Conjurer

by Cordelia Frances Biddle

  Josiah’s wife grieved, then grew angry. Alone with her baby she berated the child’s sluggishness, her inattention, her vapid quiescence. The bitter words turned to pinches, then furtive slaps. Susan mewed like a hurt kitten and retreated further into her silent world, while inside the mother’s head, frustration and wrath roared louder and louder.

  Spilled porridge, lost milk, a broken dish: One of those infinitesimal moments brought ruin to Josiah’s wife. When the child’s insignificant transgression had concluded, mother and daughter eyed each other, the dawning of understanding etching terror on the child’s face, endless hatred on the mother’s.

  Josiah’s wife snatched up her baby, shaking Susan so fiercely that vomit belched from her mouth. Finished, the mother flung her daughter and herself on the pallet that served as mattress and commenced to wail, then shriek, and finally to beat her head against the wooden floor.

  It was the noise of this rhythmic self-destruction that eventually brought the neighbors and the day watch who removed the screaming woman to the Asylum for Relief of Persons Deprived of Their Use of Reason. Susan, motionless except for her quivering fingers, accompanied her mother in the wagon.

  When Josiah returned home, his tiny apartment was all but bare. When, days later, he was finally allowed to visit his wife and child, both were as dumb and immobile as clods of earth. He left his false foot in the Asylum’s carriage entry, kicking it away as if driving off a vicious dog, and limping home on the remaining stick, the “peg.”

  One month passed, then two and three. His daughter gradually improved to her former state; his wife did not. Josiah, in his distraction and despair, stitched sleeves shut, buttons without holes, breeches that could not close upon the calves.

  He was released from service, but not before pilfering a gentleman’s fine pocket watch. The white face set in gold reminded him of his daughter’s visage: round, flat, its outward calm masking a world of spinning motion. Recklessly, Josiah held this lovely object to the sun, studying it as it turned, like a budding flower, toward the light. It was then that he was arrested.

  Just as Ruth recites her own litany of want and despair, daily Josiah relives every moment of his wretched descent until the stones of the prison walls seem to begin to move closer, the barrel-vaulted ceiling to sink, and the floor to rise beneath his feet. Even the brief glimpse of sky seen from his solitary exercise cell appears oppressive and sinister, as if about to collapse down upon him. He knows that if he doesn’t escape from this place he will turn as mad as his lost wife.

  So he makes a daring plan, saving scraps of cloth from the yardage supplied for his prison work: a frock coat for the warden and a driving mantle for his wife. Josiah intends to stitch himself a dark jacket, lighter trousers, a white cravat to wrap elegantly around his neck—and a shoe made of heavy felt.

  Dressed in this finery, he aims to scramble up and over the wall of his exercise yard just after a band of visitors has passed. If luck holds, he will mingle with them. When they leave the prison grounds, he will be in their midst, his only problem the reek that emanates from a prisoner’s skin, but he believes this will remain unnoticed until he’s free of the compound itself.

  So Josiah waits, counting the hours and days until he hears a large group of visitors approach, practicing how they respond to their guide’s remarks, reiterating the facts and numbers he’s already heard from other tourists, oohing and aahing in copied awe and approval. “… The kennels for the Great Danes …” He imagines himself murmuring appreciatively to those around him. “… Walls thirty feet high, ten feet thick at the base, and buried twelve feet beneath the earth … How extraordinary …”

  What he never rehearses is his final farewell to the place that’s been his home for five long years.

  A Refuge for the Poor

  THE ASSOCIATION FOR THE CARE of Colored Orphans has been in existence for five proud years. The women who created it and who annually seek contributions for its benefit are among the chosen of the city: a Lippincott, a Morris, a Biddle, a Yarnall, a Cadwalader. These ladies envisioned an orphans’ refuge at Thirteenth and Fitzwater streets—among the poorest of the poor—and their ardor and hard work have wrought a miracle: a comfortable place with scrubbed pine floors, wide windows, and plenty of fresh, invigorating air.

  The gifts the women accept on behalf of their young charges are (when not ready cash) of a healthful, instructive nature: dried peaches, bags of beans, pocket handkerchiefs, stockings, sweet potatoes, and a map of Africa—which is a place so foreign that the foundlings who gaze upon it believe it is a chart of the heavens.

  “This is from whence you came,” the orphans are told. But they aren’t about to be hoodwinked by a colorful picture. They know where they’ve come from: the cramped alleyways of the Seventh Ward, the docks of the Fifth. Many of the orphans remember their days upon the streets; some even remember having mothers.

  Sixty children are housed at the home on Fitzwater Street. When they’re old enough—and fit enough—they’re “bound out to respectable families.” If the experiment is a success, so much the better. But if the effort fails, the foundlings rejoin the younger children in the classroom where Holy Scripture is recited daily and where the basic skills of reading and writing are taught and practiced.

  Dr. Caspar Walne is the good man who presides over the orphans’ health. Like the ladies who sit upon the Board of Governance, he’s white and of the city’s ruling class. Unlike them, he’s in his later years, a venerable presence with a shrinking frame and a wistful expression as if remembering the words to a poignant song.

  It’s to the Association that Martha Beale is bound. Too many days cooped up out in the country have impelled her to quit Beale House in favor of her father’s equally handsome city residence—and thence toward the activity she’s long been denied. Thus while Thomas Kelman prepares to leave Dutch Kat’s fancy house on Sixth and Lombard, Martha—robust and healthy despite the information he received to the contrary—exits her carriage a mere eight blocks away and prepares to enter the orphanage.

  The elegant rig, the matched pair of chestnut geldings, the shiny brass fittings and brightly rubbed leather have attracted a sizable number of gawkers. They’ve never seen the like in this part of town before, and they view the carriage as a marvelous and mystical thing. The lady who descends to the street with the aid of a footman (a white man in brightly hued garments—white stockings, yellow breeches, top boots bedecked with saffron-colored tassels, a coat the color of fresh moss) is equally entertaining. As are the lady’s clothes: the shoes that look like mud might melt them, the flowing pelisse that’s trimmed with a green as inviting as young grass. The growing crowd gasps at the spectacle. Some surge forward to touch the apparition.

  Martha shrinks back; the footman braces himself for trouble; the door to the orphanage suddenly and fortuitously opens.

  “Is it Miss Beale?” This is Hannah Yarnall speaking. She’s one of the most energetic and determined of the home’s governors; close to Martha’s age, but a good six inches shorter, her small frame and a certain recklessness of spirit make her seem far younger. “We were not expecting you so soon.” Her lively brown eyes note the crowd, rapidly assessing the situation. “We …” She hesitates. Hannah is a forthright young woman; she’s also inestimably kind. “We try to arrive here by less … by less obvious means … sharing a carriage that is not so … not so …”

  “Elaborate?” Martha, deprived too long of companionship and warmth, smiles. She extends her gloved hand. “Yes, I am Martha Beale.”

  “I expected as much.” Hannah also smiles. “And I am Hannah Yarnall. You may tell your men to go. We’ll convey you home by other means. We attempt to exist quietly here.”

  “I’m afraid I’ve shattered that image.” Martha’s sunny demeanor lingers only briefly, then wholly vanishes.

  “Portraits can be repainted” is the quick reply. Hannah leads the way through the simple and airy entry hall. Following, Martha is reminded of li
nen sheets blowing on a laundry line, of sunlight grazing a kitchen garden. She feels artificial and unwholesome in comparison.

  “I have accoutered myself poorly for my visit,” she says. Her voice is low and full of self-rebuke. Whatever was I thinking? she wonders.

  “God does not distinguish between cloth-of-gold and calico, Miss Beale” is Hannah’s soft reply. “We follow the Lord’s example here. At least, we try.”

  The children, however, react almost identically to the strangers in the street. They gape at the new lady, pulling back in clusters of two or three when asked to state their names, while at Martha’s back the daring reach out forbidden fingers to touch the soft stuff of her purple gown. Not one of them had ever seen even a doll to rival Martha Beale.

  Rebecca Lippincott, the senior member of the Board—and the day’s self-styled guide—frowns almost continually as the group parades through the house. She’s a plain woman, her hair graying, her judgments swift. In her mind, their visitor, with her showy arrival and premature camaraderie, has disrupted the serenity of the morning’s schedule.

  “The sleeping quarters are above,” she now says. The Board members and teachers, trailing children as if they were meteors’ tails, have just finished inspecting the basement kitchen and larders. “You won’t wish to see them.” She pats the bunch of keys she wears at her waist: access to the cold-storage room, to the root cellar, to the hole where the coal is kept. As her fingers touch the keys, Rebecca’s mind ticks off a week’s worth of menus, a month of chores apportioned and accomplished.

  “Oh, but I would” is Martha’s happy answer. “I should very much like to see where the children sleep.”

  Rebecca eyes Martha’s kidskin slippers and broderie bodice with ill-disguised disgust. She doesn’t respond in words, but the bovine set of her body speaks volumes. Martha recognizes the assessment and the merciless eyes. The expression of lofty disapproval is one with which she is well acquainted. It’s her father’s behavior mirrored in female form. Martha’s smile wavers; her shoulders slump in both apology and entreaty.

  Rebecca turns away; she’s accustomed to being obeyed, but Martha suddenly rebels. “I should very much like to see the sleeping quarters, Mrs. Lippincott. I will be brief, I assure you.” Martha moves toward the stairs, followed by a band of children, but Rebecca stops the procession with a firm:

  “The Association’s charges must return to their classes, Miss Beale. Any visitor who wishes to converse with them or witness their training must adhere to orphanage rules.”

  “I hope to become more than a visitor, Mrs. Lippincott. I hope to join your ranks.”

  “The Board approves new members in a discreet and methodical manner—as does any other society of governance.”

  Hannah Yarnall passes behind Martha. The movement is no more than a human body walking from one place to another, a casual transfer in space and time, but Martha recognizes the gesture as one of support.

  “Naturally, Mrs. Lippincott … I do not expect nor wish preferential treatment. I’m simply offering myself and my resources.” The term “considerable resources” is on Martha’s tongue. She avoids it but resumes her approach to the stairs.

  “The sleeping quarters are vacant at this time of day, Miss Beale.”

  “I should like to see them nonetheless, Mrs. Lippincott.”

  “Should or would?”

  Martha forces a smile. If Rebecca Lippincott’s censorious stare matches Lemuel Beale’s, his daughter’s flinty expression now rivals his most obdurate. “Both, Mrs. Lippincott.”

  Followed by the compassionate Hannah, Martha mounts the stairs. Beneath her feet, the floorboards creak, the sounds amplified within the enforced quietude of the place.

  The third floor houses the girls’ dormitory, the fourth the boys’. Stopping in one of several rooms in the girls’ area, Martha observes beds arrayed wall to wall: simple but clean pallets supported on pine testers and knotted rope. The floorboards have been soaped and rubbed until they gleam; the ceiling and walls are equally pristine, while the windows, unadorned, are fitted with devices designed to permit only partial opening.

  “Curiosity is a constant worry here,” Hannah murmurs. “Several of the bolder children have tried to climb out upon the roof to see the view.” Despite her previous act of defiance, Hannah now maintains a deferential posture, permitting Rebecca Lippincott to precede her, and speaking only after the older woman has finished.

  Martha silently examines the dormitory, noting the empty clothing pegs above the beds, the rigorous impersonality of each child’s space. Not one gray blanket remains rumpled; not a pillow is out of place. All at once, the tidiness seems like a cry of terrible need; and she pictures small arms and hands at their tasks, hearts and brains vying for the teachers’ attentions, hoping fervently for a kindly glance, an encouraging word. It’s remarkable, the order you maintain here, Martha almost says but doesn’t. Instead, she follows Rebecca Lippincott in ever-increasing guilt and shame. Her own bedroom, her clothing, the feckless abundance of her possessions begin to mock her in their terrible excess.

  “You will note, Miss Beale, that the children do not own playthings,” Rebecca Lippincott is saying. “We believe that personal possessions create mean-spiritedness and greed. When our charges play, they are taught to share. Prayers and the occasional story are all that accompany them into sleep.”

  Hannah Yarnall adds a soft “When the foundlings grow and leave us, their lot will not be an easy one. It would be unfair to provide too much.”

  Why? Martha wants to demand. They’re only children. They hunger for happiness and pleasure, for a loving voice. Why deprive them of playthings, of laughter? Joy is fleeting. Let them revel in it while they can. Instead, her growing discomfort keeps her mute.

  “Now we will proceed to the fourth floor,” Rebecca Lippincott advises. “You may examine the boys’ accommodations, and then our tour will have concluded.”

  Martha lags behind. The task she’s set herself has begun to seem very great indeed.

  “But I must warn you,” Rebecca’s voice continues, “that among our boy foundlings we have a child with the falling sickness—epilepsy. He was delivered into our hands a year ago, malnourished, filthy, unable to speak. Dr. Walne believed him to be two or three years old at the time, making him four or five at present—although exceedingly small for his age, as is to be expected. Racially, he is of mixed parentage, putting him at disadvantage with both Negro and white; mentally, he has changed little since his arrival. Sudden movements startle him, as do abrupt noises and confused surroundings. Knowing of your arrival, we kept him upstairs today.”

  “I’m not an ogre,” Martha finally offers.

  “Dr. Walne believes the child experienced great fear—perhaps even a form of physical torture. We take what precautions we can, although there is consensus that the Asylum will be our sole recourse as he ages. Of course, the illness is incurable.”

  “What is his name?” Martha asks.

  “He responds only to ‘boy.’”

  The child is wizened, a preternaturally grim and ancient face set upon gaunt shoulders. He gazes from Rebecca to Hannah; he doesn’t smile, nor does he seem to register their arrival. Martha he affixes with a vacant yet perplexed stare; his mouth opens; he appears on the verge of attempted speech when his left hand begins quivering and then his right. His eyes glaze immediately after. The trembling intensifies and rapidly moves to his legs.

  “Fetch Dr. Walne,” Rebecca orders Hannah while bending over the boy’s shaking body. Martha backs away, banging her head against a low-hanging beam. “I was concerned that such an event might occur,” Rebecca states. “Visitors should be introduced gradually.” Her tone is outraged, indicating every insult perpetrated by the callow—and idle—rich.

  “Shall I leave, Mrs. Lippincott?”

  “The damage is already done.” Not one hint of forgiveness is present.

  Martha hangs in the shadows, waiting. She hears the child’s bo
dy being turned over, hears his back patted with a sharp, staccato rhythm, listens as the soles of his feet are slapped and his name called out. “Boy! Boy! Here, boy!” What she never detects in all these ministrations is love.

  Dr. Walne arrives, followed immediately by Hannah. A tub is produced, water sloshed into it, the child’s body immersed. Martha maintains her vigil among the shoulder-high beams. She has all but vanished from the group attending to the damaged child.

  Her response to their efforts is panic; she feels her heart congeal while her head swims and her mouth turns dry. I cannot do this, she thinks. I’m not strong like these other women. I have no vocation, no skills. My father, as usual, was correct. And Thomas Kelman also. What the poor need is food, not pretty notions. For a moment, she’s afraid she might be sick, and then realizes with equal horror that her lightheadedness is accompanied by icy hands and feet. She’s about to faint. As quietly as she can, she lowers herself to the floor. I’m useless, she tells herself. I’m a failure. Dry-eyed, she bends her head and stares at the floorboards and her billowing skirts. Self-loathing stabs at her chest.

  Minutes pass. The crisis diminishes; the unnamed boy gradually improves. Finally, Hannah turns to Martha, surprised to see her sitting upon the floor. “Miss Beale? Are you quite well?”

  Martha looks up, making a poor attempt at reassurance while Rebecca Lippincott’s square face begins to glow with the recognition of her vindication. “We at the Association are accustomed to these scenes, Miss Beale. Cut heads, fingers slammed in doors, the usual childhood accidents. This house is no place for a person unhappy at the sight of blood—or other untimely discharges.”

  Martha doesn’t answer. Rebecca continues, her expression almost seraphic. “This work is not meant for us all, Miss Beale. Although it was pleasant to have you to visit, I’m sure.”