The House of Eve, page 23
“You are unfit to raise a child, Clara. You have no job, no husband and cannot support this baby.”
Clara sighed. “I will not give up my child. It’s my baby—”
“It’s why your mother sent you here. So that you could give this child a real future. Something you are incapable of offering it. You are only sixteen.”
“My boyfriend said—”
“If your boyfriend was planning to marry you, you wouldn’t be here. He’s moved on.”
“But we love each other.”
“Love doesn’t dry the baby in the middle of the night or give it a place to live. Your child deserves more than being a bastard. It deserves two parents who will provide a good home.”
Clara whimpered.
“Clara, please, don’t make this harder on yourself. Sign the papers.”
“I can’t, it’s not right.” Her voice cracked.
“You lost your rights the moment you decided to be a slut and open your legs to that boy in the back of his car.”
The word “slut” seemed to bounce off the walls, echoing in my ears. A minute later, Clara stumbled out of the room, her eyes puffy.
I walked in and sat across from Ms. Jeanne. She wore thick black glasses and a gray blazer over a white blouse. A string of pearls rested at her throat.
“Ruby, how are you doing?”
“I’m fine.” The tiny room smelled like mothballs, reminding me of my grandmother Nene’s trunk where she kept her wedding gown and important papers. I longed for her deep in my bones.
Ms. Jeanne read my information off my file sheet like we were meeting again for the first time.
“You are sixteen years old? Turning seventeen in November?”
I nodded.
“From Philadelphia, carrying a child who is of mixed race, due end of January. When we met last week, you said that you understood why you were here.”
The baby started kicking. I had felt it move every day now, but this time it was different, like a message from within.
“Yes. I understand why I am here.”
The baby stretched along the bottom of my stomach and I couldn’t help rubbing it, letting it know that I was there.
Ms. Jeanne continued talking. It was the same speech each week. Eat well, rest up, pray, don’t forget why I was there, the baby deserved better than me. I gave her a faint smile to acknowledge that I understood.
“Good, glad we are on the same page. I’ll see you next week.” She offered me a butterscotch from a crystal dish on her desk, and then sent me on my way.
* * *
On Tuesdays, we had silent reflection the hour before dinner. We were supposed to find a corner and pray, but I spent my time looking out the window at the trees, watching the squirrels scurry about. I was on my way to the downstairs toilet when I bumped into Bubbles coming through the door that led to the basement.
“What were you doing down there?”
She looked surprised, like I had caught her stealing food after the kitchen was closed. “Just checking the laundry for fresh tablecloths before dinner.”
Her answer didn’t make much sense, but before I could dig deeper, we heard a loud scream.
“Noooooo. Nooooooo.”
Two of the lifers were dragging Clara down the hall. Mother Margaret held a gold cross in her hand, following behind them.
“We had a deal.”
“I changed my mind.”
“Shame!” she bellowed. “It doesn’t work like that.”
“I have rights,” Clara screamed at the top of her lungs.
“The only right you have is twenty-four hours in the shaming room.” Mother Margaret held her cross up to Clara’s face. “O Divine Eternal Father, in union with your Divine Son and the Holy Spirit, and through the Immaculate Heart of Mary, I beg You to destroy the Power of your greatest enemy—the evil spirits of Satan. Banish his hold on this child’s mind.”
Clara’s dress had flown up to her waist, and I could see that her panties were streaked with blood.
Mother Margaret turned and roared at the lot of us who stood watching. “Go find a place to pray, now!”
But I felt rooted in place as the other girls scrambled off. Clara gave a bloodcurdling cry, and then was hurled into the shaming room. When the door slammed and locked in place, Clara banged and shouted like her life depended on it.
“When we meet again, you better be ready to sign those papers,” Mother Margaret snarled and then caught sight of me. “Care to join her, Ruby?”
I backed down the hall and turned into the classroom on shaky legs. When I asked Loretta, she said that no one knew for sure what was on the other side of that door. But from the bone-chilling sounds of Clara’s cries, I knew I never wanted to find out for myself.
* * *
Bleating sirens woke me up before the sun rose, and commotion could be heard downstairs. Loretta walked over to the window and opened the curtains to reveal flashing lights.
I told the other girls I’d try to figure out what was going on—I had experience creeping around from when I lived with Inez, as she didn’t like me moving around after ten o’clock. Said it was bad for her nerves. I tiptoed down to the second floor, where the porcelain girls slept. Two were peeking out the door. When I made it to the first-floor landing, I saw two men dressed in white jackets on opposite ends of an orange stretcher.
“She’s breathing but out cold,” said the burly man to the other.
My heart stopped. Clara. I could see her freckled face and stringy brown hair. I covered my mouth to push back the vomit that had choked up in my throat, then hurried back up, not as quietly as I came.
“What happened?” the girls on the second floor whispered.
“It’s Clara,” I murmured back, then ran the rest of the way to the attic. Bubbles closed the door behind me. When I sank into my cot, I felt like Georgia Mae; the words wouldn’t come out.
“Snap out of it.” Bubbles shook my shoulders. “Tell us.”
“She was being wheeled out on a stretcher. They said she was breathing, but she looked dead to me.”
Georgia Mae moved on one side of me, and then Loretta sat on the other until we were a tight circle.
I didn’t know how much time had passed before the morning bell rang and we filed downstairs. We all picked at our breakfast in silence, knowing that this was yet another secret we’d be forced to keep. The last twenty-four hours had made two things abundantly clear: we young ladies had come to the Gingerbread House to turn over our babies whether we wanted to or not, and Mother Margaret and her heartless crew would stop at nothing to ensure that we surrendered them. The ghosts of Clara’s cries echoed against my ear. I wanted Shimmy to swoop down and bust me out of here. How come he got to go on living his life footloose and I was stuck in here dealing with our consequences? Resentment pooled in the pit of my stomach, and I put down my fork, unable to eat another bite.
CHAPTER THIRTY SOMETHING AMISS
Eleanor
Eleanor had turned off the television and was heading up for bed when her telephone rang. She looked at the clock, sighed and picked up the receiver.
“Hello.”
“Do you have a mother?”
“Mama.”
“Don’t ‘Mama’ me. When was the last time you called home? It’s been a month of Sundays at best.” She tsked her teeth.
Eleanor sank into the settee, blameworthy as charged. “I’m sorry. Things have been happening so quickly I can barely keep up.” I lost the baby, I’m in the middle of an adoption while trying to figure out how to fake a pregnancy.
“Ain’t no excuse. You at least need to check in. Even if it’s only for two minutes so that I know you alive in that big city. Anything could happen to you.”
“Oh, Ma. I’m fine and well.”
“How’s my grandbaby? She must be just a-dancing in your belly by now,” her mother sang, and Eleanor could picture her round cheeks and those deep creases that marked her forehead when she smiled.
“I just can’t wait to hold my first grandbaby in my arms.” The line crackled with the static that was common during their long-distance calls. “I bet she comes out…”—staticky static—“… ooking just like you.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Oh, all the babies in our family look like us. We got strong genes and my people are known to have hair thick as rope. Your daddy’s genes are what softened your hair out a bit,” she chortled over a break of static. “You know he’s hoping for a boy. But I know it’s a girl. I done seen her in my dreams, with a little button nose.”
Eleanor pulled the knitted throw over her lap, swallowing hard. Was the baby she lost the same baby her mother had dreamed about? She shuddered.
Thank goodness, her mother hadn’t required much more than an “uh-ha” and a “you don’t say” to keep her going. The line continued to crackle with bits of static, but Lorraine blabbered on. About the items she had purchased for the baby at the five-and-dime, and how she had all the people in church praying each Sunday and Wednesday for Eleanor to have a safe delivery.
“Now, I know you had two false starts, Sugar, but don’t let that spook you. The third time is most definitely the charm. You hear me?”
Lorraine’s voice was filled with such hope, it further confirmed that Eleanor was right in keeping the secret. She was doing her mother a favor.
“From your lips to God’s ears, Mama. I know you got a pipeline to the man upstairs, and it’s strong as steel.”
“You better believe it.”
They said their goodbyes, and Eleanor folded the throw across the back of the chair and carried herself upstairs. It was late, after ten o’clock. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d gone to bed with William.
He’d been working odd hours and sometimes napped at the hospital so that he could complete his residency on a fast track. His goal was to finish up as close to the baby being born as possible. Or at least that’s what he told her.
Stop it, she chided herself as she fluffed her pillows and climbed into bed. Eleanor hated the voice of doubt that had started creeping from the corners of her mind, haunting her ever since William had taken on more work. How could she doubt him? He had married her despite her defects, forgiven her when he found out that she had been dishonest, and worked long hours to become a doctor so that he could make a comfortable life for them. As much as she enjoyed archiving, it wouldn’t provide a quarter of what William would for their family. But still, she wondered, how much work was there to be done to keep him away for so long? She knew her isolation was partly to blame for her paranoia. She missed her life on Howard’s campus. She was lonely, but deep down she knew that she deserved this bit of penance. Infertility came with a price.
* * *
Rose had arranged to drop by in the morning with a carpenter for the work in the nursery. “This is Bernie,” Rose said as a way of greeting her.
He was a tall man wearing blue overalls and a white long-sleeved T-shirt cuffed at his elbows. His skin was dark, like Swiss chocolate.
“How do you do.” Eleanor rested her hand on her padded belly. She had gotten into the habit of wearing the pads each morning when she got dressed, as a way to bond with the idea of the coming baby.
“Morning, ma’am,” he said, but didn’t make eye contact. Bernie carried a silver toolbox in one hand, and had a heavy belt hanging from his waist.
“Let’s head on up,” Rose said and prompted Eleanor to show them the way to the bedroom.
As Rose walked about pointing out all the upgrades, Eleanor bristled at the financial details that she tossed back and forth with Bernie. It was hard to wrap her head around the amount of money Rose was willing to spend on aesthetics alone. Her own mother had told her that when she was born, they didn’t have money for a crib, so they had used a dresser drawer.
Rose handed Bernie a deposit check. “Well, I’m off.”
Eleanor thanked her and pressed her lips together in what she hoped resembled a smile.
“Nothing’s too good for my grandchild,” she said and then made her way out the door, leaving her signature scent of Chanel No. 5 in her wake.
* * *
Eleanor stood staring at the kitchen cabinets, listening to the commotion coming from the nursery. She was not used to having someone else in the house with her. Besides that one visit from Nadine and Rose’s occasional drop-bys, Eleanor spent her days alone. Should she go up and offer Bernie something to drink? His footsteps echoed overhead as he moved back and forth, and then she heard drilling. After several moments, she decided to leave him be. Mrs. Porter had sent over a book of poems by Phillis Wheatley, and a handwritten foreword signed by John Hancock that Eleanor had been looking forward to sinking into. The book was even earlier than the collection of Wheatley’s that William had gifted her when they were courting. It had been so long since he had requested a bedtime story from her, and she missed that easy time between them. She made herself comfortable in the den and was halfway through the book when she heard Bernie’s footsteps on the stairs. She stood, touched her pads and met him in the kitchen.
“All done for today. Be back in the morning.”
“Sounds good. Thank you.”
Eleanor watched him walk out the back door with his toolbox. His shoulders were erect, and he held his head high. She recognized it as the Negro man’s pride. Her own father carried himself the same way. She had assumed that he had a car outside, but as she watched from the window, she saw he was marching down her street. She wondered where he might live, and what type of life was awaiting his return.
After his first day, Bernie reported to work every morning at eight a.m. sharp, and that forced Eleanor out of bed and through her morning ritual without giving her the time to feel sorry for herself. Bernie preparing the nursery for their upcoming baby reminded Eleanor to focus on the blessing of it all.
On the third day Bernie worked upstairs, Eleanor was taking a home test in the den when she heard him singing. She put down her pencil and listened. The tune was so unlike anything she’d heard, but somehow it seemed familiar. Then it dawned on her: it was music that she had come across in her archiving. Before she thought it through, her feet carried her upstairs.
“Sorry to interrupt.” She stood in the doorway. Bernie was up on a ladder, removing the light fixture from the ceiling. “Are you singing Big Drum music?”
Bernie looked down at her, surprised. A waxy sheen of sweat covered his face. “How’d you know a thing like that?”
“I’m an archivist at the library at Howard University. I’ve been helping my boss secure music, books and artifacts from across the African diaspora.” She beamed proudly. She wasn’t just some privileged housewife.
Bernie climbed down the ladder slowly.
“How do you know it?” She rested her back against the doorframe. Dust was everywhere and the room smelled of wood shavings.
“I am from Grenada.”
“I should have guessed,” she said, though she only knew a few West Indian students at Howard. “How long have you been in the States?”
“Nearly eight years. Come here at seventeen.”
“How do you like it?”
“Depends on the day.” He climbed back up the ladder, dangling a sheer light fixture that was shaped like a white cloud.
“Well, I’ll be downstairs in the den. Let me know if you need anything.” She backed out of the room.
As the days passed, Eleanor was surprised by how easy conversations flowed between her and Bernie. They had discussed his culture and music at every passing, and by his second week at the house, she felt comfortable bringing a Big Drum record up to the nursery.
“Would you like to hear something I’ve found?” she asked, clutching the record to her chest.”
“If it’s not too much trouble.”
Eleanor stepped into the room. Bernie stopped hammering the shelves in place on the wall. In just the few days he’d been working she could see the baby’s room starting to take shape.
Eleanor put the record on the player and then remembered that it was more proper for her to take the only seat in the room.
“What do you think?”
“Sound like Carriacouan, funeral music. Something we play when honoring the dead,” he said, his accent growing thicker. Bernie went on to explain the instruments that she heard and what part each played. They were so deep in analyzing the music that when she heard William call her name from downstairs she jumped.
“Excuse me.” She stood abruptly. “My husband is home.” She picked up the record, tucked it in her bedroom and then met William in the hall at the top of the stairs.
“Hello, my darling wife,” William said, pulling her into his arms.
“It’s so good to see you.” Eleanor snuggled against him. Their time had been so limited lately. William was only home for a few hours at a time, often coming in the middle of the night to shower, change, catnap, and when she woke in the morning he was already gone. Eleanor hadn’t realized how badly she had ached for him until she put her nose into his neck and smelled his skin.
“How come you didn’t let me know you were coming home early? I would have made supper.”
“Baby, tonight’s the Dr. Drew memorial fundraiser.”
It was one of the events Rose had put on her appearance calendar. “Goodness, I guess I’ve mixed up the days,” Eleanor said, over the hammering that started pounding from the nursery.
“Ah, the nursery. I haven’t had a chance to peek my head in there. Best if I go in and introduce myself.”
Eleanor followed William down the hall and into the bedroom. William extended his soft hand and shook Bernie’s calloused one.
“Nice to meet you,” William said, smiling. “Looks like you’ve got your work cut out for you in here.”
“You’ve got a house with good bones, sir. No trouble at all.” Eleanor had always thought of William as tall, but she couldn’t help but notice how much taller Bernie was.
