A Mother's Promise

by K. D. Alden

  Look at what the good Mr. Block had done already: he’d found Bonnie and brought her here; he’d reunited their family—odd and damaged though it may be.

  “Momma, I don’t want to do anything bad to Patr—to the boy who forced me. I don’t want to get in trouble, or Mr. Block might not want to help us anymore. You know, if he thinks we’re bad people, crazy or violent.”

  “Let me tell you somethin’, girl. Your Mr. Block-head is a slippery character.”

  “He ain’t! He brought us Bonnie! How can you say that?”

  “Oooh, right. He brought Bonnie here to the Colony. Why? Out the goodness of his fine-tailored heart? I think not.”

  Ruth Ann waved a hand.

  “You tell me: Why does he want all of us here all together, of a sudden?”

  “Because…because she’s a young girl, and she needs—”

  “Bonnie was a young girl last month and last year, too. Why’s it now that she needs us? Huh?”

  “I didn’t have a lawyer last month or last year. I just hired him!”

  “Listen to you: I just hired him,” Sheila mocked. “Did you really? Or did he hire you?”

  Ruth Ann thought back to the afternoon when he’d casually dropped a C-note on the carpet in front of her and told her to pick it up. She thought about him kissing her hand—but then recoiling when she’d kissed his. What was all of that about? She didn’t know.

  Sheila scoffed. “So anyways, you swear you ain’t screwin’ him—”

  “I’m not! I told you.”

  “So what’s he want from the likes of you, Ruth Ann? You ain’t that much to look at. You don’t understand half the words he uses. He drops into your lap like some man-manna outta Heaven…”

  “Mrs. Dade got him to come see me. There’s nothing suspicious. It was Mrs. Dade. I asked her to help. So she did.”

  “Mrs. Dade, what took your baby away from you? And farmed you out to work for the neighbors for money? Right. She wants to help you like she wants to help a fox into her henhouse.”

  “Momma, you don’t understand.”

  “Oh, I understand, all right. You got a thing for the fancy lawyer man and his viper-green eyes. I seen the way you look at him, an’ it made me puke. Your Block-head ain’t the hero you think he is. You been around as long as I have, you’ll understand that men want one o’ three things: food, sex or fortune. We know you ain’t feedin’ him, or he’d drop dead o’ poisoning. You say you ain’t screwin’ him, so what’s that leave?”

  Sheila had clearly gone around the bend, again. Ruth Ann got up to leave. She was exhausted, she was confused, and now that Mother Jenkins wasn’t around to threaten her hide, all she wanted to do was sneak off to her bunk, fall into it and take a nap.

  “What’s that leave?” Sheila demanded again.

  “Fortune,” Ruth Ann said wearily. “But that don’t make any sense. Ain’t got no money to pay him—he’s the one gave me the hunnert dollars for his fee—”

  Sheila bolted upright in her chair. “He done what?”

  Ruth Ann filled her in on what had happened when he came to see her the first time.

  Sheila lit a cheroot and took a long drag on it, drumming the fingers of her other hand on the grungy arm of her chair. “Gratis, my bony ass,” she said. “That feller has himself somethin’ up his snotty sleeve.”

  Ruth Ann put a hand up to her aching neck. “What, Momma? What can he possibly hope to gain from workin’ with me?”

  “I dunno. I’ll bet it’s got to do with lawyering, though.”

  “Of course it does. He’s a lawyer.”

  “Fortune, girl. Food, sex or fortune. Somethin’ about your case is gonna gratis hisself with the court or a judge or the John Q. Public. You mark my words, Ruth Ann, and you wake up! You smell the coffee. Then you throw the whole dang pot—gratis—at his pomaded head.”

  When Ruth Ann startled awake from her nap, she cringed and braced herself for the blow that would come from Mother Jenkins, who was screechin’ at her in a dream. Chasin’ her with a rollin’ pin.

  But Mother Jenkins was, unbelievably, gone from this place. And as Ruth Ann stretched and yawned in her bunk, she felt like a whole new person. She stretched some more, and then swung her legs out from under the covers and onto the floor, which felt cold but solid under her stockinged feet.

  Had anyone noticed her prolonged absence? Or were all the girls clucking and gossiping about the downfall and banishment of Mother J? Who’d be put in charge of them, now that the old harridan was gone? Please the Lord it wasn’t somebody worse.

  She went to the lavatory and splashed water on her face, then put on her dress and shoes and wandered out for a look-see. She snuck over to the outdoor laundry, but not a soul was there and the fire under the massive iron pot had clean gone out.

  In the kitchens, it was a different story. All the girls were there, heads together, gums a-flappin’. Hoots and shrieks of laughter punctuated the most lurid speculation.

  “…heard tell she went right to the poorhouse!”

  “…sold her extra dress and apron right on the street.”

  “…knocked on the Stringers’ door to see if they needed a housekeeper, and when Mrs. Stringer said no, then she asked if they be needin’ a parlor maid.”

  “What a whopper, Doreen—”

  “I swear it’s true! I had it from Jimbo, old lady Stringer’s gardener’s son.”

  “What’re you doin’ steppin’ out with him again?”

  “Well, he ’pologized…”

  “Puh-lease, Doreen, you ninny…”

  Mother Jenkins, begging for work as a parlor maid? Ruth Ann couldn’t believe it.

  “The Stringers said ‘no, thank you,’” said Clarence, interrupting her eavesdropping.

  She squeaked and jumped at least a foot into the air. “You scared the bejeezus outta me, Clarence!”

  “Sorry,” he said, smiling. “How you doin’, Ruthie?”

  “Okay, I guess.”

  “That ma of yours is somethin’ else.” He scratched his nose absently.

  “Ain’t she, though.”

  “I never seen nor heard anything like that in my lifetime.” He laughed.

  “Most people haven’t.”

  “It’s gone around, Ruthie. You know it has.”

  “Yeah, I’m sure.” She jerked her head toward the kitchens.

  “Funny thing is, your momma’s now a hero.”

  Ruth Ann blinked. Then blinked again. “She’s a what?”

  “She took on—and took down—Mother J! The girls were cheerin’,” Clarence said, “when I stuffed her in the flivver and drove her out the gates. “Cheerin’.”

  Ruth Ann broke into a smile. “They were?”

  “No foolin’.”

  Her smile faded. “But Clarence, where’d you end up takin’ that old buzzard?”

  He sighed. “Lotsa places. She were bawlin’. I’d never imagined I could feel sorry for that woman, but I did. So we tried the Whistlers and the Stringers. We tried Old Lady Trotter’s boardinghouse, but she cain’t afford it. An’ so finally I done took her to the First United Methodist Church. Pastor took her in, says he’ll help her find some kind o’ job somewheres.”

  “Oh. Good to know, I s’pose.”

  Clarence regarded her with one eyebrow lifted. “But you’re as glad she’s gone as anyone, ain’t that the truth.”

  “Yeah. It is.” She fidgeted under his gaze. “I never did thank you for runnin’ to get Doc Price. Lord only knows what woulda happened if you hadn’t. I think Sheila’d have killed Mother J, and that’s the truth.”

  Clarence chuckled. “I’m with ya on that. Your momma may be skinny, but she’s a right truckload of mean.”

  Ruth Ann felt that same powerful giggle rising in her again, pushing to get out. “I’ll put that on her headstone, when she passes: ‘Here lies a Mother, a Grandmother, a Truckload of Mean.’”

  Clarence whooped. “Cain’t imagine her ever restin’ in peace.”<
br />
  “No. She’ll haunt this place forever an’ a day.”

  They laughed together, his hearty baritone wrapping around her soprano and sharing in the joy of pure irreverence.

  “Are we awful, Clarence?” Ruth Ann said, when their mirth subsided.

  “Yep.” He grinned at her, his freckles dancing down his nose and over his cheeks. “We are one-hunnert-percent terrible, awful, no-good people.”

  “De-botched and de-generous,” she agreed.

  “You betcha.” Clarence leaned forward and planted a kiss right on her lips. Then he walked away, whistling.

  Clarence had kissed her. Ruth Ann stared after him, her fingers involuntarily touching the spot where his mouth had been, right there on hers.

  And then he’d turned his back on her, before she could even react.

  That was hardly fair.

  His coppery head, his broad shoulders, his trim waist, his long legs, slowly receded and disappeared from view, and still she stared after him, fingers to her lips.

  The renegade giggle within her receded right along with him.

  She didn’t know what or how to think. But she felt oddly light, as if she could lift, rise high into the blue sky and drift away on the breeze, like one of them kites at the seashore; look a robin in the eye, smell a cloud…spin silver out of raindrops.

  That was how she felt.

  Because Clarence had kissed her, and he’d smelled of hay, sunshine and laughter.

  She’d liked it.

  Ruth Ann didn’t know what to make of this. She didn’t like liking it. The kiss brought with it electricity, got things going in her body that shouldn’t get going. It scared her, made her feel things she shouldn’t feel. Think things she shouldn’t think.

  Like what Clarence might look like without his shirt on.

  Ruth Ann’s face flamed.

  The good Lord would surely strike her now. She had cheered on her wicked mother, she’d found glee in another’s misfortune and now she was in danger of becoming like the wrong Mary if she kept this up.

  She was in danger of becoming her momma.

  Blood will tell, folks liked to say.

  The very idea of becoming the spittin’ image of Sheila plain horrified her.

  She wouldn’t allow it. She would never be anything like Sheila Riley. Not ever.

  And Clarence—he couldn’t just go around kissing girls. The nerve of him!

  She knew she wasn’t much to look at. So did he kiss Greta, too? And Carlotta? Or even Glory? Who else might he kiss? Did he kiss a different gal every day of the week? Was it Meryl on Monday, Tabitha on Tuesday, Wendy on Wednesday?

  A small voice somewhere in the back of Ruth Ann’s head told her she was bein’ irrational, thinkin’ a mountain out of a molehill. And she told the voice where to go, on account of she refused to have voices in her head like Crazy Sheila. She didn’t attack people, neither. Nor march up to people, like Clarence, and kiss them.

  How dare he?

  The next time she saw Clarence, she’d smack his face good and proper. Why, she’d knock those freckles into next year.

  Twenty-Four

  The Colony was full of surprises these days. Thursday afternoon the following week, Mr. Block’s fine motorcar came purring through the gates with none other than Mrs. Dade sittin’ in the rear seat. Ruth Ann saw her through the kitchen windows, plain as daylight, and almost dropped the pot she was scrubbing.

  Whatever was Mrs. Dade doing here, in this place for the Epileptic and Feebleminded? She appeared to be occupied with something in her lap. Perhaps that something was baby Annabel!

  The motorcar headed downhill toward Doc Price’s office.

  Ruth Ann excused herself to the outhouse—Carlotta had been put in charge of the girls for the time bein’ and was far easier goin’ than Mother J—and ran breathless in the same direction as the car. If she could catch one glimpse of her baby…

  Had she grown much? Gained a few ounces or even another pound? Had her hair got any longer? Did she still coo like a little dove?

  Ruth Ann had to see her.

  But what if Doc Price got mad that she was there?

  She decided she didn’t care. She crept closer to his office and caught the wail of a child. Annabel was inside! What were they doin’ in there to make her cry?

  A primal, protective anger arose and clawed in her belly. Ruth Ann flew to the door of Doc’s office, turned the handle as if she had any authority to do so and marched inside.

  Mrs. Dade sat in the reception area, her hands clasped to her mouth, evidently feeling the same way that Ruth Ann was feeling.

  “What are you doing here?” they said to each other simultaneously.

  Ruth Ann grasped her shoulder. “Where’s Annabel?”

  “Doc Price asked us to come here so he could do some tests on her.”

  Ruth Ann went cold inside. “Tests? What kind of tests?”

  “I don’t rightly know. He just said he needed to measure some things. Her head, her height, her responses to…stimuli?”

  “What’s stimuli?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “He ain’t doin’ no operation on her, is he?” Ruth Ann put a hand on the door frame to steady herself. She gripped it tightly. “No kind of surgery?”

  Mrs. Dade shook her head. “He didn’t mention anything like that.”

  Ruth Ann went weak in the knees. “Oh, thank the good Lord.”

  But Annabel was still wailing audibly behind the closed door of Doc’s surgery. She wanted to charge it like a bull, trample it down and snatch her baby away. The protective instinct was so strong it frightened her. She’d do anything she had to do to keep Annabel safe. Anything at all.

  Sheila’s words came back to her, disturbing in their truth.

  Lemme tell you somethin’: any and every woman alive is “like that,” if it comes down to feeding her kids or not. Yes, even you. A good, God-fearin’ preacher’s wife is like that, if her husband is dead and her children is hungry and cryin’…

  Another howl came from behind the door, and Ruth Ann couldn’t stand it any longer. She turned that handle, too. She barged in. “What are you doin’ to my baby, Doc?!”

  Annabel was naked and lying on a cold, metal scale. Other than that, the baby was fine. There were no needles or hoses anywhere close to her. Just a nurse in white from head to toe, and Doc, with a clipboard and a healthy dose of outrage at her behavior.

  “What do you think you’re doing, Ruth Ann Riley?!”

  “I—I—was afraid for my baby—”

  “How are you even aware she’s here?”

  “I saw Mrs. Dade in Mr. Block’s car. Oh, please, cover her up, Nurse. She’s cold!”

  “We just had to get her weight,” the woman said, wrapping Annabel in a blanket without further delay.

  “Then why was she hollerin’ so fierce, just before?”

  “We had to take her temperature, Ruth Ann,” Doc Price said. “Most babies don’t enjoy that, you know.”

  Heat flushed her neck and face.

  Doc finished making a note on his clipboard and tossed it aside. He gentled his tone, but he still conveyed his displeasure. “You have no business being down here.”

  “I just wanted to see her, Doc.” She hated the note of begging in her voice.

  “You are quite obsessed with Annabel,” he said. “It’s not at all healthy.”

  Not healthy? For a mother to love her own baby? Mayhap, Doc, you should have your own head examined by another doctor. “I’m sorry,” she said, not meaning it at all. “I just…love her.”

  Doc sighed. “You gave birth to her, and that is all.”

  She simply stared at him.

  “A cat births a litter of kittens, but she doesn’t love them. A bitch whelps her puppies, but she doesn’t love them. A mare drops her foal, but doesn’t—”

  “How do you know?” Ruth Ann blurted.

  The nurse gasped, while Doc went ramrod-straight. “I beg your pardon?”


  “How do you know what cats and dogs and horses feel, Doc? It ain’t like you can ask ’em. It ain’t like they can answer you back and you can write it all down on your clipboard.”

  Doc went purple in the face behind his steel-rimmed spectacles. “Ruth Ann. You are a Riley, none of whom has ever passed the fifth grade. Yet you question my medical knowledge? I have degrees from Johns Hopkins and Harvard! And you—”

  “Sixth grade.” Ruth Ann said it quietly.

  “What?”

  “I passed the sixth grade. Top of the class. You can ask Mrs. Dade, out there.”

  Doc spluttered and grew even more purple in the face.

  And then Ruth Ann asked the question that she and Sheila couldn’t seem to answer: “If you think so poorly of us Rileys, then why are you helping us out, Doc?”

  “I don’t think poorly of you. I pity you…”

  Pity? She didn’t want or need Doc’s pity.

  “I’ve explained to you compassionately that your mental state, your gene pool, is in no way your fault…I’m trying to help you.”

  “Why? And how come you entertain my lawyer Mr. Block in your office and have him bring my sister and my baby here to the Colony?”

  Doc Price goggled at her for a moment. “Because it’s my duty as an American, my duty as the director of this establishment and my duty as a Christian to do so,” he informed her, weakly. “Now I ask you to leave my office.”

  His word was law.

  Ruth Ann took a last, longing look at Annabel. She had indeed grown, and so had her hair. She was so beautiful.

  “Leave,” Doc ordered, again.

  The nurse stood silent.

  Mrs. Dade, still sitting in the reception area, wrung her hands.

  Ruth Ann trudged to the door she’d flung open so urgently and didn’t let it hit her on her way out. She was more confused than ever. Doc had been kind to Momma, examined her bruises, ordered tea and soup to be sent to her all week. He’d fired Mother Jenkins for her cruelty to the girls. And yet, he looked down upon them as…animals? Pitied them?

  She didn’t know what to make of it all.

  Good thing she ran smack into Mr. Block outside Doc’s office. He was smoking a fancy cigar and just about choked on it when she ankled out.