by Jay, Karla M
I close up the sack and cover it again with the rocks. I stop for a moment to look up. Hmm…still there. Names. Carved in the flat stone ceiling. Carrie Smith, Mary Harold, and seven other gals, with the year 1896. Some twenty-five years ago. I spent many an hour talking to these past seekers when I wandered through before. Wondering what they was doing down here. I found human bones in a small space deep in the back. Just parts. Not a whole person worth. What happened there is a secret only this old cave and the good Lord know.
I head back to the boys. Cy is naked, and Ilya is pouring water over him with a tin pan. The puny young’un is covered real bad with angry sores. If’n Doc Jackson can be trusted, the vittles will heal all that before long. Said pellagra is a starvation illness.
“I best be going. Cook the chicken first off ’cause it won’t last long even in this chill.” I pat Ilya on the back. “You take good care of your brother.” Because I sure enough know what it’s like to be careless and lose one.
“I vill.” His eyes say thank you, and that’s worth all the extra trouble today.
Back on Bayou, I ride off hell-bent for Cartersville. The pharmacist is opening up after his dinner hour, and I buy the pills and cigarettes. Chesterfields. That might soothe Taggert’s ornery spirit.
Nothing’s changed when I reach the cutting area. Tuck waves and goes back to sharpening the blades.
“Where the hell you been, Stewart?”
I raise my hand to stop the conversation. Once I get Bayou back in the corral, I turn to Taggert. His face is rooster red.
I hold out his items. “Chesterfields, sir. Your lucky day.”
He snatches them from me along with the change I produce.
“Not what I asked. Why the fuck it take you four hours longer than it should to get there and back?”
On the ride back, I practiced a few excuses for being late. Stopped to watch an airplane, or got swept off the horse by a tree branch. I try out the one that makes most sense.
“Tried to take a shortcut going down, sir. Got slowed by a jumble of logs. No work crew in sight, but somebody’s doing a heap of cutting.”
“Don’t pee down my leg and tell me it’s raining, boy. You smarter on a horse than most. No way you’d put your mount through that.”
I shrug as if to say that’s the plight I was in.
He taps out a cigarette from the pack and lights it. After inhaling deeply, he draws pert near close ’nough to kiss my nose and blows that dadgum smoke in my face. I fight to keep from coughing, but he got me good. And I fight not to move as I stifle a cough.
“I’m gonna be watching you. And next trip into Cartersville…ain’t gonna include you.”
“Yessir.”
“Get back to chopping wood.” He unscrews the cap on the medicine bottle, palms two white pills and throws ’em back. Swallows. “You ain’t getting supper tonight neither.”
“Yessir.”
Don’t bother me none. I can miss a meal knowing them two Russian rascals are fixin’ to eat right good tonight. Bet they sleep like babies swaddled in a cradle.
I know I will.
Ardith Dobbs
Dr. Hugo Grange has arrived. He’s dashing for an older man, with silver streaks in his dark hair and bright sapphire eyes. And quite the ladies’ man, always giving me sidelong looks when he thinks I don’t see. He’s my personal doctor, of course, so all modesty evaporated after the first time the man viewed me half-naked.
But he’s attending to Josephine now.
When we first hired her, William redid the mudroom and toilet area attached to the house, turning it into a comfortable living space with a bed and chair. There’s also a mirror and shelving and pegs for her clothes and personal things. Two tiny windows allow for a nice cross-breeze, while our largest magnolia tree shades that side of the house. I haven’t gone in her room very often, but when I’ve peeked inside, the room is always neat and doesn’t smell foul as I’d always anticipated.
I checked in on her a few moments ago. Let me tell you, Twilight Sleep is the best invention any German has ever come up with. Josephine is covered in sweat, panting like a dog on a hot summer’s day, and not making so much as a squeak. Dr. Grange said she can deliver anytime now.
“Throw it now, Mommy.” Oliver and I are playing ball in the yard. However, the boy needs more time practicing with William. I know he’s only five, but he catches like he’s got ferns for hands. My brother Clem caught fireflies at dusk by the time he was three. Used to catch. Clem isn’t grabbing at anything anymore.
I toss the baseball gently, and this time Oliver snags it.
“There you go,” I say. He laughs and looks just as surprised as I am. My theory that Oliver needs more practice was just proven correct. Thirty minutes of tossing the ball and he’s already gotten better. But William’s busier than ever. Insurance and advertising are the fastest-growing businesses, and he heads to work earlier each day and comes home later. Who’s the better parent now?
Josephine will need two to three days off to clear her noggin from the drugs, so I have many fun activities scheduled for Oliver and me. This afternoon, I’ll show him the wooden wagon the new Liberty Coaster Company sent for us to try out. Tomorrow, the neighbor boy will earn fifty cents pulling Oliver to the park and spending the morning there. Then in the afternoon, I’m toting him along on my home visits to help collect insurance money. Money-strapped women hand over their weekly premiums more willingly when a little boy opens his tiny fist.
“Mrs. Dobbs?” Doctor Grange says from the doorway. “Come see.”
Something in his voice is off. Is the baby deformed? With all the Negroes’ careless breeding, birth disasters are common.
“Oliver. I need you to sit here and toss the ball into the air and catch it. Keep doing it while I check on Josephine and her new baby.”
“I can count to a hundred. Want to see?” His face lights up. “Miss Jojo taught me.”
“When did you learn that?” What else has she taught him? I pay her to entertain him, not fill his tiny head with too-soon knowledge.
“When we toss and catch the baseball.” He tilts his head, the same movement William does when he has a new idea. “After Miss Jojo has her baby, she can teach you how to be a better thrower,” he says. “With her, I catch the ball every time.”
I want to scold him for his rudeness, but a baby’s cry pulls me into the house. I brace myself. This might be horrifying.
I push inside. The air in the room is hot and clammy with the coppery scent of blood.
“It’s a boy.” Dr. Grange is finishing up with Josephine and the afterbirth duties. He flicks his chin toward the wiggling bundle in the sink. The baby’s cocooned in one of the new white blankets I bought. “Appears healthy. Josephine did fine too.”
Hmm. Why was he acting so strange if everything went well?
I glance at Josephine’s naked body. She’s unconscious and breathing steady. Clergymen protest anesthesia, saying labor pains are God’s will. Well, thank you Billy Sunday. Let a muskmelon tear through a man’s innards and we’ll see who they’re praising.
Thanks to William and my generosity, Josephine didn’t die in childbirth like so many Coloreds, and her son arrived with her experiencing no pain.
This will be me in a week or two. But in a nice hospital bed. I’m glad Josephine is sleeping peacefully. She is a hard worker and a loyal helper. I refuse to call her a servant. That’s so demeaning.
I glance at Josephine one more time. In the room’s dim light, I’m reminded she could be a white girl being such a light-skinned Negro. Prettier than a mess of fried catfish, we used to say. If her mother hadn’t fallen for the conniving ways of a Negro man, Josephine’s life would’ve taken a much different course. With a mother in an insane asylum, her father dead, and the girl birthing out of wedlock, this is a fine howdy-do for the bastard child she’ll
be raising.
I approach the squirming babe and gasp. This can’t be right! The boy could be Oliver’s twin! White as down fluff with a cleft in his tiny chin. My mind plays with scenarios that explain why Josephine’s child resembles mine. It’s the situation. She eats the same food we do. She’s surrounded by white folks, and it’s rubbed off on her.
“What do you think?” Dr. Grange says. He has a smirk on his lips I’d like to swipe away.
I can’t meet his eyes. There’s only one explanation—Josephine beguiled William as sure as rats run the rafters. Hot anger rises in my stomach and I’m dizzy. How did William believe this would turn out? Especially when she showed herself pregnant. He could have demanded we hire another woman for any reason at all, and I would never have known what they had done. Men are so incredibly stupid.
No one can find out about this. Having sex outside of marriage is how men are exiled from the Klan. Or worse. And diddling a Colored gal? Downright sinful. No wonder Josephine is always puttering around William, swinging her fat sassy ass this way and that.
Anesthesia kills women all the time. Why couldn’t it have taken Josephine? I shake my head. What to do? Whatever we decide, we need to do it fast.
I lift the baby and try not to look at it while I rock him. He’s warm and snuggles into my chest and makes sucking sounds.
“Dr. Grange. Hugo.” He must keep this a secret. “You can see my predicament here. I need your help.”
He shakes his head. “No way to turn back time, Ardith.”
“That’s quite clear. But let’s look forward. This baby will create a great deal of pain in our lives. With William’s career. Our community associations.” The doctor is a Klan member. He knows what I’m talking about.
“What is it you want me to do?” He stalls in his movements.
“I need you to certify that this baby was born dead. Deformed even.”
He steps back and crosses his arms. “I can’t do that. What do we tell Josephine when she wakes up and wants to see the baby?”
“That because she committed a sin, God gave her a hideous child. It died, and we needed to bury him.” I stomp my foot. This is so unfair. My standing in the ladies’ club will turn to dust. People will talk. We’ll be financially ruined. “Isn’t that what you do with babies that are malformed?”
“It is not.” He shakes his head. “Ardith. You need to talk to William and sort this out. Josephine will be fully awake in half an hour.”
Miserable man. How can I convince him? Then Dr. Grange’s grown son comes to mind.
“How is Melvin? He still sneaking into widow Fraser’s house at night?”
The doctor’s face blanches. “What does that have to do with the problem at hand?” He points to the baby.
“Fornicating with a Catholic who teaches at the Good Tidings parochial school.” I tsk. “The Fiery Cross reported that a man in Oklahoma was sufficiently beaten for doing no more than what your son is doing. Would be a shame if the local Klavern learned of this.”
He drops his head. His fists double and relax and contract again.
I’ve hit his facing reality nerve.
“What do you suggest, Ardith?”
He says my name as if a crow crapped in his mouth. He should be thanking me. We’re both in a tough spot, and we’re solving this together.
“First off, I can pay you for all of this trouble.” I’ve skimmed a little off the WKKK dues for an emergency. This predicament surely qualifies. “One hundred fifty dollars. In cash. Today.”
His face is grim. “I’m not going to let you hurt that baby.”
My mouth falls open.
“How dare you think that. As if I would. You only need to buy me some time.” An idea is forming, and it’s starting to look as sweet as a field of clover. “Give Josephine enough anesthesia to keep her knocked out. Just two more hours. While she’s asleep, you do a little extra doctoring to make sure this can’t happen again. And Lordy, don’t let her die.”
William left the car home today. He’s duck hunting with the higher-ups in the local Masonic Lodge. Since sixty percent of its members have joined the Klavern, the Masons now let the Klan use their building for meetings.
“I’ll be back. This will all work out.” Before he can protest, I run out of the room with the babe still in its blanket, enter the main portion of our house, grab my bag and the money I stashed, and head to the driveway. “Oliver! Come here.”
He runs to the car, still holding the ball, then rises onto tippy-toe to peek inside the blanket.
“I want to see Miss Jojo’s baby.”
“This isn’t her baby. The doctor brought the wrong one.” What does a five-year-old know about childbirth? “Get in the car, Oliver. We’re going for a ride.”
I hand the bundle to Oliver and show him how to rock the baby to quiet him. But I have to look away. The two of them together upsets me. The same gray eyes. The shape of the mouth. Oh, the fight I’ll have with William. A water moccasin puts out less venom than I plan to inflict on him. And let him touch me again? Many moons will pass, as the Cherokee say.
While heading north on the main road, a new thought hits me. If my plan works, I’ll have to keep my anger toward William tucked inside. The problem with Josephine will be solved.
My duty as a Klanswoman means I set aside all pleasure, and I take no pleasure in what I’m about to do. But mixing races leads to the downfall of society, and my duty is clear.
My ability to discern right from wrong is something I’m proud of. This is not revenge, though a lesser woman in my same circumstance might turn to that. This is about fairness.
For the first time all day, the wound-tight tension leaves my body.
And I drive.
This time Magda greets me at the Beck Infantorium. She’s built like a man, strong in the arms, with broader shoulders than her sister’s. It must be all the wheelbarrowing I saw her doing last visit. I explain why I’m here, and I hand the baby over to her.
She frowns and looks past me toward the car and then down her drive.
“It’ll be our secret,” I say. “And you’ll make money and save yourself the trouble of a burial.”
“We’ve never had this request before.”
She’s holding Josephine’s baby. I refuse to think of it as William’s.
“But you must have what I’m looking for.” I raise my eyebrows in a challenge. “You deal in all types of…er…situations here.”
“We take in the sick and poor in spirit. So yes. Many precious souls depart before we find them homes.” She draws in a big breath. “I’ll be right back.”
I tap my foot and check my wristlet watch. Never have to ask William what time it is since the Hamilton Watch Company sent me their newest fashion statement.
I’ve been away from home now forty-five minutes. The sound of birds chirping in the trees is nice. It’s a peaceful setting for so many little ones. At least for the healthy little ones.
Magda opens the door and presents me with a basket covered with a white cloth. I lift the fabric. The dead baby looks doll-like, as if it never took a breath.
“A boy, right?”
“Yes. He passed not more than a few hours ago.”
He’s the right shade of brown. High-yellow. Not too dark. I run my finger down his cheek, withdrawing quickly, startled at how cold his skin feels.
“We must keep the poor dears on ice until we can provide a proper burial out back.”
I nod, then set the basket on the painted porch and count out thirty dollars.
“I added some because you’ve been so accommodating.” I smile. “And to make sure your new baby boy finds a good Christian home.”
“Is there a birth certificate?”
“There is not,” I shrug. “The family is looking for privacy.”
“Not a problem.�
�� She folds the money and puts it in her pocket. “There’s times we don’t get the legal paperwork.”
Yeah. Like when I wandered in here ready to pop seven years ago. Came with nothing but a gross belly and left with twenty dollars. Never wanted to know who adopted my child. I acquired my new start soon after. Changed my name, stole some beautiful clothes from a shop on the outskirts of Atlanta. Reinvented myself. And I made up for those sins by raising a fine family, being an exemplary wife, and serving the community.
I thank her again and carry the basket to the car. Oliver is curled into a small half circle on the front seat. Mrs. Winslow’s Syrup works every time. I’m not sure where morphine comes from, but the manufacturers need an award for excellence.
I slide behind the wheel and place the basket between Oliver and me. I love these quiet rides home. And once there, Oliver should sleep for a few more hours. He won’t witness Josephine’s grief when she wakes up to learn the awful truth about her baby.
No. No good mother would want her boy to hear all that.
And to be honest, I plan on letting Dr. Grange handle it. One hundred and fifty dollars says it’s his duty. Besides, his son and the Catholic gal can do whatever they please. I only surmised that the two of them were canoodling, but I must’ve been right. Dr. Grange and I now share a secret. We’re bonded in a good way, both getting something we needed. That’s the best kind of friendship.
The operation I asked him to perform will make her sterile. Eugenics is very acceptable, especially the more and more we understand science and how defective traits are highly inherited. Today is a case in point. Josephine’s sexual drive caused all of these troubles. She got that from her faulty mother. With Josephine’s baby-making factory gone, she can focus on her job of nannying. Now that I think about it, the timing for what happened today is perfect. She’ll be a wet nurse when Baby Katherine arrives.