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- 05/28/2016
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Scraps from a Diary - 3. Scraps from a Diary, 3 of 3
Scraps from a Diary, 3 of 3
Like the pony cart ride that had brought me from the Famous station to The Clubhouse, dappled sunlight through leaves filtered down to my eyes. After our coffee, Mr. McIntire and I had a pleasant conversation about the preparations for the Saint Charles Street shipping facilities, and now we were strolling the shaded path down to the river's edge.
"I have a feeling, Mr. McIntire, you sense as I do that Arnold Bauer is bright despite his learning difficulties."
The man was silent; a few pools of light and shadow overtook and retreated away from us along the path. He was clearly lost in thought, and some degree of anguish contorted the corner of is mouth.
The silence was something akin to what I imagine a priest in a confessional hears.
I pressed on with my original topic. "My mother is a retired school teacher. She knows all about 'slow boys' and how to bring them along at their own pace. It's called dyslexia, Mr. McIntire, it's – "
"I know he's far from dumb, Miss Barrett." His interruption had none of the expected ill temper I've seen from him in the past.
We continued on in shadowy silence for a minute or two, and then a bend in the footpath opened up our sightline straight to the water. Drenched in sunlight and animated all around by bright points of reflected light in the riffles, Bauer stood in his shirtsleeves within the shallows casting his reel.
It took me a moment to realize Mr. McIntire had stopped walking. He was transfixed, simply staring at the boy.
"Are you all right?" I asked, slowing my own pace to a halt.
He blinked at me like he had just remembered I existed.
In a quiet, unadorned voice, he said, "He's – he's my nephew, Miss Barrett."
I swallowed a lump and took a step back to him.
The man continued with a commingled look of regret and nausea. "In the months after the World's Fair, this city had quite a wave of babies being delivered. Many of the newborns were to unwed mothers and became wards of the state. I knew my sister's child was placed at Saint Joseph's Orphanage, and I knew they gave him the name of Arnold Bauer, so I kept an eye on him, thinking…one day – "
He halted abruptly, placing his hands in his pockets.
"One day, what, Mr. McIntire?"
I dreaded his answer.
"That one day when my sister was married and settled – which she is now, but not to Bauer's father – she'd 'adopt' him and raise him. She'd be ready then. But, the truth is, Miss Barrett, my sister does not want anything to do with the boy."
"Oh, Mr. McIntire."
"Well, then my thinking changed. If not her, then… ."
"Maybe you?"
"Yes, maybe me. It all happened so quickly – my engagement and notice from Saint Jo's that Bauer was taken from class and about to be reclassified as 'feebleminded,' so I had to act before I was ready."
"Oh, Mr. McIntire, you did the right thing."
"So you know? You know what feebleminded means? He'd be sent to Arsenal Street."
"Arsenal Street?"
"The State Hospital, miss. The insane asylum, and I couldn't let the boy be institutionalized. He doesn’t deserve that."
I placed a reassuring hand on his lower arm. "You did the right thing, bringing him to the store. You did the correct and noble thing."
"So, there's my confession, Miss Barrett. Truth is, the more time I spend with Arnold Bauer, the more I like him. But – "
"But, your wife – "
"My wife is coming around. She…she has her doubts about 'hard cases,' but I'm working on her. I expect by the end of this stay, she'll be ready to bring the boy into our house." He suddenly pulled out and glanced at his watch. "If you'll excuse me, Miss Barrett, I have to get to the stables and book a horse riding lesson for Bauer. Good morning."
"Good morning, Mr. McIntire."
My eyes followed his form trailing back along the shade-patched course, but I knew my true interest lay on the bright side. I turned and watched the golden-haired orphan child cast a line far out into the river.
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˚˚˚˚˚
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1913
Saturday, July 5th
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Famous-on-the-Meramec, near Eureka, Mo.
Dear Diary,
Midmorning on my last full day in the country found me at a picturesque spot.
The resort's excursion boat is called the Sarah Jane, and seats about a dozen people as she motors along the river. After the whistle blew and she pulled away, I noticed a solitary figure rooted at the end of the dock.
A few minutes later I was sitting next to Bauer, our naked toes and ankles dipping into the Meramec as we cast quiet glances across the surface of the water. All was calm; the shimmers of timeless days, seasons and years captured in the endlessness of a single moment.
The blonde waif was without his cap, and I again wished he'd allow his hair to grow out. The workman's bob he sported lent a too-serious air to the boy's appearance.
"It was quite a show last night, wasn't it, Bauer?"
His sidelong glance up to me caught a sunbeam and made him squint. "It was."
I pointed. "Just around the bend there."
Part of The Farm's riverfront included a high and dry sandbar. Set in a gentle bend, it made for a commodious beach.
"The fireworks, Bauer, have you ever seen anything like them?"
"No, miss."
"Sparkles in both the sky and water – I didn’t know anything could be so beautiful."
"He might not tell you himself, but Mr. McIntire sure worked hard on the display. He rolled up his sleeves and pitched right in."
"The last moment when the frame came to life was awe-inspiring."
As tribute to the Fourth of July, and our pending move into the largest commercial building in the world, the 'boys' of Famous had rigged a billboard-sized rack with smaller slats. On this a network of long-lasting sparklers had been fused together, and when stood up and tripped as part of the finale, the outline of our future home lit up in stunning detail, right down to the pennant flying at the top corner, twenty-one stories high. After a minute or two, a message in living flame spread across the bottom: "Three cheers for David May!"
"I hope they got pictures of it, Bauer."
"I'm sure they did, miss. It's historic."
He chuckled all of a sudden.
"What is it?"
"Oh, I was just thinking you were lucky not to be near Mrs. McIntire during the fireworks."
"Why's that?"
"With every loud shell going off, she'd clutch at Mr. McIntire and pretend she was going to faint. She wanted to pull him away early – and spoil our fun – but he insisted she stop acting so dramatic."
I muttered: "Well, bully for him… ."
"What's that?"
"I said: Very interesting."
"Yes. She doesn't seem to know how to have a good time, Miss Barrett."
"No, not like we do."
His boyish features turned mischievous. "May I ask you a personal question?"
"Of course, Bauer."
"How old are you?"
"I just turned thirty. In fact it was on April 8th."
"I'm sorry I missed it, miss."
I tried to laugh. "At thirty, I'm afraid it's official. I'm an old maid, but mercifully few dare to suggest it to my face."
"You're not old."
"I'm not?"
"No, you are the perfect age. You have what you want, and you can do and go where you please. Perfect age."
"I guess you are right on those accounts. Thank you, Bauer, for cheering me up."
"My pleasure."
It was my turn to turn playful. I kicked a toe-full of gleaming water towards his face. "Now you. Tell me when's your birthday."
"It's on October 29th, miss. You haven't missed it. I'm not used to celebrating them anyhow."
"But what about gifts, a cake?"
"'Cause there's so many of us, Saint Jo's has one cake for all the birthdays happening that month." An impish grin to match the best of Buster Brown's crept over his quivering lips. "But we don't get any presents there."
"Thank you, young Master Bauer. I will make a note of it: no presents."
This time he kicked water in my direction, and orange vitality and sparkle of daylilies lining the river's sunny banks flashed in my eye for a moment.
He asked plainly: "Do you miss home?"
"I only have my mother and my brother's son with whom I am close. Thomas, my nephew, is in college now and moved away. This July he and his close friend are in Europe: Spain, Portugal and perhaps Italy. So my days of being a doting aunt are numbered."
It looked like the lad had another question on his mind, but it went unasked.
His serious turn of mood put me in mind of a nagging inquiry. I asked very slowly, "Bauer, do you think you could be happy staying with Mrs. and Mr. McIntire, now that you have shared a room with them for a few days?"
"I don't know." He was contemplative. "I try to stay out of her way; I try to say nothing to upset her; but it seems I always do something wrong, or say something to make her roll her eyes. I don’t think she likes me, Miss Barrett."
I felt like weeping. I hoped it did not show in my voice. "That's too bad, Bauer."
"Don't cry, miss. I don't mind her reaction to me – honest I don’t. It's how most people treat me, so I'm used to it."
"Oh, Bauer… ." Tears streamed down my face. "You're such a good boy. You deserve so much better."
He tried to make me stop with humor. "But the worst thing about Mr. McIntire's missus is how she's always latching onto my ears, folding them back and saying 'Did you clean behind here?' 'Yes, ma'am,' I tell her, but she's never satisfied. Who's gonna be looking behind my ears anyway? I mean, besides her!"
His efforts succeeded. My tears flew from me in a bout of laughter, and eventually I collected myself enough to ask him a simple question. "Bauer, if you don’t mind very much, I'd like to hug you."
He blinked in surprise, but saw it would mean a great deal to me. He stood and walked into my arms.
Truth was, I did not want to let him go.
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My sincere thanks go to Timothy M., skinnydragon and Mikiesboy for their technical and moral support.
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