very still, staring at Pulgrum in silence. He backed away and gave a curt bow.
“I’m sorry to see you’ve been so ill, Mrs. Halstead. And to have to leave you with that image of your husband. But it is my duty to deliver this news to you. Perhaps it will bring a bit of solace to your grief to know that murdering bast . . . uh, murderer, has been apprehended and will not only get his due reward but will also aid us in the apprehension of other Black Hand criminals. I do wish you continued recovery, Mrs. Halstead.”
Pulgrum donned his cap and nodded to the various occupants of the room. “Good day,” he said as he turned and made for the door.
As Pulgrum closed the front entry, the room seemed to empty of issues that had strained them all, even below their awareness. For Constance, it was empty of any further fear or threat that at the least expected moment she might be arrested, taken from her children, taken from her life. Those gathered remained still, then simply looked back and forth at one another.
“Alice, would you go and bring the children down?” said Constance. “Tell them to bring their dolls. We can all sit together to have a cup of tea. Do we have any sweets, Analee?”
“Yes, ma’am. Indeed, we do.”
CHAPTER 47
The atmosphere in the house shifted drastically after Pulgrum’s visit, the pall lifting like a dark veil. The closed-in tension evaporated with the opening of windows all over the house, inviting in the fresh air and, with it, the enlivening trills and tweets of chickadees, house wrens, and yellow-throated warblers in their migration. Inside, the house was abuzz with the hectic chores of the spring cleaning. The larger carpets were rolled back, whacked with a broom to give up their hoarded dust, rolled back again over the swept and mopped floor, and all this was followed by several surface runs with the Bissell “Gold Medal” ball-bearing carpet sweeper, which the children loved to help empty and re-empty. Smaller rugs came out into the open, were hung on the clothesline, and pounded with the carpet beater, and the children again were the most enthusiastic helpers, counting up points in an imaginative game at how much dust flew out during a hit. Windows had a vinegar wash, while the clean curtains hung on the line, awaiting the iron and fresh hanging.
In the new room set aside for Alice and the coming baby, fresh linens covered the bed, their edges embellished with vines and roses stitched by Alice’s artistic hands. A small rocking chair covered in woven floral tapestry sat next to the window, ready for nursing, nap times, bedtimes, fussy times, anytime with the eagerly awaited infant. The girls were constantly finding various toys to bring, then deciding this one was too hard for the baby and that one too old, and reappearing with different, softer stuffed bears, which they held squished in their arms, still relishing for themselves the soft give of the plush fabrics. The crib that had been theirs—and David’s—stood in one corner, its surface gleaming with a fresh coat of white paint. The girls had tossed so many playthings into it, Alice teased them by asking where on earth the baby would sleep.
“With us, Miss Alice. With us and our baby dolls. We have plenty of room,” Delia declared.
Alice laughed, leaned down to straighten and re-pin the oversized hair bow that was forever askew. The love she felt for these children amazed her, these girls who were not hers. Things would change when the baby came. She knew that. They always did. Families reconfigured. Excited adulation turned to jealousy when a child realized that the attention that had been theirs now belonged to another, as her brothers had been jealous of her mother’s intimacy with her. Her life here, at best, was uncertain. Over time, Constance might marry again. Alice might become an intrusion on the household. But this island of peace and happiness was all she needed for the present. Everything was in place except the layette, and Constance had assured her that an ample supply of baby gowns remained packed away from her own babies.
The time was approaching swiftly to have all such necessities in place. Alice, with Martin Birdsong’s assistance, had calculated the baby’s arrival to be in less than four weeks. The baby was lively and, Dr. Birdsong predicted from his examinations, “hefty.” Jonathan had been a big boy, over eight pounds, but Alice had birthed him alone, without complications, since Howard had gone to fetch the midwife and failed to return. Her labor had been protracted. By the time Jonathan was born, Alice’s exhaustion had made it hard to push. But she had managed to change her position, and then his slick, waxy little body had emerged into the world. There had been no doctor, just as there had been no doctor out on that prairie for her mother. As there had been no doctor for her fevered infant son. Only Howard holding him as he struggled under the cold water of that sink. Until he had stopped struggling. She could not think of that. Howard was gone. She no longer cared to find him. She alone would be responsible now. Howard, whoever he was, who had never existed, could cease to exist. Alice was alive. She existed. And soon this baby, this unforeseen, unhoped-for baby, would be in her arms.
Analee, busy beating rugs, had given Alice a vague description of the small trunk holding the baby things and an equally vague location: “Over to the right a bit, behind a stack of baskets.” She would find it. She couldn’t stand out here, breathing the dusty air from the rug beatings, however entertaining the girls’ game. She was coughing when she opened the back screen and went to get a glass of water. She had been tired these last days of her pregnancy and sat down to rest with her glass of water before she trudged up the stairs to the top floor.
*
When Constance whirled into the kitchen, Alice looked up in curious surprise.