“You were raised at Good Shepherd? In Savannah?” Brooke asked. Like most in Savannah, she knew that the former children’s home, founded in pre–Revolutionary War times, was considered the oldest child-caring institution in the country.
“Back in my day, it was called Good Shepherd Home for Boys,” C. D. said. “They changed the name along the way. But I didn’t get sent over to Good Shepherd until the nuns closed up the orphanage I’d been in. St. Joseph’s Foundling Home, it was called.”
“Never heard of it,” Gabe said flatly. “And I’m Catholic, and I was raised in Savannah.”
C. D. shrugged. “You probably never heard of it, ’cause like I said, the nuns closed it up a long time ago. It was on Habersham Street, right where there’s a grocery store today. They shut St. Joe’s down sometime in the fifties, but they kept on running the girls’ orphanage. I reckon they decided boys were too much trouble.”
“How does Josephine Warrick figure into all of this?” Gabe asked.
“How do you think? She got herself knocked up. And she wasn’t married, either, so she did what rich girls did back then. She paid somebody to take the kid—that’s me—off her hands. The nuns took me in, then when I was five, they shipped me out to Good Shepherd.”
C. D.’s mouth smiled, but his eyes were wary. “And that’s where I stayed, working on that damn cattle farm of theirs, until I got into trouble, and then I ran away before they could bounce me out.”
“How old were you when you left Good Shepherd?” Brooke asked.
“Sixteen.”
“And where did you finish high school?”
That smile again. “Who says I did? I was on my own, had to get a job, which I did. After a while, I was sick of Savannah, so I hitchhiked clear out to California and then back east. I ran into a recruiter in Baton Rouge, after an all-night bender, who promised me that I’d see the world if I signed up for the marines. Next thing I know, I’m at Parris Island, then right after that, I started seeing the world with the Third Marine Division in Vietnam.”
C. D. rolled up his shirtsleeve to display the tattoo on his bicep. “Semper fi, motherfucker.” He nodded at Gabe Wynant. “How ’bout you? Did you ever serve?”
“Nope. I turned eighteen in ’72, but I had a student deferment,” Gabe said.
“College boy,” C. D. said. “Figures.”
“I suppose you have some proof that Josephine Warrick was your birth mother?” Gabe asked. “Adoption records, birth certificate, something like that?”
C. D.’s smile dimmed a bit. “That ain’t how it worked back then. Everything was hush-hush.”
“Okay, what proof do you have?” Brooke asked. She couldn’t decide whether she was intrigued or horrified by C. D.’s unfolding story. A little of both, probably. “It’s not up to us, but a judge is going to want proof of the validity of your claim.”
C. D. leaned forward and brought out a worn leather billfold that was attached by a chain to his belt. He slid a packet of papers from the billfold and smoothed them out across his knees.
He held out a photocopy of a black-and-white newspaper photo of a small child of no more than two or three, dressed in cotton print pajamas and holding a toy truck, balanced on the knee of a woman who was looking away from the camera. “That’s me,” he said, tapping the image of the child. “And that’s Josephine.”
“Can I see that?”
C. D. passed the clipping to Gabe Wynant, who examined it closely and then handed it to Brooke.
The newspaper photo was date-stamped SAVANNAH MORNING NEWS, June 18, 1945. The woman in the photo was dressed in a dark dress, with a frivolous feathered hat perched on her dark hair. She held the child stiffly at arm’s length from her chest.
LOCAL BENEFACTRESS VISITS CHILDREN’S HOME, the caption read. Underneath, the copy said:
Miss Josephine Bettendorf distributed smiles and Christmas gifts to orphaned boys this week at the St. Joseph’s Foundling Home. Three-year-old Charles Anthony delighted in receiving a new toy truck.
Brooke studied C. D.’s face.
“Charles Anthony is me,” he said. “And I still got that truck.”
“That’s an amazing coincidence,” Gabe said. “But Josephine was probably just doing what wealthy socialites did back then. It was a charity visit, not a mother-son reunion.”
“No way,” C. D. said. “She came to that home every year while I was there, at Christmas. She handed out candy and toothbrushes and pajamas to them other kids. But I was the only one who got a real toy.” He leaned forward, showing off a narrow white scar that ran through his left eyebrow. “Some other kid tried to take my truck the last year I was at the orphanage. I slugged him, and he hit me with the truck, which is how I got this scar and how he lost his two front teeth.”
“Sorry, but that’s not really proof that you were her child,” Gabe said. “Maybe she just thought you were cute, or she felt sorry for you.”
“I figured you’d say something like that,” C. D. said. He leafed through the packet of papers on his lap and held up another document. It was a photocopy of a typed page.
“Now this here is what’s called the intake report from St. Joseph’s. The sister in charge filled it out when they took in a kid. This is a copy of my intake page. Take a look at that, why don’t you?”
Brooke scooted her chair next to Gabe’s, peering over his shoulder. There were spaces on the page for the date, name, and address of parent or parents, child’s name and date of birth, weight, height, eye and hair color, and race. At the bottom, a space was reserved for comments.
According to the report, on May 5, 1942, a male child named Charles D. Anthony arrived at the orphanage. Weight was eleven pounds, six ounces. The child’s hair color was listed as brown. Eye color: blue. Race: W. In the spaces for the child’s mother and father, someone had typed Unknown. Also unknown were the child’s exact date of birth, although someone had typed Approx. six months of age.
The comments block had been filled out in Spenserian black script.
Father Ryan brought male child to home last Sunday, stated he was found asleep, under pew, in church today, after 8:00 A.M. mass. No parishioners have any knowledge of child. Father stated hopes parent will return to claim child, but fears child has been abandoned. The boy is docile, in good health. Father Ryan believes that boy was born out of wedlock. Mother Superior advises we will accept child pending further investigation.
“Somebody left a child? A six-month-old baby in a church?” Brooke said, aghast.
“Yeah. That was me,” C. D. said. “Turns out since they didn’t know my real name, they named me after that priest. Charles David. For a last name, they gave me the name of one of the nun’s favorite saints, which was St. Anthony.” He chuckled. “Can you imagine that? Me named after a saint?”
Brooke found herself speechless, pondering the reality of C. D.’s childhood. She’d always known who she was, who her people were, and who their people were. Family and a sense of family identity were ingrained in every Southerner she knew, especially Savannahians, who were obsessed with family connections. What would it be like to wonder your entire life who you really were?
“How did you find out about all of this?” Brooke asked. “Or did you always know about the orphanage?”
C. D. rubbed the gray stubble on his chin. “I always remembered bits and pieces from the time I was in the orphanage. Like how us little kids all slept in one big room, with rows and rows of these iron cribs that had high sides so you couldn’t climb out. Even when we got older and were big enough to sleep in a real bed, they kept us in those cribs, almost like a cage, you know?”
Brooke thought guiltily about the crib her own Henry had been sleeping in until recently. Would he too remember, someday, and wonder if he had been kept a prisoner there?