know,” Henry said. “Jill is dead. Somebody buried her in the backyard, I have no idea who. The kids are gone, and I don’t know where. I was hoping you could tell me something. Did they ever come to you? Did you see them? Do you have any idea what happened to them?”
“I can’t help you,” Marjorie said tersely.
Henry had known her for fifteen years, but she seemed a stranger to him.
“Marjorie, the car’s gone. Did somebody steal it? Did some friend take the children?”
“I wouldn’t know.” Distress was written all over her. “It was awful, Henry,” she blurted out. “I just hid. I’m sorry, I should have been a better person. I was scared. I’m not forgiving myself, it’s just the God’s truth.”
Henry stared at her for a moment, then turned to go.
“There was a gunshot,” she called after him. “I don’t know any more than that.”
There were other families in the neighborhood, some with children, but none of those who answered Henry’s knock had seen Helen and Teddy. He drew up posters with their names and asked for information, giving his address, and he stapled them to the telephone poles among similar posters. They were everywhere.
He walked over to the fire station on DeKalb Avenue and examined a list of people from the neighborhood who had died or were missing. His own name was entered in the dead column. He scratched that out and wrote in Jill’s name. His children were not on the list.
Someone had taken them, he was certain. He hoped that someone was a friend. Where would they have gone?
“They’re probably at the stadium,” one of the firemen said. “They got a temporary shelter for the orphans. The families are at the convention center.”
Henry’s Suburban was still parked at the Atlanta airport for what was supposed to have been a brief trip to Geneva, so he found the keys to Mrs. Hernández’s Ford and drove to the Braves stadium. On one of the columns there was a hand-lettered sign that said REGISTRY, with an arrow pointing to the First Base Gate. Henry paused a moment as he entered the stands, remembering: This is where I met Jill. The triple play. She embraced me and my life changed.
The stadium was transformed into a refugee camp for children, with orderly rows of white tents in the outfield and masses of children confined behind hurricane fences. A heavy middle-aged woman was peering at them through binoculars. She looked up when she heard Henry approach.
“I’m looking for my kids,” he said.
“Well, we’ve got 312 of them,” she said. “How many do you want?”
“Two.”
“Just pick out a couple and sign the waiver.”
“You don’t understand, I’m looking for my own children.”
The woman sighed. “Names?” she asked.
“Helen and Theodore Parsons. Might be Teddy instead of Theodore.”
She looked at her list. “Well, the names aren’t alphabetized, we had to do all this by hand.” She wetted a finger and turned a page, and then another, making a show of how much trouble he was causing.
“Can I go down there and see for myself?”
“You’d need an escort,” the woman said grudgingly. Then, “Oh, well.” She pushed herself up and slowly made her way down the steps to the gate beside the home team dugout. They walked onto the field, across the pitcher’s mound and into the outfield grass. The fence holding the children was about twelve feet high.
“We have them separated by gender and age, to keep the problems down, so if they’re here they won’t be together.”
“It’s a prison,” Henry observed.
“Well, in case you haven’t heard, we got a tremendous problem with orphan gangs. Not saying these kids are a problem. But desperation leads to bad actions. Here at least they get fed, they are in a healthful environment, they got a shelter, and if there’s trouble we can take care of it. Just don’t be so quick to judge, is what I’m saying.”
Henry walked beside the fence of the boys’ encampment, calling Teddy’s name, then did the same for Helen. The children stared at him hopefully, as if he might also call their name. One girl did answer to Helen, but she was not Henry’s Helen. She burst into tears when he walked on. I am also an orphan, Henry wanted to say. I am one of you.
The story was the same at the convention center. Desolate families living on meager charity, their curiosity was barely stirred by Henry’s passage through the enormous dormitories, past boxes of donated food and clothing. A