The Degenerates

by J. Albert Mann

  “I don’t know any kings or presidents.”

  “Is that your answer?” the nurse had asked.

  London had attempted to gauge whether or not answering correctly would change her circumstances. She decided it wouldn’t. Or at least not by much. Maybe if she cooperated with the nurse’s idea of who London was, she wouldn’t be placed under as much supervision.

  “Yes,” she’d told the nurse.

  “Please tell me what is similar between a snake, a cow, and a sparrow.”

  “They’re animals.”

  The nurse scribbled away for quite some time. London had meant to get that one correct and was pretty sure she had. What could this woman be writing?

  The nurse finally raised her head. “I’m going to read a few sentences that have something foolish in them, some bit of nonsense. I want you to listen carefully and tell me what is foolish about each one. Are you ready?”

  London nodded. According to her hastily formed plan of answering every other question correctly, she was supposed to get this next one wrong. But she sat up straighter in her chair and waited for the question like she wanted to answer it correctly. Did she want to answer it correctly?

  “The first sentence is: An engineer said that the more cars he had on his train, the faster he could go. What is foolish about this?”

  “Is the train moving downhill?”

  “Is this your answer?”

  “It was a question,” London said, feeling very much like she wanted to sock this woman.

  London usually liked quizzes and tests in school. She did well on them. School had always been a place where London felt right, although she kept this to herself. She didn’t want any of the teachers expecting anything. Learning occupied London’s mind in the same way fighting did: it took up all the space inside her, making her feel strong and in control; learning just entailed less blood and busted teeth than fighting.

  “Yes, my dear. It was a question,” the nurse said. “And I need your answer.”

  “The question is foolish. That’s what is foolish.”

  “Is that—”

  “Yes,” London interrupted. “That is my answer.”

  “Next question. Yesterday the police found the body of a girl cut into eighteen pieces. They believe that she killed herself. What is foolish about this?”

  “She was obviously murdered by a butcher.”

  “Is that your answer?”

  London answered the rest of the nurse’s questions without bothering with whether or not she was getting them correct. Instead she focused on not planting her fist into this woman’s face and taking off. She’d seen there were no guards standing outside the building, and none down by the open gate. But it was a bad plan, running now. She’d be too easy to spot in the daylight.

  At the end of the interview, the nurse announced that London appeared to be, “healthy and without marked physical defects, and although wild and unmanageable upon arrival, was now considerably calmed. However, the test plainly shows you to be a high-grade moron, as well as a menace to the community due to your sex interests and lack of self-restraint. I’ll have the doctor take a look at my results and confirm tomorrow. For tonight, let’s get you settled in.”

  London didn’t give a damn what this nurse thought she was or wasn’t. All she cared about was convincing the nurse she was harmless, which she had succeeded in doing. That was why she was being lined up in a group of other girls about her age instead of being locked up in some cellar. London had often been locked in cellars.

  A woman attendant walked them out of the room full of clothes and into a room full of beds. It was a queer hour for bed, but this was a queer place. London didn’t think too much on it, except to keep her eyes away from the attendant. A woman like that could ruin her escape plan.

  London noticed they were on the second floor that faced the front of the building, and that there looked to be three or more other rooms full of beds besides the one she had been led into. Each room held about fifteen girls. Her group included the two thugs London already felt were the only reason to stay the night, so she could play about with them some tomorrow. The Missus would have had opinions on these two. Alby hated when London got into fights. As the son of a prosperous butcher, the only blood on his hands came from the daily slaughter. But the old woman had admired London for it. Always muttering how she wished she could get a look at “the other palooka.” She understood London in a way Alby never would.

  London sighed as she filed into the room in line with the other girls, knowing she couldn’t return to Bennington Street for at least a night or two. She’d have to bust out and then find someplace to hide—let them think she’d kicked it in a ditch somewhere. She remembered it was Wednesday, and figured by Sunday the world would return to not caring two shits about her.

  London was shown to a cot near the window, which was perfect. She’d already scoped out the front of the building and noted the gas pipes. It was late October, but London could tell they weren’t heating this dump before they absolutely had to. The grass was cut nice, and the brick buildings loomed, large and impressive, but the wet holes in the ceiling of the hallways upstairs and the worn-out boots on the feet of the girls who lived here had not gone unnoticed by her. They weren’t overspending in this joint, especially where people weren’t looking.

  The girls all climbed wordlessly onto their cots. London had spent a considerable amount of time in orphanages, and so knew that the attendant walking up and down the main row was the cause of the silence. London made sure to keep her eyes down. She didn’t want to capture the attention of this one.

  There was a tension in the air as the attendant stood in the center of the room, and all the girls lay still on their cots, and London tried to figure out what they were waiting for. She pretended to close her eyes, knowing the eyes of the attendant were focused on her.

  A loud whistle blew, but London didn’t move. She’d known something was about to happen and would be damned if she’d react and give pleasure to this woman, even if it cost her a scowl. It was worth it. After another minute, the woman lost interest and walked out of the room, locking the door behind her.

  The key hadn’t finished twisting in the lock when the girl in the cot next to London poked up her head like a rat from its hole.

  “Hi.”

  Her bedmate immediately yanked her back down.

  London figured the bedmate was a night-crawler. They existed in almost every place where London had ever closed her eyes to sleep, creeping over in the night and demanding things from you. Night-crawlers always preyed on the weak. And the smiling girl was a Mongoloid.

  The girl’s head popped up again, the smile already large on her face, but she didn’t even get the chance to push the H sound out of her mouth before the other girl again pulled her back down.

  “Rose, it’s time to sleep.”

  Her voice was kind. She wasn’t a night-crawler. Although, whoever she was, she wouldn’t look at London. Instead she wrapped her arm around her bedmate and pulled her in close, protectively. And then she reached out and gently ran her hand down the face of the girl she had called Rose, shutting her eyes.

  As soon as her hand had passed over Rose’s lids, Rose’s eyes popped back open, reminding London of what she’d once seen corn do when set on a hot coal stove, and London actually laughed.

  Now another head popped up… from the cot on the other side of the two girls. The Negro girl’s stare couldn’t be missed, along with its meaning. But just in case London hadn’t understood, the girl then pointedly stared at the door to the dormitory where the attendant had exited.

  London rolled her eyes at her. She didn’t need to be told what not to do. She knew she shouldn’t have laughed. But this Rose was funny.

  The girl laid back down with a light thump.

  London needed to get the hell out of here. But it was still so light out, even with the rain. Why were they all in bed at half past five in the afternoon? She settled in with a s
igh and tried not to look over at Rose looking over at her from her cot, although it was tough, since they were less than a foot from each other, and that little bird wouldn’t stop staring.

  London broke down and turned to face Rose.

  Rose went absolutely wiggly.

  Her bedmate gave her an annoyed bump from behind. A warning. Rose opened her eyes more widely and smiled even more brightly at London. Then she slowly began to pull something out from under the covers to show London. It looked like a stick from a tree. And when it emerged, London saw that it was a stick, a very worn stick. The girl hugged it closely to herself, showing London how much she loved it.

  A bed creaked across the room, and London gestured with her chin for the girl to hide her stick. In places like this, things that were loved needed to be hidden. Rose immediately buried her stick under the blanket, and London saw that the girl understood how things worked.

  The movement alerted Rose’s bedmate, who turned around in the cot without disturbing a single coil in the sloping mattress. She whispered something into Rose’s ear and gently ran her hand over the girl’s eyes again, this time more slowly than the last. But as soon as her hand reached Rose’s cheeks, Rose reopened her eyes, and so the bedmate repeated it, over and over, like she was gently washing Rose’s face. London noticed how the bedmate never looked over at her. London understood, and didn’t take offense. This girl was protecting herself. She didn’t know London, but she obviously cared greatly about Rose, and needed to focus on keeping her safe. Probably not an easy job in a place like this. As if on cue, London heard the big brute with the bangs cough meaningfully.

  Sighing, London turned over in her cot in an attempt to help the girl put Rose to sleep.

  She now looked directly into the wall under the window. If she looked up, she could see the very tops of trees waving in the evening breeze. It looked a little cold out there, and it was still raining, which was far from swell because London would soon be out there, and the sleeping clothes they’d given her were worn thin and she had no shoes. No matter. As soon as it was dark, she was blowing this joint.

  She closed her eyes. A weariness came over her. She’d felt it before—it was part of her condition—as if the day’s events had been thrown over her like a heavy blanket pinning her to the sagging mattress. She wouldn’t allow herself to sleep, because she might be jumped—or, worse, wake up in the morning still locked up in this hole.

  The old woman’s bloodied face appeared in her mind. She put it out. Thelma Dumas could take care of herself.

  London rolled onto her back, careful not to place her hands anywhere near her stomach. She refused to acknowledge her situation yet. It wasn’t time.

  But now Alby’s face came to her, hovering over her as it had that night in the basement of his father’s shop, staring into her face as if he’d never seen anything like it before. She wondered why she’d let him. But she knew it was that interested look in his eyes.

  When they’d finished, he’d nestled warmly against her on top of a pile of clean aprons, and together they’d watched through the tiny basement window the foot traffic tramping down Decatur Street. It was then that she’d told him about her name. So many people had asked her why a little Italian girl from south in the boot had been named “London.”

  Her answer had always been that her grandmother was English, and had been born in London, and thus her parents had named her for her grandmother’s birthplace. London was too dark-skinned to say her father was English, and she also didn’t like creating a picture of her father that wasn’t true, since the only picture she had of him was blurry enough. But an English grandmother, this seemed reasonable.

  In any case, it was a lie. And that night, lying next to Alby with his eyes staring brightly into hers, she’d told him the truth—that she’d been named for the street they’d found her wandering on in East Boston.

  London Street. Only a few blocks away from the old woman’s house.

  Of course, London didn’t remember it. Any of it. Unlocking the door, walking down the three flights of stairs, stepping out into the cold winter day, leaving her mother lying alone, dead in a rented room so very far away from everyone she’d ever known. London almost never thought about it more than to know she’d most likely been hungry, that it probably had been a while since she’d eaten. She’d left her mother to find food. Anyone would do this, whether they were four years old or fourteen. And so instead of “Angeline” or “Simone” or “Filomena,” a little Italian orphan had become “London.”

  Alby had kissed her then. Hard. And they’d done it again.

  Afterward, lying there, sweaty and tangled in butcher aprons, he’d wondered aloud what her real name was. This was something London never did.

  Now she glanced to her right. Rose was sound asleep, the tip of her stick poking her gently in the cheek. London stared at the back of the girl next to Rose. After a few moments London could detect the slight movement of her steady breath. She was also asleep. Slowly, slowly, London sat up on her cot. It wasn’t until she was fully upright that she scanned the room.

  It was dark now, finally. Although, there was still a twinge of light around the edges of the world. As her eyes adjusted, London could make out the sleeping forms of the girls tossed every which way across their cots. She knew exactly where the girl with the bangs slept, next to her ghostly friend, and London took her time watching them until she was sure they were asleep.

  It had only been an hour or so since the lights had gone out, but London understood the strong effect of routine. Many of these girls had likely lived here most of their lives, and so falling asleep on demand was something they’d grown used to. She couldn’t wait to get out of this place.

  Barefooted, she stood up and rolled her blanket up as tightly as she could, and then stuffed it under her nightdress. It would come in handy out there in the cold, rainy night. Leaning close to the large window, she attempted to ease it open, needing to use all her might to move it just an inch. Damn, she thought. This wasn’t going to be so easy.

  She turned toward the door, scanning the many beds. No one moved. But the door was locked. She was sure the attendant was not sitting behind it, but probably smoking or bumping somewhere, since she hadn’t struck London as the nurturing type, to stick around to be sure the girls slept safely and soundly. Still, busting the door open would bring people running, like the bitch with the bangs and her ghoul.

  London turned back to the window and tried again. She got it open another inch. At this rate, she could probably squeeze through in another hour or so. She softly sat down on the bed.

  Feeling a tiny tug on her shirt, London swung round, fists up. But it was Rose, peering with wide eyes from under her covers.

  London quickly put her finger to her lips to shush her. She saw instantly that the girl wasn’t going to make a sound. Instead Rose pointed a finger to her own chest, and then pointed the same finger at the window.

  London sucked in a quick breath. The girl wanted to help.

  London glanced over at the sleeping body next to Rose. She replayed the memory of this girl gently putting Rose to sleep. It was her sister lying next to her. London knew that if she allowed Rose to help, she’d be putting the girl in danger. That is, if Rose could even climb out of bed without waking her sister, which London doubted.

  Rose opened her eyes a tiny bit wider, asking again to help London.

  Anger wrapped itself around London’s heart like a cold fist and squeezed. She didn’t want help. She didn’t want kindness. Life was crap and she liked it that way. It was easier.

  She pursed her lips at Rose and shook her head, causing the girl to frown.

  Shit.

  London quickly pointed to her arm and made a muscle, showing Rose how strong she was, and the girl smiled. Damn it if that girl’s grin wasn’t kippy, and though London embraced the anger humming through her body, she couldn’t stop her mouth from curling slightly up at its corners.

  Rose then remov
ed her arm from her covers and pointed across the room.

  London turned to look at—the moon? She turned back, a questioning look on her face.

  Rose pointed behind London at the window she’d just tried to open, followed by a thumbs-down. She then pointed again across the room and gave a thumbs-up.

  Now London understood. Rose was telling her the window across the room opened more easily. Without thinking, London reached out, grabbed Rose’s small hand, and squeezed it in her larger one. Besides Alby, she’d never willingly touched anyone before in her life. The strangeness shocked her, and she quickly let the girl go and started for the window.

  It opened as easily as if it’d been greased. London was out, down the gas pipe, and running across the cold, wet grass in a flash. She never looked back at Rose, just as she’d never looked back at the old woman. It didn’t matter. In the next two days she’d be home.

  And Rose, with her pretty grin, would be a memory.

  Alice noticed the open window the second she woke. She quickly shut her eyes. To be the first one to notice, to call out the alarm, could implicate her in the elopement. Even if they believed she had nothing to do with it, she’d still spend the day inside someone’s office explaining the fact that she had nothing to do with it… and they’d all be writing, writing, writing in those notebooks. The doctor, the nurse, the matron, the attendant, all scribbling away about her. Recording what?

  Everything. They recorded everything. How loose her bowel movements were. How often she dragged her foot when walking the morning circle. How quickly she ate her soup.

  When Alice had been ten and the nurse had left her alone in the room, she’d snatched a sheet from one of the files on the desk. It was the only thing she’d ever stolen. She’d stuffed the page into her underwear and quickly sat back down. The nurse returned, and Alice blinked at her as she always did, with perhaps a few extra blinks. The nurse didn’t notice the extra blinks or the missing page, which struck Alice as funny. Not that she’d ever laugh. It wasn’t something Alice did.