Jubilee's Journey (Wyattsville #2)(59)

When they arrived back at the hospital, a uniformed policeman stood at the door of Paul’s room. For three days there had been no one. Now he was back.

“What’s up?” Mahoney asked. “I thought they’d called off the guard dogs.”

“Things change.” The patrolman gave a chagrined shrug.

Paul was alert and sitting straight up. The large bandage that had swaddled his head was now gone, replaced by a smaller one held in place with strips of adhesive. He looked considerably better than he had earlier in the day, with one singular exception.

Paul was now handcuffed to the bed.

“What the…” Mahoney stormed out the door and headed for the nurses’ station.

Jubilee stayed behind and stood beside her brother. At first she made no mention of the handcuffs and spoke only about how they were going to help Paul remember.

“Mister Mahoney got good intentions,” she whispered. “You can say the truth and he don’t get mad, even if you say stuff what ain’t like he’s thinking.”

“Say the truth about what?” Paul looked at Jubilee quizzically.

She went through the same things she’d told him yesterday. Mama died. Daddy was killed in the mine. They were gonna find a new place to live. Only after she’d gone through all of those things did she mention the handcuffs.

“How come you got chained to the bed?” she asked.

“They said I shot somebody,” Paul answered.

Jubie frowned. “You ain’t never shot nobody.”

Paul’s eyes began to water. “They say I did. So maybe I did.”

“That’s a lie! A big, fat, dirty lie!” The screech of her voice was so loud it brought both Mahoney and the guard running into the room.

“What’s wrong?” Mahoney asked.

“Paul’s lying!” Jubilee’s voice trembled as she spoke. “He’s saying he maybe shot—”

Mahoney grabbed the girl’s arm with a firm grip and gave her a look that quickly silenced her. “I don’t think that’s what Paul intended—”

“Maybe not,” the guard dog said, “but sometimes the truth slips out.”

When Jubilee went back to reminding Paul of all the things he should be remembering, Guard Dog slipped out of the room. Moments later Mahoney spied him talking on the telephone and turned to Paul.

“Son, I’m trying to see justice done, but justice isn’t always quick to see the truth of things. I’d suggest you hold back on saying you maybe shot Sid Klaussner until we’ve got something more to go on.”

Jubilee gave Mahoney a hard glare. “I told you—”

“I know, I know,” Mahoney mimicked her words. “He didn’t shoot nobody.”

Jubilee gave a satisfied nod and turned back to her brother. “Remember when—”

Mahoney interrupted. “Let’s try something else,” he said and lifted the bag they’d brought onto the chair. He reached in, pulled out the Bible, and handed it to Paul. “Remember this?”

Paul held the book in his hands and leafed through the pages, studying the names. After the Bible, he was handed the photographs one by one. He smiled and touched his finger to the faces of those he loved. Mahoney knew when a look of anguish settled on his face he was remembering the passage of years and the death of his parents.

The last thing Mahoney took from the bag was the miner’s hat with “Jones” printed across the back in black letters.

Paul took the hat in his hands and held it as though it were something precious. He brushed his thumb across the rough edge and said nothing. Moments later a tear dropped from his eye.

“You remember your daddy wearing this hat, don’t you?”

Paul pulled his gaze away from the hat and gave a sad nod.

“Do you remember the last time you saw him wearing it?”

Paul took on the pained look of trying to remember; then the left side of his face crumpled into a grimace. “Yes.”

“That was the day he died, wasn’t it?”

Paul nodded. “I thought Daddy was just late coming home, but then Mister Brumann came and told us there’d been an accident…” Paul’s voice trailed off, and a flow of tears began.

“I’m sorry, son,” Mahoney said. “I know this is painful.”

Jubilee looked up at Mahoney. “Then why you doing it?”

“Because, like you, I don’t think Paul was involved in the robbery—”

“I ain’t just thinking,” Jubilee said. “I know for sure.”

“Fair enough,” Mahoney conceded. “We know for sure Paul wasn’t involved. But the only way we can prove it is for him to tell us what actually happened that day, and in order to tell us he’s got to remember.”

“Oh. Okay.” Jubilee stepped back and allowed Mahoney to continue.

Bit by bit the memories began to surface: the house, the school, the garden, teaching Jubilee to read and count numbers. All of those things came back, but after their days on the mountain, there was nothing. Paul had no recollection of the bus ride, Aunt Anita, or the reason why they’d come to Wyattsville.

“Try harder,” Jubilee urged. “Remember the big bus? What about the place with turnaround stools? The lady gave me a free biscuit and told where to get sleeping rooms, you remember that?”