Replay the conversation a dozen different ways, and the conclusion was the same: he’d been a righteous jackass.
After Lily’s departure, Ellis had caught a glimpse of that reality before he dozed into oblivion. The following morning, nausea and the pounding in his skull had made thinking of any kind damn near impossible. But as the day had waned and the fog of his memories cleared, he couldn’t escape the shame from his barbs.
Sure, he’d been soused. And yeah, he’d been primed for battle after the row with his father, an exchange steeped in too many layers to process just yet. But mostly, he’d been riled by the mirror in Lily’s words, reflections of himself he’d dodged for months.
Now he couldn’t shake them. On a drizzly Monday afternoon, impelled by the letter she’d delivered, he dug from his desk other reminders of his deed. The city room buzzed around him as he finally opened the small mound of posts. They’d continued to trickle in even after he first started at the Tribune, forwarded from the various papers that had picked up his feature. Each expressed sympathy for the family. Several envelopes held a buck or two.
Before she left, Lily had questioned if he actually remembered the kids. As if he could forget. He’d just shoved them into the deepest caverns of his mind, an attempt to keep his sanity. Their faces, dual symbols of his guilt, had haunted him like ghosts, even in New York. Among kids on the street, in Central Park, at Times Square, he’d see Ruby smiling, laughing, toting a bundle of flowers. He’d see Calvin climbing a tree or hiding in the folds of a mother’s skirt. And the truth behind the photo wasn’t the only cause. What needled him more, as Lily noted long ago, was how the family’s hardships had boosted his career. The higher he rose, the uglier that fact became. By busying himself with reports of corruption and scandals, he’d done his best to forget.
“Did your friend find you?”
Ellis was so immersed in his thoughts it took him a moment to realize the question was for him, and even longer to trace it to the man standing at his desk.
“Your lady friend,” Dutch clarified. “She was asking around at Bleeck’s. I’d heard you talking about hitting the Royal with your folks. Figured you’d want me to pass it along.”
Ellis narrowed his eyes, the series of events clicking together. At the same time, he was grasping the idea of speaking with Dutch at all. “Yeah. She did.”
“Oh. Good.”
In the background, someone launched a paper plane and a phone rang. A reporter yelled for a copy boy.
Dutch adjusted the pencil behind his ear. He lingered until awkwardness strained the air. When he edged away, Ellis failed to add anything more.
What would be fitting to say? The last they’d spoken was months ago. Soon after the City Hall blunder, Dutch had made two attempts at a flimsy apology.
All right, fine. In hindsight, they might have been genuine. The pressure of a new baby, combining a lack of sleep and desperation to keep his job, had led to “a gutless choice,” Dutch had said. Evidently, when Mr. Walker had assumed Ellis was at fault, Dutch didn’t voice a correction. He’d later offered to make it right, but the opportunity was long passed by then. Ellis had simply dismissed him icily, and they’d avoided each other ever since.
In reality, perhaps the guy wasn’t so bad. Even decent, well-meaning people could make poor choices under pressure. Just look at Ellis. He at least owed Dutch a word of gratitude now for directing Lily his way. Granted, in light of the outcome, it was like thanking a nurse for a dose of cod liver oil: just because it was needed didn’t make it pleasant going down.
For the time being, his priority was Lily.
He reached across his mound of mail and retrieved his phone. Keeping the earpiece on the cradle, he scrounged for the right words. His own apology couldn’t sound flimsy.
That was assuming he even got that far before she hung up or was pulled away by the chief. Ellis could send a letter instead, wire a telegram. Both of which, however, could wind up in a waste bin or returned weeks from now unread.
Right then, the city editor was passing the aisle of desks, hat and coat on. He was scooting out for lunch.
Ellis made a decision.
“Mr. Walker,” he called out. The man turned with reluctance, looking impatient for his afternoon refreshment. When he approached, Ellis cut to the request. “I was wondering, sir, if there’s any chance I could head home. Back to Philly. For a personal matter.”
Intrigue flickered in Mr. Walker’s eyes, but he wasn’t the type to snoop unless the subject was worthy of print. “You’re wanting tomorrow off?”
Ellis had simply meant over the next few days. But yeah. Why not? Until he settled all with Lily, any attempt to work would be a bust. “It’d be a real help.”
“Gone just a day, then.” Not a suggestion, but a limit. A large portion of the man’s duties, magnified by the tough economy, was ensuring that those on his staff were earning their pay.
“Yes, sir.”
“So long as you don’t forget, I want a new pitch by Thursday.”
“Sure thing. I’m working on it.”
“That what this is all about?” Mr. Walker gestured to the letters splayed over the desk.
Ellis now wished he’d opened them in private. “It’s just some reader mail. About an old feature in the Examiner.”
Mr. Walker nodded. “The kids with the sign.”
An impressive guess. Though Ellis shouldn’t have been surprised. The success of that feature had been chiefly responsible for catching the editor’s eye. And when it came to notable stories, the man’s memory was an archive.
Mr. Walker peeked at his watch. “Well, I’m off to lunch.” He continued on his way, but he just as soon halted and wagged a finger. “It’s not a bad idea.”
“Sir?”
“There are plenty of readers who’d want to know more. If you’re already traveling thereabouts, how about a follow-up on the family?”
Another piece on the Dillards…
The mere suggestion turned Ellis’s stomach as Mr. Walker ran with the thought. “Were the kids kept, sold, given away? Are they better or worse off? If the story’s got meat, it might be worthy of a Page One pitch.”
How the hell do you follow up on something that never happened? Ellis yearned to say, but replied evenly, “I’ll look into it.”
A quick nod and Mr. Walker strode onward, leaving Ellis to subdue a rising sense of dread.
In more than one way, his past was muscling back to the surface.
- • •
The plan changed en route.
On the drive from New York, having pulled out at first light, Ellis was over halfway to Philly when he chose to reverse stops. If he waited until Lily’s lunch break to arrive at the Examiner, she’d likely have a moment to spare, ideally in private. And that meant Laurel Township would come first.
The decision about a sequel piece was even easier to make. Despite the instinct to cover his tracks, one article based on a falsehood was more than enough. He wouldn’t be writing a second. The point of this trip, on the contrary, was to bring closure to the issue. Now he knew how. A single act would finally affirm that the journey had been worth the risks.
At last, Ellis steered onto the short dirt drive flecked with pebbles, ending at the Dillards’ home. Except for the leaden midmorning sky, the scene matched the image in his memory. The farmhouse with its covered porch. A film of dirt over its white paint. An apple tree set against rolling fields of hay.
Once parked, he stepped out of his car and patted the chest of his suit. The thick feel of the envelope, stuffed in his inside pocket, confirmed the gift was there. To the seven dollars accrued from his drawer of mail, he’d added twenty-three of his own. He’d be pretty strapped until next payday, but it was the least he could do. If the family had treasured two measly bucks, this would be a gold mine.
He only wished he’d done it sooner.
On the porch, he opened the screen door and rapped with his knuckles. When he received no answer, he knocked harder.
Still nothing.
Unlike the donations he’d delivered before, he wasn’t about to leave thirty smackers on the Dillards’ front steps.
After a third knock, he removed his hat to peer through the window. The narrow space between the blue gingham curtains limited his view.
From behind came the groan of an engine. He turned around, hopeful, only to discover a man driving a truck toward the house.
Ellis descended the stairs, anxious to make clear he wasn’t a shifty lurker. He gave a friendly wave as the vehicle rolled to a stop.
“Can I help ya, neighbor?” the grizzled man called from his open window, the motor running. The side of his black truck featured stenciled white lettering: U.S. MAIL.
“I’m looking for Geraldine Dillard. Any idea where I might find her?”
“Mmm, wish I could tell ya.” The man scratched his beard. “But Mrs. Dillard never registered a forwarding address.”
“You’re saying…she moved?” Ellis gazed back at the house, stunned by the news. “When?”
“Tough to say exactly. Once the kids were gone, she scarcely came out. All’s I know is a few months back, landlord told me to send the bills his way till there’s another renter.”
Ellis struggled with the explanation that implied a mother’s grief, punctuated by a single phrase: The kids were gone.
His thoughts flashed back to his brother. A swaddled bundle hurried out of the house and swept away. Buried in a small plot at a cemetery surrounded by trees and flowers.
Ellis met the man’s eyes. “What happened to them…the kids?”
“Well, now, I didn’t see nothing firsthand.”
“But you know something.”
The postman tossed a glance over his shoulder, as if assessing the area before disclosing town gossip. “Only thing I heard is from Walter Gale—ol’ Walt works down at the train depot. Handyman and such. Even helps out as a cabbie when the need calls. Walt says some fancy banker took the train in. Brought along a picture in the paper, one of this here house, and paid for a ride straight over. Left with the little ones the very same day.”
Relief swept through Ellis, having initially assumed the worst, but the feeling promptly vanished. “So, they’ve both been adopted.”
“Adopted? No, no. Not from what I gather,” the postman said. And right then, the notion of what was coming, the twisted reality of what Ellis had caused, struck with the force of a barreling train, even before the man finished. “Them kids were outright sold.”
