"Children are the ones that suffer," Cynthia said.
"It's easy to get into trouble when you're out scratching on your own," Dean said, prompting for more detail. "What did you do?"
"There was this bar called Horton's on the Hill where we'd go on Saturday night. Boston was a tad rowdy back then and we were kind of young and frisky ourselves."
"So?"
"They might still want to ask me a question or two."
"Hell, Fred. That was years ago!" Dean said. He wished the old man would spit it out, whatever was bugging him.
"They've got all kinds of newfangled ways of digging up the past. Not that I'm really concerned." Like hell, Dean thought, but he let Fred go on. But Fred continued to skirt the answer. "I sold newspapers down at the corner and ran errands for Barney's pool hall." He paused, smiling at some long ago happening, and then added, "Ma needed all the money we could bring in. Things were always a mite close."
Cynthia gave Fred a sympathetic smile. "There's no shame in being poor. And we're not responsible for the sins of our fathers. It's good to hear you were the responsible one."
Fred dismissed her observation with an offhand attempt to romanticize the time. "I guess we was poor, but we were too broke to know it and having too much fun finding ways not to be. We were just like everybody else around the neighborhood, and we sure never starved."
It was the most Fred O'Connor had ever said about his past, but the conversation was over. "It's time we got working on these bones," the old man said. "Seeing as you promised little Martha, I'd best give you a hand. I'm gonna print this list on my computer, given you're always bellyaching about my writing. We'll meet in the morning."
"Yes, sir!" Dean said with a salute as Fred rose and drained his glass. End of conversation but it was nice to see things drifting back toward normal.
The phone rang, causing all three to jump, thinking it might be Martha. It was only an August booking. By the time Dean finished listing the information, Fred was gone and Cynthia was off to read in their quarters. On her way down the hall, she paused at Martha's room and peeked in, as if hoping some memory of the child remained. She immediately came out, a note in one hand and SB, Fred's stuffed owl gift in the other and handed her husband the paper.
I didn't leave SB the Owl behind because I didn't love him. I just want him safe. If I get to come back I want everything I love to be together in the place I love. Your friend, Martha.PS: Maybe you can teach him to sing.