Brothers Forever: An Orphan Story

Copyright © 2007 by Craig Mayeux

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This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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Contents

Acknowledgements

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 31

CHAPTER 32

CHAPTER 33

CHAPTER 34

CHAPTER 35

CHAPTER 36

CHAPTER 37

CHAPTER 38

CHAPTER 39

CHAPTER 40

CHAPTER 41

CHAPTER 42

CHAPTER 43

CHAPTER 44

CHAPTER 45

CHAPTER 46

CHAPTER 47

CHAPTER 48

CHAPTER 49

CHAPTER 50

CHAPTER 51

CHAPTER 52

CHAPTER 53

CHAPTER 54

CHAPTER 55

CHAPTER 56

CHAPTER 57

CHAPTER 58

CHAPTER 59

CHAPTER 60

CHAPTER 61

CHAPTER 62

CHAPTER 63

CHAPTER 64

CHAPTER 65

CHAPTER 66

CHAPTER 67

CHAPTER 68

CHAPTER 69

CHAPTER 70

CHAPTER 71

CHAPTER 72

EPILOGUE

END NOTES

I have written this book to honor my grandfather, George Leary, a true orphan, who arrived in Cottonport, Louisiana via an orphan train in 1904.

Acknowledgements

To the love of my life, Donna, I wish to express my deepest gratitude. During our good times and throughout life’s challenges, you have been my rock. Thank you for always believing in me. Your love and understanding, as I spent many a sleepless night sitting at the computer writing this novel, was exactly what I needed to complete this work. I love you with all my heart.

I am so very thankful for my parents, Sid and Jackie Mayeux. Your faith in me, as well as your support and prayers, have been priceless. In addition, thank you for the wonderful stories of your young lives in rural Louisiana, which fired my imagination and made the characters in this book come to life for me.

In addition, I would like to acknowledge Myron Mr. Hot Tassin. You spent hours reading and editing my manuscript when it was little more than a bare-bones story, littered with atrocious punctuation and misused Cajun/French words and phrases. Seeing potential in my writing, however, you provided me with guidance and encouragement, asking only that I publish this work. You gave me the confidence to pursue that goal. Merci beaucoup, Monsieur Hot.

CHAPTER 1

NEW YORK CITY AUGUST 1900

Looking at her infant child as she walked the grimy city streets in the predawn hour, the young mother did not see the man swoop out of the alley. The echoing ka-klock from the heels of her shoes alerted him of her approach and like a leopard on an antelope; he pounced directly into her path. Startled, she let go a quick squeal of fright that aroused absolutely no one’s attention.

His physical appearance alone was enough to scare the most hardened street person, a giant of a man with thick black stubble on his face and a smell not unlike a stockyard. On the streets, he was called Goliath. The monster reached out and grabbed her around both biceps. As he looked directly into her sea green eyes, a wide grin formed across his face, revealing sparse, rotting teeth protruding from gums that looked like raw meat.

Goliath started to pull the young woman down the alley. Come with me, Carrot Top, he said disgustingly. I got somethin’ real special for ya.

Instinctively she jerked violently and freed herself. Goliath was stunned and for a moment, they stood there, staring each other down. Continuing to grin repulsively, the big oaf motioned toward the alley with his eyes as though it were an inviting place to visit. Holding her baby firmly with one arm, she reared back with the other and slapped the giant hard across his dirty jaw. The blow stung her hand as if she had just slapped a pincushion.

Goliath barely moved. His sickening smile remained and his stench grew even stronger. Then, inexplicably, he stepped aside. Ya got spunk, girl. Ain’t too many folks would try that. Even less gets away with it. Bowing deeply from the waist, he waved his arm gallantly, allowing her to pass, saying, Have a pleasant day, Miss.

The woman raised her chin proudly and after pushing her dirty, red, shoulder-length hair out of her face, walked past Goliath. It was another half city block before she felt herself breathe again. I can still smell that dirty ox.

After walking for several more blocks, the rising sun’s brilliant rays were beginning to emerge above the city’s rooftops, promising another day of sweltering heat. The young mother wore a stained and faded blue dress with a tattered hem. The soles of her scuffed, black shoes were worn out and she had lined them with old newspapers to protect her feet from the gritty pavement. The heels were solid, though. That is what had warned Goliath that she was coming, but he was no longer a threat. Now, as she walked, the vagrants sleeping in the doorways of shops and tenement buildings rolled over and cursed her for having disturbed their fitful sleep.

Had it not been for her distinctive red hair, she would have been nondescript from the thousands of other poor, husbandless, women in the city. On this day, however, her mane was frizzy, filthy and tangled; a result of the sweltering heat and humidity, as well as the fact that she had not had a bath in several days. Walking toward her objective, her mane flew around wildly, redolent of a blazing campfire. Her ruddy face was flushed, beaded with sweat from the oppressive heat.

In her arms, she cradled her boy—whimpering, weak and innocent. Wrapped in what was once a white bed sheet, but was now a gray rag, it was more soiled than his mother’s clothing. Like his mother, the boy had a full head of fine carroty hair that stuck straight up and looked like the flame on the head of a match.

Exhausted, she continued to walk block after long block until she finally reached her destination, the New York City Orphanage and Hospital, an enormous red brick building that spanned an entire city block. Pausing for a moment at the bottom of the steps, she looked up to see two imposing front doors. Her moist green eyes went back to the child and she wondered if she was making the right decision. What am I doin’? I must be mad. But, what other choice do I have?

Climbing the steps to the daunting wooden doors, she entered. She was alone in a large foyer with 20-foot high ceilings and polished hardwood floors. In the center of the foyer was an empty white cradle. Against the walls, on either side of the room, were high-backed wooden benches that reminded her of the seats she had slept on at the train station. Her shoes announced her presence as she walked over to a bench. When she sat down and removed them, she instantly felt relief for her aching feet. As she rested, the child started to squirm and whine but he was not quite crying. She bared her breast and allowed him to suckle noisily. A tear began to etch a trace down the contour of her rough cheek, but she quickly brushed it away with a wave of her hand. At first, she thought it was a bead of sweat, then, in disbelief, she realized that she was weeping. Glancing at her boy, she was unable to focus on his face through the steady eruption of tears. Thoughts pummeled her weary mind. Whenever I look away from ya, I forget what ya look like. Just as well. It’ll be best if I don’t remember ya at all. I’ll never forget your hair though—it’s just like mine. She stroked his fine red hair.

The infant sucked hungrily for a few moments then drifted to sleep. His mother reached into the hip pocket of her dress and removed a slip of paper. After staring at the scrawled writing for a long time, she thought: I can’t think of nothin’ else to write about ya.

Barefoot, she walked to the center of the foyer and gently placed the child in the cradle. He wiggled a little when she released him but did not wake and quickly settled. She pinned the note to the baby’s rags then watched him sleep for a short while. I can’t think of nothin’ to say to ya, little man.

At that moment, she heard footsteps approaching from an adjoining hallway. She looked down at her boy, pushed her hair from her face and said aloud, Don’t hate me, Thomas. I just can’t keep ya. I’m so sorry.

Hurrying back to the bench, she picked up her shoes and darted out the front door. Stopping at the bottom step, she sat down to put on her shoes. Already! Already I can’t remember what he looks like.

Then, the young woman stood, shook her head so that her hair was off her face and jutted out her jaw, trying her best to portray an air of toughness. She walked away, slowly at first, then faster and faster until she was in a dead run. When her shoes flew off her feet, she did not stop to retrieve them. She continued to run. She never looked back.

CHAPTER 2

SIMONE, LOUISIANA

AUGUST 1900

Irma LaBorde could not believe it was happening again. She had been pregnant twice before and had lost both babies within the first few months of pregnancy. This time she thought would be different. Last week, she was sure she felt the baby move. That had never happened with her previous pregnancies. She had already carried this child longer than the other two.

Her husband, Emmett, said that he had a good feeling this time. This one is going to take, he told her, as if the baby was a transplanted flower.

The child was not yet at full term, but the acute pain in her abdomen told her that the baby was coming. Irma was scared when her water broke—terror set in when she saw the blood. She rushed to the front bedroom, where a window faced her neighbor’s yard. The window was already open in hopes that an unlikely cool breeze might filter through the screen and she called to the oldest in a group of boys, "André, go to the bank and get Monsieur¹ Emmett! Tell him he has to come home right now!"

André answered with a heavy Cajun accent. "Aw, Madame² Irma, we was about to go fishin’ in de bayou."

Tell him I said to give you a nickel. Go now, André. I need him right away.

"A nickel! Oui, Madame Irma, I’ll go and bring him right back." André dropped his cane pole and started down the lane. The others glared at him jealously.

Irma thought for a moment then, said, Wait André, go to Madame Iola’s house first and tell her I need her, too.

Madame Iola? The boy sounded alarmed.

"Oui, André, and hurry up!"

I’ll run de whole way, Madame Irma.

A piercing pain shot through her abdomen and Irma hunched over, holding her swollen belly. Instinctively she prayed, Oh, God, no! Please, God, not again! Nevertheless, she knew her prayers were in vain. Irma could sense it was too late to do anything. She lay in her bed alone and wept silently.

All the windows of the house were open on this sultry day and long before he turned up the path to their cozy little home, Irma heard Emmett huffing and puffing down the lane. He flung open the front door and ran to the bedroom. His clothes were soaked with perspiration. Irma attempted to hide her tears, but the redness in her eyes gave her away.

Emmett knelt next to the bed and panted, I got here … as quick … as I could. Madame Iola … she’s coming. She’ll know … what to do. He paused and tried to catch his breath, then asked, "What can I do … to help you, cher³?"

Irma turned her face away, shook her head on the sweat-soaked pillow and replied, It’s too late. She lifted the damp top sheet and upon seeing the fresh blood on her gown, Emmett buried his head in the bed. They wept together.

By the time it was all over, the sun’s final rays illuminated an approaching storm and colored the clouds an eerie purplish-green. Madame Iola, the town’s midwife, helped Irma get cleaned up and put on a fresh gown. Irma lay quietly on spotless sheets, but her mind was far from silent. She could still hear Madame Iola’s Creole-laden voice ringing in her ears. "Sometimes, cher, a woman just cain’t carry her bèbè all de way t’rough to birth. If you try to have another child, Madame Irma, I’m afraid it might kill yuh. I t’ink yuh ought to give up tryin’. It’s for your own good, cher."

Irma knew the woman’s words were true and were offered with maternal kindness. Nevertheless, she felt as though Madame Iola’s devastating advice had stabbed her in the heart.

Emmett entered and sat gently on the side of the bed, taking his wife’s hand, he stroked it softly. Irma’s face was pale and anguished with another bitter disappointment. Touching her face, he brushed away a wisp of her hair that fell onto her forehead. For the first time, he noticed gray strands in her hair and crow’s feet wrinkles around her dark eyes. Emmett felt the letdown as strongly as she did. Time had run out for them and they knew it. They would never have a child. Their dreams were shattered. Wanting to ease her pain he asked, What can I do for you, cher? Can I get you anything?

Unable to look up at her husband, Irma merely shook her head. Emmett glanced at Madame Iola whose gentle face indicated that she had everything under control—the rest was ladies business. She motioned with her eyes that he should leave.

He stood and told his wife, I’ll be right outside. If you need anything, all you have to do is call me. Irma did not respond and he wondered if she had heard him.

Again, Madame Iola motioned toward the door.

Emmett closed the door gently behind him and stood in the small parlor. He decided that if he could not ease his wife’s suffering, he would ease his own and he poured himself a stiff shot of whiskey. He sat on a burgundy divan and put the glass to his lips, allowing only a sip to touch his tongue. As the bitter liquor burned his throat, he wanted to cry but his tears had gone dry.

CHAPTER 3

ST. GABRIEL PARISH, LOUISIANA

AUGUST 1900

On the front gallery of an old wood-frame house, a group of men gathered while smoking hand-rolled Bull Durham cigarettes and drinking strong black coffee. The house—a small unpainted shack, really—stood only about a hundred yards from the high banks of Bayou des Églises.

Three of the men, Emile Brassette, his brother, Ferdinand and his son, Samuel, had separated themselves from the others. Emile, with the scent of whiskey on his breath, spoke his Cajun-French dialect in angry, but muted tones. I’m tellin’ yuh, he broke a sacred promise to me. I know Pierre Chappelle all mah life—since we was boys—and I t’ought I could trust him. But, he turned on me. Hell, he turned on mah whole family. It ain’t right, what he did.

Ferdinand wiped the perspiration from his face with the sleeve of his shirt, but he could not remove his skeptical expression. Pierre says it was yuh who broke de promise.

Emile fired back angrily. What he said I did?

He ain’t sayin’. He just says dat it was yuh—not him—dat broke de deal ya’ll had with each other.

He ain’t sayin’ cuz he ain’t got no proof. I didn’t do nuttin, Emile said dismissively. "Remember when Sam married Pierre’s daughter, Lucille? Me and him made a promise to share everythin’ we had between our two families. For a long, long time both families were doin’ real good. We was like one family. But, it was him and his boy, Lucien, who started this whole mess … not me. We was supposed to share what we made from our cotton crops, but they wasn’t pickin’ clean. They was leavin’ too much cotton behind. We worked hard, hard to pick our cotton clean, but they was lazy and cheated us, yeah.

And remember that time when Lucien went huntin’ and killed a deer. They didn’t share none of that meat with us. That’s the second time they broke the promise with me. I’m tellin’ you, Ferdinand, it was him that broke the deal he made with me.

Ferdinand shook his head, It just don’t make no sense, Emile. I know Pierre all mah life, too. It ain’t like him to cheat somebody. He just ain’t dat way.

What about when Lucien shot Sam dat time. He damn near killed him. How come he did dat?

Ferdinand could only shrug his skinny shoulders.

Samuel Brassette listened, recalling the time when Lucien Chappelle had shot him while he was hunting. He found it difficult to concentrate on the conversation, having heard it all before. Besides, Samuel had other worries.

Emile Brassette continued, So yuh gonna believe him over me … your own brother? Is dat what yuh sayin’ to me?

"Mon frère (My brother), I believe yuh, yeah. I just cain’t understand how Pierre turned on yuh dat way. It just ain’t like him, no."

His anger building, Emile clinched his jaw and continued. I’m tellin’ yuh both …

Samuel listened more intently now.

Sam’s boy is sick cuz of what Pierre did … breakin’ his sacred promise with mah family. God is punishin’ Pierre for what he did. It’s his fault dat God give the bèbè the fever.

Ferdinand grimaced. Dat don’t sound right to me, no. Why would God do dat? Why would God give Sam and Lucille’s bèbè the fever? How dat’s gonna punish Pierre?

"It’s simple, Ferdinand. The bèbè is Pierre’s grandson, too. He loves his ti-garçon … it’s his first grandson. God’s gonna punish him cuz He’s gonna take away somethin’ Pierre loves," Emile Brassette explained with a bizarre tone of satisfaction.

Enough! Samuel said loudly enough for all those on the porch to hear. I don’t wanna hear no more talk about God takin’ mah boy, no. He ain’t dead … and God willin’ he ain’t gonna die. Mama’s in there with him and if anybody can heal mah boy’s fever, Mama can. No more of dis talk, yuh hear.

Samuel stomped to the other end of the porch and began rolling another cigarette. His father scowled at him for his outburst, but let it go this time.

Ferdinand tapped Emile on the shoulder and motioned for him to follow. They walked to the side of the house, where no one else could hear. While leaning against the split rail fence the men pretended to be looking at the hogs in the pen.

"Emile, there’s a story in town about yuh. They say dat yuh been goin’ to Cocodrie Marais (Alligator Swamp) to buy cheap whiskey from dat colored man, Aristide David. Dat’s true?"

Yuh know how dem town people like to tell stories on us poor folks. They ain’t got nuttin better to do, I guess. Besides, I hate dem niggahs dat live in de swamp … yuh know dat, Emile said.

Dey say dey saw yuh in your pirogue, Emile—goin’ in dat swamp. Dey say when yuh come paddlin’ out yuh was so drunk, yuh almost fell in de bayou. Now, I’m your brother—tell me de truth—yuh been goin’ into dat swamp to see dat colored man?

Who yuh gonna believe, your own brother or dem liars in town?

Somethin’s just not right about any of dis mess. First, yuh and Pierre have dis fallin’ out after ya’ll been friends for so many years. Now ya’ll don’t even talk to each other no more. And then, people say yuh been buyin’ dat nasty whiskey from dem darkies. How all dis happened, Emile? How yuh got yourself in dis mess?

Emile Brassette gave his brother a sly smile and replied, "I ain’t in no mess, mon frère … don’t yuh worry about dat. Don’t yuh worry about nuttin, no."

Cecile Brassette, a rotund, gray-haired woman whose face carried a great burden, opened the screen door and stepped onto the gallery with the men. Almost everyone called her Mamère (Grandmother) and all of the men nodded to her respectfully. She stopped next to her son, Samuel, whose dark eyes were full of anxiety. He sat on the porch railing with one foot on the floor and smoked nervously. Nudging-up next to him, she allowed her arm to come to rest against his. Mamère’s deep brown eyes looked out past a grove of pecan trees and found the western sky, where the retreating sun was painting the clouds shades of orange, gold, pink and purple. Wiping the perspiration from her face, where there was the faintest hint of a smile, she said, "Ç’est magnifique. (It’s magnificent)." One of the men overheard her and, through a half-eaten unlit cigar, mumbled something about rain. Mamère held her gaze and her smile, but did not respond.

Samuel muttered something to his mother that the others could not understand, but even so, they watched her response intently. Mamère’s smile disappeared. Saying nothing, she laid her hand on her son’s and shook her gray head slightly. The onlookers shifted on their feet and stared solemnly at the floor, or gazed off into the distant sunset, but not at Samuel. He felt like crying, but did not dare.

Inside, the house was sweltering from a full day of the summer sun beating on the rusty tin roof. In the front bedroom, a group of women were kneeling and reciting un chapelet. Sitting in a creaking rocking chair, an old Cajun woman led them in the rosary. Hail Mary, full of grace, de Lord is with thee …

Lucille Brassette, with her long black hair falling out of its customary bun, lay on the bed next to her naked two-month-old boy. The child stirred restlessly, his face and skin flushed from the fever that was ravaging his tiny body. Lucille wiped the child’s head and body with a cool, moist cloth. She tried to listen to the prayers, but her mind was unable to focus on them. Instead, her thoughts were on her baby’s suffering.

Unfolding the moist cloth and laying it on the infant’s chest, she draped it all the way to his ankles. Then, she sat up and gestured to another woman to take her place.

Stepping out of the bedroom, she saw the group of men standing on the porch through the screen door. She heard their angry voices but didn’t want to speak to them, especially to her husband, Samuel. He was taking the child’s illness very hard. Earlier in the day, he had lashed out and said some awful things about her family, repeating what he had heard his father say. Lucille was not ready to forgive Samuel, yet.

Silently, she walked to the rear of the house and out of the back door to the outhouse, where she sat in the enveloping stench for a few moments longer than she needed to. Quietly, she asked in her thick Cajun accent, "God, what we did to deserve dis? Why yuh did dis to mah son? Why yuh did dis to me? Pourquoi, mon Dieu? (Why, my God?)"

When Lucille returned to the bedroom, she instantly became alarmed. The praying had stopped and all of the women were all standing around the bed, staring helplessly at her baby boy. Forcing her way through the wall of females, she found her son alone on the bed. His breathing was labored and his skin was chalky white. Snatching up the child, she held him tightly to her chest and stroked his thin, black hair. The boy’s eyes were open, but the pupils were dilated and fixed. Suddenly, the baby’s eyelids fluttered and he gasped once. A foamy drop of saliva formed at the corner of his mouth and rolled across his cheek. Then, he was completely still.

The women remained silent for a long time while Lucille stood there, clutching her son. She began to gasp for air, as if she were encouraging her son to breathe. He did not. Finally, the old Cajun woman, with her rosary beads clicking in her hand, reached out and touched Lucille’s shoulder. "Pauvre ti bèbè. (Poor little baby.)"

Lucille’s head snapped around to see who had said that and the old lady saw that her eyes were wide and frightened—her face devoid of color. Looking back at her son in disbelief, Lucille began to tremble. Steadily increasing in intensity, the tremors built until she could no longer hold the child. His lifeless body bounced limply on the bed, coming to rest face down on the sweat soaked sheets.

Lucille then fell to her knees, clutched at her heart, filled her lungs with air and involuntarily began to scream. The sound that emanated from her was like nothing anyone had ever heard before—neither human nor animal. The terrible yowl increased in volume to such a level that the old woman fell back into her rocking chair, covering her ears with her hands while tears tumbled freely from her cloudy blue eyes. When Lucille’s lungs emptied, she again inhaled and the awful wailing resumed.

Outside, on the gallery, the men’s eyes grew wide when they heard the horrific sound. When Lucille’s screeching reached its maximum crescendo, Samuel Brassette could take no more. Leaping from the porch, clearing the steps completely, he tripped and fell onto the dusty ground. Samuel rolled, scrambled to his feet and tried to run, but his legs felt like rusted iron, unable to carry him away from the dreadful noise fast enough. Stumbling again, he fell prostrate in the yard, raising a cloud of dust. His father and uncle started running after him, but Samuel was up and heading toward the bayou. He disappeared down the steep banks, into the impending darkness.

CHAPTER 4

NEW YORK CITY ORPHANAGE AND HOSPITAL

AUGUST 1900

Sister Agnes Jerome, a tall woman with a gaunt face, walked down the long hallway from her sleeping quarters to the foyer. She had made this walk every morning for the past 26 years and was not surprised to see a baby in the white cradle. Years ago, the cradle had been placed there so that distraught mothers who were unable to care for their children—for whatever reason—could leave them there anonymously. Women knew that the nuns would care for their babies until a suitably respectable home could be found. Sister Agnes believed that women who left their children with the Order of the Sisters of Hope were actually demonstrating a profound faith in God. She thought they were very brave, but she was not naïve. Knowing that most of the children were bastards born to prostitutes, she was grateful for the opportunity to remove them from a sinful environment. This was her life’s calling.

Looking down at the sleeping baby boy, Sister Agnes thought: This one is a mess. But, look at that red hair … it’s just beautiful.

She stroked his head then slipped her hands under the child and lifted him from the cradle. Down another long hallway, she carried him to the hospital’s nursery, where the day was just underway.

When she entered the nursery, she found a short, stout, red-faced nurse and handed over the boy. We have another child of God this morning. Please, take care of him while I start his paperwork in my office.

Unpinning the note from his filthy diaper, she went to her office and sat on a rickety wooden chair with casters behind a small wooden desk. Unfolding the note, she pressed it flat on her desk. Opening a side drawer, she pulled out a form and placed it next to the note. Taking her pen, she dipped it into the inkwell, wiped the excess ink on a blotter and held it over the form.

She read aloud from the slip, Thomas Jefferson O’Malley. July 4, 1900. Hmm … I don’t think that’s an appropriate name for this child.

That was all the information that was available about the tiny, redheaded boy, however. She crumpled the note and dropped it in the wastebasket.

Returning to the form, she thought for a moment before writing the following:

New York City Orphanage and Hospital Admission Form

Date: August 2, 1900

Name: Thomas Malley

Date of Birth: July 4, 1900

Mother’s Name: Unknown

Father’s Name: Unknown

Baptized: No

Reason: Unable to care for the child any longer

Sister Agnes did not know the actual reason for Thomas’ abandonment. That information was not on the note that his mother had left, but her entry on the admissions form was a standard answer. She did not know if his mother or father were Catholic. If they were, she did not know if Thomas had been baptized. None of that mattered. This was a Catholic orphanage and all new arrivals were to be baptized and reared as Catholics. Of that, there was never a question.

Little Thomas Malley, as he would henceforth be known, cried as he was stripped of his grimy rags. He screamed when the nuns bathed him in cool, soapy water—his first real bath. They then dressed him in a fresh cotton diaper and a dingy cotton gown, after which, he was given a bottle of milk. Quickly finishing his meal, he then fell asleep.

The nursery was a long room lined with six straight rows of cribs, cradles and bassinettes—about twelve to each row. Each contained at least one infant, but many of the cribs held two. Thomas was lucky; he was laid in a crib by himself. A nun copied his name and birth date onto a card, looped a thin baby-blue ribbon through holes in the upper corners and hung it on the side of his crib. The card was to stay with the child at all times. It was the only means of identification.

Additional information would be added to the card later. For now, all they knew about the new red-haired arrival was his new name and birth date.

Three hours passed before Thomas woke up screaming from hunger and a dirty bottom. A nurse changed his diaper and a nun fed him another bottle of milk. He ate hungrily until he was satisfied and again fell asleep. This was the first time in his short life that his hunger had been so completely sated. Later, after his evening feeding, he slept through the entire night.

Early the next morning, two wrinkle-faced nuns came for Thomas. After they fed and washed him again, they took the identity card from the side of his cradle and placed it around his little neck. The nuns wheeled Thomas and several other infants, all in a single crib, to the hospital’s chapel. There, they slipped a white christening gown over his head. A nun held him over the baptismal fount where Father Henry Sullivan, a chubby middle-aged Irish priest, dribbled cool, holy water on his forehead. I baptize you in the name of the Father, and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.

The sisters crossed themselves. Amen.

A baptismal certificate was issued with his new name and the date of his baptism, August 3, 1900. The priest authenticated it with his signature. A nun then marked a cross on his identity card with a pencil, to indicate that Thomas was now baptized. The christening gown was then removed, the next infant was brought forward and the gown slipped over her little head. The ceremony was repeated until all of the recently abandoned babies were baptized as brand new members of the Catholic faith.

CHAPTER 5

The nursery at the New York City Orphanage and Hospital was a raucous beehive of activity, with the constant sounds of infants crying and the diligent bustle of nuns, doctors and nurses attempting to care for their needs. Many of the children were ill and malnourished when they first arrived, with the worst cases taken to the hospital. It was a continuing struggle for the staff to attend to all the babies.

Late at night, well after midnight, was the quietest time in the nursery. Even at that hour, there was always the sound of a crying child, a nun’s rapid footsteps on the hardwood floor, an infant noisily sucking on a bottle of milk and somewhere in the background was the ever-present sound of praying. Sitting in a rocking chair, the nuns would pray while they held and cared for a child. The sound of rosary beads clicking and the Hail Mary or the Our Father being prayed aloud would blend with the cacophony of sounds produced by the infants. Often, the sisters would sing a favorite hymn, attempting to settle an ill or sleepless infant.

Sister Mary Moses was the oldest nuns in the Sisters of Hope. No one knew, including herself, exactly how old she was, but it was thought that she was more than 80 years old. The other nuns affectionately called her Sister Glory Be. She would cradle a sick baby in her arms while sitting in her favorite rocking chair and softly sing the prayer, known to Catholics as the Glory Be, to the tune of Amazing Grace.

Glory be to the Father and to the Son and to the Holy Ghost,

As it was in the beginning, is now and ever shall be, World without end. Amen.

In the wee hours, it was quite common to hear the soft, sweet melody of the old nun’s prayer-song wafting through the nursery. Miraculously, many children who had been ill during the night would be well by morning, after Sister Mary Moses had sung her beautiful prayer while rocking the baby in her arms of love.

Claude Cassidy was very small and unhealthy when he arrived at the orphanage. Spending nearly two months in the hospital under the continuous care of the doctors and nurses, it was feared that little Claude would not survive. He had great difficulty holding down his meals and he was watched almost constantly to make sure that he did not choke on his own regurgitated food.

He was an odd-looking baby, with big ears and bulging eyes that were too large for his little cone-shaped head, which was covered with thin brown fuzz. His skin was very pale, nearly the color of the milk he had trouble keeping down.

On the day of Thomas Malley’s baptism and after two months in the hospital, Claude appeared to be recovering, even gaining a little weight. It was thought that he was well enough to be moved to the nursery with the other babies. Because it was common to have more than one baby in a crib, the wrinkle-faced nuns thought nothing of it when they returned with Thomas and found that Claude had been placed in his crib. Claude was two months older than Thomas was, but because of his difficult start in life, he was a still a little smaller than his new crib mate.

One morning, several days after Thomas and Claude were paired together, a young novitiate, stopped by the crib to check on Claude.

She called to one of the veteran nuns, Sister, come look.

Oh yes, we have seen many babies nestle together like that, the more experienced nun acknowledged.

But they are so tiny. Looking at the date of birth on the cards hanging on the side of the crib, the younger sister said, They are so young … they can’t even crawl yet. How do they do it?

These poor children are starving to be touched, and held, and stroked and cuddled. There are so many of them, that we cannot possibly give each of them enough of the time and attention that they require. They manage to find a way to help each other, though.

That’s so sad … and yet so sweet, the young novice nun said.

The need for human contact is very strong, even in children this young. They manage to wiggle and creep toward each other in the crib until they are touching. That seems to satisfy them.

The two nuns looked down at the infant boys and smiled at the sweet sight. Thomas’ arm was placed gently over Claude’s shoulder. The two babies were wide-awake and their eyes were locked onto each other.

As Thomas and Claude grew, they became inseparable—they ate together, slept together and