The High Tide Club

Brooke had been staring at the administration building, trying to recall some obscure detail that had been nagging at her since she’d driven through the Good Shepherd entrance arch. Something C. D. had said.

She got out of the car and walked toward a nearby building, a brick one-story affair. A brass plaque proclaimed it the Halberg Cottage. She turned and got back in the car.

“What was that all about?” Lizzie asked.

“Just remembering something C. D. said. It was the morning Josephine died when he came to tell us he was Josephine’s son. He said he’d come to a reunion here at Good Shepherd and bumped into a man he’d known all those years ago. Somebody who’d been at St. Joseph’s and then transferred here to Good Shepherd, the same way C. D. had, when he turned six. He was the one who told C. D. he could look up the old records at the archdiocesan offices.”

“Did he mention a name?” Felicia asked.

“I don’t think so,” Brooke said. “If he did, I don’t remember it. Maybe this man could corroborate C. D.’s story.” She pulled out her cell phone and found Louette’s number in her contact list.

Louette answered on the third ring. “Hey, Brooke. How you doing? Finding out anything up there in Savannah?”

“We’ve made some progress, but I’d like to ask C. D. a couple of questions. Do you have his phone number, Louette?”

“I got a number for him, but he don’t ever use a phone,” Louette said. “Half the time it’s turned off or he’s left it behind somewhere.”

“Can you tell me the number anyway? It’s worth a shot. And if you see C. D., will you ask him to call me?”

“I will, but I don’t know where that man’s got to. Haven’t hardly seen him at all this week.”

After she disconnected from Louette, Brooke tried C. D.’s number. Her call went directly to voice mail. She left a message. “C. D., it’s Brooke. I’m in Savannah, trying to track down any records that might prove you’re related to Josephine. Call me, please, as soon as you get this.”

* * *

A small sign in the lobby of the administration building directed visitors to the upstairs offices. It was late afternoon, nearly four, and the open space with office cubicles lining the outside walls was mostly deserted.

“Hello?” A trim, middle-aged man with a salt-and-pepper goatee walked out of his office with a smile. The placard on the wall said DON SMALLS, DIRECTOR OF DEVELOPMENT.

“Anything I can do for you ladies?”

“Hi,” Lizzie said smoothly. She went into her pretext again, this time adding more drama and substance.

“Dad is at the end of his life,” she said sadly. “And this place has meant so much to him. He’s sort of searching for his identity, I guess, so that he can pass it along to his daughters.”

Smalls adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses. “Are all three of you sisters?”

“Half sisters,” Felicia said, picking up her cue. “We had three different mothers. They’re all gone now, and Dad’s all we have left.”

“I totally understand,” Smalls said. “Was your father looking to make some sort of bequest to Good Shepherd? As a memoriam?”

“Not at this time, although that could change,” Lizzie said. “His birthday is coming up and we thought we’d put together a memory book as a surprise. He suffers from dementia now, you know. The problem is, we don’t have anything substantive to put in there from his childhood.”

“We were hoping maybe the home had some old photos or documents in their archives that we could make copies of,” Felicia said.

“We’d be happy to pay any copying charges,” Brooke added.

“Well…” Smalls crossed his arms over his chest. “I don’t know what documents you’re looking for. Most of that stuff would be considered confidential.”

“Really?” Felicia wrinkled her nose in disbelief. “After all these years? I mean, he’s nearly eighty. Why all the secrecy?”

“You have to remember, at the time this institution was a children’s home, there was somewhat of a social stigma attached to having been placed here. After all, living here meant either that you had no parents or that your parents were too poor or unfit to raise you themselves. Most of our alumni are quite proud of what they achieved, coming from such humble beginnings, but others would just as soon hide their connection with Good Shepherd.”

“So there’s nothing?” Lizzie asked, shoulders drooping dramatically to signal her disappointment.

“You’re welcome to look through the exhibits in the museum and the scrapbooks,” Smalls said. “They’re all downstairs in our museum, and they’re organized by year. Maybe you’ll find some photos or clippings from his time here. And although it’s not usually done, I don’t see any harm in letting you make photocopies here in the development office.”

“Awesome!” Lizzie said.

“We do ask for a minimal donation for entry to the museum,” Smalls said, reaching for his key ring. “Seven dollars.”

After the women had paid, he walked them downstairs and unlocked the doors. “I’ll be upstairs finishing a report. Look around all you want, and if you do see something you want to copy, feel free. And, ladies? We close at five. I have a board meeting tonight, so I really won’t be able to keep the museum open any longer than that.”

* * *

They spent ten minutes or so browsing the exhibits and then made their way to a small anteroom where they found metal shelves loaded with rows of black leather-bound scrapbooks.

Brooke ran her fingers over the spines of the books, searching for the right years.

“C. D. would have come here in 1948, by my reckoning,” she said, pulling a book with the appropriate year stamped in gold on the spine.

The three women crowded around a table as Brooke opened the scrapbook. The pages were of brittle black construction paper with newspaper clippings, black-and-white snapshots, and the miscellanea of a bygone era glued to the paper.

“Look at this,” Brooke said, tapping a faded mimeographed sheet of paper. “It’s a play program. Oliver Twist. Appropriate, huh? Orphans putting on a play about an orphan boy.” She ran her finger down the names of the cast and was surprised to see a name she recognized.

“Oh my gosh. Here’s George Trautwein. He used to own the biggest Cadillac dealership in Savannah. I went to Savannah Country Day with his granddaughter Ginger.”

“Fascinating,” Felicia said. “Let’s keep going. We don’t have much time.”

“Right,” Lizzie agreed. “Eyes on the prize.”

She flipped more pages, and some of the old paper seemed to crumble under her fingertips. “What’s with all the pictures of cows?” Lizzie asked.

“They’ve always had a cattle operation here, and a working farm,” Brooke said. “I think it was part of the whole vocational, self-sustaining model.”

A few pages later, they found a typed report of the minutes of the Good Shepherd Alumni Association annual meeting.

Lizzie read aloud. “Okay. Discussion about raising funds for a new roof for the hay barn. Announcements about new cottage parents. Announcements about fellow alumni, births, deaths, marriages … oh, hello!” She tapped a line item with her fingertip. “‘Construction has begun on a new cottage, to be named in memory of local benefactor Samuel G. Bettendorf.’”