I get to work. First I develop the negatives and then print the photographs I took of the girls for Miss Latigue. Then I develop the negatives and make prints of the pictures I took of the “Special” campers and other items in the files. Miss Latigue will get these too.
A while later Cecily finds me back in “my” office arranging today’s prints. “All done?” she says. “I’ve asked Cook to make us some tea. I’m sorry I forgot to tell you where to find the darkroom. But it looks like you found it.”
“Yes,” I say. “I found everything.”
Cecily loans me a blue dress with a dropped waist and a wide, white collar to put on after my second bath in one week. She also insists on washing my hair. I wear a bathrobe and lean over the sink, but still it feels much too close. I only let her do it because I’m nervous that Louise will tell her I went in the file drawer. I plan to say, “It was unlocked and I was going to tell you.” Which sounds unbelievable even to me.
So I let her do what no one has done in five years—touch my hair. At Bellevue, as soon as I could stand in braces, Dr. Friedlander told me I had to take care of myself.
Cecily has strong hands and works up a lather with her sweet-smelling Palmolive shampoo. She towels my hair dry and wants to comb it, but I insist on doing that myself.
“I think you’d look sweet in a bob,” she says wistfully as I comb out my long hair. At the Home, Dr. Pynchon cuts every girl’s hair shoulder length once a year. Usually I wear braids. A bob is a new idea and I think I like it. But Cecily’s attention bothers me. She’s failed miserably with her own daughter, I think, so she’s adopting me. But she’s also trapped me here. I have no chance to speak privately to Miss Latigue before dinner. But after the interviews this morning, I feel like keeping my distance from her as well.
At dinner Cecily seats me on her right opposite Miss Latigue. Vera and Dr. Jellicoe, who has joined us, sit across from each other, and Dr. Ritter, a red-faced, blond-haired young man, faces Cecily. Cecily calls him “our German visitor.” I was often included at dinners like this at home with Father and Julia. Even after four years in the Home, I remember when to use each fork, how to keep my napkin in my lap, and to keep my elbows off the table. The food is delicious. Louise serves efficiently, but her face is locked in a cold frown most of the time, even when Dr. Jellicoe stiffly compliments her.
Other than pale Dr. Jellicoe, who has very hairy fingers and cuts his fish with a surgeon-like precision that makes me feel queasy, the others all look civilized in the glow of candlelight. A nicely tailored suit on Dr. Ritter; fashionable dresses on Cecily, Vera, and Miss Latigue. She smiles at me when we sit down and I smile politely back. But my heart is hardened against her. She is an enemy who believes, like Father and Julia and everyone here, that they can decide who should be sterilized.
As the meal goes on, I let the conversation wash over me and try to make sense of what I found in those files.
Then Dr. Jellicoe hammers on the table and shouts, “Anyone who disagrees has his head in the sand,” and I start to pay attention.
“We want only one thing, to better the prime stock of this nation,” he says. “It is our patriotic duty. I felt it strongly as an army surgeon in France. We didn’t have enough resources to save every wounded soldier. Once I had to choose between a Negro soldier and a white one.”
“Goodness,” said Cecily with a laugh, “that must have been an easy choice.”
“Oh, it was,” he says, eyes flashing, “but not in the way you think.”
I squirm in my seat. How I wish I were at the gymnasium with Dorchy and not here.
“Many people, like yourself, Cecily,” says Dr. Jellicoe, “believe race alone determines worth. ‘White is right.’ I presume you’ve all heard that poisonous saying?” He takes a sip of water and looks around the table. Vera and Dr. Ritter nod. Cecily looks as though her fish doesn’t agree with her. Miss Latigue puts down her water glass.
“Well, I believe that in every race there are both fit and unfit individuals. A radical view to all of you, no doubt.”
I speak up. “My father, Dr. Franklin Collier…”
“Mother, send her to bed,” Vera says in a bored voice. “This is an adult conversation, or at least it’s trying to be.”
“Dr. Franklin Collier”—I repeat the name loudly and forcefully—“agrees with Dr. Jellicoe.”
“Do tell,” mutters Vera.
The doctor goes on without reacting. “In the war, I saved the more intelligent man, the Negro. He survived and now runs a clinic for poor children in Pittsburgh. He is a man many would do well to emulate.”
“I assume you share your father’s views,” Vera says to me.
Being around Dorchy I’ve learned a few tricks. “Of course.” I stare down at my plate, as if embarrassed by her attention.
“Of course she does,” echoes Cecily, my protector. “I’m so glad, Miss Latigue, that you brought Rowan to us.”
“Her father won’t be glad,” Vera says. “Oh, no indeed. Are you sure he didn’t send you here to spy on us, Rowan?” Her eyes twinkle, but she can’t hide an edge of concern in her voice.
I take a sip of water. “No one sent me here to spy or for any other reason. I’m here to learn.” Which, if you think about it, is the same thing.
“Miss Latigue,” Cecily says, her voice calm but her hands gripping the table like a drowning sailor clinging to a raft, “have you decided what you will tell the Council?”
Dr. Ritter puts down his wineglass. Vera coughs. Dr. Jellicoe leans forward.
Miss Latigue smiles. “I will tell them that having Dr. Jellicoe here has been a blessing for the majority of campers.”
Cecily puts her hands in her lap. Vera nods. Both doctors pick up their glasses and drink. What else, besides the number of campers who died from influenza, were they afraid Miss Latigue would find out?
Loud voices in the hall outside my bedroom wake me. I sit up in bed, clutching the blanket.
“I own this island,” Cecily says.
Vera tries to shush her. She must know that if I wake up, I’ll hear them. Then she says so quietly that I have to strain to hear, “You agreed, Mother. Surely you’re not so senile you’ve forgotten signing our agreement?”
“You forged my name,” Cecily says. And louder, “I own this island and I can throw you off.”
“I’d like to see you try.”
The two of them move past my door, still arguing, and then a door slams. I want to tell Dorchy about the dead campers, and the dinner and what I just overheard. The wanting is so strong I go to the door and open it a crack. A murmur of voices reaches me from downstairs. I can’t hear the words, but the deep voice tells me Dr. Jellicoe is still here, probably talking to Vera. I can’t get out of the house without them hearing me.
I close the door and get back in bed. But I lie awake a long time imagining that Dorchy and I are back at our camping spot on the beach, under the stars, lulled by the ocean, talking until we fall asleep.
Chapter 34
From my bedroom window I watch Miss Latigue and Dorchy come up the road from the gym. My heart leaps. Dorchy. At last. They’re in the hall when I arrive downstairs out of breath. Cecily calls, “Who’s there?” and appears with her coffee cup in hand. “Oh, Miss Latigue, what a pleasant surprise.” She ignores Dorchy. “I assumed you had left for the ferry dock.”
“I’ll be off before you know it,” Miss Latigue says. “But I brought Dorchy here because I want a word in private with her and Rowan before I go.”
Cecily nods and disappears. Dorchy looks around. It’s impossible to tell from her expression if she’s impressed. I try to see the hall through her eyes. Light glints off gold-framed paintings and polished floorboards and intensifies the colors in the oriental rugs.
“Come into the sitting room,” Miss Latigue says. She perches on the arm of a blue-linen-covered
couch. “I have a proposal for you two.”
Dorchy and I stand facing her. I’m in my sailor suit shirt, blue flannel skirt, and house slippers provided by Cecily. In her gingham dress, dingy apron, and scuffed boots, Dorchy looks like a fish out of water. Sheer white curtains flutter in the breeze from tall, open windows that look down on the gym.
The realization that I’m looking down on Dorchy hits me like a fist in the stomach. After two days among the comforts of this house, part of me has effortlessly reverted to the spoiled girl I used to be. Now as I look at Dorchy, I come to my senses and kick off the slippers.
“I am ordering Cecily to release you, Rowan.” Miss Latigue smiles at me. “And I’m assigning you and Dorchy to be co-counselors to the girls for the rest of the week. Luckily Nurse Blunt is needed at the medical tent.”
“Why is she needed?” Dorchy asks. She still doesn’t look at me.
“Because I told Dr. Jellicoe she was.” Miss Latigue laughs. “But keep that to yourselves. Dr. Jellicoe understands a direct order when he hears one, and he actually looked relieved. Vera decided to make Nurse Blunt a counselor when the last girls’ counselor got the flu and left three weeks ago.
“But you girls have had flu and are terrific with the girls. I will inform Cecily of the new arrangement, effective immediately. How does that sound to you?”
“Oh, thank you, Miss Latigue.” I want to be with Dorchy. She studies her scuffed boots.
“Dorchy?” says Miss Latigue. “You have excellent rapport with the girls right now, but surely another counselor will make things easier.”
“Yes, Miss Latigue,” says Dorchy flatly.
“I have another recommendation,” Miss Latigue says. “The girl campers would benefit from a visit to the quarry lake where the boys’ camp is. It will be a nice change from the gym for all of you.”
She leans toward Dorchy. “You know the girls better than I at this point. Do you think they would enjoy a ride in the truck and some socializing with the boys today?”
Dorchy nods. “The older girls, definitely. It’s hard to predict what the twins enjoy.”
“That’s why it will be useful to have Rowan along.” Miss Latigue smiles at me. “Tom has a good head on his shoulders. I talked with him yesterday on my way back from the medical tent. He’s in favor of the girls and boys spending time together.”
“I bet he is,” Dorchy mutters.
Miss Latigue stands up. “Come with me. We’ll find Cecily and give her the news. By then Reuben will be here with the truck to give me a ride to the ferry. After that he can take you and the girls to the lake.”
I want to tell Miss Latigue that Cecily and Vera lied about how many campers have died and give her the proof, but I’m so thrilled to be leaving Cecily’s that I don’t say a word.
Cecily isn’t at all happy about losing me. But she has no choice. She works for Miss Latigue too.
Miss Latigue surprises us again. She gives us each ten dollars in an envelope for travel to New York via Boston when camp is over. She says, “You’re both doing very well here, so I have a request. I want you to be my eyes and ears. Vera, Cecily, and Dr. Jellicoe have not been as forthcoming as I’d hoped. Will you give me your impressions when camp is over? Come to me at the address on the envelope. Not a word about this to anyone here.”
“Yes,” we say in unison. A smile twitches Dorchy’s lips.
As Miss Latigue is about to get in the truck with Reuben, I ask her to mail a letter for me. I’ve written to Julia explaining where I am and why and telling her I’ll be in New York by September 1.
As the truck pulls away, Dorchy and I wave to Miss Latigue. “She saved us from the Ogres,” Dorchy says, “but what did she get us into here?”
“I’ll tell you everything I know,” I say, “just as soon as I get out of these clothes.”
Dorchy goes to be with her campers in the gym, and I go inside the house to change and pack up. I take off my new things and put on my now-washed-and-ironed old clothes—underwear, gingham dress, and apron. I hesitate over the boots. The new ones are more comfortable, and I decide that for spying I need to be comfortable. Every other piece of clothing from Cecily I leave on the bed.
At the quarry lake, Reuben, the gruff, uniformed caretaker, stops the truck and we climb down from the truck bed. The girls stand silent, except for the whimpering twins. Posy covers her mouth and stays near them. Elsa—with her blotchy skin and red-rimmed eyes—chatters in rapid-fire Italian to tall, beautiful Magdalena. Tom is perched on a rock by the lake, watching the boys fish. The boys ignore us all.
As I walk over to Tom, I take in the narrow, blue-green lake cupped in a bowl of granite slabs and cubes. Smaller blocks are scattered like a giant’s toy blocks around the lake. An abandoned granite quarry. The words come into my head as if I were back in our beach house reading The Bobbsey Twins in Maine.
“Lunch?” I ask Tom hopefully.
“Reuben brings our meals; he’ll be back soon. What do you do for meals at the gym?”
“Cecily’s cook, Louise, brings our food,” Dorchy says, walking up behind us. Farther away, Posy shies a small stone into the lake as Dolly claps and cheers.
“Who’s Cecily?” Tom says.
“Mrs. Van Giesen. Vera’s mother,” I say.
“You mean the Harassed and the Harridan.”
Dorchy’s lips twitch into a grin.
“I thought the girls might like to go fishing,” Tom says, “but the boys never seem to have any luck.”
Dorchy claps her hands. “Girls, let’s collect wood for a fire.”
They all stare at her, unmoving. She waves her hand in a circle. “Go around the edge of the quarry and bring back twigs and branches.” She picks up some examples lying near the fire pit. “We’ll have a nice fire later.”
Tom looks impressed. “I should have thought of that.”
Posy comes to life and starts off; the twins follow her like ducklings. Elsa and Magdalena watch them go.
“You two can get some flowers.” I point and make gathering motions at the goldenrod and wild roses growing in cracks between the granite blocks around the quarry lake.
Elsa looks confused, but Magdalena smiles and nods. After she speaks quietly to Elsa, they start picking flowers. Tom nods. “You had a good idea there. Keep them busy.”
I nod at the boys engrossed in fishing. “I got the idea from you.”
When Posy and the twins come back with twigs and sticks, Tom gives them a sweeping bow. “Thank you, ladies.”
The twins giggle. Posy turns purple with embarrassment. Tom piles their contributions in the fire pit.
Then Posy and the twins gather granite chips and toss them into the lake, making interlocking ripples. The sun warms our faces, and I wish we had hats.
A tall, skinny boy with red curly hair puts down his fishing pole and starts walking toward Elsa and Magdalena, who have moved to the meadow by the boys’ tents.
“That’s Christophe. He’s harmless,” Tom says. “In fact, it’s good for him to show initiative for once.”
Dorchy looks dubious. “Nurse Blunt will raise hell if she sees boys and girls talking.”
Tom shrugs. “I don’t think you’ll be seeing much of Nurse Bludgeon. She hated being a counselor. Now with you two to do all the work she’ll make herself scarce.”
“Really?” Dorchy studies Tom’s face to see if he means it. I can read her thoughts now. “Well, if Nurse Blunt does see them, she’ll take it out on the girls.” She starts walking to head off Christophe.
Tom whistles. “She’s tough as nails. Nothing gets past her. What’s her story?”
“Ask her,” I say and then, because he’s still watching Dorchy, I ask him, “What’s your story?” Spoken out loud, it sounds like one of the interview questions on Miss Latigue’s form. “I mean, how did you become a counselor h
ere?”
He turns to me, pain in his warm brown eyes. “You’re looking at a trustee from the Home for Incorrigible Boys in Portland, Maine. I brought four of our boys here. We were the only boys here that week, so I became their counselor. Not one is left to go home with me.”
“What happened to them?”
“Flu. I had it in 1918. It raced through the orphanage I was in then. I brought the boys to the camp because I want to make something of myself when I leave the Home. The warden said if I took the boys and brought them home with a good report from the people here, it would help me get a good referral. But now”—he kicks at a granite chip—“I can’t bring the boys back. They’re dead.”
“They all died?” With a sickening jolt, I realize I saw their pictures.
Dorchy comes over. “Who died?”
“The four boys I came with,” Tom says. “They were taken away the second day we were here and never came back. Those boys looked as healthy as horses to me, but the doctor said they had to be quarantined. Not me, because I’d had the flu. I was allowed to visit them in the medical tent, until the third day. That’s when the nurse told me they were dying.
“A nurse told me, not the doctor, and that made me mad. I said I wanted to see the boys, and she said, ‘Come back in an hour.’ When I did, the doctor and Vera took me into a room and said there was nothing they could do; the boys were dead. Somewhere they had been exposed to a carrier of the flu—someone who might have seemed healthy but wasn’t.”
“That’s terrible.” Dorchy puts her hand on his arm.
I want to step between them. Instead I ask, “Why did you stay here after the boys died?”
Tom crosses his arms. “Vera said I had proved myself as a counselor and could have a job here for the rest of the summer. They promised me a good referral. It beat going back to the Home empty-handed.”
“Didn’t you have to take the boys’ bodies back?” I say.
“Nope. They were orphans like me. Reuben and I buried them in the woods. Vera called it a family cemetery, but I didn’t see any other graves. Then Reuben gave me a nice meal and a tour of the island. He doesn’t care much for the doctors or Vera either. He made that clear over a bottle we drank back at his cabin.”
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