Compromise with Sin

by Leanna Englert

  Of about a dozen children, five had the characteristic look of babies’ sore eyes. Louise scanned their faces until she recognized Vinny, a seven-year-old version of the Baby Giveaway Saturday child, the poster child whose story she knew so well.

  Jerrylynn took Vinny’s hand. “Mrs. Morrissey is a friend of your Aunt Bonita. Can you say ‘hello?’”

  In a small, muffled voice he said, “Hello, Mrs. Morrissey.”

  Another boy nudged him and whispered. “Ask her, go ahead, now.”

  Vinny said, “You ask.”

  The boy spoke up. “Vinny wants to know if we get to ride in a truck.”

  “You certainly do. Let’s go.” Louise took Vinny’s mittened hand, the hand that in her disturbing dream had clutched at her elusive skirt. Her heart lodged in her throat. She longed to sweep him into her arms and spirit him away, give him hot chocolate every day if he wanted. But her best intentions . . . would it be a storybook resolution to her dream or another nightmare?

  The older boys climbed into the pickup bed unaided while Jerrylynn and Louise assisted the girls and lifted the younger children. Jerrylynn passed around blankets.

  Once they were all unloaded outside Perkins Mercantile, Louise handed a quarter to each child and received “thank you’s” in return

  Jerrylynn said, “Mind your manners. It’s okay to touch the toys, but don’t pick up anything unless you intend to buy it. And thank Mr. and Mrs. Perkins for letting us shop here. And if you have to cough, cover your mouth.”

  Jerrylynn led the girls to the dolls, and Louise took the boys to the trucks and soldiers.

  “Do I have enough money for this tractor?” a boy asked her.

  She looked at the price. “Yes. And you’ll have money left over for candy.”

  “Goody.”

  Another boy asked, “Will you please take me over to the dolls?”

  The other boys snickered.

  “Not for me, you dopes,” he said. “I’m getting one for Elaine. Hers broke.”

  His generosity brought tears to Louise’s eyes. She led him to the dolls and helped him select one.

  When she rejoined the other boys, a horse-drawn fire wagon caught her attention. She held it up and admired the sturdy construction and the clean-sounding snap as she removed the ladder from the brackets.

  As the last child finalized her purchase at the counter, Louise said to Jerrylynn, “I want Santa to bring this to Vinny. I’d give anything to see his face on Christmas morning.”

  “It’s a beauty,” Jerrylynn said.

  Louise held the door for the children and Jerrylynn to file out. She noticed two lanky boys approach, kicking rocks along the boardwalk. The older one took a long, cocky drag from a cigarette which he then passed to the other.

  The boy with the cigarette pointed at Vinny. “Get a look at them eyes.”

  He started a slow, deliberate clapping, and the older boy joined in.

  Jerrylynn marched toward the clapping boys. “Shut up before I tell your Ma, both of you.”

  She jabbed at each boy’s chest, and as they backed away they bumped into one another.

  “We didn’t mean nothing, Mrs. Knudsen,” the older boy said.

  She kept jabbing hard, jabbing past the druggist’s shop, jabbing until first one boy and then the other jumped off the boardwalk, dashed across the street, and slipped into the pool hall, as though that was where they intended to go all along.

  Louise was shaking as she set the fire truck on the boardwalk, led the children to the truck, and boosted them into its bed. Then she returned to the boardwalk and asked Jerrylynn, “Did that mean what I think it did?”

  Jerrylynn nodded. “’The clap.’ Wish you hadn’t seen it.”

  “Oh, my God. My worst fear was Marie would be taunted . . . now seeing it firsthand . . . the cruelty is beyond belief.”

  Jerrlynn gestured toward the truck. “They’re too young to understand.”

  Louise appreciated Jerrylynn’s attempt to placate her. All it would take was one older child to corrupt the younger ones with the sordid truth.

  “In some twisted way,” Jerrylynn said, “this is a sign of our campaign’s success. When we started, no one knew what we were talking about. Now even young bullies know.”

  Louise picked up the fire truck, now just a hunk of red metal. “Those bullies . . . my efforts created those bullies. I created those bullies.”

  Louise drove toward home in the stingy light of the setting winter sun. On either side of the road were fields scraped nearly bare, pocked with spent cornstalks.

  She had expected to drive home with a renewed sense of purpose and the satisfaction of having spread Christmas cheer to blind children. But all she could think was, what price progress?

  Louise sensed what Yonder must have felt that led him to quit the assimilation movement. If she’d known his whereabouts, she would have reached out to him, to seek his comfort and wisdom.

  She could hear the boys clapping. Progress on the backs of children already afflicted.

  She could feel the suffering of the little babies whose eyes were seared by silver nitrate. Progress at the risk of blinding healthy babies.

  I can’t go on.

  40

  January 1909

  At the sound of the telephone’s three short rings, Louise stopped cutting up beef for stew and wiped her hands on her apron. Alice’s words came in short bursts riding on wheezing breaths. “My cousin in Glendale Junction just called me. . . . She never calls anyone long distance . . . so it had to be bad news. . . . She went outside to hang clothes this morning . . . and she noticed at the Bartons’ house next door . . . no one had let the chickens out of the coop yet. . . . In the fourteen years she’s lived there . . . the chickens have always been out in the yard at the crack of dawn.”

  Louise thought Alice would never get to the point.

  “And the children should have been outside . . . doing chores.”

  “What happened?”

  “I do declare, Louise, it gives me goosebumps all over. . . . That whole family and the two Chamberlain girls who spent the night . . . were axed to death in their sleep.”

  Louise gasped. “In Glendale Junction?”

  “On a quiet, residential street. . . . the parents, their four children, and the Chamberlain girls. . . . My cousin had just seen them all the night before . . . at church for the Children’s Day program. . . . They think the killer let himself in the house . . . while everyone was at church and hid in a closet.”

  “What kind of monster could do such a thing?”

  “There’s talk it was Mr. Barton’s ne’er-do-well brother-in law . . . or a man who used to work for him. . . . or the dark-skinned stranger who knocked on my cousin’s door yesterday . . . looking for odd jobs . . . a scruffy man with long gray hair . . . I wanted her to bring the children and come stay with me till they catch him . . . but she said he’s probably riding the rails and could even be in Riverbend by now. . . .. Keep your doors locked.”

  If the killer were dark skinned, Louise thought, that could be a setback for the campaign, given that many people thought only immigrants got gonorrhea. Good lord, when I should be feeling sorry for the victims, I’m seeing this tragedy in terms of the campaign.

  In the weeks since her visit to the Asylum, Louise had decided to quit the campaign and devote herself to helping children at the Asylum. She had already informed Jerrylynn of her intentions, and today she would disclose them to Doc and Alice.

  Doc arrived at the library before Alice. He and Louise took seats across from each other at the large reading table, the way they had sat fifteen years earlier when he told her there was a risk of a medical complication and wanted to terminate her pregnancy.

  “I have wrestled day and night with a moral dilemma,” Louise said. “I wanted this meeting because I’ve arrived at a decision. I intend to devote myself to helping the Asylum children. They need a music program with a real music teacher and decent instruments, and th
ey most desperately need preparation for jobs and help with job placement.”

  Doc scowled. “You’re not abandoning the campaign, I hope.”

  “I am.”

  Doc stood and paced. “We have to stay the course.” He poked the air to emphasize each word.

  “You, perhaps. Not me. Not if it means healthy babies can get blinded by drops, and blind children get bullied for no fault of their own.”

  “I’m as concerned about safety as you are.” His voice was pleading. “But there’s no turning back. It’s unfortunate that blind children get taunted by bullies, but the cat’s out of the bag.”

  Louise looked out the window at the grey sky. “Do you know what this campaign has done to me?”

  “You’ve been shunned, even scorned by your best friend’s husband. That must be terrible.”

  “Yes, but that’s only part of it. This campaign has warped me. When Alice told me about the axe murders, as soon as she mentioned a dark-skinned man was possibly the killer, all I could think about was what a setback that would be for us, what with the prejudice that it’s only immigrants who get gonorrhea. I see everything in light of ‘is this good for the campaign or is this bad for the campaign.’ I’ve lost my humanity. That’s what this campaign has done to me.”

  The door opened, and Alice entered, wheezing. Louise and Doc helped her to the wingback chair. She fumbled in her bag and retrieved a pack of asthma cigarettes. Doc helped her light one, and Louise placed an ashtray on the end table.

  When Alice was able to speak, she said, “Did you read . . . J.D.’s editorial?”

  Neither Louise nor Doc had seen it.

  Alice stubbed out her cigarette and gestured toward a newspaper lying in the chair next to her. Doc picked it up, his eyes quickly scanning the editorial.

  “He’s riled up . . . about what he calls . . . ‘the catastrophic consequences of unfettered immigration.’”

  Doc said, “He reminds readers that a dark-skinned killer may be on the prowl.”

  “The axe murderer?” Louise asked. “But there are half a dozen suspects with light skin.”

  “Well,” Doc said, “J.D. seems to prefer the ‘swarthy man’ theory,” Doc said. “Here’s his conclusion: ‘Granted, certain business interests benefit by importing cheap, unskilled labor. But those people bring loathsome diseases, moral laxity, and criminal activity, which is bad enough when confined to particular ghettos, but eventually these ills will spread like contagion to respectable quarters of our society. And if that isn’t reason enough to keep these people out, mark my words, they will marry your daughters and bring about the mongrelization of the Anglo-Saxon race.’”

  “That man has lost his moral compass,” Louise said. “Exploiting the axe murders for his own gain.”

  “He knows his voters,” Doc said.

  “It’s bad enough to malign immigrants,” Louise said, “but to play on the fears and sympathies of . . . Hand me the newspaper.”

  She plucked out the page with J.D.’s editorial and spread it on the table, then picked up Alice’s ashtray and emptied it onto the newspaper. She strode to the wastebasket and ceremoniously deposited the little bundle.

  “Madam Librarian, don’t tell me you’ve sunk to practicing censorship.” Doc grinned. “That’s the spirit.”

  Louise sat down, and Doc gazed at her with the seductive look she remembered too well. The first time she had seen it was the night of The Twister, only it wasn’t directed at her but at Irina when he handed her an ampoule of morphine.

  Louise gasped, the image of that night seizing her in a fit of inspiration. The ampoule that Doc had passed to Irina held an individual dose of morphine. “Remember the night of The Twister you gave Irina and me glass ampoules of morphine? Would it be possible to package silver nitrate already diluted in individual . . .”

  Doc’s eyes brightened, and he practically shouted, “Brilliant!”

  Alice looked thoughtful. “I’m surprised no one . . . has thought of that . . . before now.”

  “All the attention has been on procedure,” Louise said, “how to ensure that nurses administer the drops correctly.”

  “And there’s always been a premium placed on keeping the cost down,” Doc said. “No one has dared to consider individual doses. It would be as though you expected a man who needed a new horse would consider buying a car.” Doc looked pleased with his analogy until he glimpsed Louise’s frown. “Don’t get me wrong. Your solution is brilliant, but it will be very costly.”

  “But worth it if we could guarantee that no baby would ever be blinded by silver nitrate.” Louise realized as she spoke that assuring safety of the eyedrops was paramount, that it overrode her other reasons for wanting to resign.

  “I gather you’ve changed your mind,” Doc said.

  “Yes, I’ll carry on with the campaign. And I appreciate your steadfastness. Both of you.”

  Louise talked with a representative at Argent Laboratories who suggested that packaging dilute silver nitrate in wax ampoules instead of glass would be more economical, but would nevertheless triple the cost over the bulk product.

  She telephoned Bernard, explained the strategy, and begged him to reconsider giving up the cause. “It’s asking a great deal, especially with the added expense.” She considered reminding him of his debt to her, that he said he would do anything, but thought better of it. The wisdom of her decision became evident with Bernard’s answer.

  “I should have thought of that myself,” he said. “I haven’t been able to sleep, I’m a man of my word and withdrawing our support . . . If you can guarantee the safety of drops, I shall guarantee you the Feldman Brothers Foundation will continue to finance them.”

  41

  November 1909

  “No!” Louise instantly grasped the futility of shouting at someone who is deaf and blind. She took Helen’s hand and signed, “Never. You only think you know—”

  Helen jerked away her hand. “I know enough. You value your precious reputation more than our cause.” The slurred angry falsetto vaguely resembled the whine of a small engine laboring at capacity. “Speaking the truth would do so much good. The public wants to believe that only depraved immigrant women are afflicted. I can do only so much to dispel the myth. What do I know? But you . . . you’re a paragon of virtue.” Helen turned her back to Louise and clasped her hands in her lap.

  Helen was nothing if not persistent. Louise had hoped the subject would not come up tonight. Since arriving in Washington, D.C., earlier in the day, they had enjoyed catching up on news and gossip, and taking advantage of the Corinthian Hotel’s amenities. Tomorrow night the two women would be corseted, coiffed, and formally attired for a banquet at which both would be honored. But tonight was theirs to do as they pleased, so after a swim in the hotel’s indoor pool they lounged in robes and slippers in front of the fireplace, their hair still damp, a shared afghan around their shoulders, the fragrance of congratulatory flowers in the air.

  Now Louise’s stomach roiled with words unspoken, and she anticipated a night of fitful sleep. There was no resolving their argument. She would do what she had intended before Helen confronted her.

  She touched her friend’s arm, but Helen’s clasped hands refused to yield. Louise picked up the tissue-wrapped doll from the end table. Her constant companion, it had inspired her, when all else failed, to endure another trip, deliver another speech, or fend off another adversary. She unwrapped it, brushed its yarn braids against Helen’s hands, and placed it in her lap.

  Helen’s face brightened. She brought the doll to her cheek as though to take in its essence. “This must be Sunny.” Holding the doll made Helen smile, but it was a wistful rather than happy smile. “I recall that her body is yellow, her braids are red, and her felt skirt and hat are purple.”

  Louise could almost have anticipated Helen’s description, being familiar with her friend’s curious fascination with color. Marie had loved color, too. “You recall correctly.”

  He
len sat quietly with the doll in her lap. Her smile faded to a pensive look. “I am touched to think you would part with Sunny. I remember how proud Marie was when she made her.”

  “If it hadn’t been for Marie, I wouldn’t know you. I’m giving you Sunny to express how much I treasure our friendship.”

  “I treasure it as well,” Helen said. “But it troubles me that you continue to hide under a pretense of perfection. I’m always waiting to see the genuine Louise. Had I been blessed with your faculties, I would indulge in communion with my fellow human beings, seeking to know them and to be known. You squander abilities to develop intimate friendships I might only dream of possessing. By hiding your true nature, expressing only what you want others to see, you hold even those you love at a distance.”

  Shifting logs and flying sparks startled Louise almost as much as the realization of what she was about to say next. She signed into Helen’s hand, “When you quoted the phrase ‘They enslave their children’s children who make compromise with sin,’ you were writing about me.”

  “But you must not blame yourself. I made it clear in my article that the wife is merely an innocent agent.”

  Shivering, Louise lifted damp curls off her neck and turned up the collar of her robe.

  Helen reached behind her, placed a hand on her neck, and massaged vigorously. “You carry a great deal of tension. I feel it when we embrace and in your hands when we talk.”

  The deep circles Helen’s thumbs made on Louise’s neck produced an uncomfortable, popping sensation that made her shoulders hunch.

  “That’s where your secrets reside,” Helen said. “Stop using your gift of speech to conceal who you really are. Tomorrow night, I beg you, speak the truth.”

  Louise took Helen’s hand. “No.”

  Helen’s jaw tensed and her voice became shrill. “You would let your stubborn pride—”