“My sister, Julia, does research on the unfit.”
“Stop saying that word. Do you even know what it means?”
I decide not to tell her that Father used to say, “The unfit are a burden that the fit must carry.”
“I’m sorry but it stinks what those researchers and the Council do,” Dorchy says. “They call anybody they want to ‘unfit’ and sterilize ’em. No warning. No idea they’ll never be able to have children.”
I don’t tell Dorchy but Dr. Pynchon warned me. A year ago she called me into her office. “Rowan, you’re fifteen now, and I no longer need your father’s consent to send you to a hospital.”
“Hospital?” For the polio operation?
“It is your civic responsibility to have a quick, painless operation to make sure you will never have a child.” She rustled through some papers on her desk.
I shook my head, raging inside. But I forced myself to speak mildly. “I don’t need an operation. I can’t pass my weak leg on to anyone.”
“Well, of course not,” she said, “but some inherited weakness made you susceptible to a crippling disease. That weakness can be passed on to your children. Better to have the quick procedure and be done with the risk.”
“Never.” I stared into her cold gray eyes until she looked away. “My father won’t allow it. He will come here and stop you from trying.”
“And I am supposed to be afraid of this threat?” Dr. Pynchon puffed up like a pigeon.
“Only if you keep insisting I be sterilized.”
I managed to walk out of her office, but broke down as soon as I found sanctuary in the empty common room. Father believed, as Dr. Pynchon did, that a weakness inherited from Mother caused me to get polio. But would he want me to be sterilized?
No. I wiped my nose and straightened my shoulders. I was still half Collier, and even half a Collier never gives up.
Chapter 11
The stream of people on the midway moves faster than we do, but now people smile at us as they pass and a few even step out of our way. Dorchy studies the faces of the carnies in every stall and booth. She must be looking for someone she knew when her parents worked here.
We turn a corner and there, ahead of us, the Ferris wheel spins like a mechanical toy for a giant child. Until now I’ve never seen one up close. I stop for the pleasure of watching it turn.
Dorchy grins at me. “You’re going to love it. It’s my favorite ride, bar none.”
“It’s so high.”
“Don’t worry. It’s safe as houses.”
The Ferris wheel slows and stops. People get off and on. I can make out the faces of the people in the swaying seats high above us. A little girl with a pinwheel waves to me. I wave back, and she hides her face in her mother’s shoulder.
Dorchy says, “I’ll buy the tickets.” She pulls two nickels out of her leather pouch and steps past me up to the ticket seller. Then we join the slowly moving line.
Behind us a woman in a flowered dress holds the hand of a red-faced little boy in a sailor suit. He scuffs at the ground, raising puffs of dust. The woman ignores him and pats her damp face with a handkerchief. In front of us, Farm Boy and Townie are too busy counting their money to notice us.
The little boy kicks my crutch, and I stumble forward, bumping against Farm Boy.
He grabs my arm. “Whoa, Nellie.”
“Don’t fall for him without giving me a chance,” Townie says. He tips his hat. “Howdy, Miss Goldy.”
Dorchy nods to them. “Mind your manners and maybe we’ll let you buy us an ice cream.”
The boys move forward, hand over their tickets, and climb into a seat. The Ferris wheel lurches upward. Now it’s our turn. A uniformed attendant helps us in and fastens a metal bar across our laps. I’m on the outside. The seat rocks every time we move. “Make it stop,” I beg Dorchy. She laughs.
At first it’s pure magic as we move slowly upward. At the top of the wheel we stop. The breeze cools our faces. In the west, the sun is well above the horizon. Spread out below us are the tents, booths, and buildings of the Exposition. Beyond the fairgrounds, the Connecticut River coils red-gold in the evening light; on the other side the windows of Springfield blaze.
“Look east,” Father coaxes. “Tell me what you see.”
I press my forehead against cool glass. We’re at the top of the Woolworth Building, the highest building in New York, at sunset.
“The Brooklyn Bridge,” says Julia.
My breath clouds the glass. “Diamonds,” I say. “Diamonds on fire.”
The Ferris wheel starts to move. We plunge down and down, picking up speed, once around, twice around. The third time we crest the top of the wheel, I’ve forgotten everything—my life before polio, Mr. Ogilvie, the show—in the breathtaking rise and fall of the ride. I squeal with excitement, not fear, when we abruptly jolt to a stop, halfway down. Above us a woman screams.
Dorchy and I crane around to see. Ten feet above us the little boy—red-faced, mouth open—is half out of his seat, one leg wedged between the side of the seat and a metal strut. His mother’s screams drown out any sounds from him.
Now a chorus of excited voices joins in, yelling, “The boy, the boy.”
Dorchy pulls off her apron and starts unbuttoning her dress. Our seat swings violently.
I grip the bar, stomach dropping. “What are you doing?”
She pulls her dress over her head and piles it on top of the apron on my lap. The seat rocks again. Any second now we’ll be dumped out. The ground looks very far away.
“What are you doing?”
She pulls off her shoes and stockings, ties her hair back with the red ribbon. Barefoot and in her cotton slip, she looks much younger than sixteen.
“Hey, girls,” yell the boys from their seat below ours. “You scared?”
“Dorchy.” I put my hand on her arm. She shakes me off and climbs over the seat back. I pitch forward. The metal bar rams my stomach. I rock back. Someone on the ground yells, “Hey, look at that girl!”
I turn around. Dorchy is crawling along the metal spoke that connects our seat to the hub of the Ferris wheel. Our position on the wheel gives a level line to the center hub. She moves slowly and steadily. Other riders twist around or lean over the sides of their seats to watch her. On the ground a crowd gathers. The woman above is speaking calmly to the whimpering boy. Directly below us a man with a bullhorn shouts over and over, “Remain seated. The fire department is on its way.” Dorchy reaches the hub and stands up. A cheer rises from people on and off the Ferris wheel.
“Go, Goldy, go!” yells Townie.
She climbs onto the steeply slanted spoke supporting the seat above ours. People on the ground gasp and point. I bite my thumbnail and taste blood.
“She’s a monkey!” Farm Boy shouts. “Is that why she took off her clothes?”
I crane around to see her almost directly above me, lying flat on the spoke, talking gently to the little boy. Everything holds its breath. Don’t let them fall. She tugs on his leg. He cries, “Mama.”
Then Dorchy works his leg free and helps his mother get him back into the seat. Safe.
A prolonged cheer rises from the crowd. Even louder cheers erupt as Dorchy shinnies down the curve of the wheel and back into our seat.
I’ve twisted her stockings around my hand so many times they resemble a rope.
“Dorchy, that was…” I pause. I am in awe of her right now. “How did you learn to do that?”
She shrugs, but her eyes are shining. “My dad always said, ‘If you want to work as a carny, you better know how to climb.’” She grins. “So he taught me on a Ferris wheel early in the morning before he went to work.”
Our Ferris wheel still isn’t moving. Dorchy pulls on her dress, stockings, and shoes. “If anyone asks you my name or where I live, keep quiet. The Ogres won�
�t like it.” She loosens her hair and reties the ribbon on top of her head. “Get away from here as fast as you can. I’ll meet you by the carousel. They’ll be looking for a barefoot girl in a slip.”
Finally the wheel starts turning, delivering us to the ground. The attendant salutes Dorchy as we get off. And then she disappears into the crowd without a glance back.
Townie and Farm Boy chase after her. I can’t move. First the little boy’s mother hugs me and presses a dollar into my hand, “For your brave friend.” Then the man with the bullhorn asks me to follow him to answer some questions.
Instead, I head off in the direction of the carousel as fast as I can go. Today has been one adventure after another, whirling me faster than the Ferris wheel. First I shouted out the truth to Mr. Ogilvie, then ran away with Dorchy and was shocked by the crowds and the memories that came back. Then we followed Mr. Ogilvie and sneaked into the sideshow, where I saw the unforgettable Gilda. Best of all was riding the Ferris wheel and Dorchy’s climb.
I know I’ll have to face Mr. Ogilvie when I get back to our tent. But I’m not afraid. Maybe I will be again someday, but right now I’m fearless.
Chapter 12
“Where have you been?” Mr. Ogilvie asks with real pain in his voice when I come into the tent. He was worried about me.
Minnie’s fork clatters on her tin plate of fried chicken and mashed potatoes. The Council ladies have served our dinner and left.
“Out back,” I mumble, looking down. “Stomachache.”
“You were not out back,” he says. “I sent Minnie to look for you.”
Behind his back, Gar shakes his head. I concentrate on looking sick.
“Stomachache?” Mr. Ogilvie reaches for the one untouched plate of food. My plate. “You won’t be wanting this then.”
The next two days feel different now that Dorchy and I are friends. Between shows, when she’s not running errands for the Ogilvies and the Council, we talk in the tent or at the picnic table behind it.
“I wish I could sleep in the cottage,” she says, yawning, on the second morning. “The Ogress woke me up at three a.m. to make her peppermint tea.”
“Why couldn’t she make it herself?” I stop sweeping the stage to talk to her.
“‘My teeth hurt,’” Dorchy says in Aunt Fan’s whining voice, ‘and tea is the only thing that helps.’” She snaps her fingers. “Rye whiskey. That was my dad’s cure for a toothache. Too bad she’s teetotal.”
“You should get some from Gar and put it in her tea.”
We giggle as Dorchy staggers across the stage imitating a drunken Aunt Fan.
“Dorchy,” Aunt Fan calls, “come here at once. I told you not to talk to them.”
Dorchy winks at me and jumps off the stage.
After our last show, she comes looking for me. I’m fanning myself in the open entrance to the tent, watching crowds walk past.
“You’ll never guess what happened in the cottage just now.” Dorchy pulls me over to sit on an empty bench. She’s out of breath, and her face is damp with sweat.
“What?” I wave the fan in her direction. “I wish we had ice cream cones, don’t you?”
“A couple brought their baby into the cottage just now. Wanted to fill out a questionnaire.” Dorchy’s eyes sparkle.
I find a way to use the fan to cool us both. “So?”
“So they’re Negroes. The Council ladies went into a dither, whispering, running in circles, hiding behind doors.”
“They did not.”
“Did so. Aunt Fan looked ready to faint. One lady got up the courage to say, ‘You don’t mean our questionnaire, do you?’ The man said, ‘Yes,’ and looked around at all the white families who were there.”
“What’s the matter with that?”
“Wake up, Rowan. Do Negroes ever come to the Unfit Family show?”
“I never noticed.”
“They don’t because the Council believes white people are the only fit race. Everybody else, everybody interesting, is unfit—carnies, Negroes, American Indians, Chinese, and Italians. Didn’t your father tell you that?”
“Father says bettering our race is a patriotic duty. ‘It’s a law of nature that the fittest should rule. You might as well question gravity.’” The words sound hollow to me as I say them. A dull ache starts in the pit of my stomach.
“Gravity?” Dorchy laughs. “Sorry, but that should make you wonder if any of his ideas are worth spit.” She leans closer. “I hate to give Mr. O. credit, but he saved the day. He pulled out a map of the Expo and showed the couple where to find the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People tent. ‘They even have a Better Baby contest!’ he said, as if it that was the greatest thing at the Expo.”
“Did the Negroes leave?”
“Immediately. I felt sorry for them, but it was worth it to see the herd upset.”
“The herd?”
“The cows on the Cowncil. Bye!” She rushes off.
I watch her go. Her story reminds me of something I haven’t thought of in years. I was five when Bernard, the man who took care of the furnace at our house, found a kitten in the coal bin. After he gave her a bath, he brought her upstairs to me. She was a tiger kitten, but I named her Coal. At breakfast I asked Father, “Is Bernard from a best family like we are?”
“Bernard is a fine man,” Father said, placing his coffee cup on the saucer. “Why do you ask?”
“Because he is very kind to animals. You told me that is a sign of people from the best families.”
“It is.” Father dabbed his mouth with his napkin. “But keeping the races separate is a basic belief of the Betterment movement.”
I thought this over. “So Bernard can’t be the best because he is a different race?”
Father gave me a look.
“Separate how?” I pressed.
“Well, for one thing, people of different races should not marry.” He picked up the newspaper.
“Why not?”
In a tone of finality he said, “You don’t need to worry about that.”
I didn’t give a thought to questions like these for years. Then I met Dorchy.
Chapter 13
Bellevue Hospital,
New York City, 1917–18
Stella and I didn’t become friends right away, even though our beds were next to each other on the polio ward for girls ages eight and up. Stella was tall and pretty, with long, dark hair and a weak right leg. At eleven, we were the oldest girls on the ward. Dr. Friedlander was our doctor. But I saw her as a rival, and I was determined to walk on crutches before she did. I had to. I was a Collier.
One day Dr. Friedlander challenged us to a race in the therapy room. We would hang on to wooden railings on either side of a narrow walkway. Using our arms and good legs we were to hop-walk to the middle, about twenty feet. I started at one end and Stella at the other. Whoever got to the middle first could choose a record from Dr. Friedlander’s collection to play for the next exercise.
“‘Trip the light fantastic,’ girls,” he said, and put on his favorite, “The Sidewalks of New York.”
Stella and I were well matched for this, but I believed I could win.
“East side, west side, all around the town,” the lively tune and familiar words gave me confidence. I am a Collier of Manhattan, I told myself. She lives in Brooklyn. But after only a few feet, I was struggling. Stella surged toward me.
I tried to go faster. But the more I tried, the slower I went.
Then Stella’s weak leg folded and she dropped to her knees on the walkway.
I win, I told myself and stopped where I was.
“Keep going, Rowan,” shouted Dr. Friedlander.
I stood still, resenting him. Why go on? I won.
“Boys and girls together, me and Mamie O’Rourke,” sang the quartet on th
e record.
Stella, her face red, struggled to stand.
“Tripped the light fantastic on the sidewalks…”
“You fall, you get up,” was one of Dr. Friedlander’s mottoes. “Keep moving,” was another.
I win, I said to myself and stood still.
Stella managed to get up and start moving again, her smile as wide as Central Park, her breath coming in gasps. She stopped in the middle.
“And the winner is Stella,” said Dr. Friedlander, clapping loudly. “For fortitude in the face of adversity. Bravo!”
“You are the best of the best, Rowan.” Father’s voice rang inside my head. But, I realized, he wouldn’t say that now.
Later, as the nurse massaged my legs, Dr. Friedlander rolled a stool over next to me. “Tell me what happened today, Rowan.”
I stared at the ceiling. I’ll ask Julia to take me home. Find me a better doctor. A doctor worthy of a Collier. I’m too good for this hospital. I am the best.
“I knew you would fail today as soon as you stood up between the railings.”
Curiosity got the better of me. “How could you know that?”
He took a deep breath. “I’ve learned to observe people who are getting well. As soon as one starts to do better, he or she wants to do better than someone else. Every move you made today announced, ‘I am superior to Stella and I will crush her.’”
“I never said that.”
“Your body said it. When Stella fell, you stopped because you thought you’d won. That’s not winning. Winning is keeping going. As Stella did. You were privileged to see an act of real courage today. Recognize it; use it.”
My face burned.
As he walked away, he said, “The key to recovery is you, Rowan, not your family.”
Later lying in my bed next to Stella’s, I whispered, “What made you keep going?” The words sounded forced.
“Oh, Rowan,” she said. “When I fall it is hard to get up because you won. ‘Why not rest?’ I think.”
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