A Mother's Promise

by K. D. Alden

  Her friend gave a wan smile. “No, indeed.”

  Thirty-Two

  The Colony had changed under the supervision of Carlotta, who was even-tempered and still led a Bible study once a week in the dorms. A good number of the girls preferred it to the Sunday sermon in the Colony’s chapel.

  Carlotta was no pushover, but she was fair, and she’d never struck so much as a horsefly in her life. She praised instead of criticizing. She delegated tasks to those who were most suited for them and actually exhibited gratitude on their completion. She created a lending program for the books in Tremont House’s library and encouraged the girls to read. Ruth Ann no longer had to sneak books off the shelves, stuff them under her apron and read them in a corner or in the laundry at night.

  Ruth Ann petitioned Carlotta for the Fawleys’ address on Glory’s behalf. She helped Glory write her letter to them, asking about baby Lily and whether she might perhaps be allowed to meet her one day. They posted it and waited.

  Ruth Ann continued to teach Clarence to read, and he enjoyed Huck Finn every bit as much as he had Tom Sawyer. He liked Charles Dickens’s Oliver Twist and A Tale of Two Cities, then branched out to Treasure Island and The Count of Monte Cristo.

  Bonnie’s taste ran more to Anne of Green Gables, A Little Princess, and The Secret Garden.

  Glory and Izzie liked to sew, rather than read, though Izzie allowed that The Wind in the Willows was a fine book.

  Louisa, Izzie’s doll, and Calico Bear became quite the fashion icons, with an extensive new wardrobe. Louisa had rolled stockings with tiny garters, three different cloche hats and a flapper dress with a tiny set of opera-length pearls. Not to be outdone, Calico Bear had a shirt, trousers with suspenders, overcoat, newsboy cap and even—courtesy of Clarence—a minuscule pocket watch and cigar.

  Louisa and Calico Bear liked to arrive at Colony social events arm in arm, and they were the envy of all the girls there. So eventually Glory and Izzie found themselves leading sewing workshops—which was fine with Carlotta as long as everyone also did mending work and made napkins, tablecloths and sheets.

  And the day came when Clarence was pressed into service, since of course Calico Bear and Louisa needed a house to live in…and so did the other dolls and creatures who began timidly to emerge from pockets, pillowcases and crevices, since Mother Jenkins was no longer there to burn them or give them away.

  Clarence could indeed do carpentry work with the help of clamps, and he enlisted other young men to assist. Izzie insisted on learning how to use a hammer, planer and saw herself—outdoing most of the boys who felt such things were their domain.

  It was November of the next year before Ruth Ann saw Mr. Block again. She was summoned out of the laundry and came running up to the main building with sweat circles under her arms and burns on her calloused hands. Mrs. Parsons turned up her nose at Ruth Ann’s appearance, while Mr. Block looked down his.

  Ruth Ann resisted the urge to raise up an arm and fan the fumes at them both—them that worked in nice, cool surroundings without the taint of physical labor. She did park her sweaty behind right down on the settee without bein’ asked and leaned against the butter-feather pillows while Esquire told her that the Virginia Supreme Court of Appeals had upheld the circuit court’s opinion.

  “Miss Riley, we are very disappointed,” Block said in professionally somber tones. He wore a suit more beautiful than himself, and that was sayin’ something. But come to think of it, he looked more like a sculpture than a man. And whereas she’d once found his face mesmerizing, the perfect symmetry of it now put her off. His cold green eyes made her feel like prey; his chiseled lips looked machine-cut.

  “Quite disappointed,” he repeated.

  “Are you, now?”

  “Of course.” But Esquire could not seem to meet her eyes. “I argued that the circuit court had erred in its judgment and order, and I raised three constitutional objections upon your behalf, regarding due process under the Fourteenth Amendment, equal protection under the Fourteenth Amendment, and cruel and unusual punishment under the Eighth Amendment.”

  Ruth Ann tried to be more polite. “And just what does all that mean, Mr. Block?”

  “What it means is that the law must treat you equally to every other citizen of these United States, and that it must not impose cruelty upon you in performing the operation.”

  “All right. Well, if not every woman in the country has to have it, then they’re not treatin’ me equal, are they?”

  “That is what I hope the United States Supreme Court will decide.”

  “An’ as for it bein’ cruel, just ask my ma, my little sister an’ my friend Glory how nice it is to have your belly sliced open. It hurts like the dickens for two weeks.”

  “Again, we can only hope that the court will understand that.”

  “An’ how long will it take the Supremes to decide?”

  Mr. Block coughed. “The, ah, Supremes, as you call them, must first decide whether to hear your case, Ruth Ann. Then, assuming that they decide in the affirmative, it may take months before they reach a decision.”

  “And can I go talk to them this time?”

  “No, Ruth Ann, I’m afraid not. As with the prior appeal, the case is decided upon the written records, the arguments the attorneys file in briefs and the judges’ interpretation of the law. But, in light of our last discussion, I did also say in my brief that you didn’t have enough opportunity to object to the evidence presented at your trial or to argue against the testimony of the expert witnesses brought in by the State.”

  “All right.”

  Block raised his eyebrows and waited. Waited for what? For her to say thank you?

  Grudgingly, she did. Perhaps he was trying to do right by her? Perhaps she’d listened too much to Momma and jumped to conclusions she oughtn’t? Ruth Ann doubted that strongly. And she had a mountain of washing still to do.

  “You’re welcome, Ruth Ann.” Block stood, his gaze once again leveling on the sweat stains under her arms. Not a drop of perspiration marred even his forehead, despite the heat of the afternoon and his three-piece suit.

  She wanted to ask him if he’d like to step into her shoes for a few hours, swap the law for the laundry. See if he didn’t perspire a bucket or two.

  But she was beyond her aggression and temper of a year ago. She knew lashing out only got a body locked up and tied to a bed or sedated. Anger wasn’t the way to get out of the Colony. Good behavior was.

  “I shall keep you apprised,” Mr. Block said.

  Up-rised? She riddled on the word as he stood up. She figured she’d done uprised already. She was all through with that.

  He eyed a bleach stain on her skirt as Mrs. Parsons brought him his coat and hat. “In the meantime, don’t let me keep you from your…duties.”

  Ruth Ann was clearly dismissed.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Portman,” he said, as he made his way to the door.

  “Parsons, sir. It’s Mrs. Parsons.”

  Block didn’t bother to respond.

  At the board meeting five months later, Dr. Price claimed his seat at the head of the long walnut table, releasing an expansive breath. He would at last be on the map of medical history—there was no doubt. This court case was leading to the culmination of his professional dreams.

  The rest of the gentlemen filed in, graciously providing Mrs. Parsons with their coats and hats. She had laid out refreshments, as usual, but this time on the sideboard were several chilled bottles of prohibited French champagne.

  Mrs. Parsons disapproved strongly of spirits, but today she turned a blind eye to the bottles and made sure the crystal flutes on their silver serving tray sparkled under the light of the chandelier. This was a momentous occasion, after all.

  Anselm Stringer came in, looking dignified and august, repressing a touch of smugness. He went immediately to talk with Dr. Price, while Mrs. Parsons greeted Wilfred Block and took extra care with his fine leather gloves, shaking off his hat and going so far
as to brush the shoulders of his coat for him before she hung it up.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Pressley,” he said, without noticing.

  “It’s Mrs. Parsons, sir,” she corrected.

  “Yes, yes, of course.” With an absent smile and a brush of his sleeve, he was off to the table, interrupting Stringer and clapping Dr. Price on the shoulder.

  Mrs. Parsons stared after him, looking a little less enamored than usual. In fact, she looked quite cross. She smoothed her lace collar, checked her hair in the reflection of the breakfront at the far end of the room and collected from it, of all things, the crystal salt and pepper shakers. These she slipped into the pocket of her apron. How curious.

  But Price was soon distracted by his guests and faintly amused when Wilfred had the gall to slip into the seat at his right hand, forcing a clearly annoyed Anselm to sit to Price’s left.

  Once everyone else was seated, Dr. Price nodded at Mrs. Parsons. A house boy uncorked the champagne and aided her in pouring it into the glasses. It popped, bubbled merrily and frothed away.

  With a lovely, genteel smile, Mrs. Parsons personally served the three of them: Price, Block and Stringer.

  “Thank you, dear lady,” Dr. Price said.

  Stringer murmured his thanks.

  “My deepest gratitude, Mrs. Porter.” Block accepted his flute with a flourish.

  She nodded. “Of course.”

  Once every man at the table had a glass of the bubbly, Dr. Price stood. “I’d like to make the very happy announcement that thanks to Anselm Stringer and Wilfred Block, our case, Riley v. Price, will shortly be considered by the Supreme Court of these United States!”

  “Hear, hear!” a banker shouted, as they all began to clink glasses.

  “Marvelous news!” This from a real estate mogul.

  “Congratulations, good fellows!” warbled a professor.

  “Hip, hip hooray!”

  Clink, clink, clink. And more clinks.

  Stringer allowed himself a modest smile.

  Block looked like a panther who’d just been served veal scallopini topped with foie gras. The man was truly insufferable. But a means to the end. Dr. Price kept his expression benign as they all took a long, celebratory draft of champagne.

  And then, inexplicably, Wilfred Block blew most of his out of his nose, then awkwardly gargled the rest before spitting it onto the fine walnut table.

  “Good God, man, what’s the matter?” Price asked.

  “Did you sneeze while swallowing?” Stringer queried.

  The banker laughed. “Drinking problem, old sport?”

  Tomato-faced, Block sputtered and fished out a handkerchief, spitting into it and then mopping his mouth. His livid gaze searched and then settled upon none other than Mrs. Parsons.

  Dr. Price cast a discreet glance at the remainder of Block’s champagne and beheld a peculiar white residue in the bottom of the flute. And a few faint black specks chasing one another through the bubbles. And it was then that he understood the seasoning in her apron.

  Naughty, naughty, Mrs. Parsons.

  He fought to not laugh as Block excused himself for the gents’.

  Then he picked up the man’s glass and tilted it at her, crooking a finger.

  Meekly she came over. “Yes, Dr. Price?”

  “Let’s get him a new glass of champagne, shall we? I discern some, ah, dust on the rim of this glass.”

  “Oh, dear. My sincerest apologies! Yes, of course, Dr. Price.”

  After Wilfred recovered and reappeared, she made herself scarce until the party was under way again.

  The old pastor, seated at the opposite end of the table, hadn’t touched his champagne. “I don’t drink,” he said. “For the record, it’s against the law…not that I’ll snitch to the Temperance League. But isn’t it a bit early to celebrate, gentlemen? After all, we don’t know what decision the court will make.”

  Anselm Stringer addressed him. “The court is packed with progressives such as Taft, Brandeis and Holmes. The only justice we’re concerned about is perhaps Butler, since he’s not…one of us. He’s a Catholic.” Stringer pronounced the last word with distaste.

  “We feel very confident about the outcome of Riley v. Price,” Block said, picking up his new glass of bubbly and peering closely at the contents before he drank. He glared at Mrs. Parsons, who eyed him back limpidly. “The science is irrefutable. The research is sound. The witnesses are plentiful. The arguments are eloquent.”

  “You’re not afraid that it’s bad luck to celebrate beforehand?”

  Block shook his head and smirked. “Bad luck for Ruth Ann Riley, perhaps.”

  As the afternoon wore on, he consumed very little food and more than his fair share of champagne, beginning to stagger about like a bantam cock with a peg leg. Finally, Dr. Price took one arm and Anselm Stringer the other, as they helped Block to the door.

  “Let me get your coat and hat for you, Mr. Bleak,” cooed Mrs. Parsons.

  “It’s Block.” He eyed her coldly, glassily. “Diju…s-season my drink, madam?”

  “I beg your pardon, sir?” She looked at him quizzically, while Price stroked his beard to hide his smile.

  “Diju…” He pointed at her. “Salt ’n’ pepper?”

  “My dear sir, I think perhaps the spirits have gone to your head,” she suggested gently.

  “Mrs. Parsons!” He waggled his finger. “You know…whah you did.”

  “I do?” She blinked and looked askance at Dr. Price. “The gentleman’s none too steady on his feet, Doctor. Shall we have Clarence drive him home?”

  Price stroked his beard again and nodded. “I think that’s an excellent idea, Mrs. Parsons. Thank you.”

  Once the door had closed behind Block, he turned toward her and lifted an eyebrow. “Don’t forget to return the salt and pepper shakers to their rightful place, madam.”

  A renegade dimple made an unexpected appearance next to her normally prim mouth. “I’m sure I don’t know to what you’re referring, Doctor.”

  “Tell it to the pastor, Mrs. Parsons,” he said dryly.

  Thirty-Three

  Six months later, Ruth Ann was chopping a great pile of onions, potatoes and carrots for stew when Clarence came running up, breathless, with the newspaper. He slapped it against the window next to where she was working and jerked his head in a gesture that she should come outside.

  That, of course, set some of the gossips a-goin’, but Ruth Ann just ignored them. She washed her hands at the sink and wiped them on her apron before going outside to see what Clarence was waving around.

  His copper hair was a tousled mess, his eyes were the gray of the sky before a storm and his face had paled under the scattering of cinnamon freckles. “Ruthie, I don’t think it’s good news. Doc Price and them two lawyers who’re always at them board meetings were just crowin’ over it, along with about a gallon o’ their ‘iced tea.’”

  Ruth Ann took the newspaper he handed her with shaking hands.

  Three Generations of Imbeciles Is Enough!

  So says Supreme Court Justice Oliver Wendell Holmes, Jr., in an historical and groundbreaking Supreme Court decision that weighs the rights of the individual against the rights of society. This is a great victory for progressive reform in these United States, and the Post wishes to recognize it as such.

  Justice Holmes has written the majority opinion for Riley v. Price, a case that upholds the Commonwealth of Virginia’s right to sexually sterilize the feebleminded and degenerate of society so that they cannot reproduce more of the same.

  This case is about applying the science of good breeding, or eugenics, to mentally, morally and physically unfit wards of the state. These individuals either cannot or will not support themselves. They live at great cost to the state and are a menace to society.

  Proponents of eugenics theory have long argued that sterilizing these problem citizens is akin to weeding a garden or genetically engineering healthier stock or plants. Doing so is simple, quite
safe and is similar to the principle of compulsory vaccination: to ensure the public health.

  Ruth Ann Riley, the plaintiff in Riley v. Price, is the second in three generations of feebleminded women of loose morals. Her mother, Sheila Riley, has been estimated to have a mental age of eight years. Ruth Ann herself has been estimated to have a mental age of nine years. She has already given birth to one illegitimate child, daughter Annabel Riley, who, in the opinion of a social worker, a nurse and a doctor, is also not of normal development.

  For this reason, in the Court’s estimate, Ruth Ann Riley is the probable producer of degenerate or feebleminded offspring and should be sexually sterilized. Three generations of her family have been marked by feeblemindedness—the first two by immorality; the third, also a female, is at high risk of such.

  Mr. Justice Holmes, arguably the preeminent legal mind of our times, has written the opinion for the eight-to-one majority. Justice Butler dissented.

  “What’s it say?” asked Clarence anxiously.

  Ruth Ann swallowed hard. “So Mr. Justice Holmes is sayin’ my family’s got all the real, real stupid people it needs, and we don’t need no more.”

  “Well.” Clarence sounded angry. “Who asked him?”

  Ruth Ann grimaced. “We did. Leastways, my fine lawyer did.”

  “So then he’s sayin’ Doc Price can do that surgery on you, Ruthie? Same’s what he done to Glory and Bonnie?”

  “Yeah,” she whispered. “I still don’t rightly know what degenerate means, but it ain’t good. Offspring, even though it sure sounds like a handspring, is babies. Mr. Justice Holmes is basically sayin’, Clarence, that it’s better for the world to stop people like us from havin’ babies.”

  Clarence stood stock still for a long moment. “That’s what justice says?”

  “Yeah.” Ruth Ann had gone back to that numb place where she couldn’t feel anything. She almost wished she had a hot iron to drop on her toe. But she was long past that.