The Missing

He made a face. “A generator?”

“Go on. It’s not like learning piano, for gosh sake.”

He went down to the engine room and sat amid the hissing machines and worried through the manual, testing the circuits and learning the Bakelite control board and its tangle of fuses, rotary controls, and knife-blade switches. It was impossible to learn the manual because all he could think of was Lily and her mother. He gave up and walked forward to the main deck. After the boats tied up side by side and exchanged passengers, the purser discovered that the Deluxe had overbooked, and excursionists were stacked on the Ambassador’s forecastle trying to get up to the good music. The deck speakers were meant for colorful commentary on things the boat passed by, but the captain found Sam and directed him to figure how to co

“I’ve been looking for you,” she said. “The crowd’s going to bunch into the café in a minute, so they sent me out on a break. It’s been a crazy house since noon. I was almost killed over a ham sandwich.”

She had aged two or three years in the few days since he’d seen her, her face flushed and shiny with both labor and grease from the kitchen ranges. “How’s Lily doing?”

She gave him a look. “Not so damned well. She asks me for baby dolls every hour on the hour.” She turned and watched the darkening river as if she might jump into it. “I don’t think she understands where and what she’s come back to.” She pulled out a pack of cigarettes and lit one with Ted’s military lighter. “The other night we were eating in the back of the café and she asked me for roast duck.” Her eyes grew wide, incredulous. “What kind of little girl did you bring back to me? She thinks she’s a rich kid.”

“Give her some time to fall back into your routine. She’ll come around.”

“I don’t know. I tried to spend some time with her by teaching her a new song, ‘Ma, He’s Makin’ Eyes at Me’? She said it was nasty.” Her voice rose. “She said her mother was teaching her a nasty song.”

Sam thought of the White’s many-roomed house, its manicured hill, guessed at what those people had taught her. “She’ll get used to things.” As he said this he knew he didn’t believe it.

“She’s just a baby. She’s been gone from me for ten months. That’s a big part of a baby’s life.”

They talked until Mrs. Benton called down to them from the pilothouse. “I’m fixing to blow for a descending tow, so unless you enjoy getting splashed with hot condensate I reckon you ought to move.”

THEY RAN three trips at Natchez against a competing boat come down from Davenport and did well. Jazz was still rare along the river, so the sports, the young people, the heartstrong dancers-whether swells or hillbillies, sawmill bucks or plantation beauties-came down the bluffs at late dusk to board the light-lavished steamer and glide out into the dark, taking on the breeze and moving their feet, or rather, having their feet moved by this strange, powerful sound come up from New Orleans against the currents.

Sam watched Lily as much as he could, talked to her as much as she’d allow. She seemed a closed vessel, not showing who she was, perhaps not even knowing, not anymore. At rehearsal, when she sang a novelty number her mother had taught her, her voice lacked energy and rhythm. She remembered the words, but seemed to have forgotten how to form or phrase them. The intelligence of her voice had been robbed away. What had stolen it, Sam couldn’t guess, at least not at first. Then one night, lying in his bunk above a snoring Charlie Duggs, thinking about how children change, he figured it out. Her father had been the teacher in the family, the one with the big musical spark that could go all night, set after set without burning out, who could guide the fingers and vocal cords of the children he himself had made with his wife. Elsie taught the words, the dances, but Ted was the bearer of the notes, the lilt, the sass, and Ted was forever gone. Sam understood that Lily would still sing, but she might never again perform.

Chapter Thirty-three

THE RIVER NORTH OF VICKSBURG was ru

In less than a minute, Sam opened the narrow door to the pilothouse with Lily on an arm. He sat her on the lazy bench, and she looked around at the windows, then through them.

“Saul’s bringing up your coffee,” Sam said.

The pilot stole a glance at the child. “Hello, little miss.”

“Good morning, Mr. Brandywine.” She fluffed her dress around her dangling legs.

The pilot nudged the Ambassador out of a thread of current and peeled away from the head of the island. He pulled an engine-room bell and turned his head for the western shore, watching the trees roll past. “You being nice and quiet like you should.”

“I know.” She nodded.

Saul, a retired Pullman porter too old for railroad service, tapped at the door and Sam waved him in. He carried a bright, triple-plated tray and sat it on the cold pilothouse stove. “I brought you a biscuit with your coffee, sah.”

“Thank you. I’ll eat it when I go off in an hour.”

Saul turned the cup handle out on the tray, and when he swung around to leave, he noticed Lily for the first time. “Little ma’am, would you like me to go and get you one of those cookies they’re bakin’ fresh down in the kitchen?”

She looked at him squarely. “I’m not supposed to talk to niggers.”

Sam looked at the old porter and his face was unmoving, hardened by a lifetime of blows. Saul kept his smile and said, “Yes, little ma’am.”

Mr. Brandywine slid a hand from the wheel. “Sam, come over and just stand here and hold her steady. Don’t do anything but hold it in one spot.”

He hesitated, looking out at the water sliding by. “I’m no wheelman.”