She needed to think but couldn’t. Not in all this filth. Without further deliberation she stripped off her foul nightclothes and pulled on fresh ones and then ripped a sheet in two, and tied it around her like underwear to stop the flow of blood between her thighs. She felt so much better. Taking in her surroundings, she braided her hair, and bound it with another ripped piece of sheet.
She left the middle sick room through another set of wide-open double doors beside the sideboards, and found herself in a hall across from a third set of double doors, but these doors were closed. To her right the hallway ended in a wall, and to her left it led to two different doors—one of them most likely the exit and most likely locked. London tried the double doors. They were unlocked.
This room was filled with cribs… twenty, maybe thirty of them, and yet was eerily quiet. Curtains were drawn across the large windows, creating a thick gloom that mixed with the heavy silence, making it seem like the air in the room wouldn’t support sound even if it were to happen. But there was a sink. In the far, right corner.
Strangely, London couldn’t move. Those cribs weren’t empty. She could smell them. Babies. A mix of ammonia, wet cloth, and old shit. What kind of babies lay in a dark room without crying? Thirty of them, no less.
“Watch out.”
London stumbled out of the way of an attendant whisking past her into the room carrying a stack of clean towels.
“I’m thirsty,” London called out.
“Well, you can see the sink,” the woman answered.
“A cup?”
“What are you, a Rockefeller? Stick your head under the faucet.”
“It’s for someone else.”
The woman stopped and turned, taking in London standing in her nightclothes. “You sick?”
“Lost a baby,” she said, liking the sound of the word “lost.” As if one day, when she was ready, she might find it.
“Still bleeding?”
“Yes.”
“Bright or dark?”
“Dark.”
The woman stared at her, thinking. “Okay, follow me.”
London stepped into the room, letting the doors close quietly behind her. Everything in here seemed to happen in a dense hush. After tiptoeing to the nearest crib, she stared down at the child. Naked except for a diaper, and sound asleep, the baby was large-headed, like Lizzie, only not like Lizzie in that its head ballooned twelve inches over its brows.
London looked into the next crib. Two bright eyes looked back. Eyes not separated by a nose but by a small flap of skin, no lips, ears located too close to its chin, and tiny fists clenched into what looked to London like small, pink knots. The baby gurgled, waving its arms about, and London longed to reach out, and when she realized she could, there was nothing so softly beautiful as the child’s fingers grasping her own.
“Hello, you sloppy little noodle,” she cooed. “What’s your name?”
The attendant sighed, shifting the towels she’d been holding to her hip, and walked to the end of the baby’s crib. Squinting down at a chart stuck to its footboard, she read. “Miriam.”
“Miriam,” London repeated, picking the baby out of the crib like she’d done it a thousand times.
“Careful,” the woman said. “She’s terminal.”
“Terminal?”
The attendant sighed again. “Born with ailments that can’t be cured. She’s dying, is the crop of it. All of ’em are.”
“You don’t look dying to me,” London told Miriam.
Miriam spit up.
“Although, you are disgusting,” London laughed, holding Miriam and her spit at arm’s length.
The woman tossed London a clean towel and watched as she gently wiped Miriam’s mouth and chin. Shaking her head, the attendant walked to the sink and filled a metal pitcher with water, and then dug a cup from a cabinet.
London held the baby up to her face. “See you, Miriam,” she whispered, then placed her back in the crib and gave Miriam’s warm belly a final pat before thanking the woman for the water.
* * *
She spent the rest of the afternoon sitting next to a feverish Rose, who did not wake again. When the claps came for the shift change and dinner, London squeezed Rose’s hand, which reminded her of Miriam’s tiny fist, and returned to her cot.
She lay in her sodden sheets until dinner came around, and grabbed the bread from the plate before it was even out of the attendant’s hand.
“You look well enough to me,” the woman spat, moving on.
Crap, thought London as she poured her soup down her throat. She should have pretended to be asleep or been groaning in pain. Tomorrow they’d be handing her a shit bucket for sure.
Later that night when the lights went out, she climbed from her cot and went to Rose. London’s eyes had adjusted to the dark room, and the light from the almost full moon shone across the sick. Rose was still sleeping, and still hot to the touch. London soaked a rag in the metal pitcher of water she’d hidden under Rose’s cot and placed it on the girl’s forehead.
“Rose,” she sighed, not expecting Rose to answer, and she didn’t. All around her, the sick lay strewn about on their cots, shifting, moaning, trying to find comfort in an uncomfortable place. London was thankful that Rose slept. She needed rest. And Maxine. How could London make sure she got both?
She stood by Rose until her thoughts turned to a baby tucked in a towel and an old woman missing from a window, and then London drifted back to her cot and slept.
* * *
Sneaking out before breakfast, she went and found the woman in with the babies.
“What do you want?”
London wanted this woman to get her assigned to Manual Training in Sick Ward. But she had no idea how to get this done or if this woman even had the authority to do it… or whether she would do it if she could.
“Not a goddamn thing,” London said, wandering over to Miriam’s crib.
There she was again, that little kipper, looking up at her. London smiled.
“You got someone in Sick Ward?” the woman asked.
“Yeah,” London said.
The woman went back to work, keeping her eye on London as the girl played with the baby.
“She shit her diaper,” London called.
The woman made her way over to London with a bucket, rags, and a fresh diaper. Her name was Gladys. She showed London how to remove Miriam’s rubber pants, unpin the diaper, wash her bum, and pin on a fresh diaper.
“If you’re feeling up to it, I could use the help,” Gladys said.
“I guess I could change a few of these little turds.” Yet even as the words left her mouth, she was already reaching for the next baby as if she were dying to wipe their yippy little asses… and maybe she was.
By lunch London mostly had the hang of it. She’d only poked one or two tiny thighs with a safety pin and had figured out how to get tight rubber pants on and off squirming baby bodies with their floppy legs.
“Wash up and go eat,” Gladys told her.
“Not hungry,” London said, sure she’d find a couple of goons waiting at her cot, ready to take her back to the cages.
“You know,” Gladys said, “Sick Ward’s not anyone’s choice.”
London looked over at her but didn’t say anything.
“I could request you for Manual Training.”
“I’m fucking starving,” London said. “I’ll be back after lunch.”
* * *
London couldn’t believe it. She might be able to stay with Rose… and Miriam. She ate her lunch, and then stopped by to see Rose, who didn’t look like she’d stirred all morning. London managed to get a little water down Rose’s throat, changed Rose’s sheets and nightclothes, and brushed her hair with her fingers as best she could, which wasn’t that well. Rose mostly slept through the care. Since London was still hungry, she ate Rose’s lunch. One of the nurses caught her with a mouthful of stew.
“Put that down.”
London put it
down. But as soon as the nurse turned her back, London picked it right back up and finished it in two bites. “I’ll be back soon,” she whispered into Rose’s ear.
The crib room was almost always empty but for the babies, and Gladys coming and going. London could see now why they never cried or fussed. There was no one to hear them in this lonely, dark room.
Gladys taught her how to feed them a liquid poured from tins into bottles. It looked like milk but wasn’t. London tasted it. It was nasty. But these little bananas seemed to like it, even if eating was difficult for many of them. Their mouths didn’t work quite right, or their stomachs, or their noses, and there was a lot of spit and vomit and snot and frustration. But Gladys had lent London an apron, and so she held the babies tightly against her and patiently worked the bottles in and out of their mouths, adjusting and wiping.
When the four claps rang out, London was shocked at how fast the day had gone. Gladys stood across the room, a diaper over one shoulder, baby feet in her hands.
“Git.”
“Will I be back?”
“I wrote up the paperwork for Mrs. Vetter. It’s all I can do.”
London reached down into Miriam’s crib and gently squeezed her big toe. Then she hung her apron and walked out of the crib room.
* * *
Wearing the wool dress of the degenerate and standing on line with the other girls brought in for Manual Training, she was marched out of the large North Building that housed the Sick Ward and down the path toward the dormitory. Just as London had suspected, she had been deemed healthy and was being returned to regular life within the institution. She tried to ignore the ache in her chest as she moved farther from Rose and the babies. She’d be back. Gladys had written up the paperwork, and this place loved its paperwork.
But before she entered the dining hall, Ragno caught sight of her, and the nasty bitch insisted on having the matron called, along with Mrs. Vetter.
London once again found herself in the tiny office-like room in the front of the dormitory, where she’d first arrived and taken the test about fast-moving trains and little girls cut up into pieces. She sat alone, the desk nurse having gone off to fetch Vetter and the matron, leaving her purse hanging on the back of the chair. Ridiculous, London thought, and she briskly relieved the woman of half the money in it. A sawbuck and change, no less. The nurse would think she’d lost it or overspent somewhere. Because what moron wouldn’t take all the money?
It was another five minutes before the nurse returned. In that time, it took every ounce of restraint London had not to steal more money, along with the nurse’s lipstick, just because she could.
Mrs. Vetter assumed command of the chair across from London. She had a file folder in her hand—most likely all the notes they’d taken on London since she’d arrived. London couldn’t help wondering if her baby was in there. She liked the idea of it being written down. Permanently, in ink. The matron and desk nurse did not sit, but stood next to Mrs. Vetter, knowing their place.
“Dear,” began Mrs. Vetter. London could see that the head nurse was angry, and she quickly decided that no matter what this woman said, she would say nothing. Absolutely nothing. If she wanted to help Rose, or see Miriam again, London had to keep her mouth shut.
“First you get yourself in trouble, and now I hear you’ve lost the child. Well, no one can say that it isn’t for the best. God knows, we don’t need another generation of mental defectives.”
London dropped her face to the floor so that the woman wouldn’t catch the hatred burning in her eyes.
“You’re here, dear, so that we may help protect you from your own moral weaknesses. Do you understand?”
London needed to respond. She needed this woman to approve Gladys’s request that London be allowed to work in the Sick Ward. But there was no way she could look up at this woman without telling her to go to hell. Instead she dropped her head even lower, as a sign she understood.
It worked.
“That’s better. Now, be thankful you’re here in Massachusetts. Almost any other state would have you sterilized, as well you should be. Motherhood is a privilege, my dear, not a right.”
The woman took a deep, cleansing breath to transition from her lecture to London’s file. “I had hoped,” she said, filtering through the papers, “that you’d become a finished worker here at the Fernald School. You tested as a high-grade moron upon entry, but I can see now that this is obviously inaccurate, and that Nurse Gamble here”—she nodded toward the standing nurse—“will need to retest you in the next few weeks, and I’m sure it will be proved that in truth you are an imbecile.”
London knew she would be failing this next test, confirming this woman’s assumptions; anything else would bring her trouble.
“Well, we shall make do with what we have, my dear. And in the least, make a rough worker out of you.” She closed the file on her lap, folded her hands on top of it, and now sat looking at London.
The girl stopped breathing. She had vowed to stay quiet. To get back to Rose. And this woman held that decision in her neatly folded hands.
“The truth of the matter is,” continued the head nurse, “we’ve found that imbeciles minister well to their idiot brothers and sisters. I see that Gladys has requested your services, and under her direction I’m sure you’ll find that the Sick Ward’s monotonous round of simple daily avocations will not only keep you from lapsing into idiocy but may end up giving you a sort of happiness and true sense of home.”
London kept her head down. Silence. It could mean anything, but London knew exactly how Mrs. Vetter was taking hers… as an acquiescence. Not that London gave a pig’s pizzle, just as long as she was able to see Rose the next day.
“Wait here for a moment while I speak with the matron and Nurse Gamble. The nurse will schedule your next round of testing, and then you can head up to dinner.”
Mrs. Vetter rose from her chair and exited the office, followed by the matron and the nurse.
They stood a few feet from the door.
“I’m disappointed in your results, Mrs. Gamble,” Mrs. Vetter said. “You must have administered the test incorrectly.” She went on to chastise the nurse within London’s earshot. Nurse Gamble, realizing this, pulled the office door shut.
Left alone with the purse once again, London rolled her eyes, and then quickly stole the lipstick.
Maxine saw London before Alice did. Across the dining room. The need to run to her was overwhelming, and she bobbed in her seat, but it was against the rules to move from the table.
Being London, she went for her dinner first, and then headed for Maxine. It was the longest wait of Maxine’s life. She attempted to determine Rose’s condition by London’s walk toward her… to know her sister was okay from the swing of the girl’s hair, how low her shoulders rested, the speed of her gait.
“I’ve seen her. She’s got a fever. I don’t know how bad it is,” London said, before she even placed her tray down.
A rush of tears came to Maxine’s eyes. Was it relief? Yes. Had she thought that her little sister was dead? She didn’t know. Probably. So many inmates died in Sick Ward. So many.
Her head still aching from fear, she watched London eat her dinner, biting into her bread from the side of her mouth like a dog and chewing with a wide-open mouth. The claps were coming. Dinner was almost over. As hard as it was, Maxine waited for more information.
The claps came. Maxine’s heart fell.
London dumped the last of her soup into her mouth, not bothering with the spoon, wiped her lips with her dress sleeve, burped, and then said, “I’m going back tomorrow. And every day after that. They’ve given me Sick Ward as Manual Training.”
Now Maxine cried. Into her napkin. And then into London’s, since London hadn’t used it. She cried all the way to the day room. Alice walked slowly in front of her in line to shield her from Bessie’s and Ellen’s view. Crying was a sign of weakness, a sign to attack. But they’d be wrong to think Maxine felt weak. Sh
e didn’t. She felt strong. Rose was alive. And London would make sure she stayed that way. She’d bring Rose home.
No. Not home. Back to the dormitory. Maxine would bring Rose home, just as she’d always promised she would.
Never one to hold back, Maxine leaned into Alice and London as they entered the day room, whispering hoarsely, “We’re leaving. As soon as Rose is well.”
She was breathless from these few words, and she teetered some as she made her way through the door. Saying it made it real. No matter that London rolled her eyes. Alice didn’t. In fact, Alice flinched. A beautiful flinch. A joyful flinch. A flinch that had Maxine dreaming before her bum hit the bench. Not about her home in Somerville. Not about her mother coming for them. Not about sitting on those damn couches in the visiting room, but about eloping. All four of them. Together.
She skipped the part about how they’d do it and went straight to the part where they were all living together in a large house. By the sea. Listening to the waves at night in their beds and breathing in the salty air. Maybe they’d even take a swim, come summer when the water was warm. Yes, they were leaving this place. Soon.
* * *
“She needs her stick,” London said.
Rose had now been in the Sick Ward with rheumatic fever for a month. London had heard the diagnosis from the nurses. Rose was red and blotchy and still feverish, but talking, and even eating a little. Maxine loved hearing about the eating. Rose must have been feeling better if she was eating.
“How come they won’t let me work there too, so I can see her?” Maxine asked, though she absolutely knew why she wasn’t allowed to work in the Sick Ward.
“Gotta be an imbecile,” London said, soup dribbling down her chin, “like me.”
The three of them were huddled close at the end of a dining table. Meals were one of the few times when talking was openly allowed.
The Degenerates Page 13