All Waiting Is Long

by Barbara J. Taylor

  Lily folded the handkerchief and slowly raised her head. Hiding, she decided, made her more of a spectacle. She’d try for a semblance of interest, though she wouldn’t dare meet the doctor’s eyes again, and she’d slip out with the rest of the crowd as soon as he was finished. She hated the plan but could see no other way. And she hated this man in front of her because he had the power to ruin her.

  “But Dr. Peters, you say, we’re only women. What can we possibly do for the cause? More than you know, ladies. According to the American Philosophical Society,” he glanced at his notes, “eighty-nine percent of crime is due to heredity. Eighty-nine percent! I’ve seen what happens when the feebleminded reproduce—generation after generation of imbeciles. The same holds true for the depraved. Defects, be they physical, mental, or spiritual, are perpetuated through procreation. The Apostle Mark writes of Judas, It would be better for him if he had not been born, and the same can be said of any man or woman who is defective.”

  About half of the audience nodded in agreement. The rest appeared to be giving the matter serious consideration. Trapped in her seat, Lily half-listened to the doctor, wondering how it was she’d never prepared for the possibility of being exposed. Would George honor his marriage vows if she were found out? Her immoral past would certainly give him grounds for divorce.

  “God never intended for defectives to survive. Before medical advances, nature used to dispense of them in the womb or upon birth. Careful breeding is God’s design. Would a farmer mate a two-headed cow? I hardly think so.”

  “He’d be drummed out of town if he tried!” someone shouted—another nonmember, to be sure.

  “No doubt,” Dr. Peters chuckled. “And when your husband buys a horse, what is his first question? Can you tell me about the bloodline? He’d be a fool not to ask. I hate to say it, ladies, but we put more thought into the bloodlines of livestock than babies.”

  A sea of hatted heads nodded.

  “Bloodlines matter. Science proves me out on this point, but more importantly, so does the Bible. That’s why Matthew tells us that Abraham begat Isaac, who begat Jacob, who begat Judas, who begat Phares, who begat Esrom, who begat Aram. Need a few more? Aminadab begat Naasson, who begat Salmon, who begat Booz of Rachab, who begat Obed, who begat Jesse, who begat David the King, who begat—” He stopped and offered the women a turn.

  “Solomon,” they said in unison.

  “I can always count on good Christian women to know their Bible. And fourteen more begats after that one gets you all the way to Jesus Christ, our Lord and Savior, God’s only begotten son. Bloodlines matter. So when someone says to me, Dr. Peters, Christ’s beginnings were humble. He was born in a stable, after all, I simply say what every eugenicist says, His ancestors were kings.”

  Several women pulled fans from their purses as if this were an old-fashioned, put-some-color-in-your-cheeks revival.

  Lily’s fear took a step back to make room for indignation. This should never be happening. The widow had arranged for Lily to go to Philadelphia so she could leave her secret behind. Instead, Violet insisted on bringing that secret home, raising her as her own. But in spite of Violet’s selfishness, Lily had made a life for herself, a good life, an enviable life, though not a perfect one. She hadn’t given George a child yet, but she was young. God might still give her a baby. Then all would be complete. She had that hope. At least she’d had that hope until Dr. Peters showed up and threatened to destroy everything she’d built.

  “Bloodlines matter.” Dr. Peters paused to smooth out his notes again. “And it’s up to you, fair women of Scranton, to take up the cause in your own homes. As the good book says, Be fruitful and multiply. It’s your duty as wholesome women to populate this city with the best and brightest of our race. Our race,” he repeated, punctuating that first word with a nod. “Keep our strongest bloodlines going. Help create heaven on earth.”

  “Heaven on earth,” the Pentecostal woman repeated, and at least half of the ladies, many of them members, shouted, “Amen!”

  “But this is not our only step. In order to rid our communities of the criminal element—a criminal element that I’ve witnessed personally in Scranton this very day—dear ladies, you must spread the word. No one but the physically, mentally, and spiritually fit should be allowed to marry and procreate, giving us offspring worthy of our attention.”

  What rubbish, Lily thought, picturing her beautiful Daisy. In spite of her inauspicious beginnings, she was as worthy as any child. So perfect. So pure. And not only Daisy. Lily thought about the other babies she’d seen at the Good Shepherd. Who was Dr. Peters to say they weren’t decent just because they’d been conceived in sin? That was a burden for the mothers, not the children. And what about the mothers? It was up to God to judge, not Dr. Peters.

  “Keep in mind,” the doctor continued, “many states already place limitations on the marriage rite. They recognize the evils of race-crossing and the poor mulatto children born of those unholy unions. They understand the dangers of first cousins reproducing. How is what I’m proposing any different? It is not. Therefore, we need to render all defectives sterile, for our sake and theirs.”

  Render them sterile? Ridiculous, Lily thought. No man in his right mind would propose such an outlandish idea. Yet something about Dr. Peters had never sat right with her, even back at the Good Shepherd. She’d thought it was simply because she associated him with such a dark time, but now she wondered if there was more to it. Maybe the man was truly crazy.

  “I have a pamphlet here from the Human Betterment Foundation entitled, ‘The Effects of Sterilization As Practiced in California,’ listing the benefits of what I’m suggesting. According to the foundation, sterilization prevents parenthood while allowing the defective patient to still perform matrimonial duties.” Dr. Peters picked up his glasses and read word for word: “Sterilization is a protection, not a punishment. It is approved by the patients, their families, medical staff, social workers, and probation officers. Sterilization protects children from being brought up by mentally deficient parents, and takes a great burden off the taxpayers. It has been followed by a marked decrease in sex offenses. It is a practical and necessary step to prevent racial deterioration.”

  This man is deranged, Lily thought. She turned toward Mrs. Jordan to say just that, and discovered that she was listening to Dr. Peters as if he were announcing the Second Coming. In fact, as Lily glanced around, most of the women near her seemed to be taking his words to heart.

  Dr. Peters laid his glasses on the podium and lowered his voice. The audience leaned forward. “I need you to spread this message, ladies. I need you to talk to your husbands. Encourage them to speak to their legislators. Scranton is a common-sense city, and I’m here to offer a common-sense solution to its growing troubles.”

  Lily shifted in her seat, appalled by the doctor’s message and the crowd’s response.

  “And be assured, sterilization is quite simple. Very effective methods have been developed specifically for women who are wanton or feebleminded. Surgical sterilization renders a woman 100 percent infertile.”

  “No woman in her right mind would agree to that!” As soon as the words flew out of Lily’s mouth, all eyes were on her.

  “You hit the nail on the head, my dear. No woman in her right mind.” He smiled. “There are times when sterilization needs to occur without a patient’s consent. That’s why our counterparts in Europe have developed less conspicuous methods to be performed immediately after labor, for those times when it’s impractical to put a nonconsenting woman to sleep.”

  Lily couldn’t help herself; the words kept overruling her good judgment. “And are these methods legal?”

  “Not in all states. Not yet.” He paused and smiled, giving that last word its full weight. “Presently, it’s inadvisable to engage in such practices without the weight of the law for protection. That said, I’m confident that any doctor brave enough to take up this fight has God’s law behind him.”

  P
erspiration glossed Lily’s brow as the truth worked its way to the surface of her mind. “And have you, Dr. Peters, been brave enough to perform these less-conspicuous methods?”

  “Many times,” the doctor nodded confidently, “many times.”

  Chapter twenty-seven

  ANOTHER STREETCAR HESITATED IN FRONT OF VIOLET, the third one in the hour since Stanley had disappeared inside the yellow house. When she made no attempt to board, the conductor accelerated toward a better neighborhood. The courthouse clock chimed four, but Violet seemed indifferent. She sat on the bench, her eyes fixed on the red door, unable to go home. Not yet. Give Ruby a big kiss. Ruby, not Muriel. But Muriel all the same.

  In a brothel.

  Violet wondered at the improbability of it. Had they only just met? Had he known her in Philadelphia? What was waiting for Muriel back home, after she’d given birth at the Good Shepherd, that made running away and selling herself a better option? Violet pitied the girl and hated her just the same.

  Stanley in the arms of a whore.

  Violet recoiled, as if she’d just fired a hard-kicking rifle. Both the ugliness of that word and the ease with which she’d conjured it sickened her. “Forgive me my sins, Lord.” She thought about Muriel standing on the porch. “And forgive Muriel hers.”

  As for Stanley, he didn’t deserve one more minute of Violet’s attention. Not the way he was carrying on. He looked so happy in Muriel’s arms.

  Had Violet ever made him that happy?

  She thought about their courtship, so innocent, so long ago. She remembered the day she’d looked out the window at Walsh’s Portrait Studio and saw Stanley across the street. Could it be? she had thought. Was he on his way over to see her? She scrubbed the blue and yellow dye off her fingers, casualties of a grassy green she’d mixed for a photograph she was coloring, and made it to the door just in time to see him eating the peanuts Mr. Walsh had left for customers to give to Queenie. How that had made her laugh. She smiled at the memory. And cried.

  She hated Stanley. And she loved him.

  No longer one or the other, but some altogether new emotion, a grassy green mixed from blue and yellow jars.

  The clock at the courthouse rang once to mark the quarter hour. Fifteen minutes after four o’clock. Tommy would be home by six and hungry for a hot supper. Tommy Davies, the boy next door who’d always loved her, who’d stood with her at Stanley’s bedside when he’d lost his hand in the mine. The one who’d asked her to marry him, in spite of the ugly rumors. The man who loved her child as his own. No one else had ever had such faith in her, shown her so much devotion. So why was she sitting on a bench waiting for another man?

  Stanley Adamski knew every secret she’d ever had—except one. The first time they’d met, he saved her from that bully Evan Evans, or more precisely, from the elderberry bush where Evan had pushed her at the start of third grade. From that moment on, Stanley was always by her side, whether they were playing hooky or selling apples. And when they fell in love, he promised her the world. A house to call her own. A comfortable way of life. A position of respect in the community. “Just name it,” he’d said, “and it’s yours.” She’d never want for anything, if only she’d wait for him. So many promises, and all so long ago.

  Stanley made promises. But Tommy kept them. Stanley had judged her without mercy before he’d had the facts. Tommy had forgiven her.

  Violet gathered her packages and watched for the next streetcar to take her home where she belonged.

  * * *

  The red door opened. Stanley walked out of the house, alone at first, but Ruby caught up with him before he’d reached the steps, her cherry kimono fluttering, exposing a creamy chemise. “Forget something?” She laughed, holding out his wallet. “Lucky for you I’m mostly honest.”

  Stanley seemed not to hear her. Rather, he stood frozen at the edge of the porch, staring. Muriel tracked his gaze to the other side of the street. “Violet Morgan?” The surprise in Ruby’s voice softened: “I always wondered if our paths would cross again.” She waved once before pulling her kimono closed.

  Violet raised her hand, but her fingers buckled. She remained seated on the bench.

  Stanley looked back and forth between the two women. “You know her?” he said to Ruby.

  “I did.” Ruby’s face grew pensive as she shivered in the cold November air. “When we were both passing through Philly.”

  “Oh,” Stanley said, his voice dropping. “The baby.”

  “You know?”

  “Yes.” He nodded toward Violet. “They live in my old neighborhood. I see the girl in the yard sometimes.”

  “A girl?”

  “Yes. Daisy.” Stanley maintained his vigil near the railing.

  “So she kept it after all.” Ruby smiled. “Good for her.” She tucked Stanley’s wallet into his jacket pocket. “I didn’t think Lily had it in her. A nice girl though.”

  Stanley turned and looked at Ruby, then back to Violet. “Lily? You mean Violet,” he said.

  “I mean Lily. The one who got knocked up.”

  “Lily?” Stanley turned around and faced Ruby.

  Her hand flew to her mouth. “You said you knew.”

  “I knew Violet came home with a baby. And everything changed between us.”

  “Violet?”

  “Yes.”

  “And what did she tell you?” Ruby walked up to the railing and looked across the street.

  “I never asked.” His words came out in a choked whisper.

  Ruby nudged Stanley’s arm. “Maybe it’s time you did,” she said, and sauntered back inside the house.

  Stanley crossed the street and sat down on the bench next to Violet. Without saying a word, he took her hand, then let it go for propriety’s sake as another streetcar rolled by. “Why didn’t you tell me that Daisy isn’t yours?”

  “Bite your tongue.” Color rushed to Violet’s cheeks.

  “You know what I mean.”

  “She’s every bit my daughter.”

  “I’m sorry. I just . . .” Stanley’s face twisted with frustration. “It should have come from you, not Ruby.”

  “What difference would it have made?” Violet stood up and rubbed her arms for warmth.

  “All the difference.” Stanley looked around. “I don’t want to do this here.” He waved for Violet to follow him as he headed over to Hunold’s. “No one will see us,” he said, pointing out a back staircase that led to his room above the gin mill. “I promise. I’d never risk your reputation.”

  The reputation he’d come to value again in the last half hour, Violet thought, as she followed him upstairs without a word. As soon as she stepped inside his room, she was saddened by the loneliness it radiated. A bed, two dressers, a table and chairs in the corner. All serviceable, but where was the warmth? Stanley pulled a chair to the center of the room for Violet to sit, and from that vantage point, she could see his artificial hand peeking out from a partially opened closet. In all the years he’d owned it, Violet had never seen him wear it, and yet, he could never let it go.

  Stanley dragged a second chair out and sat down. “I love you. I’ve always loved you.” He took her hand. “Even when I hated you, I loved you.”

  “What about Muriel?” Violet asked, pulling her hand away and resting it on her lap.

  “Who?”

  “Ruby.” She said the name slowly, trying to reconcile it and the person she’d seen today with the girl she’d known at the Good Shepherd. “I saw the two of you together.” Violet dropped her eyes.

  “Ruby’s a friend, but that’s it.” He looked confused for a moment. “She’s not the kind of girl you fall in love with.”

  Violet looked at his face and realized he meant it. She said the first words that came to mind: “I’m sorry to hear that.” Saints and sinners—that’s how Stanley viewed women. She could see that now. Violet was back to being a saint, but for how long?

  “I love you,” Stanley said again. “It’s always been you.�
�

  Violet folded her hands. “Not enough to get past Daisy.”

  “How do you know?” Stanley’s voice cracked. “You never gave me a chance.”

  “The chance was yours to give the moment I stepped off that train.” She saw his face again that day, the disappointment in his expression.

  “With a baby in your arms. Honestly, what did you expect?”

  “I expected you to hear me out. To not pass judgment.” She looked at him and realized they were both reliving the past: The shock of her return. The argument. Their parting. They would relive it for the rest of their lives.

  “You should have made me listen.”

  Violet considered this for a moment. Perhaps she had allowed her pride to get the best of her. “Maybe.”

  “And now?”

  “And now I have Daisy.”

  “We’ll take her with us.” Stanley shot up and started pacing between the half-open closet with his prosthetic hand and a dresser with a half-empty bottle of whiskey on top. “We’ll move to Philadelphia like we always said we would.”

  “And Tommy?” She twisted the gold band on her finger.

  “Say that you love me.” He stopped and kissed the top of her head. “No one else matters as long as you love me.”

  “He loves Daisy.” Violet’s eyes glistened.

  “I can love Daisy.” Stanley nodded as he said the words.

  “Tommy already does.”

  “So that’s it?” He sat back down and looked directly at Violet. “You give up everything for her?”

  Violet kept her eyes lowered. “That’s what mothers do.”

  “Not Lily.”

  “She’s not a mother.” Although Violet had said the words out of anger, she heard their sadness when they hit the air.

  “No.” Stanley kicked back his chair, punctuating his sentiment. “Because you never let that happen.”