A Mother's Promise

by K. D. Alden

  Beside her, Glory gasped and put a hand over her mouth.

  Now she knew the story. Woefully inadequate words to sum up what had happened. But there simply were none that were socially acceptable.

  Mr. Dade looked uncomfortable.

  “Not another word,” Mrs. Dade said, her face darkening. “We won’t entertain any more of your lies.”

  “They ain’t—”

  “Stop it! Close your mouth.”

  Ruth Ann did so.

  “We won’t wait much longer for an apology, by the way.”

  “An apology?! For wanting my baby back?”

  “You broke into our home in the middle of the night to steal her. How can you possibly justify that?”

  “But you stole her first.” She was just as shocked as the Dades at her words.

  “How dare you!” Mrs. Dade said, while guiltily clutching Annabel like a bootlegged case of whiskey.

  “How dare you?” Again, Ruth Ann couldn’t believe the words came out of her mouth. But she’d been silent so long. “You people took her while I was sleeping! After thirty hours of labor, I woke to find her just…gone. And at first they wouldn’t even tell me where. You just—you just traded me for my baby. Like I’m a…cow or a horse or something.”

  “We did nothing of the sort. Don’t you put the blame on us for your immoral behavior, Ruth Ann. The Colony placed Annabel with us to give her a good home, and frankly to make reparations.”

  Huh? “What does that mean?”

  “To make up for your being such a disappointment!”

  She stood and stared at them.

  Why don’t you hear me? Ruth Ann closed her eyes. Why don’t you believe me? It wouldn’t do her any good to say it again. Or try to tell her truth. Nobody cared; nobody believed her. Because she was Nobody.

  “Do you realize that you almost got our license revoked? Do you realize that we depend on that stipend from the state to pay our bills?”

  What’s a stipend? She guessed it was money.

  “Where were you going to take her, Ruth Ann?” Mrs. Dade asked. “How were you going to feed her?”

  Ruth Ann wordlessly shook her head. They were the same questions she’d asked herself.

  “Where did you plan to live?”

  Ruth Ann stared down at the shoes she wore: one her own, one Clarence’s. Her feet ached, but not nearly as much as her heart. Her blisters stung, but not as much as her pride. Stupid. She was stupid. She’d convinced herself that they’d find an abandoned barn or someplace. Borrow milk from a neighboring cow. That they could maybe plant a vegetable patch…

  She saw now that it had been a silly sixteen-year-old girl’s dream.

  “Where, Ruth Ann?”

  She shook her head miserably. “I just—I just wanted a chance. To be her ma. To maybe have a normal family.”

  A shadow crossed Mrs. Dade’s face, and she sighed. She sank down on the settee and stroked Annabel’s wispy chestnut curls. “I suppose you did.”

  The glimmer of compassion almost undid Ruth Ann. “I just wanted to…love her.”

  Mr. Dade shoved his hands under his armpits and shifted from foot to foot.

  Mrs. Dade gazed at Ruth Ann for a long moment and then nodded, sudden tears pooling in her eyes.

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. D. I’m sorry.” Was she?

  Did the fact that Mrs. Dade had ached for a baby of her own and knew how Ruth Ann felt…did that make her theft of Annabel all right? Did Mrs. D’s tears wash away her guilt? Or Ruth Ann’s hurt and deep sense of betrayal?

  No. Tears ain’t holy water.

  But Ruth Ann swallowed. “Can I—Can I just hold her awhile?”

  “It’s not wise, my dear. It will only make it harder.”

  “We all know I ain’t wise. I’m feebleminded. But please, can I hold my baby girl?”

  Mrs. D reluctantly nodded, just as Mr. D shook his head no. But he allowed himself to be overruled. Waving the shotgun around must’ve plumb wore him out.

  “Sit here.” Mrs. Dade patted the settee next to her. “And you—what is your name?”

  “Glory,” said Glory.

  “Well, dear, you sit in that chair, there.” Her voice hardened. “And you will both stop lying. We will have a cup of tea while Mr. Dade telephones the Colony.”

  “No, please!” Ruth Ann jumped to her feet.

  “Don’t make me pick up that shotgun again,” Mr. D said wearily. “Siddown. You got to go back, and you know it. You made your bed.”

  I didn’t make any bed! It ain’t fair to make me lie in it! But Ruth Ann looked at her baby, and she sat down next to Mrs. Dade.

  Glory had gone pale and clutched at the arms of her chair. She was probably wondering what Mother Jenkins would do to them. It didn’t bear thinking of.

  Grudgingly, Mrs. D handed Annabel to Ruth Ann, and she melted at the feel of her in her arms. At the milky baby scent. At her helplessness, her innocence, her sweetness. She never wanted to let her go.

  “Thank you,” she whispered. A lump as big as Shenandoah Mountain grew in her throat, impossible to swallow. She felt fused with the child, one and the same being. How could she ever let her go? “Thank you,” she said again.

  Mrs. D nodded quietly. She reached out a hand, almost touched it to Ruth Ann’s shoulder. But she let it drop. Then she said, without further ado, “Ruth Ann, you are unwed, and you are not even of age. I’m not a monster. But you claim this child is related to me by blood. Whether or not that is true, she will remain in my care.”

  Eight

  Where were the girls? Of all the times to lose them…

  Dr. Price paced back and forth in the parquet hallway, waiting for the clock to strike three. Waiting for the appointed hour of the board meeting he’d called.

  Tremont House, the executive office of the Colony, was a lovely white antebellum mansion graced by tall, fluted white columns under a portico. Its shutters and massive front door were painted a shiny black, and two polished brass lanterns on either side complemented the shiny brass latch.

  It was a genteel building, perfect for administration and fundraising. Dark, dignified portraits of do-gooders hung framed in gold against forest-green, flocked wallpaper. Potted plants in Chinese vases preened near the tall windows.

  Inside what had once been a dining room that seated thirty, a vast oriental rug stretched under what had become the Colony’s boardroom table. Price forced himself to sit down at the head of it to wait.

  The long walnut table gave ample camouflage to his jiggling leg. Nervous and annoyed as he was, he still projected an air of imperturbability—he had to, as superintendent of the Colony and its chief medical officer.

  Mrs. Parsons, the Colony’s receptionist, fluttered about with pressed, embroidered napkins, silver trays, tea and finger sandwiches. Eventually the other board members began to arrive, and Price put on his most genial expression.

  They greeted him, accepted refreshments and took their seats. Wilfred Block lounged elegantly to his left, while Anselm Stringer, a former member of the Virginia legislature and the Colony’s legal counsel, sat to his right. Stringer would help Price make his case today.

  Other members included regional doctors, professors, businessmen and a pastor who all made charitable contributions to the cause. At each man’s place at the table lay a copy of Dr. Harry Laughlin’s 1922 book, Eugenical Sterilization in the United States.

  Dr. Price formally opened the meeting while Mrs. Parsons settled herself in a corner with a Smith Corona typewriter to write up the minutes for the secretary…and steal admiring glances at that dandy Block.

  “Thank you for your presence today, gentlemen,” said Price. “I’ll do a brief review from our last meeting for the three members who were not present. To start with, I will assume that you are familiar with the term eugenics, or the science of good breeding?”

  Block rolled his eyes. “Who isn’t? Every newspaper and magazine is awash in the topic. The state fairs are now hosting Better Breed
ing competitions for American families, as well as cattle.”

  “Yes, indeed.” Dr. Price aimed a genial smile at him before turning back to the group. “The term eugenics was coined by Sir Francis Galton—Charles Darwin’s cousin—when he examined the studies of Gregor Mendel on pea plants about six decades ago. Mendel was able to breed out the weaker, disease-prone strains of the plants through his experiments on dominant and recessive genes. This is scientific proof that we can also breed out—in fact eliminate—the traits of feeblemindedness, deformity, drunkenness, criminality and moral degeneracy that are threatening our society.”

  Block raised his eyebrows. “You trying to close the Colony and put yourself out of a job, Doc?”

  Mrs. Parsons giggled in the corner like a schoolgirl, though the question didn’t merit such a display of mirth.

  Dr. Price produced an obligatory chuckle, then took a sip of water. “This science,” he continued, “has been researched, proven and documented extensively. And we have all agreed unanimously that the feebleminded should not propagate, because of the future burden on this Colony, the state of Virginia and indeed the entire nation. We simply do not have the capacity to house these degenerates for their entire reproductive years—the cost is staggering.”

  Nods of assent traveled around the table.

  “While of course there is nothing to be done about some, what we need to seriously consider is a permanent solution to allowing the most capable to be released to fulfill specific roles in society—as laborers, domestic help, farmhands, and so forth. They can lead relatively normal and productive lives, good lives in the service of God and country—as long as we curtail their ability to breed more of their kind.

  “Therefore, we propose to adopt the sterilization program we discussed at our last meeting—shocking and distasteful as it may be to those encountering the concept for the first time. Sterilization is far kinder and more compassionate than the alternatives, which frankly include”—Price paused for effect—“euthanasia.”

  Both Mrs. Parsons and the elderly Baptist pastor gasped. “Euthanasia?” he repeated, clearly horrified.

  “It has been suggested as a solution,” Dr. Price affirmed. “However, it is not one that we advocate here at the Colony. We must be progressive,” he said, “but not pernicious. Those who treat the feebleminded have a strong commitment to moral treatment and compassionate care, and it is my conviction that we can do a great deal to help our patients. However, we cannot, under any circumstances, let them multiply.”

  The old pastor shook his head. “Seems to me that none of this should be decided by us. It’s all up to God.”

  Wilfred Block raised a lazy eyebrow at him. “You weed your garden, don’t you, Pastor?” he asked. “This is no different. These people are crabgrass, dandelions, nettles, poison ivy! If you don’t stop them, they overrun everything and choke your tomatoes, your lettuces, your cucumbers and beans.”

  The pastor still demurred.

  Block leaned forward and clasped his hands on the table. “Perhaps it’s a little cruel on the surface, but ultimately for the greater good.”

  Price nodded. “And it’s much kinder than an actual castration, you’ll agree.”

  Mrs. Parsons froze, aghast, over her typewriter, forcing Price to apologize as several men, including the pastor, flushed and crossed their legs under the table.

  The pastor looked horrified. “That is against the laws of God.”

  “I personally shudder to think of such a procedure,” Stringer said.

  “Indeed, don’t we all,” Block said in amused tones.

  Dr. Price nodded. “And yet castrations have been performed at other facilities such as ours, not to mention at mental hospitals across the country.”

  Heads shook around the table, while Mrs. Parsons turned fuchsia in her corner.

  “I agree that it’s quite cruel and distasteful,” said Dr. Price. “Of course,” he continued, “it is the females who are the majority of our problem, gentlemen. Women of any intellect are a temptation to males. Women of feeble intellect are unable to remember their morals or repress their sexual impulses, and they become little better than rabbits, multiplying uncontrollably and spreading disease, not to mention their degenerate germ plasm.”

  “Compulsory sterilization still seems…wrong,” argued the pastor. “Against nature.”

  Block waded into the argument. “Is it right for this country to be overrun by degenerates and imbeciles who either won’t or can’t support themselves? The undesirables feed and breed upon us like maggots—we must put a stop to it.”

  Dr. Price redirected. “We must carefully cultivate thoroughbreds instead.”

  Murmurs of assent rippled around the table.

  “So,” the good doctor emphasized, “let us look at the possibility of giving as many patients as possible their freedom—which sterilization allows. Once they have been trained to be useful and productive, once we are assured that they will not be able to propagate more of their type, they can be released and assimilated back into society, where they can lead happy, relatively normal lives. Thus, far from being barbaric, sterilization is actually a kind and compassionate choice.”

  Heads nodded.

  “Furthermore, compulsory sterilization is not so far removed from compulsory vaccination for the public good.” Price nodded at his partner.

  Stringer took over. “So we ask you, gentlemen, to review the model sterilization law created by Dr. Harry Laughlin. We ask that you peruse, on your own time and of course at your convenience, the volume in front of you. For now, suffice it to say that Dr. Laughlin’s model law is of great assistance in creating similar statutes to the ones passed by Indiana, California, Nevada, Kansas, and many other states.

  “But to accomplish this here in Virginia, gentlemen,” he announced, “we’ve got to create an airtight case to get the law on our side, as Indiana did in 1907. All prisons and state hospitals there are authorized to sterilize mental defectives, criminals, moral degenerates and sexual perverts. We here in Virginia are lagging behind.”

  Stringer looked around the table, meeting each man’s gaze in turn. “Every reasonable-minded, educated person—doctors, scientists, reformers, charity workers, and socially prominent, concerned citizens such as yourselves—must be a proponent of eugenics. Gentlemen, it is up to us to create and pass a sterilization law here in Virginia.”

  Dr. Price took his cue. “Which brings us to the primary reason we are here today. I believe I have found the perfect test case,” he said. “She is a sixteen-year-old resident of the Colony who has already given birth to one illegitimate child. Her mother is also a patient. Both may be categorized as morons, according to Mr. Goddard’s chart of the hierarchy of feeblemindedness. So there is little doubt that her baby, Annabel, will develop abnormally, given her genetics.”

  “Is there a way to tell definitively?” Block asked.

  “The baby’s measurements and weight are normal, but there’s something not quite right about the eyes—and her reactions to stimuli are delayed. I would judge her to be of low IQ. I can ask her foster mother to bring her here for an exam. My nurse and I, as well as the social worker who facilitated the adoption of baby Annabel, will be able to testify regarding her mental state.”

  The men continued the conversation, noting that Sheila, the grandmother, was a lunatic and spent a good deal of time in a straitjacket.

  Then Price got to the point. “In order to move forward, the girl, Ruth Ann Riley, will need some sort of guardian to challenge my proposed surgery, and she will also need a lawyer. Someone who, of course…has the Colony’s best interests at heart.”

  “My, my.” Block smiled like an alligator about to close in on an unwitting duck. “I’m known for my excellent defense work, you know. Perhaps I’m available.”

  Something in Dr. Price’s stomach slid, greasy and guilty. “Perhaps you are, Wilfred.” He certainly was the perfect candidate for the job. “The question is how to present all o
f this to Miss Riley.”

  “She’s a moron,” Block reminded them all. “She won’t be hard to convince. She has absolutely no understanding of the law or what’s at stake. And she trusts you as a doctor.”

  Dr. Price stroked his beard. The greasy, guilty thing in his gut slid again. “Just so. As a matter of fact, I’ve already told her about the procedure, and she seemed none too happy about it.”

  “At the Vineland Training School in New Jersey, I believe they just tell them that they’re undergoing an appendectomy,” another physician at the table ventured.

  “As we’ve done here,” Price admitted, with a sidelong glance at Block. “But I was…challenged…recently.”

  “Most of them don’t need to know, nor are they even capable of comprehending the implications of the procedure,” Block said impatiently. “But in this case, we want the girl to object. And since she has, Dr. Price shall find himself honor bound to request the state to appoint a guardian to look after her interests. Her father is presumed dead and her mother is a lunatic.”

  The good doctor’s queasiness persisted. Honor bound.

  “You tricky old fox.” Block displayed his teeth again, the vile crocodile. He seemed to positively enjoy the idea of this deception.

  Dr. Price didn’t particularly want to think about it. As the probable producer of more degenerate offspring, Ruth Ann needed to be sterilized anyhow, and the ruse was a means to an end. It’s merely a white lie, when all is said and done…perfectly justified.

  But still. His conscience niggled at him.

  “Win or lose, the other side shall appeal,” Stringer said, looking directly at Block. “We will take this case all the way to the Supreme Court of these United States.”

  Block fingered his gold pocket watch. “And in the process, we shall make legal history.” He nodded at Stringer, then leveled his gaze upon Price. “And medical history.” He turned back to the group at large. “We shall also be lauded as the greatest of patriots.”

  Price formally closed the meeting, seconded by Stringer. As the other gentlemen lingered to socialize afterward, he found himself wanting a drink, quite badly. To celebrate, of course. He’d won. Hadn’t he? As long as Ruth Ann Riley could be quickly found.