A Mother's Promise

by K. D. Alden

“Clarence, you are as wrong as you can be—”

  “You done with that file, yet? You need to copy down the address? ’Cause the ox, here, surely won’t remember it. Just like he couldn’t remember the string of letters that spelled out S-o-u-t-h-w-i-c-k, so’s he could locate the darn thing.”

  Ruth Ann wanted to smack his freckles into next year again, but she wouldn’t. Because Clarence was clearly just as smart as any man, and because she’d hurt him without intending to, and because…“Clarence, I don’t even think about you not havin’ a left hand, and that’s the honest truth. You always stuff it in your pocket an’ hide it from me, anyways.”

  “Wouldn’t you? Would you want folks gaspin’ and gogglin’ at somethin’ freakish like this? Would you wanna listen to kids tauntin’ you and askin’ why don’t you get a hook on the end?”

  “Clarence—”

  “So you got the address, Ruthie? Or not?”

  “I got it.”

  “Then let’s go, before somebody catches us…”

  From downstairs, there came a squeak and a creak as the big black door opened, and a thud as it closed.

  “Quick! Put the file back!”

  With shaking fingers, Ruth Ann grabbed it, rifled through the other files to find its correct spot, and shoved it in. She slid the drawer home.

  Clarence put a finger to his lips and then extinguished the oil lamp. “Back stairs,” he whispered. “Follow me.”

  Twenty-Seven

  Clarence took Ruth Ann’s hand again, and she didn’t protest because she was scared witless and blind as a mole in the darkness, to boot. “Take the oil lamp,” he whispered, and she did. They crept to the doorway and peered around it. There was a flicker and then the slightest glow of dirty yellow seeping up onto the landing from below, as if someone on the ground floor had lit a lamp. Then a creak, and another, as the person started up the stairs.

  Ruth Ann and Clarence crept down the gloomy hallway to the servants’ stairs as quickly as possible. The oil lamp in her left hand shook, the glass top quivering against its metal collar.

  There was no banister to guide them or to hang on to. “Squat and bump down on your keister,” he whispered, letting go of her hand. “Otherwise, we’re likely to trip and fall.”

  She did as instructed, and they bumped down together with little grace, crouching at the bottom of the staircase. She’d have bruises later for sure—but nothing compared to the ones she’d have if they were caught.

  “Who’s there?” called a female voice. Was it Mrs. Parsons? Ruth Ann couldn’t tell. Whatever was she doing there at this hour of the morning?

  They froze and remained silent.

  Footsteps and accompanying floorboard creaks echoed along the upstairs hallway. The dirty yellow glow from the lamp followed them. “Is anyone there?”

  They hardly dared to breathe.

  Eventually, the footsteps receded again, heading into one of the rooms.

  “C’mon,” Clarence whispered, taking her hand again. They kept low and skittered like crabs through the hallway door, back into the parlor with the settee and feather pillows, around them and all the way to the unlatched window.

  He eased it open, swung his legs over the sill, and dropped easily to the ground below. “Give me the lamp.”

  She handed it over, and he set it on the ground. Then he held out his hand to help her down.

  She put her leg over the sill, swung her other one over as well, and hesitated.

  “Put your hands on my shoulders, Ruthie.” Clarence waited patiently.

  She braced against him, and he slid his right arm around her, lifting her down and depositing her gently on the grass. He was all hard muscle; even the arm with no hand was rock solid. She remembered marveling that he could wheelbarrow her and Glory all the way to the dairy barn.

  Clarence then brushed past her, pulled the curtains together again and tugged closed the window. “Let’s go!”

  They made it back to the female dormitories without any incident, and she realized that Clarence had gone out of his way to see her home safely—the men’s dorms were clear on the other side of the lake.

  “Thank you,” she said. “Clarence, I want you to know that you’re wrong. About me not wantin’ to be with you on account of—”

  “Good night Ruth Ann,” he said. “Sleep well—for the next half hour.” He turned and walked away.

  Dadburnit! Stubborn man. “Clarence!” she called as softly as she could. “Please don’t be that way…”

  He kept walking.

  Ruth Ann slipped back into her dormitory and snuck to her bunk, checking to see that Bonnie still slept peacefully with Calico Bear.

  She shucked off her dress, kicked off her shoes and then slipped into her night rail. She had half an hour to lie lazily under her blanket before everyone around her began to stir, and then it would be time to get up again for breakfast and go back to the laundry with Glory and the girls for the next few days.

  She couldn’t wait to tell Glory that they’d found out where her baby was…see the sparkle come back to her eyes and the color back to her cheeks. See the life bloom again in her friend.

  Her thoughts drifted back to Clarence and how he hid his flaws from her. His lack of a hand. His inability to read. His sensitivity about that—and his deep hurt at how he’d been treated all his life. Like he was a circus freak or an idiot, simply because God had withheld one of his hands.

  She closed her left fist and imagined she didn’t have the use of her fingers on that hand. What would that be like? It would be impossible to cut meat with a knife and a fork. Difficult to fold laundry. She’d be unable to put up her own hair.

  And if she’d been born a boy? What a challenge to wrestle with other boys. To button a shirt. To bait a fishing hook or scale a fish.

  But easy to open a book, to learn to read and write the alphabet, to quantify figures and do arithmetic. Whyever would the Colony deny a boy like Clarence basic schooling? It made no sense at all.

  She thought of his cover-up, his shame, the grim lines of his face and the flattening of his lips. Lord knew she’d only been schooled through the sixth grade herself, but she could teach Clarence to read. And teach him she would—whether he liked it or not. So there, you big, not-dumb ox. They would start with Mr. Mark Twain. He was quite wonderfully funny and wise, not at all highfalutin. Clarence would prob’ly like him a lot.

  “We found out where baby Lily is,” Ruth Ann told Glory as she made up the fire for the washing kettle. Glory was separating garments and colors. They’d sent Izzie and Bonnie to fetch more water.

  “You did?” Glory dropped a white petticoat into a pile of men’s black trousers.

  “Yes. She’s—”

  “Tell me everything! Who’s she with, how’s her health, was there any pictures in the files?”

  “No pictures. But far’s I know, she’s in good health and she’s with a couple in Richmond, name of Fawley.”

  “How far is Richmond? Can we go see her? Oh! I want to see her, Ruth Ann!”

  Oh, dear. “I don’t think we can get there, or that they’d let you, but at least you know the name o’ the people. Maybe…maybe you could write them a letter?”

  “I ain’t good at writin’. I want to see her sweet little face.”

  It was prob’ly a good thing that Glory didn’t want to write. Ruth Ann realized belatedly that any letter sent from the Colony would reveal that someone had broken in to the files. And that would mean big trouble.

  “I don’t think it’s possible,” Ruth Ann said.

  Glory burst into tears.

  Oh, no. What have I done? All’s I wanted was to bring joy to her. Ruth Ann stared at her in dismay. “I’m right sorry, Glory, an’ that’s the truth. I just wanted to bring you news of Lily, that’s all.”

  Glory wiped her face with her apron. A good thing, since Bonnie and Izzie were now visible a hundred yards away, lugging their buckets of water from the pump.

  “I know, Ruthi
e. You’re a good soul. You are. It’s just hard to know my baby’s out there, bein’ cared for by some other woman, and not even know what she looks like. Not be able to see her or touch her or hold her.”

  Ruth Ann swallowed, thinking of Annabel and the hour they’d been able to spend together with Sheila and Bonnie as a family. “Glory, that may be a blessing.”

  “How can you say that? You at least got to see your baby, hold her.”

  “But then I had to give her back,” Ruth Ann said gently. “It hurt something fierce. You’d have to say goodbye all over again, too. And it only tears a fresh wound in your heart.”

  “I don’t care,” Glory said, pasting a fake smile onto her face as Bonnie and Izzie got close. “I’m-a find a way to see her.”

  Ruth Ann nodded and said nothing. But she had a bad feeling in the pit of her stomach. Maybe she should have left the files alone.

  “Thank you,” Glory added. “Don’t mean to be ungrateful.”

  “I know.”

  “So will you go with me?” Glory asked.

  Oh, no. Oh, no, no, no…

  Ruth Ann turned to take the buckets from the girls as they came into the laundry, panting. She sloshed the water into the rinse tub and handed back the empty pails. “Off you go again for two more.”

  They skipped away, happy in their newfound friendship.

  Ruth Ann turned back to Glory. “That ain’t a wise thing to do.”

  “It weren’t a wise thing to do when I went with you to find Annabel, neither. But I done it anyways.” Glory put her hand on her hips, pursed her lips and waited.

  What to say? “We got in so much trouble. You really want more?”

  “Mother Jenkins is gone now. Doc Price already done his worst to me. So who cares?”

  I care. I got a court case about to happen. I don’ wanna lose my lawyer. Ruth Ann hesitated. “Things are different now, Glory…We were stupid. We didn’t think ’bout how we’d live on our own with two babies. How we’d make money or get food.”

  “What’s different, Ruth Ann Riley, is that you’re all high an’ mighty now with your lawyer and you won’t help me like I helped you.”

  The injustice of this statement—and the kernel of truth in it—stung. “That’s not fair! That’s not how it is.”

  “It is fair. Besides, I didn’ say I wanted to steal Lily. I just want to see her.”

  Ruth Ann said nothing.

  “Why else would you go diggin’ up the name and address for me? Did you do this just to be mean? What is wrong with you? I thought you were my friend!”

  “I am your friend. Sometimes a friend’s job is to tell you the truth: that trying to go see Lily is a bad idea. That it will only lead to heartbreak.”

  “You ain’t no friend. You just don’t feel like doin’ for me what I done for you. Well, guess what, Ruth Ann? I all a sudden’s got a real bad stomachache. I don’t feel like doin’ no washin’ with you. Guess you’ll have to do it all alone. Just lookin’ at your face makes me sick. See ya.”

  As Ruth Ann gaped at her, Glory turned on her heel and marched off.

  So much for putting the sparkle back into her friend’s eyes and the color back into her cheeks. So much for good intentions.

  Ruth Ann found the very spot where Izzie had kicked the wall a few days ago, and she kicked it hard herself. Now both Glory and Clarence were mad at her. The only friends she had in this godforsaken place seemed to no longer be her friends.

  After she finished all the laundry, Ruth Ann sank to the ground, drew up her knees, and folded her arms upon them. She put her head down and closed her eyes. She inhaled the starch of her own apron, then the rich, loamy scent of the dirt under her and the grass that took root in it. Lord, why didn’t you just make me a blade of grass? They don’t care whether the blades next to ’em are friend or foe. How much simpler her life would be. She’d just grow upward toward the sun and pray for enough rain to survive.

  But she was neither vegetable nor animal. She was reluctantly human. So she got up off her behind and dusted it off. She went to find a book, a pencil and some paper. Then she set about findin’ Clarence.

  She had to go all the way to the stables to locate him, where he was brushin’ and groomin’ the horses.

  She inhaled the smell of the old wooden structure, the sweetness of the hay, the clean straw spread in the stalls and the sharp ammonia emanating from one stall where a piebald had relieved itself.

  A friendly chestnut mare with a white star on her forehead nickered softly as Ruth Ann approached. She wished she had a carrot or a bit of apple for her, but she didn’t.

  Clarence peered out from the stall where he was working, his brush resting on the rump of a big bay gelding. “What brings you to the stables, Ruth Ann?”

  “You. You got it all wrong, last night.”

  “Dumb ox me,” he said, and picked up the brush again. He swept it through the bay’s coal-black tail. The bay didn’t seem to notice, just kept on munching his bale of hay.

  “You ain’t an ox, and you ain’t dumb, neither.” Ruth Ann unlatched the stall and slipped inside with him. The bay rolled one eye in her direction, then ignored her.

  Clarence raised his ginger eyebrows. “What’re you—”

  She took the brush from him and set it on top of the stall gate. Then she put the book in his hand: The Adventures of Tom Sawyer.

  “What’s this?” He shot her a look of pure aggravation. “Why’re you givin’ me a book when I can’t read?”

  She smiled at him. “On account of we’re goin’ to change that.”

  After a brief back an’ forth verbal tussle, Clarence finally led her to the tack room, where they sat down at an old, scarred wooden table with the book and pencil and paper. Ruth Ann introduced him to Tom Sawyer, and after some scowlin’ and growlin’ ’cause he felt stupid, Clarence an’ Tom got along like a house on fire.

  He laughed like crazy when Tom snookered all the other boys into whitewashing Aunt Polly’s fence. “I’m-a try that with the polishin’ of the flivvers when them rich people come to visit the Colony—though not for no dead rat or string to swing it with.”

  “You’d rather have the firecrackers,” she guessed.

  “Of course.”

  “Want to try writin’ a little?”

  Clarence cracked his neck and ducked her challenging gaze. “I’m real bad at it.”

  “So you’ve tried it before. That means you want to.”

  He shrugged.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “I don’t like lookin’ a fool in front of you.”

  “You don’t. The only way that’ll happen is if you give up afore you even start. So here.” She handed him the pencil and placed the paper on the table in front of him. “You don’t have to fill the whole page. Let’s just write us out two sentences from Mr. Twain’s book. Which were your favorites from the chapter we read?”

  Clarence thought for a moment, then grinned. “The part about how Tom had a nice, good, idle time, an’ if he hadn’t of run out of whitewash, he’d of bankrupted all the other boys.”

  “Okay, perfect.” Ruth Ann found the two sentences. “So your first word to write is he. That’s h and e. Huh-ee.” She pointed to the word. “So you copy them two letters. Easy.”

  Clarence did as she told him. His letters were by no means perfect, but he did fine.

  “Good job!” Ruth Ann told him. “Now the next word is had. That’s huh—aa—duh. So copy that out, too.”

  Before long, Clarence had written out the two sentences on his piece of paper. He sat staring at them in bemusement.

  Ruth Ann had him read them aloud, twice. And then she clapped her hands and, surprising them both, gave him a kiss.

  He blushed like a red-headed beet.

  “We are gonna keep workin’ at this, Clarence!” she informed him, skittering away when he made as if to kiss her back. “Pretty soon, you’ll out-read every boy in the dorm who’s made fun of you. And out-write ’e
m, too. You keep the book for now—just hide it out here. You’re gonna love Tom. He’ll be your friend forever.” Unlike Glory. Her smile slipped away.

  “What’s the matter?”

  She told him about it.

  “Oh, good Lord. I didn’t think o’ that, neither. But it makes sense that she’d want to see her baby, right? We’ll come up with somethin’ and she’ll take back her words, Ruthie.”

  She wanted to believe Clarence.

  But Glory had changed so much since her surgery. Did she care enough about Ruth Ann to stay her friend? And would she ever reclaim the same sweet soul that had been surgically removed?

  Twenty-Eight

  On a dreary, bitterly cold day in November, Mr. Block’s shiny black motorcar pulled into the circular drive of the main building at the Colony. Ruth Ann had been summoned there by Mrs. Parsons to meet him so that they could drive to the Amherst County Circuit Courthouse. They would stay at a boardinghouse in town for the duration of the trial.

  Mr. Block looked dapper in a new three-piece suit and his gold pocket watch. His hat sat at a sober, lawyerly angle that also set off his fine green eyes. Ruth Ann felt extra-shabby in her plain shirtwaist and skirt and ugly brown coat.

  She shivered at the prospect of going to a courthouse. What did a courthouse even look like? And the state (what did the State look like?) had appointed her a guardian to look after her “interests.” Whatever those were.

  The courthouse was a two-story building: white with black shutters, like so many at the Colony. It looked pristine and disapproving, just as they did. As if it would rather people like her didn’t enter. A redbrick walkway led up to the main door, and a tall, skinny monument that Mr. Block said was put there by the Daughters of the American Revolution stood in the center of it.

  Ruth Ann followed Block to the left of the statue and asked what it was for.

  “To remember the sons of this county who died fighting in the civil war,” said Mr. Block, “and not so very long ago.”

  She wondered who remembered the daughters of the county, but didn’t say so aloud. She also didn’t quite understand why any war was called civil, when killin’ your countrymen, it seemed to her, was downright uncivil. Seemed to her that it was the state that was feebleminded, not her. But nobody never asked her opinion, so she’d best keep her mouth shut.