The House of Eve, page 21
“I miss Rucker. What can I say?” Loretta touched her breast pocket.
“You better off reading those boring books over there in the corner.” Bubbles pointed to a bookshelf that I hadn’t noticed. “Take your mind off things for sure.”
Inside one of my bags, I had managed a few small canvases, brushes and a few tubes of paint, all of which I shoved under my cot. My body was suddenly so weary, it felt as if I had walked all the way here from North Philadelphia. I laid down. The girl’s distressing cries continued, and I buried one ear in my pillow and covered the other ear with my hand.
* * *
A bell rang over the PA system that was wired into our attic bedroom. The girls stood, and we all took turns washing our hands and face at the tiny sink against the window and then filed out one by one. In the dining room, Bubbles headed over to the smaller round table that was set for four. There was a breadbasket, and a serving dish of the stew I had smelled when I arrived. Over at the long tables sat blondes, brunettes and one redhead, all of them white. I counted eight girls between the two long tables, plus the four of us girls from the attic room.
Mother Margaret stood in front of the unlit fireplace with her hands clutched in prayer. “Let us bow our heads please. Bless us, O Lord and these, Thy gifts, which we are about to receive from Thy bounty, Through Christ, Our Lord. Amen.”
Spoons clanked against the bowls.
“White people’s food.” Bubbles reached for the salt and pepper shakers without tasting it.
We ate mostly in silence. Bubbles was right; the stew wasn’t very flavorful, no matter how much salt I added, but I was too hungry to care. When we finished, I followed their lead and helped with the cleanup. Some girls went into the kitchen to wash and dry dishes, while others dusted off the chairs and swept the floor. In the kitchen, Bubbles scrubbed the pots clean while Loretta wiped down the stove. Georgia Mae and I collected all the trash, tied up the bags and carried them out to the cans at the back of the house.
When everything was tidy, Bubbles whispered to me, “Brace yourself. Next up is nightly devotion.”
We all filed into the parlor. It had large windows with mahogany wooden beams on the ceiling. There were two stuffed sofas, which I headed for, but Loretta grabbed my arm.
“We sit over there,” she said, pointing to the metal folding chairs set against the wide window.
“The sofa is for the porcelain girls.” Bubbles tapped the inside of her palm.
I looked at her quizzically.
“It’s what I call them ofays.”
As the white girls crammed into the seats of the sofa, I caught her meaning. Mother Margaret walked in holding her Bible to her chest. Two medium-bellied girls distributed the stack of Bibles that were on the coffee table. Only two worn Bibles were handed to us, so I leaned over and shared mine with Georgia Mae.
Mother Margaret dropped the needle on the phonograph and a song played. Georgia Mae opened the hymn book that was under her seat and showed me where we were. I moved my lips over the words as the other girls piped out, “Be not afraid, I go before you always. Come follow me, and I will give you rest.”
After two verses, Mother Margaret turned the music off and fixed her eyes on us.
“Will God forgive me for fornicating before marriage? How can I repent of my sins? Those are the questions you must ask yourself each morning, girls.”
The room fell silent. I looked around to see what the other girls were doing, but their faces were like stone.
Mother Margaret opened her Bible. “Please turn to 1 Corinthians 6:18. Viola, would you read?”
Viola, a girl with blue eyes and dark hair, cleared her throat. “Flee fornication. Every sin that a man doeth is without the body, but he that committeth fornication sinneth against his own body.”
“That means you, girls. You have committed the ultimate sin by giving into the temptation of fornication.” She looked us over and I dropped my eyes. I had spent very little time in church, so I was ill prepared for the religious lecture from Mother Margaret that seemed to go on for ages. When she was satisfied that we had received her message, we were each given two sugar cookies and a glass of warm milk, then sent to bed.
When the lights went out, I pulled my knees up to my chest and wrapped my arms around myself. I was ashamed and scared. What had I gotten myself into? This home was not the girls’ retreat I had read about in the brochure. Still, it was better than ruining my life. I just needed to keep my head down and get this over with.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX TIGER MAMA
Eleanor
Eleanor stood at the sink drying the last of the breakfast dishes with her thoughts on her mother, Lorraine. It had been three weeks since she spoke to her last, and she knew she couldn’t put it off much longer. Even though Eleanor was set on keeping the adoption a secret, lying to her mother about the baby wouldn’t prove easy. But Eleanor reminded herself it was her mother who had taught her the importance of clandestineness for a fresh start. Plus, at least she and William were in this one together.
She had placed the last of the plates in the cupboard and was bracing herself to make the call when she heard a car door close. She looked out the window to see Rose Pride walking up the driveway. Before Eleanor could compose herself, Rose was tapping on the window of their back door.
“Good morning. I wasn’t expecting you today,” Eleanor offered as a greeting, but Rose ignored the formality and breezed past her and into the kitchen.
In one manicured hand, Rose gripped a shopping bag, and in the other a file folder. The peplum jacket and matching skirt suggested she had business to attend to today, and Eleanor felt shabby in her nondescript housedress, with no bra on underneath. Her hair was still fastened in rollers and tucked under a turban.
“William’s already left for the hospital,” she said, with the hope of discouraging a long visit. The kettle was already heated, and she had planned to sip lavender tea, while chatting with her mom. Then she had a few chapters to read on ancient civilization for her history course.
If Rose caught the hint of dismissal, she didn’t show it. Instead, she placed her bag on the kitchen table and opened up the file folder, spreading out papers with diagrams and dates.
“Now, if we are going to pull this off, then we have to be smart about every step you make going forward.”
“Excuse me?” Eleanor’s hand flew to her throat. What was Rose talking about? Surely, she couldn’t be referring to the…
“Since the baby arrives in January, let’s work backwards.”
“William told you?”
“Of course he did. You couldn’t pull this off without me.” She looked at Eleanor pointedly. “I had to jump on cleanup duty immediately. Thank goodness Dr. Avery was your attending doctor, and our families go back three generations.” She reached into her bag and pulled out her reading glasses.
“Oh, and I’m sorry for your unfortunate loss. My William is positively devastated. That’s why I’m here.”
Eleanor was speechless.
“But as my mother used to say, when life gives you lemons you had better learn to juggle. And that’s exactly what Prides do. So, come sit down so I can get you on board.” She gestured for Eleanor to join her at the kitchen table.
William had told his mother when she had explicitly said that she didn’t want anyone to know. What happened to it being the two of them against the world?
“Dr. Avery has assured me that no one from his staff will breathe a word of your unfortunate stay in the hospital. That gives us ample space to forge ahead with the plan.”
“Plan?” She balled her toes in her slippers.
Rose pushed the papers across the table toward Eleanor. She took up the sheets and read. It was an outline of social appearances for Eleanor to make.
“If the baby is going to be born in January, I don’t think you should show up for any engagements after October first.”
Eleanor swallowed hard. It hadn’t even been a full forty-eight hours since they made the adoption decision, and Rose was already taking command.
“It’s a good thing I’m handy with a sewing machine.” Rose reached into the bag and pulled out a nude pillow pad with thin straps. A padding to tie around Eleanor’s waist.
“I also brought you the Lane Bryant catalogue. It’s about the only one where you can get maternity clothes that will conceal your condition and keep you looking smart. I’ve flagged a few styles that will adjust easily for you.” She held up the pamphlet with red tab marks. Rose didn’t wait for her response and continued outlining her plan.
Eleanor would appear at a charity lunch in two weeks at the YMCA but would leave shortly after arriving with the excuse of feeling nauseous. Her final appearance would be at the dinner celebrating the six-month anniversary of Dr. Charles Drew’s untimely death.
“It’ll be a fundraiser to keep his research in blood transfusion alive,” Rose explained.
There, Eleanor would appear long enough for people to see her flowering, but not long enough for meaningful conversation. These two events would give Rose enough ammunition to spread around that Eleanor was having a hard time with the pregnancy and needed to go on bed rest.
“William will make a few dinners without you, and keep the story going. I think it might be wise for you to go up to Ohio and spend a few months with your mother. Out of sight, out of mind. And then come back in time for the delivery.”
“I’m not leaving my home,” Eleanor said, with more bite than she intended. Or my husband.
Rose closed the catalogue. “Well, once folks get busy with the holidays they’ll be minding their own affairs. You will have to miss going to New York for Theodore’s engagement party over Thanksgiving. We can’t risk it.”
Theodore was marrying the daughter of a prominent New York attorney. Her mother was a well-known dancer who taught at Katherine Dunham’s K.D. School of Arts and Research in New York City. Rose’s face always flushed a pretty pink when she spoke of the union.
“I’ve got to run.” She pushed herself to stand. “Lunch at the Whitelaw Hotel to discuss the ABCs fundraiser for underprivileged sharecropping girls in the rural South. In the meantime, start thinking of your color palette for the baby’s room. I’m going to send a carpenter over next week to convert one of the guest rooms into a proper nursery. It’ll be our treat,” she said with a wink.
Rose removed a container of shrimp étouffée and left it on the counter. “It’s William’s favorite, I hope you like it, too.”
“Thank you.” Eleanor forced what she hoped resembled a smile.
When Rose’s car pulled away from the curb, Eleanor felt steam rising in her throat. How could he? In the time they had been married she had never called William at the hospital, but she marched right over to the phone now.
“Elly, everything all right?” he said by way of greeting.
“You told your mother?”
“Told her what?”
“Really, William? Don’t play simple with me. We agreed to keep this a secret.”
“Oh, baby. She’s going to help us through this.”
“You should have asked me first.”
“Please calm down. I didn’t know it would bother you so much.”
“Really, what part of ‘secret’ did you miss?”
He was quiet on the other end. “Can we discuss this when I get home?”
Eleanor slammed the phone down so hard that it fell to the floor. Rage coursed through her as she started yanking her rollers from her hair and then ran her fingernails over her scalp. She wasn’t sure that Rose could be trusted. She had wanted them to annul their marriage, for goodness’ sakes. Who else would Rose tell? Greta’s mother? If William told her this, had he told her about the first miscarriage in Ohio, too?
Eleanor was too hot to call her mother or work on her Ancient Civilization coursework like she had planned. What she craved was fresh air and sunshine on her skin, but she was already worried about running into people. The baby fat was melting from her face and belly like lard in a hot pan. The risk wasn’t worth it. Instead, she moved to the other side of the den and opened a box of records that Mrs. Porter had sent over the week before. Music had a way of soothing Eleanor’s soul, and she sat cross-legged on the floor playing them one after the other, making notations of origin and instruments until her anger had receded a bit.
Once she slipped into the zone, the afternoon passed by swiftly. It wasn’t until she gazed up at the clock that she realized it was almost dinnertime. A few minutes later, she heard the back door creak open. William was early and carried a box from her favorite bakery on T Street.
“Waving a white flag.” He held the box in front of him, with a smile that Eleanor usually found irresistible, but not today.
“William, I thought I had made myself clear. That I didn’t want anyone to know.”
“Baby, I didn’t know you meant my mother.”
“Especially your mother. I told you how she and her friends make me feel. You should have asked me first.” She put her hands on her hips.
“Listen, Elly, I want this as badly as you do. My mother feels the same way. I promise you she will not only keep our secret, but she will help us pull this off. We need her.”
“This is about us, William. Not me, you and your mother.”
Eleanor held out the schedule that Rose had drawn up for her, complete with diagrams of how big her belly should be for each public appearance.
William smirked. “She sure thinks of everything.” He put the paper down and grabbed Eleanor around the waist. “My mother means well, and she will make sure everything goes off without a hitch. I can promise you that. I’ve known the woman all my life.”
Eleanor sighed.
“We are going to bring a baby into our home and love it. That’s all that matters.” He kissed her on the lips and then tugged on her bottom one until she found herself submitting.
“What did you bring me?”
“Open it.”
Eleanor unraveled herself from William’s embrace and pulled the twine from the box. It was a heaping slice of carrot cake.
“If this is going to be convincing, I’m going to need you to put on a little weight.” He tapped her on the backside. “Especially here.”
Eleanor rolled her eyes as she pinched off a piece of cake with her finger. “Mmmm, if this is any indication of what you will be feeding me, I’ll take one for the team.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN FORGIVE US, SINNERS
Ruby
A loud, buzzing alarm blared through the PA system, jolting me awake. It was still dark out. My cold feet slapped against the floor before I fully realized where I was. It only took a few blinks of my eyes for the previous day to flash before me.
“What now?”
Loretta stood at the sink brushing her teeth. “Pad your knees.”
“For what?”
“To scrub the fucking floors.” Bubbles wore dungarees with stained, ripped T-shirts tied around her kneecaps.
I rummaged through my drawer, looking for items of clothing that might do the trick.
“Hurry, the late crew gets stuck with the stair steps, and that’s backbreaking,” Loretta said, cracking open our door.
On the first floor, a few girls were lugging buckets of water. Georgia Mae went into the utility closet and handed out scrub brushes. Loretta’s arms were filled with rags. Each girl took two. Mother Margaret’s footsteps were heavy as she tramped from the kitchen into the parlor, where we all stood at attention. Most girls had their hair tied away from their face and, like Bubbles, had cushioned extra material around their knees.
Mother Margaret raised a megaphone to her lips and called for us to spread out. “Four of you in here, and then two girls to each of the other rooms.”
I dashed behind Bubbles into the lounge as Loretta and Georgia Mae took the long stretch of hallway.
Mother Margaret’s voice continued to loop. “Out there, they call you whores and sluts. Damaged goods. But in here, you can redeem yourself and pay for your sins. On the count of three, recite the Lord’s Prayer like you mean it. One, two…”
Our voices merged in prayer. It felt like I had stumbled into a movie about orphans or badly behaved children.
“Louder. God can’t hear you when you are mumbling.”
The scrub brushes made sloshy, scratching sounds against the floors, while the prayer was called out in unison.
“Not too much water.” Bubbles wrung out her rag in the murky bucket. “More elbow grease.”
I followed her direction. We stayed on all fours, scrubbing and drying, buffing and polishing, while repeating the Lord’s Prayer. It was the one prayer I knew. The one Nene had taught me to say on bended knee at night. I had not uttered it once since moving out of her apartment.
We kept at it for so long that my knees felt tender, my back ached, and I was hungrier than I had been in a long while. Hard labor had not been listed in the brochure.
“Ask God to forgive you for your lustful sins, girls. Your wicked ways. Pledge to him that you will do right by that innocent baby. Save the child from eternal damnation by relinquishing it to married parents who will raise it under the eyes of the Lord.” She paused, then continued. “You are unworthy. Say it.”
“We are unworthy.”
“Forgive us our sins,” she shouted.
“Forgive us our sins,” we called back in voices that sounded off-key and miserable. This went on for what felt like hours, until my lips cracked with thirst.
Finally, Mother Margaret put the bullhorn to her lips and relieved us.
Exhausted, I reached for my bucket, and at the same time it tipped over in my direction. Dirty water splashed over onto the floor, and I blotted it as quickly as I could with my rags.
“Ooops,” mocked a big-boned girl with red acne marks pocking her ivory face.
“Why would you do that?” I whined.
“Keep your mouth quiet or I’ll do worse.” She held a fist at me and then stomped in the puddle, making the mess worse on her way out the door.
