It’s so familiar, I know exactly how to deal with it: I snort.
“It’s true,” he protests. “Or rather, I’d like it to be. In effect, it only holds true for those members of society who attend Father’s socials. It just so happens that one of them heard that Miss Elizabeth Allen, infamous bachelorette and erstwhile writer for The Suffragist, took in a stray.”
I smile. It’s been so long that I didn’t think I would remember how. “Mr. Holmes, did you find me by heeding gossip?”
“That sounds far more ugly than being ‘well informed,’ don’t you think?” Alexander puts his hands in his pockets. He walks me to West Potomac Park, where the paths are covered in faded and trampled pink flowers. It’s a little too late for cherry blossoms.
There are more trees than people. And he may not know it, but I appreciate that.
“The thing is, Miss Allen, I’m usually the youngest in the visitors’ gallery by a mile, and I’m usually the only legalese enthusiast. You intrigued me.”
“Are you a law student?”
“I start Georgetown in the fall. One might say it’s a family trait. I would disappoint Father if I didn’t make judge somewhere, although I’d much rather argue cases.”
“I’d much rather argue cases, too,” I say, softly. Too softly, perhaps. I curl my fingers around the pebble in my pocket and clear my throat. “I hope to enroll at Washington College of Law in a year.”
Alexander cleans a bench for me to sit. “Madame Justice Allen.” He inclines his head.
“Clerical support somewhere, more likely,” I say.
“Don’t sell yourself short, Miss Allen.”
I’m not. It’s a step up from not-believing, and I know how to be realistic. Most law firms don’t take well to female lawyers, and even a single case exhausts me. Besides, Aunt Elizabeth was right about my lack of connections. I do not have the family name to make a place for myself in society, and I would likely flounder even if I did. I will have to stand on merit alone, and I merit little.
Alexander produces a paper bag filled with taffy and offers me one. I want to decline, because I hate the texture, but I don’t want to be impolite. I pick out the smallest piece and unwrap it as slowly as I can.
“So if you’re not a student yet, why do you go to the arguments?” I ask.
Alexander picks a larger piece of taffy, as if he doesn’t notice the sticky sweet chewiness and the way the taffy wraps around your gums. I can’t ignore it for even a moment, but he seems to appreciate the candy.
“To learn from the best, of course,” he says. “And it interests me to see which cases are brought to the Court. What did you think of Friday’s arguments? Why would anyone wish to take a case like that to a court — and to the Supreme Court, no less?”
“Doctors trying to sterilize a young girl for no apparent reason? Why wouldn’t anyone take that case to the Supreme Court?”
“Because it might be seen as inappropriate?”
“To discuss a matter of law?”
He cocks his head. “Miss Buck is feebleminded. Her doctor prescribed sterilization to avoid further . . . What did they call it? Socially inadequate offspring. It wouldn’t have any effects on her general health. It’s not a question for the law; it’s a matter of medical integrity.”
“No.” I grow cold all over. “It’s not just medical integrity, Mr. Holmes. It’s bodily autonomy. She is a person. She has a right to decide for herself whether or not she wants to have children, like all of us. That’s personal choice, and by denying her that, her doctors made it a matter of law.” I tap my foot, and I can’t stop. I don’t know if any of this is appropriate, but I cannot stop. These are the questions I wanted to hear at the court case, and I need to share them with him. “She has a right to due process like all of us, does she not?”
He stares at me for a moment. He opens his mouth and closes it. Something shifts behind his eyes, but I don’t know what it means.
Then he ups and walks away, and I’m left sitting there, on a bench in the park. Alone. And the convincing words I pride myself on, all the points I want to argue, flee me, too.
I do not return to Aunt Elizabeth’s home until hours later, chilled to the bone. She keeps me with an elderly tutor for the next couple of days. According to her, there’s more in this world than the law, and she wants me to study literature and mathematics in the comfort of her house. I quote Hobbes at her — that without laws to govern us, there would be “no knowledge of the face of the earth; no account of time; no arts; no letters; no society.” It does not convince her, but the relative quiet and safety calms me.
It’s Wednesday before I find my way back to the Capitol, ready to hear more arguments. From up close, the grandeur of the building still overwhelms me. This Capitol was built to weather ages, and it’s a stone-carved reminder that anything is possible.
Atop the steps, I’m greeted by a surprising presence: Alexander.
He stands — or rather, paces. He wears a long coat and leather gloves, yet he still looks cold. It’s almost May, but it feels like winter. When he sees me, he smiles. His whole face lights up. “Miss Allen.”
I hesitate. “Mr. Holmes. Were you waiting for me?”
“I hoped I’d find you here.”
“That seems like a gamble.” He’s only seen me here once; he can hardly draw conclusions from that. For all he knows, I only meant to observe those arguments and nothing more.
“Were you here the last two days, too?” I ask.
He looks down a little. “I wished to explain my sudden departure on Sunday.”
“It was rather unexpected.”
“It was, and I apologize.”
I reach for the pebble in my pocket and roll it between my fingers. Back and forth. Back and forth.
Alexander clears his throat. “When I told you law was a family trait, I wasn’t joking. My grandfather sits on the bench.”
Oh. “Oliver Wendell Holmes Jr.,” I say. I wonder why that didn’t come to me sooner.
“Associate Justice of the Supreme Court of the United States.”
“That must be . . .”
“Intimidating? I’ve never known any different, though you can imagine the family gathering, I’m sure. We all want to live up to his legacy.”
Not knowing what else to do, I wrap my arms around my waist and walk into the Capitol, and he falls into step with me. I don’t quite see (or want to see) how his grandfather could have caused Alexander’s sudden departure on Sunday. When I say as much, he takes my hand and draws me to a quiet corner. I pull back my hand.
“I don’t just go to the arguments to hear the attorneys. I go to see if I can anticipate the Court’s rulings or explain them afterward, especially in those cases where Grandfather wrote the opinions. That’s what I meant when I said I wanted to learn from the best. He is the best.”
I cannot meet his eyes, but I wait to see what comes next.
“And you . . . you challenged that. You challenge everything he taught me. You probably don’t even do it on purpose, but you come to me with arguments that I haven’t considered — that I should have considered. You see connections as easily as he does, and you make me want to listen to your side of the story.” He flushes. “I want to. I can’t.”
I hesitate. “Thank you?”
“You’re different, Miss Allen. And you leave me uncertain.”
I flinch.
Alexander winces. “I’m sorry, Miss Allen.”
“So am I.” Though I do not know if I can honestly blame him. I am different. I know the weight of expectations and of family.
And it’s not just that. I know the weight of society. Carrie Buck’s case is clear-cut to many. It is to Dr. Priddy, who first suggested sterilizing Carrie Buck. To Dr. Bell, who took up the case. A genetic threat to society. Alexander may not have come right out and said it, but why should it not be clear-cut to him?
The thought nags, but at the same time, I don’t want to walk into this building alone. A
lexander made me smile. We share the same dream. He did what no one has ever done before: he waited for me.
“I know the answer now. I believe in public welfare,” he starts, apparently ready to revisit our argument.
I raise my hand to cut him off, and I swallow hard. I am used to pushing away my discomfort. “What’s on the roster for you today, Mr. Holmes? Will you join me in hearing arguments on why gains from illicit traffic in liquor are subject to the income tax?”
That afternoon, it’s illicit traffic in liquor. The next day, we listen to arguments about forest fires. As the attorney drones on and on, Alexander slumps in his seat and mutters, “Just get to the burning point.” It surprises a laugh out of me, and I have to start coughing to mask it. I can’t remember the last time I laughed out loud. But once Alexander realizes wordplay amuses me endlessly, he makes it his mission to come up with the most hopeless of puns.
Even with a mind for structure, it is far more natural than I anticipated to fall into a rhythm with Alexander. We meet each other at the Capitol’s steps every morning and sit in on the day’s arguments. It becomes easier — though not easy — to walk through the crowded hallways. We discuss the cases we hear, we compare notes, and we battle our respective positions. More often than not, we disagree, although rarely as radically as in the case of Carrie Buck. He brings it up again. He’s convinced he’s right. He tries to convince me. “Society should be warded against lesser —” “She isn’t as human —” “You don’t understand —”
It becomes harder — though not impossible — to cut him off instead of arguing. It’s simpler that way.
Because he makes me laugh out loud. And this may be friendship. Masked and cordoned off by the knowledge of who we truly are, but friendship nonetheless.
I don’t usually forget, but it’s only when the weekend arrives that I suddenly remember the promise I made to Aunt Elizabeth. A social function. Meeting with the dean of the Washington College of Law.
I can’t do it. I’m raw and exhausted from too many days of trying to become who I want to be and being who I’m not. And I’ve only been at court three days this week, to observe, nothing more. I can’t do it. I can’t do it.
“Why are you so hesitant, Carrie?” Aunt Elizabeth tentatively places her hand on mine. I know she expects me to either pull away or smile at her. I do neither of those things, but it takes all my focus to keep my hand on the desk in front of me.
I would never answer this question if Mother asked it, but if home is a place to let one’s guard down, Aunt Elizabeth is working hard to build me a home here.
I tap my foot against the leg of my chair. I owe her an answer, even if I don’t quite know what it is. “People look at me and think I’m different. Maybe not at first — just like no one thinks Carrie Buck is different just from meeting her. But we cannot hide forever. I understand the rule of law. I do not understand the rules of society. I do not understand how to fit in, even when I’m trying my hardest to learn.”
I expect Aunt Elizabeth to agree, but instead she counters, “You are new to the city, Carrie. When I first arrived here, I didn’t feel like I belonged, either. It’s magnificent, but it’s overwhelming. You have to give yourself time; you’ve come so far already.”
That isn’t it, though. I should fit in. I should keep my head down. But I can’t do it. “I have so far still to go. And I can only pretend to be someone else for so long.”
“You shouldn’t have to pretend,” she says. “You have a mind for arguments. It may not work the same way as mine, but why shouldn’t that be an asset? You could be a magnificent legal strategist.”
I sway back and forth. My foot stills. I could belong here. “It frightens me.”
Aunt Elizabeth sits back. “Are you afraid they won’t accept you? I can’t imagine they won’t. You have so much potential.”
That’s hardly a good counterargument. We are in Aunt Elizabeth’s office, surrounded by books and copies of The Suffragist. Surrounded by the thoughts and opinions of a great number of people who all had great minds and great potential — but they were all able to find their place in the world. A great mind and potential is not enough.
“Or” — she breathes in deeply — “are you afraid that they will accept you and you’ll not be enough?”
I still, my eyes fixed on the wooden paneling on the walls.
No. Yes. I don’t know how to admit to that.
“Do you think I’ll send you back home?”
I don’t know how to admit to that, either.
“I would never,” she says softly.
I stay silent, because I don’t want to argue it.
Worry edges around her voice. “This had better not be about that Holmes boy. Is it? What did he say to you?”
“Nothing, he — he could be a friend,” I say, and I wait for her to tell me his company is too good for me — or mine not good enough for him.
She doesn’t. Instead she keeps her voice neutral. “What makes you say that?”
“He listens to me.” I never had a friend before. “He respects my opinions.” At least the ones we talk about.
“And it feels good to be heard?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You deserve to be heard,” Aunt Elizabeth says. “You deserve to be seen. You deserve to be respected.” She said these same words to me when she collected me off the train. “Does he respect you?”
“He respects who he thinks I am.”
She doesn’t respond to that for the longest time, and an uncomfortable silence settles around us. Then she squeezes my hand and lets go.
“I still want you to meet with Dean Grace Hays Riley. We’ll have tea together. But we’ll set the appointment when you ask for it. Agreed?”
“Yes, ma’am.” I get to my feet, grab a book from her shelves, and curl up around it, while Aunt Elizabeth sits down at her desk.
“Respect yourself, Carrie,” she says. “Respect, and perhaps, one day, even love yourself. It’s the most radical decision you can make.”
Ten days after those first arguments, ten days after meeting Alexander Holmes, he stands outside the Capitol again. Waiting for me. He rocks back and forth on the balls of his feet, but in his case, I think it’s excitement rather than a way to soothe an overly active mind.
“Good morning, Mr. Holmes.”
He nearly pounces on me when I walk up the steps. “Miss Allen. I’ve seen the slip decision. I want you to read it.”
The world stops turning, for just a moment. There’s no question which case he’s referring to, and there’s no question he’s excited. It makes me ill at ease. The words are on the tip of my tongue: Alexan — Mr. Holmes, you can’t convince me, please do not try. I don’t want you to convince me.
But I want the ruling. I’ve wanted this ruling for weeks. Months. Years. Even if he’s happy. Even if this is the worst-case scenario. I want to know.
So I let him drag me to his grandfather’s office while I push my pebble deep into the palm of my hand. The pain doesn’t calm me the way repetition does, but it centers me. As a result, when Alexander pulls me into the empty office and shows me the writ, the words make sense.
I wish they didn’t.
I read aloud:
“In view of the general declarations of the legislature and the specific findings of the Court, obviously we cannot say as matter of law that the grounds do not exist, and, if they exist, they justify the result. We have seen more than once that the public welfare may call upon the best citizens for their lives. It would be strange if it could not call upon those who already sap the strength of the State for these lesser sacrifices, often not felt to be such by those concerned, in order to prevent our being swamped with incompetence. It is better for all the world if, instead of waiting to execute degenerate offspring for crime or to let them starve for their imbecility, society can prevent those who are manifestly unfit from continuing their kind.”
I try to catch my breath, but I still feel like I�
�m choking. My eyes glance over a sentence in the next paragraph: “Three generations of imbeciles are enough.”
I can’t read on. I can hardly think. I can only stare at the writ in my hands, the cruel words.
“I know we stood on opposite sides, but I wanted you to know Grandfather cared about public welfare when he wrote this.”
I stare at the words before me, and I can’t find my voice.
“It’s the same principle that sustains compulsory vaccination. This is a matter of public health, too. Do we not, as a society, want to banish undesirable elements? It’s not that Grandfather — and I — don’t think she should have rights. But there’s the greater good to consider, too.”
The words sound familiar. It takes me a moment to realize they’re akin to what I heard during oral arguments. This is the state’s intention to rid itself of those citizens deemed undesirable according to its standards. Only, it hadn’t been the doctor’s side. “That’s what Whitehead said. In defense of Carrie Buck.”
Alexander shakes his head. “Even Carrie Buck’s lawyer knew that this was an impossible case. He knew we must weigh the autonomy of the few against the protection of the many.”
I place the writ on the table in front of me. I keep trying to breathe, but I feel light-headed. I need something to calm me. I need something to calm my mind. Then Alexander steps forward to support me. It’s only a split second — his hand underneath my elbow — but I jump back. “Don’t touch me.”
Instead of moving back, he takes another step forward. “Miss Allen — Carrie, I didn’t mean to upset you. I wanted you to know the utmost care went into this decision, and eight judges agreed.”
I turn away. It’s the smallest mercy that one of them dissented. Eight judges agreed Carrie Buck’s rights didn’t matter. Eight judges agreed that she wasn’t enough.
“Come, let me take you to lunch. It’s the end of the term. We heard the arguments. We’ll read more decisions and opinions. We live to study the law another day.”
Except, out of all the arguments we heard and all the cases we argued, there wasn’t another one like this for me. It was never just about one girl’s right to reproduce. I told Aunt Elizabeth I loved that Alexander made me feel like he valued my opinions. But this. This matters to me. And he doesn’t see it.
The Radical Element Page 16