The Strange Case of Baby H by Kathryn Reiss Page A

She needs a bath.”
    Clara obligingly hurried into the house and up the stairs. The attic was dim and cool. Evidence of the quake was less obvious here. Stacked boxes had tumbled onto the floor, and the heavy steamer trunks had slid from one end of the narrow, low-ceilinged room to the other, but damage was minimal. Clara restacked boxes, reading the labels of their contents as she worked, and soon she had located “Baby Garments.”
    She headed for the staircase with the carton. But then she stopped at the little diamond-shaped window that lit the attic with weak afternoon light, and peered out. From here she had nearly a bird’s-eye view of the city. She could see the peaks of tents in Golden Gate Park and the plumes of smoke from fires just a few blocks to the east. What was happening in the Japanese Tea Garden right now?
    Then she noticed a man and a woman walking slowly down her street. The man, limping heavily, leaned on the woman’s arm. The woman wore a red dress!
    Clara pressed against the dusty windowpane and strained to see better, but the couple turned the corner. Goose! she scolded herself. Lots of people wore red dresses! The man must have been injured in the quake like so many others, and he and his wife were probably heading for the park. Perhaps they had lost their home to the firebreak in the last explosion …
    Clara carried the baby clothes downstairs. She glanced into the parlor and saw Father sitting at the broken front window in his chair, staring broodingly out into the street.
    â€œDo you pray, Clara?” Father asked when he saw her. “If you do, then pray for rain. Only thing that can save our city now is rain.”
    Clara put one hand on Father’s thin shoulder. It seemed to her the fires had been burning forever—for weeks, at least. Yet this was only the third day since the earthquake. So much had happened in a short time. She glanced at the mantle, then remembered that the clock had been smashed in the quake. “Father,” she asked, “what is the time?”
    He peered down at the pocket watch clipped to his vest. “Five-fifteen,” he replied heavily.
    â€œAnd Mr. Midgard and Mr. Stokes?”
    â€œStill not returned,” he said. “I hope there has been no trouble.”
    Clara felt heavy with dread.
    She carried the box through the dining room, where Mr. Granger now sat at the table with the children and the Wheeler sisters, amazing them with card tricks. She took the box into the kitchen. Mother’s eyes filled with tears as she searched through the tiny shirts and dresses. She held up a knitted blue sweater to show the other women at the kitchen table—she had made it herself, Clara knew, for Gideon when he was born—then pressed it to her heart. Clara looked away. Mother’s grief was still so raw.
    Finally Mother selected a few soft garments. She and Clara carried the baby outside. The air was thick with smoke and wind-borne ash. Mother placed the baby on a folded towel on the grass and stripped off the doll dress and the diaper.
    Baby H gurgled and waved her fists. She really was a most engaging baby, Clara thought, and didn’t seem to notice that her world was in crisis. Clara smiled down at the child, watching as Mother poured a small dipperful of warm water from the kettle into a bowl. “Here, dear.” Mother held out the washcloth to Clara. “You’ll be bathing your own babies someday, so why not learn now?”
    Clara dunked the soft cloth into the water and wiped Baby H gently. The baby chuckled when Clara made silly faces. “Well done,” Mother said. “I’ll leave you to finish here and get her dressed again.” Then Mother went back into the house.
    As Clara leaned over the baby, pinning a clean folded diaper into place, her shoulder blades prickled. I won’t be like Edgar , she told herself staunchly, always imagining ghostly presences! She knew full well