The High Tide Club

“Not here,” his daughter-in-law said. She pushed a button and they heard a buzz, and then a door opened between the store and the cash stand. “Take them back to the stockroom.”

* * *

A small card table and four folding chairs were shoved up against an ancient refrigerator in the stockroom, delineating what passed as Mr. B’s break room.

“You ladies have a seat,” Beaman said with a gallant gesture toward the table.

“Mr. Beaman,” Lizzie started.

“It’s Mickey. Nobody calls me Mr. Beaman anymore,” he insisted. “Now, what can I tell you about Good Shepherd? Have you been out to see the new museum? Did you see the video? That’s me at the three-minute mark, talking about the values that were instilled in boys like me.”

“That museum is very impressive,” Lizzie said. “We only got to spend a few minutes there today, so we missed out on the video. I guess we’ll check it out the next time.”

“You do that,” Mickey urged. “Jimmy Yaz—that’s Jimmy Yazbek, he was three years younger than me—lived in the Blatner Cottage. His son is a big-deal cameraman on one of those TV shows, I forget the name of the show, but Jimmy Junior made that video. For free.”

“Speaking of your classmates, we’re trying to help a relative of ours, C. D. Anthony, put together some information about his early life, both at St. Joseph’s and at Good Shepherd,” Brooke said.

Mickey’s brow furrowed. “Say the name again?”

“C. D. Anthony. The nuns called him Charlie, but when we were at Good Shepherd just now, we saw a photo showing all the boys who lived in your cottage. He was listed as Buck Anthony,” Lizzie said. “Does that name ring a bell?”

“Buck? Oh yeah. I knew Buck Anthony. Like you say, we were both at St. Joseph’s, and then when we turned six, we were sent to Good Shepherd. I think I was maybe older than him. I’m seventy-nine, you know. Still drive, although Yvonne out there, she’s trying to get my son to make me stop. What can I tell you about old Buck? He was a hell-raiser as a kid, that’s for sure. He was always small for his age, but you didn’t want to cross him. The guy had a temper and a wicked undercut. We used to box, you know. I don’t think they teach boxing to boys these days, which is a shame. Boxing is a great life lesson.”

“It sure is,” Lizzie said, trying to steer Mickey back toward the topic at hand. “Do you remember ever hearing about how Buck came to live at St. Joseph’s?”

“Somebody left him in a church was what I always heard,” Mickey said promptly. “Not like me. My mom passed when I was two, and my dad was a traveling salesman. My grandma did what she could, but she was too old to raise a kid like me. And then my dad got killed in the war, Iwo Jima, so then I was a real orphan. But my grandma would come see me, when she could, take me out for my birthday, stuff like that. I don’t think hardly anybody ever came to see Buck, which maybe explains why he sort of had a chip on his shoulder, excuse the expression.”

“By any chance, do you remember a woman named Josephine Bettendorf, who might have visited him while he was living at St. Joseph’s?” Brooke asked.

“Bettendorf? The family the cottage is named after? At Good Shepherd?”

“Yes,” Brooke said. “C. D.—I mean, Buck—says he remembers her coming every Christmas while he lived at St. Joseph’s. He says she brought all the kids gifts, but he got special ones. Like a toy truck.”

“You want a drink?” Mickey asked suddenly. He stood and opened the refrigerator door. “We get all kinds of samples, for free. The sales reps are always trying to get us to order whatever’s new in their lines.” He held up a can. “Red Bull? The SCAD kids all love Red Bull. Or lemme see, how about a Peach Sunset Tea? Or maybe some Chocolate Mint wine? What will you have? It’s on the house. Just don’t tell Yvonne.”

“No, thanks,” Brooke said. “We were talking about the Christmas visits? From Josephine Bettendorf?”

“I wouldn’t mind trying that wine,” Lizzie spoke up. “Strictly for research.”

“Great! Take the whole bottle,” Mickey handed her the bottle and a plastic wineglass. “Now what were we talking about?”

Lizzie twisted the metal cap from the bottle and poured an inch of milky brown liquid into the glass. She sipped, shuddered, shrugged, then sipped again.

“Christmas visits? At the children’s home?” Lizzie reminded him.

“There were several ladies who used to come around the holidays. They’d bring us kids candy canes and oranges. One year a Jewish lady whose husband owned a shoe store downtown brought us each a pair of new shoes. I tell ya, I was so proud of those shoes, I wore ’em ’til those nuns made me turn ’em over to one of the younger kids because they were way too small for me. I can’t think of the name of that store. But it’s right there on Broughton, near Levy’s Jewelers. Or used to be.”

“How about Josephine Bettendorf?” Lizzie prompted. “Can you remember her coming to the home? She was tall, with dark hair. Very striking. And C. D. says she gave him a toy truck one year.”

“The truck!” Mickey said, roaring with laughter. “I don’t remember that dark-haired lady, but I do remember a red truck. A beauty. The other kids were real jealous of Buck and his truck. This one boy—I can see his face, but I can’t remember his name … a big red-headed kid with freckles—grabbed that truck and bashed Buck in the eye with it. Buck yanked it back and busted the boy in the mouth. Kid bled all over the place. After that, nobody tried to take nothing offa Buck.”

“That’s what he told me too,” Brooke marveled. “Do you have any other memories of Buck? From his time at Good Shepherd? Did the dark-haired woman ever visit him there?”

Mickey popped the top on a can of Budweiser and sipped. “Not saying it didn’t happen, just saying I don’t recall it. But I remember him staying in trouble. Wouldn’t do his chores. Wouldn’t listen to the house parents. Fighting, like that. I heard he ran away after he got caught stealing cigarettes from a candy store nearby.”

“That sounds about right,” Brooke agreed.

“I was surprised he showed up at the reunion, to tell you the truth,” Mickey said. “I’ve never missed one since I left—been president of the alumni association. But that’s the only time he ever came to one. I don’t judge, but it looked to me like he’d had a hard kind of life.”

Brooke glanced at Lizzie to see if she’d thought of any more questions for Mickey Beaman.

Lizzie cleared her throat. “Mickey, there’s something I’m curious about. The nuns named him Charles, after the priest who found him, and they called him Charlie. So why did everybody at Good Shepherd call him Buck?”

“It was just a nickname. Everybody had a nickname back then. My name was Mickey, but the guys called me Mouse. You know, for Mickey Mouse? We had a guy called Jughead because he had big ears.”

“Where did the name Buck come from?” Brooke asked.

Mickey glanced at Felicia, then looked away. “It was different times back then, you know? We weren’t what you’d call politically correct. If you really want to know, Buck was short for Buckwheat. You know? Buckwheat, the little colored kid from the Our Gang shows?”