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Caroline, who had glimpsed the child only for a moment, died within the hour—not from birth, but from shock. Thomas, heartbroken and horrified, did what any man of his era might do: he wrapped the ancient infant in a shawl and carried him down the dark stairs of their Garden District mansion. He did not go to the hospital. He went to a boarding house on the fringe of the French Quarter, where a kind, exhausted woman named Queenie ran a home for the unwanted.
"Benjamin?" she whispered.
Thomas Button, a wealthy button manufacturer, paced outside the bedroom as his wife Caroline screamed. The doctor emerged, pale as bone. "Mr. Button," he said, "you have a child. But… he is not like other children."
She turned. Her eyes, still the color of honey, scanned his face. "I don't think so," she said. "But you look familiar. Like a dream I once had."
Caroline, who had glimpsed the child only for a moment, died within the hour—not from birth, but from shock. Thomas, heartbroken and horrified, did what any man of his era might do: he wrapped the ancient infant in a shawl and carried him down the dark stairs of their Garden District mansion. He did not go to the hospital. He went to a boarding house on the fringe of the French Quarter, where a kind, exhausted woman named Queenie ran a home for the unwanted.
"Benjamin?" she whispered.
Thomas Button, a wealthy button manufacturer, paced outside the bedroom as his wife Caroline screamed. The doctor emerged, pale as bone. "Mr. Button," he said, "you have a child. But… he is not like other children."
She turned. Her eyes, still the color of honey, scanned his face. "I don't think so," she said. "But you look familiar. Like a dream I once had."
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