CHAPTER THIRTEEN F: THE FOURTH CHILD

Walter arrived just before the ceremony with Caleb and June’s husband.
He walked slowly across the gravel, his injured arm supported by the sling.
Nora noticed that he had changed into a clean shirt with a stiff collar.
“You look uncomfortable,” she told him.
“I feel as though I’m going to court.”
“You’re going to tell people what you remember.”
“That feels worse.”
June approached and took his good hand.
“You’re not the only one who remembers,” she said.
Walter smiled faintly.
“I’m glad.”
Beatrice sat in a chair beneath the tent, keeping her cane across her knees.
She had brought the empty key hook in a cloth bag.
Nora wondered whether anyone would understand why an old piece of wood mattered to her.


A woman with a young boy stopped beside the chairs.
“Excuse me,” she said.
“Are you Walter Mercer?”
Walter nodded.
“My name is Rachel Senn.”
The woman held her son’s shoulder.
“My mother was Clara Senn.”
Walter stood straighter.
“Clara with the red boots?”
Rachel smiled through sudden tears.
“Yes.”
Walter looked at the boy.
“She was one of the children.”
Rachel nodded.
“She died last winter.”
Nora watched Walter’s face change.
“I didn’t know.”
“She didn’t tell many people about the fire.”
Rachel opened her handbag and removed a small notebook.
“She wrote about it after my daughter was born.”
Walter looked uncertain.
“I don’t want to take something private.”
“You don’t have to.”
Rachel opened to a page marked with a blue ribbon.
“I just wanted to read one sentence.”


She glanced at her son, then back at Walter.
“My mother wrote that a woman in a work apron counted every child twice before letting herself cry.”
Walter pressed his good hand against his chest.
“That’s Ruth.”
Rachel nodded.
“She didn’t remember Grant Voss entering the room.”
Nora felt the air tighten around them.
“Would you be willing to tell the mayor that?” she asked.
Rachel looked toward the tent.
“I don’t know whether I can speak in front of everyone.”
“You don’t have to decide now.”
Rachel closed the notebook.
“My mother hated being called a rescued child.”
Walter looked surprised.
“Why?”
“She said it made people think the story ended when the doors opened.”
Rachel glanced at her son.
“She had nightmares for years.”
Walter nodded slowly.
“So did I.”
Rachel’s son looked up.
“Were you scared?” he asked.
Walter crouched carefully so they could see each other.
“Very scared.”
“Did you cry?”
“Yes.”
The boy considered this answer.
“My teacher says grown-ups get scared too.”
“Your teacher is right.”
The boy looked toward the old building.
“Did the lady save you?”
Walter turned toward Nora.
“Yes,” he said.
“She did.”
The boy smiled as though the answer were sufficient.
He took his mother’s hand and walked toward the back row.
Walter remained crouched for another moment.
Caleb helped him stand.
“You all right?”
Walter nodded.
“I’ve been trying to remember the faces.”
He looked around the growing crowd.
“Now they’re bringing their families.”
Nora followed his gaze.
The chairs were filling with people who had come for very different reasons.
Some wanted a pleasant civic ceremony.
Some wanted to defend a famous name.
Others had carried fragments of that day for decades and wanted to know whether their memories belonged in the same story.
Nora realized she could not control what anyone would say once the microphone was opened.
She could only make sure the people who had been silenced were allowed to reach it.