Necessary Lies (10 page)

It had been an overwhelming day. We’d seen a little boy, his belly bloated from malnutrition. We drove a baby with a raging fever to the hospital because we couldn’t reach the public health nurse. And we found one of our clients, a blind man, unconscious on the floor at the foot of his stairs. Who knew how long he’d been there? I shuddered to think what would have happened to him if we hadn’t visited him today. I’d never felt so desperately needed.

Now we were going to visit the Hart family, and Charlotte had been telling me about them as we drove.

“Ivy and Mary Ella’s father, Percy, was killed in a farming accident when they were small and their mother, Violet, was committed to Dix Hospital,” she said as she drove slowly along the road. “She was a schizophrenic who decompensated after her husband’s death. The girls have been cared for by their grandmother ever since, but she’s marginal herself.”

I tried to imagine myself ever using such jargon so easily.

“Mary Ella was kicked out of school when she became pregnant at fourteen,” Charlotte said. “Once they’re pregnant, that’s the end of their education.”

“Fourteen!” I said.

“Fifteen when she delivered.”

“Who’s the baby’s father?” I asked.

Charlotte hesitated. “I doubt even Mary Ella knows,” she said. “I have my suspicions but that’s all they are. Mary Ella’s blond as blond can be, but the baby’s got very dark, very curly hair. His skin is fair enough, though. He’ll be able to pass.”

“Oh,” I said, taking that in.

“Don’t put anything like that in your notes,” she warned. “The last thing that girl needs is for people to think she’s had relations with a colored boy, and a lynch mob would find out which one it was, you better believe it. Or they’d make a guess, which could be even worse. I didn’t even mention my suspicions to the Eugenics Board.”

“The Eugenics Board? For her, too? Are they going to sterilize her?”

“They already have,” she said. “She’s feebleminded. IQ of seventy. But she doesn’t know about the sterilization. Her grandmother and I agreed it was best to tell her she was having her appendix out.”

My mouth dropped open and Charlotte glanced over at me. “Sometimes you have to come up with creative ways of helping people, Jane,” she said.

“But it’s so … dishonest,” I said.

“It’s actually a kindness. You’ll realize that soon enough. She can only understand so much, and she absolutely can’t handle another child. She’s out of control and I worry Ivy’s starting to follow in her footsteps. Mary Ella’s very pretty and Ivy’s a little plainer and she’s a big girl. Not overweight, but not lithe, like her sister.”

I instantly related to Ivy. I knew what it was like to be the “plainer” sister.

“Ivy’s still in school,” Charlotte said, “and my goal—now
your
goal—will be to keep her there till she finishes. The main thing is to prevent her from having a baby of her own because that’ll put an end to her education.”

“Is Ivy … feebleminded, too?” I asked. I’d rarely used that word.

“Her IQ’s about eighty,” Charlotte said. “Low, but not feebleminded, which is a shame because it would make it easier to petition the Eugenics Board on her behalf.”

“You plan to sterilize her, too?” I asked.

Charlotte nodded. “She has petit mal epilepsy, although I don’t believe she’s had any seizures in recent years. But the low IQ score plus the epilepsy plus behavioral problems give us plenty of ammunition. I haven’t put the petition together yet. That will be up to you. You always want to ask yourself what chance a child would have growing up in a particular household. If it’s no chance at all, you have the Eugenics Board to turn to.”

“You’ll tell me how to do it? The petition?” I wondered if I’d have to lie to another girl about an appendectomy. I hoped not.

“Of course. Now don’t get ‘eugenics happy,’” she warned.

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, there are some social workers—one in our own office—who find reasons to sterilize their entire caseloads.” She laughed. “That’s a slight exaggeration, but only slight. It can be abusive. So always ask yourself if you have the client’s best interest at heart.”

I nodded, wondering which of the social workers in our office was “eugenics happy.” Probably Gayle, I thought. She seemed like such a sourpuss. I doubted Fred saw many clients and I couldn’t imagine the word “abusive” ever applying to that bubbly, cheerful Paula.

Now we skirted the tobacco field, driving past the Jordans’ house and down the narrow dirt lane that ran between the field and the woods. Charlotte turned onto a sandy lane that ran only a short way into the woods before ending. There wasn’t a building in sight. I turned to look behind us and saw trees and the tobacco field beyond, but I couldn’t even see the Gardiners’ white farmhouse from where we sat. “Why are we stopping?” I asked, as she gathered up her briefcase and purse.

“They live a little ways from here,” she said. “There’s no road.” She looked down at my feet. I had on my black pumps. “You’ll have to get some more sensible shoes.” She pointed to the heavy black shoes she wore. “You don’t want to step in a cow patty with those pretty things on.”

“A cow patty?”

“That’s—”

“I know what it is. I just didn’t realize that would be a risk.” I laughed.

“You need a sense of adventure for this job.”

“I can see that.”

I picked up my own light briefcase with its one notepad inside and followed her out of the car. From the trunk, we lifted a couple of bags of donated clothing we’d picked up that morning from a church. Then we set out on a path that ran through the woods, the trees and vines so thick that sunlight only penetrated the canopy here and there. I couldn’t imagine walking through these woods alone. We came to an open pasture, a couple of cows at one end.

“Watch where you step,” Charlotte cautioned me.

I hoped the cows would always be at the other end of the field. What would I do if I arrived here one day and had to walk past those huge animals? I’d never been much of a country girl.

Once we crossed the pasture, we were back in the woods again. The ground was uneven and my legs ached by the time an old unpainted wooden house, nearly identical to the Jordans’, came into view. We walked into a dirt clearing, chickens scampering out of our way, and climbed the one step to a lopsided porch. Charlotte knocked on the open door. “Mrs. Hart?” she called.

“We’re here!” a voice shouted from the woods behind us, and we turned to see a teenaged girl running from the greenery, a little boy clutched under her arm like a football. She set him down on the packed earth and he started running in our direction on wobbly legs, giggling, his dark curly hair bouncing. William, I guessed. “I just finished up at the barn,” the girl said. “Nonnie’s right behind me.” She looked into the woods toward the path, then back at Charlotte. “We been waitin’ for you,” she said.

“Have you, now,” Charlotte said, as we set the bags on the porch. “Why is that, dear?”

“We need diapers and clothes and a window fan.” The girl spoke to Charlotte but her gaze had moved to me, clearly curious.

The little boy had reached us and he banged his palms against Charlotte’s legs.

“Hello, William!” She bent over and lifted him high in the air and he laughed. A string of drool hung from the corner of his mouth, threatening to fall onto Charlotte’s face, and she lowered him just in time. “How’s my boy?” she asked, trying to nestle him in her arms, but he squirmed to get down and she lowered him to the ground again, where he took off after one of the chickens. I couldn’t imagine myself in Charlotte’s role. She was so comfortable in it. So
mature.
Playing with the toddler like she’d known him all her life. Calling the girl “dear.” I was only seven years older than this girl, much closer in age to her than to Charlotte.

“This is Mrs. Forrester,” Charlotte said.

Ivy nodded at me. “Ma’am,” she said.

“Hello, Ivy,” I said. “I’m happy to meet you.”

“Is Mary Ella inside?” Charlotte asked. “We knocked but there was no answer.”

“No, ma’am. She’ll be home soon, I’m sure.”

“William!” Charlotte called to the little boy as she pulled a lollipop from her purse. I was going to have to get a supply of those lollipops for myself.

William ignored her and I wondered about his hearing. Charlotte had told me he wasn’t “reaching his developmental milestones.” She was concerned he wasn’t being properly cared for and that we needed to keep a close eye on him to be sure he was safe. She said we might have to consider a foster home for him. “And when he’s old enough,” she’d added, “I’d like to see him in a residential school for the feebleminded, where he could reach his full potential. That won’t happen at home.”

Now Charlotte sat down on the stoop. “William,” she tried again. “Come see what I have for you.”

“William, you get over here!” Ivy said sharply. “Mrs. Werkman’s trying to talk to you.” To me she said, “He’s good but sometimes he’s a mite ornery.”

I nodded with a smile.

Ivy caught the little boy by the shoulder and prodded him in Charlotte’s direction.

“Look what I have for you, William,” Charlotte said, holding the red plastic-wrapped lollipop toward him.

William grinned at the sight of the candy. He had a bobbing little walk as he approached her. He was the cutest child I’d ever seen. His hair was thick and dark and curly, shiny as silk. His skin was definitely darker than Ivy’s, but I never would have guessed he had Negro blood just from looking at him.

As she’d done with Rodney Jordan, Charlotte held the lollipop out of his reach. “What is this, William?” she asked.

He looked back at Ivy. “It’s a lollipop,” Ivy said.

“Let him answer, dear,” Charlotte said.

“He won’t,” she said. “He still don’t talk.”

“What color is this lollipop, William?” Charlotte asked.

William stuck out his lower lip and I knew he was going to cry any second. Seeing the tears welling up in his eyes made me want to rip the lollipop from Charlotte’s hand and give it to him. I was relieved when she unwrapped the candy and handed it to him. “Don’t run with it,” she said. “You sit right here to eat it.”

Charlotte looked up at Ivy, who stood a few feet away from me, her arms locked behind her back. “Does he have any words at all?” she asked.

“He says ‘mama’ to Mary Ella. And he calls me ‘Ibie’ sometimes, and he sort of says ‘Nonnie.’ He’s real happy, though. And he’s good, most of the time. Sometimes he gets flustrated and lets out a wail, but mostly he’s quiet.”

“Uh-huh,” Charlotte said. I could tell she wasn’t happy with the answers.

“Nonnie said her brother didn’t talk till he was five and then he didn’t never shut up,” Ivy added.

“Uh-huh,” Charlotte said as she lifted up the edge of William’s dirty white shirt. “How long has he had this rash, Ivy?” she asked.

“What rash?”

“Here.” Charlotte held up his shirt and Ivy peered at William’s side before he started fussing and pushed their hands away.

“That must of just happened,” Ivy said. “Ain’t seen it before. Diaper rash, maybe?”

“Not on his back,” Charlotte said. “Maybe we can get you something to put on that.”

“That’d be good,” Ivy said, but her eyes were on the bags. “Did you bring us something?” she asked.

“I have some clothes for you and Mary Ella and William,” Charlotte said.

I heard a twig snap in the woods and Ivy turned and took a few steps toward the path. “Nonnie!” she called. “Mrs. Werkman and another lady are here!”

Charlotte got to her feet, dusting off the back of her slacks as a woman emerged from the trees, leaning heavily on a cane. Charlotte leaned over and whispered to me, “It’s important to talk to the parent or guardian alone. She needs to feel free to say whatever’s going on with the children.”

“Hello, hello!” The woman smiled at us, though it must have taken some effort because she was obviously in pain. She was overweight and missing a couple of her bottom teeth. You could tell by looking at her that she was overwhelmed by her life, and I felt sorry for her. “Good seein’ you, Mrs. Werkman,” she said. “Who’s this?”

“Ivy,” Charlotte said, “why don’t you take the bags in the house and look through them while we chat with your grandmother.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Ivy picked up the bags, one in each arm, and called to William to follow her into the house.

“You brung them some clothes?” the grandmother asked.

“Yes. Not sure they’ll fit. I believe Ivy’s grown quite a bit just in the few weeks since I was here last.”

“They all growin’ like weeds,” the woman said. She was eyeing me the same way Ivy had a few minutes earlier. She tucked a strand of her thin gray hair behind her ear. “So tell me who’s this child?” she asked.

Oh Lord. She called me a child. I would be forty before anyone thought of me as a capable woman.

Charlotte pointed to a few mismatched lawn chairs under an oak tree. “Let’s sit in the shade, shall we?”

We walked to the chairs, the grandmother limping the whole way. “This rheumatism gonna be the death of me.” She lowered herself into one of the rusty old chairs with a groan. “If the sugar don’t get me first,” she added.

“Do you have enough Bufferin?” Charlotte asked.

The woman gave her a tired look. “For all the good it do, which ain’t much. If it wasn’t for trying to hold this house together, I’d ask the good Lord to take me, I swear.” She nodded toward me. “What’s your name, honey?” she asked.

“This is Mrs. Forrester. Mrs. Forrester, I’d like you to meet Mrs. Hart.”

I nodded. “Happy to meet you,” I said. “I’ll be taking Mrs. Werkman’s place.”

The woman’s face fell. Every cell in her cheeks and chin literally sagged with her disappointment.
“No,”
she said. “That can’t be. You need to keep on with us,” she said to Charlotte. “You been with us since Violet got took away. You know everything there is to know about—”

“I know it must be a surprise,” Charlotte said, “but I’m moving into another position in the department. It’s time for some new blood to—”

“No,” Mrs. Hart said again. “She can’t take over. She’s nothing but a baby!” I heard the worry in her voice and knew it was time for me to speak up with some confidence.