back of one arm. He’s dramatic about it. He looks like a silent movie actress practicing an exaggerated swoon.
“Are you supposed to be in bed, Jonah?” his dad asks.
“Ya-huh.”
“And you’re up because…” Trent may be trying to sound tough, but his face has pushover written on it. Jonah braces both hands on his daddy’s knee, lifts a leg, and begins to climb him like a jungle gym.
Trent hoists the boy up, and Jonah stretches closer to whisper, “Is a peterdactyl in my clod-et.”
“A pterodactyl?”
“Ya-huh.”
“Jonah, there’s nothing in your closet. That’s just the movie the big kids let you watch over at Aunt Lou’s, remember? You’ve had another bad dream about it. A dinosaur wouldn’t even fit in your closet. There’re no dinosaurs in there.”
“Ya-huh,” Jonah sniffs. Clinging to handfuls of his dad’s T-shirt, he swivels enough to study me over a wide-open yawn.
I shouldn’t get involved. I might be just making things worse. I have, however, been through this dinosaur thing during holiday sleepovers at Drayden Hill and vacations with my sisters’ kids. “My nieces and nephews had the same problem. They were scared of dinosaurs too, but do you know what we did?”
Jonah shakes his head, and Trent gives me a quizzical look, sandy-blond brows twisting together. He has a very flexible forehead.
Two identical sets of blue eyes invite my solution to the closet-dinosaur dilemma.
Fortunately, I have one. “We went to the store the next day and picked out flashlights—really awesome flashlights. If you’ve got a really awesome flashlight by your bed, then when you wake up at night, and you think you see something, you can turn on the light and shine it over there and check. And do you know what happens every single time when you turn on the flashlight?”
Jonah waits breathless, his little Cupid’s bow mouth hanging open, but Dad clearly knows the answer. He looks like he wants to palm-thump himself in the forehead, as if to say, Why didn’t I think of this before?
“Every single time, when you shine the flashlight, nothing’s there.”
“Ebry time?” Jonah’s not sure.
“Always. Honest.”
Jonah turns to his father for confirmation, and a sweet look of trust passes between them. This is obviously an involved dad. He slays monsters and does tuck-in time. “We’ll go pick out a flashlight tomorrow at the BI-LO. Sound good?”
I notice he doesn’t say, Mom can take you to get a flashlight tomorrow. I also notice that he doesn’t tell his son to be a big boy or insist on hustling the poor kid back to bed. He just shifts Jonah to one shoulder and lays a palm on the table, the fingers pointing toward the documents pressed beneath my hand.
Jonah pops a thumb into his mouth and snuggles against his dad’s chest.
I look down at the papers, surprised that they temporarily left my mind. Jonah is irresistibly cute.
The top page is a grainy photocopy of some sort of official form. HISTORY SHEET, the heading reads in bold, black letters. Below, the subject has been given a number of record: 7501. AGE: inf. SEX: male. The baby’s name is listed as Shad Arthur Foss, church relationships unknown. The corner of the form is stamped with a date in October 1939 and was apparently filled out at a hospital in Memphis, Tennessee. MOTHER’S NAME: Mary Anne Anthony. FATHER’S NAME: B. A. Foss. The address for both parents is listed as indigent, river camp. Both the father and mother were in their late twenties when the baby was born.
The official responsible for the form, Miss Eugenia Carter, has explained the infant’s situation in a few short words under clinical-sounding headings. CAUSE FOR RELEASE TO T.C.H. SOCIETY: Born out of wedlock—unable to provide. HOW RELEASED: Surrender signed by mother and father at birth.
“I don’t recognize these names,” I mutter, separating the sheet from the others and setting it quietly on the table. Granted, we have a lot of relatives, but I’ve never seen a Foss or an Anthony on a wedding invitation or met one at a funeral. “I can’t imagine how any of this could be connected to my grandmother. This might’ve been around the year she was born, I guess.” Grandma Judy’s age changes every time you ask her. She admits to nothing and considers it gauche for anyone to inquire in the first place. “Maybe Shad Arthur Foss was someone she knew in school later? Could she have been trying to help a friend track down birth information?”