All the Best People

by Sonja Yoerg

  When they arrived at the hotel, Osborn dropped the car keys in the palm of the valet and escorted Solange inside. The ballroom chandeliers shimmered and reflected prisms of light off the crystal glassware and ladies’ jewels, and playful notes from a jazz ensemble mixed with the buzz of conversation and laughter. Osborn quickly found a group he knew and introduced Solange. She accepted a glass of white wine from the steward and wished Evelyn would hurry up and arrive.

  A man whose name she’d already forgotten addressed Henry Perkins, a zoology professor at the University of Vermont. “I read an article about your recent report, ‘Rural Vermont.’ Fascinating.”

  Solange had seen the article, too, and knew enough about Perkins’s studies and his influence on social policy to be poised to dislike him. In person, he wasn’t physically commanding, but his self-assurance was palpable.

  Perkins jumped at the chance to describe his report. “Yes, it’s difficult to summarize decades of research in a short article, but the paper did an adequate job. The report contains data on fifty-five families, noting defects persisting in the germ plasm across generations.”

  “A tremendous amount of work,” Osborn noted. “And the report’s recommendations?”

  “Primarily to continue practices already in place: education in heredity and population science in the schools; identification of bloodlines with rampant feeblemindedness, criminality and other defects; and measures to prevent these problems—and all the social and financial consequences—from persisting.”

  A portly man with a slick moustache turned to Perkins. “I agree we must check the multiplication of the unfit. Rural communities care for the unfortunate and handicapped as best they can, but there is the future to think of.”

  Solange couldn’t believe what she was hearing. How would they stop families from producing children? Could that possibly be legal? She shifted from foot to foot, and searched the faces of each man in the group. Was no one else alarmed by this proposal? Osborn frowned at her agitation and placed a quieting hand on her arm. An acrid taste filled her mouth. She sipped her wine to dispel it.

  The conversation turned to the problems endemic to rural Vermont: illegitimacy, delinquency and poverty. Solange watched Osborn carefully as the men discussed whether French Canadian heritage, or Catholicism per se, was the root of the problem. His face was impassive, a natural lawyer. No one, not even she, knew what he believed, where he stood. It aggravated her. On this issue, he’d undoubtedly say it was impossible to tease apart French Canadian heritage from Catholicism, as if that were the point. At least Perkins put his opinions, appalling as they were, on display. She had always taken Osborn’s neutrality as a virtue, but neutrality wasn’t fairness. If she asked him what he believed in, he’d say “God,” “the law,” or “you, I believe in you, and Carole.” But those weren’t really answers. Solange wanted Osborn to take a stance, if only to give her something to push against. Passion was a larger force than love, and in this, he’d disappointed her.

  A banker named Reynolds drained his glass and jabbed a finger in the air. “If this city is to become the jewel of New England and continue to attract the right sort of people, the good people of Burlington need to rid the waterfront of those damned shanties once and for all.”

  She’d heard enough. Righteous anger surged through her. “And what do you propose to do with the people who live in them?”

  Reynolds regarded her down the length of his nose, a smile playing his lips. “What possible difference could it make, my dear Mrs. Gifford?” He emphasized her husband’s name, to remind her who she was, and in whose company.

  “Oh, there you are, Solange.” Evelyn slid beside her, radiant in a gold gown that picked up the lights in her auburn hair, and kissed her cheek. “Are these gentlemen boring you?”

  Solange said, “Not at all.” She fixed her gaze on Reynolds, then shifted it to Perkins. “We were just discussing compassion for our fellow man.”

  Evelyn picked up her sarcastic tone. “Wonderful. Then all of you will be delighted to drop a check at the table by the buffet. We’re taking contributions for a new relief program.” She smiled sweetly. “Just to tide folks over until Roosevelt gets his way.” She bit off the words, took Solange by the elbow and led her away. When they were out of earshot, she said, “Those men are not worth your time.”

  Solange paused. “Including my husband?”

  “Osborn loves you, my dear. He doesn’t care where you came from.”

  Solange noted Evelyn’s assumption that her family was a feature to be overlooked. She frowned in disappointment. “But I do. I care more than I ever believed I would.”

  Evelyn nodded. “Come meet some decent people. I warn you, though. They drink with purpose.”

  They threaded their way through the lively crowd, past the musicians and the buffet tables laden with platters of food. Evelyn spotted three of her friends planted near the bar and made her way to them. As she introduced Solange, another joined them. Myra was slender and dressed in pale gray and swayed like a sapling in the wind.

  “You should give it a go,” she said to Solange, twirling her fingers vaguely at the table behind her, where a woman sat holding a deck of cards. Her black hair was streaked with gray and her shoulders were draped with a richly embroidered shawl. A sign behind her read, in gothic lettering: “Tarot Readings.”

  “According to her,” Myra said, “I’m destined for—oh, what was it?”

  “A hangover?” Evelyn said.

  “No doubt.”

  The women jokingly speculated on Myra’s fortune. Solange felt the fortune-teller staring at her. It was probably her red hair. Her mother had told her many times how redheads were more susceptible to unseen forces, accounting for why so many witches had red hair. To her knowledge, Solange had never met a witch and wasn’t sure she believed in magic stronger than her mother’s natural remedies. The fortune-teller continued to watch her. Solange murmured a pardon and slipped from the group to take a seat at the woman’s table.

  The woman narrowed her dark eyes and bent forward like a hungry crow. This was surely an act, part of the entertainment. The deck of cards was short—just the Major Arcana, for a quick reading. Solange’s mother read tarot from time to time, as had her mother before her. Solange had played with the cards as a girl, fascinated by the strange and intricate pictures, and the stories each told.

  The woman rearranged her shawl and wordlessly shuffled the cards, eyes locked on Solange. She thrust the deck at her.

  “Cut.”

  She obeyed. A tingle rose along her spine. Her throat was parched and she wished she hadn’t relinquished her wineglass. The woman snapped three cards onto the table in a neat row. Snap. Snap. Snap. Past. Present. Future. The simplest of readings.

  Her index finger heavy with silver rings, the woman pointed to each card in turn, beginning on the left, and gave the reading in a low voice. Solange only half listened. The meanings surfaced of their own accord.

  The past, the High Priestess. Intuition and higher powers. Her childhood, her home on the lake, her intuition that Osborn was meant for her.

  The present, the Wheel of Fortune. In the center it could only mean one thing: a turning point.

  The future, the Fool. Reversed.

  The woman’s hand darted out and spun the card right side up. Only good fortune was permitted at this party. But Solange had seen, and understood. Foolishness. Recklessness. And a sense of being ensnared.

  Solange laughed. She’d never been the slightest bit reckless. The woman raised her eyebrows and scooped up the cards. Solange thanked her, stood and went straight to the bar. Even to her own ears, her laugh had been too high, and thin. She accepted a glass of wine from the bartender with a trembling hand.

  • • •

  Osborn helped Solange spread a tartan blanket on the grass. She knelt to unpack the picnic basket. He set his boat
er to the side, lay down and sighed contently. “So warm for September. Really, we couldn’t have chosen a more perfect day.”

  Solange paused to admire the colorful hills rising against a vault of blue. The trees bordering the roadside meadow were every shade of gold, orange and scarlet. “It’s lovely.” She passed him a plate with chicken, bread, a boiled egg and pickled vegetables. As he took it from her, he clasped her hand and squeezed it gently. She smiled at him, a bit unsure. Who could blame her? Osborn worked so much and kept company with men she had nothing in common with. At times she wondered who he was becoming.

  “Thank you, darling. Looks delicious.”

  She smiled again, the tenderness in his face opening a small bloom in her chest. She made a plate for herself, arranged her skirt over her knees and stared across the river valley. “I don’t realize how much the city bothers me until I leave it.”

  Osborn frowned, having taken her comment as a criticism of their life together, but quickly recovered. “Then let’s do this more often. I’ll have time once the trial is over.”

  The trial. Always the trial. And it hadn’t even started.

  He realized his error in mentioning it. “We’ll bring Carole.”

  “She’d love the flowers and the birds.”

  He called her attention to a pair of blue jays chasing a crow across the treetops, diving and squawking insults at the larger bird. Solange laughed at their antics and lifted her face to the sun. Lingering over lunch, they pointed out cloud shapes and talked about other places they could drive to from Burlington.

  They finished eating, sated. Solange placed the dishes into the picnic basket and handed it to Osborn to carry to the Buick while she folded the blanket.

  He held open the car door. “Next stop, Underhill.”

  “I thought we were heading home.”

  “There’s a cider mill.”

  She climbed in. “Well, if it’s not too far.” He walked around to the driver’s side, got in and pulled on his gloves.

  “And it’s visiting day at the state hospital.”

  “Why on earth—”

  “I’ve heard the presentation is educational.” His finger rested on the starter button.

  Perkins had been bending his ear, no doubt. Solange searched her husband’s face for a deeper reason but he betrayed nothing.

  Osborn continued. “And you’ve said we should do more for the unfortunate. You’ve done so much to help with relief for the poor in the city. I thought we could see what the state was contributing.”

  She held her breath a moment, disinclined to spoil the fine mood of the day. “All right, then.”

  He started the car. “We won’t stay long.”

  They drank cups of hot mulled cider at the Wheatly mill and bought a jug to take home. The village of Underhill was fifteen minutes farther, and they had no trouble locating the hospital, set back from the main road, along the river. Osborn parked in the crowded lot and escorted Solange inside.

  The receptionist gave them a brochure and pointed to a room across the corridor, where the presentation was underway. Two dozen people sat facing a lectern with a sign identifying the speaker as “Dr. Eugene A. Stanley, Superintendent.” Solange and Osborn took seats at the rear.

  “The patients you will see first are afflicted with chorea, a progressive, debilitating and, sadly, incurable disease of the muscular nervous system. It is inherited genetically; that is, it is passed on in families. Indeed, the five patients we have here at the hospital are family members. Once you witness the suffering and diseases that genetic defects cause, you will better understand the need to safeguard the future. We care for the chorea patients as best we can and protect subsequent generations of Vermonters from similar harm by halting further transmission of the defect.”

  Did that mean sterilization? Solange reasoned that the patients must be suffering terribly to have agreed to it.

  Dr. Stanley continued. “After the chorea family, we will briefly visit a select group of mental defectives. These patients were brought to our facility due to the unmanageable burden they caused their local communities. While they may appear relatively harmless under our watchful eye, in their towns they were free to express their violent and criminal tendencies, moral degeneracy and, in some cases, sexual depravity.”

  The visitors mumbled and shifted in their seats. Solange whispered in Osborn’s ear, “I’m not sure of this.”

  He laid a hand in her arm. “Don’t worry. They wouldn’t endanger anyone. Their mission is public protection and education.”

  Dr. Stanley motioned to a door to his left where an attendant stood. “This way, ladies and gentlemen.”

  Osborn and Solange joined the others as they filed into a large room with barred windows. The patients were arrayed in one corner. Two older men sat collapsed in wheelchairs, immobile, staring intently at disparate, distant points. A few feet away, a young woman danced with her back to them. An ethnic dance, perhaps, because her movements were extreme and unschooled, and she emitted a throaty hum. Solange noticed another patient walking with jerking steps and realized the woman’s “dance” was a symptom of disease. The patient spun to face them, her features twisted in a grimace of alarm.

  Solange’s shoulders sagged. “How awful for them.”

  Osborn said, “Do you suppose only their bodies are affected, or their minds as well?”

  “I’ve no idea. I don’t know which would be worse.”

  Dr. Stanley’s voice reverberated off the hard walls and floor. “As you can see, chorea is a debilitating disease. We care for them here at Underhill with compassion and whatever expertise can be brought to bear. What family wouldn’t embrace the chance to stop such a scourge from afflicting their loved ones?”

  Perhaps, Solange thought, these unfortunate people would be better off without children. How could they care for them?

  After a several long minutes, the doctor crossed in front of the visitors and positioned himself by a door on the far side of the room, directing them through. A couple with an adolescent son paused at the door, causing the remainder of the group to amass behind them. The man, tall with a sharp goatee, drew Dr. Stanley’s attention.

  “It occurred to me, Doctor, that mental disorders and behavioral problems might be less susceptible to the laws of heredity than, say, what we see in this chorea family. What do your studies reveal in that regard?”

  Dr. Stanley smiled as if he’d been awaiting this very question. “A great deal, sir. Although we tend to think of dysfunction in character and behavior as more mutable than physical disease, the evidence points to the contrary. One only need examine notorious Vermont families, such as the gypsies and the pirates, in which moral turpitude and depravity are rampant, to conclude that their unfortunate natures are passed down like heirlooms from generation to generation. Blood, as they say, will tell.”

  Solange stared at the doctor, incredulous. She opened her mouth to utter a retort, but her throat clamped shut. The man who’d asked the question nodded in agreement, as did his wife, her bright red lips pulled into a knowing smile. The crowd seemed to be closing in on Solange, snatching the air from her lungs. Osborn put his arm around her shoulder. He knew, he knew all about her family, her blood. She spun away. The group surged forward, toward the next stage of this gruesome spectacle. Solange pushed through the crowd the way they’d come, ignoring the questioning faces and harsh glares.

  She entered the room where the presentation had been held and hurried past the empty chairs toward reception. An attendant blocked the passage and pointed over her shoulder. “That’s the way, madam.”

  Solange’s arms flew from her sides. “I know the way. I am leaving.”

  “Yes, madam. But the group exits through a different door.” Perturbed by the breech of protocol, he held his ground, then fixed his attention behind her. She turned. Osborn. “Is this your w
ife, sir?”

  As if she were a forgotten coat or hat. Anger rose within her. “Step aside. I am leaving.”

  Osborn said, “My wife is unwell. Please excuse us.”

  The attendant paused, considering his duties and the situation. “Well, if the lady is poorly—”

  “I’m perfectly fine!” Solange threw herself past him, burst through the door, crossed the reception area and stormed outside.

  Osborn caught up to her on the path. “Darling, I know what you thought the doctor said . . .”

  “What I thought he said? What he said in truth, Osborn. In complete, self-righteous, condescending truth.”

  “All right, but he was only making a point about heredity. He wasn’t talking about you. He doesn’t know you.”

  They’d arrived at the car. Solange circled to the passenger side. Osborn approached and she held up her hand.

  “No, he doesn’t know me. Or my family. But he wouldn’t let that get in the way of his plans, and those of the others, including your friend Perkins, to clean up Vermont’s breeding stock by getting rid of all of us.” She took a step toward him. “Why did you bring me here? What did you mean for me to see?”

  “That the state is serving Vermonters as a whole, and helping the afflicted at the same time. That good is being done, and the interests of the people are being served.”

  She threw her head back and laughed. “The interests of your people, perhaps, Osborn. What about the interests of the unfortunate? If you looked, if you really looked, you’d see exactly what I see. The unfortunate don’t suffer from inherited defects. They suffer from poverty.”

  He pursed his lips. He struggled to find the right words, the lawyerly ones. How could he not see the plain truth of what she said? When they’d first married, Solange had thought of her husband as a principled man, one with backbone. Now he struck her more often as too eager for the approval of his peers and superiors, and too keen to make excuses for staking claim to morally dubious ground.