A Mother's Promise

by K. D. Alden

  Ruth Ann, startled, glanced at Block. He kept his gaze on the witness.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And what did you see her do?”

  “Miss Riley threw herself at Mr. Block and…she kissed his hand.” She said it in a low stage-whisper, full of drama and insinuation.

  Ruth Ann could no longer contain herself. “It wasn’t like that! I was expressin’ my gratitude—”

  “Silence!” Judge Watkins pounded his gavel and stared her down with such contempt and disgust that she wished the floor would open up and swallow her. “Order in the court.”

  Mr. Stringer smirked at her. “And what did Mr. Block do, Mrs. Parsons?”

  “He reacted very properly, sir. He pulled his hand away and discouraged her advances.”

  “I should hope so,” Mr. Stringer said. “And why, Mrs. Parsons, do you think Ruth Ann Riley was, ah, trying to be…affectionate…with Mr. Block?”

  “I couldn’t say, sir. But it may have been that she wanted him to work extra hard on her behalf.”

  “Objection,” said Mr. Block. “Speculation.”

  The proceedings went on and on, like some drawn-out nightmare that Ruth Ann couldn’t seem to awaken from. She couldn’t understand all the complex language and legal terms, nor the scientific charts about “traits” and “genes” and “heredity.” She didn’t know most of them “witnesses” Mr. Stringer called in to flap their gums ’bout this an’ that. For goodness’ sake, whyever was some gentleman natterin’ on about pea plants in a foreign country called More-of-ya? Whatever did peas—foreign or domestic—have to do with her and Momma?

  She’d never heard of the families called Kallikak and Juke and Tribe of Ishmael that hers was bein’ compared with, but she did comprehend that she and Momma were bein’ right vilified in a court of law. The Riley name, the Riley bloodline, the Riley smarts—they was all bein’ plum assassinated. They was even callin’ Annabel, not even a year-old baby, stupid.

  All them folks in the courthouse rustled and bustled and oohed and aahed and seemed to think they’d just purchased a five-cent bag o’ popcorn outside and was watchin’ a silver screen motion picture, starrin’ herself as the mustache-twirlin’ villain.

  The two lawyers strutted back an’ forth like two bantam cocks, spewin’ rattle-trap ’bout the 8th and 14th Amendments to the Constitution.

  And yet nobody would let her speak up for herself or for her momma. She wished she could put Sheila on the stand to give her speech about how even a preacher’s wife would be “that kind of woman” if her children were starvin’.

  She wished she her ownself could tell them that it was Patrick who was violent and immoral—not her. And that Mother Jenkins’d had her a score to settle.

  She wished she could tell them all that she’d passed the sixth grade and about the book she was readin’ at night by oil lamp: Little Women by Louisa May Alcott.

  But nobody would let her open her mouth.

  As for Judge Watkins, he continued to look as if he had some awful bad gas.

  So feebleminded or not, Ruth Ann figured she and her family had about as much chance in this fight in the Amherst County Circuit Court as the Christians of yore had with the lions in Rome.

  Twenty-Nine

  The trial took the better part of a week. When the judge got to wanting his supper and got tired of it all, he’d pound his gavel and send ’em off to the boardinghouse for the night, which served a nice chicken pie and where Ruth Ann marveled over the actual goosedown duvet on her bed. She’d never slept under anything like it.

  That cock-of-the-walk lawyer Stringer, he just kept on callin’ people in to swear on that Bible and hold forth in court. He called a nurse who said Momma was the worst sort of riffraff who let her children run wild and live on the streets.

  Mr. Block didn’t ask her a single question.

  Stringer called the social worker who’d brought Ruth Ann to the Colony to get all them tests and then have her baby. Miss Celeste Wilson, who’d been kind back then, appeared now to think Ruth Ann was a sewer rat.

  Yes, she agreed, Ruth Ann was likely to become a parent of “deficient offspring” if she was allowed to leave the Colony and go live on her own. She had an immoral tendency, just like her momma. She was inclined to get into trouble, and she was feebleminded, and “these girls so often went ‘wrong.’” And look out! She’d already had a baby out of wedlock—a baby who wasn’t “quite right.”

  Ruth Ann couldn’t help it: she stuck her tongue out at Miss Wilson.

  The judge pointed right at Ruth Ann and pounded his gavel.

  A fancy gentleman from the Carnegie Institution hopped up there and talked about how he’d studied Momma and her and baby Annabel. That wasn’t rightly true. He compared them to some other families in books. Families who were de-botched and de-generous and diseased and downright daft.

  And finally, Mr. Stringer called Doc Price.

  He asked him why he’d ordered a sterilization procedure on her. Doc Price said that it was on account of if he didn’t, she would need to stay at the Colony for upward of thirty whole years—until she couldn’t have babies no more.

  But if she had the surgery, then she could leave the Colony and get married and lead her own life and be happy. And she wouldn’t keep on costin’ the state so much money.

  Ruth Ann hadn’t realized that she cost the state money. After all, she worked hard. She cooked and cleaned and did laundry and ironed and gardened and…

  But to hear them gentlemen tell it, livin’ at the Colony cost about as much as livin’ at the Ritz-Carlton Hotel. So the state did want her to leave and not stay there for the next dad-gummed thirty years.

  Mr. Block did get up to “cross-examine” Doc Price. And he asked Doc, wasn’t the surgery “cruel and unusual”? But Doc said no, and he chuckled. He said all ’twas involved was a simple cut to some tubes, an’ that nothin’ was removed.

  Mr. Block then asked Doc if it was true that if Ruth Ann did have the operation, that the Dades wanted her back?

  Did they? Would they let her come home and take care of Annabel?

  And Doc said yes, absolutely. That was his understanding.

  She could be with her baby again. She couldn’t wait!

  Mr. Stringer’s last “witness” was a big pile of paper from yet another fellow at the Carnegie Institution, some bigwig who traveled a lot and gave speeches—even in Europe.

  Ruth Ann fell asleep during the dronin’ on as these papers were read aloud to the court. Judge Watkins sure noticed, and he banged his gavel at her again, so’s she jumped in her seat. He glared at her. But how was a body to help bein’ so bored and sleepy?

  She smothered another yawn as the two lawyers got up one final time and proceeded to repeat stuff they’d each said on the very first day of the trial. These were the closing arguments. Ruth Ann was glad. The lawyers could close the arguments, and then maybe she could go close her eyes for a spell.

  At last, it all appeared to be over and done with. But she stood, bewildered, as the judge left the courtroom and the lawyers got their papers together and shook hands.

  “But…he never opined one way or the other!” Ruth Ann said to Mr. Block.

  He gazed down at her from his superior height, his green eyes reflecting amusement at her expense. “My dear girl, he must take some time to think about his ruling.”

  “How long do we have to stay here while he does that?”

  “We don’t. We all go home and wait.”

  “He’s not going to tell us today?”

  “No, Ruth Ann. Most certainly not. This is a legal matter of great importance and must be considered carefully.”

  “How long does he have to think about it?”

  “As long as he likes. Days, weeks, months.”

  Ruth Ann wanted to stomp her foot right there in the courtroom. Judge Watkins was no longer there to squint at her and pound his gavel, after all. But she knew that it wouldn’t do any good at all. And she’d alrea
dy poked and kicked her own lawyer a number of times.

  “Can I tell him now that a lot of that stuff wasn’t true? Especially that part what Mrs. Parsons said?” Her face flamed. “Because that’s not how it was!”

  “No, Ruth Ann. You can’t talk to the judge. The trial is over.”

  “But those people spouted off a bunch of lies about me and Momma and Annabel.”

  “Mr. Stringer was making his case for Dr. Price. So he brought in witnesses to bolster his arguments.”

  “But I didn’t get to argue about his arguments and say they were wrong!”

  “No, Ruth Ann. Because that’s not how it works.”

  “Why not?”

  “That’s not how the court operates.”

  “But then why didn’t you stand up and say they were lies?”

  “Because they are opinions, Ruth Ann. The witnesses stated their opinions. Opinions are not lies.”

  “But they’re wrong opinions.”

  “Opinions are neither right nor wrong. They’re just what somebody thinks about something.”

  “I don’t understand…”

  “I know.”

  Good-lookin’ or not, she wanted to smack the man. “Why couldn’t I talk? Why couldn’t I say those folks were lyin’? That man from the Carnegie place—he didn’t spend no time at all with me, nor Momma. He talked to us each for mebbe fifteen minutes! And I’m much smarter than a nine-year-old…”

  Mr. Block sighed. “Ruth Ann, if I had put you on the witness stand, Mr. Stringer would have asked you a lot of questions that would have made you look like a loose woman, a prostitute just like your mother.”

  “Momma wasn’t no prostitute…not really…she needed money to feed her children.”

  “If she ever exchanged her, ah, favors for money, then in the eyes of the law she was most certainly a prostitute.”

  “But—I could have explained to everyone.”

  “No, you couldn’t have. Mr. Stringer would have twisted your words against you. He would have made you look immoral and stupid. He’d have made you look like an imbecile…”

  “A what?”

  “Or worse, an idiot.”

  “What’s an imbecile?”

  Mr. Block paused and shook his head. “Do you remember the big chart that Mr. Stringer put up in the court? The one showing mental defectives in three categories?”

  “I didn’t rightly understand it.”

  “Morons are at the top. Imbeciles are in the middle. And idiots are at the bottom. You are at the top of that chart, Ruth Ann. But by the time Mr. Stringer got through with you on the witness stand, he would have reduced you to the very bottom, and made you look like the Whore of Babylon, to boot.”

  “But—”

  “And he would have tricked you into saying it yourself. Mr. Stringer is a very clever man and an excellent lawyer.”

  “But so are you, aren’t you, Mr. Block?”

  He preened a bit, at that. “Well, yes. I am.”

  “So you could have got the better of him, surely?”

  “My dear Ruth Ann, in a court of law things aren’t always so simple.” He patted her shoulder. Then, leaving her with even more questions, he went to get his coat and hat.

  She was quiet on the drive back to the Colony. She pondered it all while Mr. Block whistled as he drove. Her head spun faster than the wheels of the motorcar turned. She had more questions than there were leaves on the trees.

  When at last they turned into the tall, wrought-iron gates of the Colony, she turned to him. “Do you think we’ll win, Mr. Block?”

  He wore a peculiar expression and didn’t meet her eyes. “I don’t know, Ruth Ann. It’s up to the judge. But if we don’t win, we will appeal the decision to a higher court.”

  “All right. And if we don’t win there?”

  “I will take your case all the way to the Supreme Court of these United States.”

  “You’ll do that for me?”

  Mr. Block nodded. “I most certainly will.”

  She fidgeted, plucking at the fabric of her skirt. “What if—what if I don’t want to win? What if I don’t want to stay here at the Colony for thirty years? What if I just want to go back to the Dades place an’ take care of my sweet Annabel?”

  Mr. Block pulled up at the doors of the main building and idled the car. He got out, rounded the hood and opened her door to hand her out. “It’s in the hands of the law, now, my dear. Everything’s going to work out fine. You’ll see.”

  Ruth Ann most certainly did not want to see Mrs. Parsons after what she’d said in court. So she turned her back on the main building and deliberately walked over the expanse of green lawn toward the female dormitories, instead of skirting it and taking the stone path. Marching over the lawn was the most direct route to them and the kitchens, and she dearly wanted to see little Bonnie after bein’ away for so many days.

  But Bonnie wasn’t in the kitchen. She wasn’t out in the laundry, either. Nor was she in the garden or the dairy barn, where Izzie was learning how to milk the cows.

  “Have you seen Bonnie?” Ruth Ann asked her.

  “No. She got called to Doc’s office yesterday, an’ she didn’t come back for supper, nor afterward, neither.”

  Black, winged fear flew into Ruth Ann’s throat and lodged there. Oh, no. Oh, no, no, no.

  Without a word, she turned and ran. She ran out of the dairy barn, through the pasture, past the stables and the henhouse. She ran all the way to the main house, right over the lyin’ lawn again, up the hill where the house loomed and then right back down it. She arrived breathless at the infirmary with her lungs on fire and burst through the door.

  “Where is she?” she demanded of the nurse at the reception desk. “Where’s Bonnie Riley?”

  “You can’t just come barging in here, young lady—”

  “Where is my sister?!”

  “You need to calm down, this instant.”

  “You need to—” But Ruth Ann didn’t finish the sentence. She just flew past the desk and into the main hall of the infirmary, searching among the twenty-six white-sheeted beds. She found Bonnie about halfway down on the left, looking paler and even more drawn than Glory had, if that were possible.

  “Oh, Bonnie, darlin’, what did they do to you?!”

  “It hurts, Ruthie…” Bonnie whispered. “It hurts.”

  “Oh, sweetheart, I know it does. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” She took Bonnie’s hand, squeezed it and kissed her on the forehead. She kept her voice gentle and sweet, even while rage built within her. A violent fury that would not be channeled or controlled.

  “Where were you? I kept calling for you, Ruthie.”

  “Oh, Bonnie…remember? I had to go to town for a while, to be in court.”

  “Are you back now? I’m sleepy…”

  “Yes, I’m back now.” Ruth Ann smoothed her sister’s hair and stroked her braids.

  “Why are you shaking, Ruthie?”

  On account of I’m-a murder Doc Price, you see if I don’t. “I’m just a little chilly, sweetie. You go on back to sleep, you hear?”

  “All right. But it hurts.”

  “Go to sleep, darlin’, and you won’t feel it so much.” Ruth Ann stayed by Bonnie’s side until her breathing slowed and evened out. Then she got to her feet and made her way out of the infirmary, walking past the nurse at reception without a word.

  She marched straight over to Doc Price’s office. It no longer intimidated her. She turned the handle of the door and threw it right into the wall. And then she threw open the door of his examination room, where she found him peering into a patient’s ear.

  The patient took one look at Ruth Ann’s face, jumped off the examination table and flattened herself against the wall.

  “Ruth Ann! What in the name of God do you think you’re—”

  “What did you do to my sister, you son of a bitch?!”

  “—doing? How dare you? Get out of this room at once!”

  “What did
you do to Bonnie?”

  “Get out. Get out! I am with a patient, as you can see—”

  “You sliced her open, didn’t you, Doc?”

  “You are violating her privacy—”

  “You violated my sister!”

  “I did nothing of the sort, young lady. How dare you insinuate such a—”

  “You did the salpin—salpin-thing, didn’t you? She’s eleven years old, Doc. Eleven. How could you do that to her?”

  “She had an infection, Ruth Ann. She needed the operation—”

  “I think you’re a no-good, rotten liar!” she shouted.

  “Christina,” he said to his patient. “I do apologize. But can you give us the room, please? I will be with you as soon as I resolve this situation.”

  Christina fled, running smack into the attending nurse.

  “What on earth is going on here?” she asked.

  Ruth Ann slammed the door in her face. She whirled on Doc Price, whose own face had mottled with temper.

  “Eleven years old! How can you possibly justify it? Do it to me, if you got to, but my baby sister? You’re a fiend. A fiend! How could you?”

  “I’m nothing of the sort. You need to get a hold of yourself, Ruth Ann Riley.”

  “No, Doc. I need to get a hold of you.” Her tone had gone low and vicious. “So does a judge. You should be locked up and never allowed to ‘practice’ medicine again. ’Cause we are the unfortunates you practice on. And that’s just plain wrong.”

  “You have clearly lost your mind, young lady. And you’d best shut your filthy, insolent mouth. The only thing a judge is going to decide is if you should be committed to the Distressed unit, like your lunatic whore of a mother—”

  “She ain’t a lunatic, Doc! She’s just furious at how she’s been treated. And she wouldn’t-a been no whore if our daddy hadn’t of died! You ever had to worry where your next meal’s comin’ from, Doc? Huh? Ever had to worry ’bout how to feed your hungry kids? Oh, that’s right—you ain’t got any kids. And you get paid a lot o’ money to ‘care’ for us…”

  “You’re out of your mind,” Doc Price said. “I am going to give you a sedative, Ruth Ann.” He walked toward the wooden cabinet that stood against the wall and opened it, withdrawing a syringe and a vial. He removed the cap from the syringe, tapped the barrel of it and then inserted the needle into the vial.