© Judith St. King 2016
Print ISBN: 978-1-48358-678-6
eBook ISBN: 978-1-48358-679-3
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
About the Author
JUDITH ST. KING IS A LICENSED CLINICAL SOCIAL WORKER IN BOTH California and Michigan. She is director of Women’s Personal Growth & Therapy, P.C., in Okemos, Michigan. Currently she specializes in couples counseling, PTSD, and behavioral additions. Prior to her counseling career she practiced as a Registered Nurse. She wrote her first short story, a mystery, while in fourth grade. She acquired a GED after dropping out of high school at age fifteen. After that she went on to acquire a GED, three Master’s Degrees and a Ph.D. in psychology. She is recipient of Lansing Community college distinguished Alumni Award, 2006.
As a child Judith St. King lived near a state hospital for the mentally ill and interacted with many residents, including Emily, a fictionalized character in her novel. She was moved to write the novel Incomplete Diary of Good and Evil from personal experiences with cultural bias and incompetency. Additionally, she has written Somehow I Found Myself in Her Bed. She has a cozy mystery soon to be published, as well as, a self-help book to help women recognize a potential abusive partner in advance of commitment.
Cover Art
By
Laura Langley, MFA
Acknowledgements
WRITING THIS NOVEL WAS NOT DONE IN A VACUUM. I NEED THE HELP OF several friends and family members. They are truly special and patient people to read not one draft, but the second and third.
First I wish to thank my daughter Laura Langley for reading and rereading every early attempt. She helped me sort out spiritual meaning along with character development. Without that every element would be flat.
Nicole McBride gave valuable input. Not only did she encourage me, but has shared her hard efforts in return. I consider her extremely talented.
Tamara Noe read each page and supported me as I struggled. She gave valuable feedback on the differences between various rewrites.
Lisa Jackson was positive and enthusiastic thus giving me more energy to persevere.
Ruth Charles Edwards took time from her busy schedule to read and edit.
Melissa Lucken, Lansing Community College professor who is a caring, encouraging, and talented person. She is by far one of the best professors I’ve experienced in my arduous journey.
Erin Bartels was patient and persistent in editing. I truly appreciate her willingness to share.
Dedicated to my daughter Laura Langley
Person Extraordinaire Who Shared This Journey
And
Grandson
Caleb James Marshall Stevens
A Beautiful Light in the World
And his mother
Jennifer Mamie Marshall
A Gentle Soul
Incomplete Diary of Good and Evil
GROWING UP A HALF BLOCK FROM AN INSANE ASYLUM MEANT THAT LIFE was quietly confusing. It seemed safe enough, partially because all the crazy people were locked up and partially because my neighborhood was nestled in the bucolic bosom of lush cherry farms, lazy rivers, and rolling hillsides. When they weren’t arguing, my parents were happy enough, as far as that goes. Even my manic depressive neighbor was nice.
Everything changed in the summer of 1946. That summer, one after another, three people disappeared from my life.
And so did a big part of me.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter One
April, 1946
I’M WALKING IN THE MEADOW, CHEWING ON THE END OF A STRAND OF prairie grass near Asylum Creek, so called because it winds around the state hospital for the insane, and to my surprise Helen wanders into view.
What’s she doing here? She should be locked up! How did she get out? What do I do?
I’m frozen for a moment. Before this I’ve only seen her through a chain linked asylum porch. This is scary. My heart beats hard.
She’s an inmate! She doesn’t belong on the outside!
“Helen?” My voice trembles with the effort to speak.
“Hello, my child,” she says in her slightly haughty manner. She smiles just enough to expose her toothless mouth. “I’m looking for Princess Margaret.” Helen looks like always, her long gray hair cascading around her wrinkled face and onto her shoulders as she lifts her chin. “I must find her. She must be playing a hiding game with me. Have you seen her?”
“No.” It takes a moment to correct myself, thinking to sneakily lead her back to her home. “Maybe, yes maybe I did.” I pause, guessing at what might interest her. “Is she wearing her princess tiara?”
“Yes! Yes, she is. Take me to her post haste!” Ah yes, Helen’s style. Require obedience. Feeling more confident I put my hand toward her as an invitation. “Here, I’ll take you to her.”
She doesn’t take my hand but does step closer. I start toward the alley way leading back toward the hospital and hear her shuffle, a close step behind me. When the inmate cottages appear though the trees Helen says, “Is that where you saw her, dearie?”
“Yes, I think near that building.” My hand shakes as I point toward the women’s cottage.
I’m not certain, but I think I can walk her over to her residence, the cottage where my mother works. My mother, who is a practical nurse, says that Helen really believes what she tells me, but that it is all an invention of her mind. It’s a delusion.
I really don’t care right now as it’s important to get her back to the asylum and safe.
Helen turns away from the direction I’m leading her. “I don’t think so, dearie. She’d go that way! Over near those barns. The princess likes horses,”
“No,” I say thinking fast. “I’m really I saw her over here. Follow me.”
Her weathered face reddens. “I know the Princess! You don’t! You’re nothing but a servant girl! Do you want a whipping?” She raises her right hand.
I don’t know what to do except run toward my mother’s cottage.
“Helen’s out! Helen’s out!”
Where is everybody? I stop and glance back. What’s Helen doing?
She’s changed direction, headed for the dairy farm. I don’t want to lose sight for fear she’ll get lost so I straighten myself up and follow. But if I get too close she might hurt me when she doesn’t find Princess Margaret. And it’s certain she won’t. If only there were some adult around, a grounds keeper or another patient, perhaps one with ground parole.
Maybe Mr. Golfer is nearby ready to practice his tee shots. Maybe Eddie is sitting in our favorite elm tree.
I look around. No. Think, Janie, think.
Helen has disappeared behind the administration building. I run until I spot her.
“Helen,” I shout. “Nurse Webster says she’s inside with Princess Elizabeth. Tea is being served. Princess Margaret is waiting for you.”
Helen turns around and waves. “I’ll be right there.” She walks away from me.
I make a turn and run into the administration building. A secretary is walking in the hall. “Hurry! Helen has escaped. She’s right outside!”
“Oh yes,” she says, her voice quiet and calm. “I had a call that Helen has walked off. She’s done this before. We’ll find her.” She waves her hand toward the door. “Go on home now. We’ll manage. I’ll send security guards.”
“But I’m worried.”
“No, nothing to worry about. Go on home now or I’ll have to call your mother.”
I leave the building, torn between disobeying and doing as I’m told. Helen could get really lost, just like my friend Rhonda did last year. Of course, that was at the fairgrounds and Rhonda isn’t crazy, so I guess that doesn’t count.
But I need to make certain they find Helen.
A couple of guards are walking around the farm buildings. I’ve talked to one of them before on my many trips to visit the women in the cottage. He waves and calls, “Hey Janie. You visiting the cows?”
“Yes! And looking for Helen too.”
“Okay, but watch your step! And don’t worry. We’ll find her. We always do.”
Good news. He’s not going to shoo me home. It seem like the best thing for me to do is scan the area and think like Helen. She has a goal and that’s to find a princess. I look around. Is there anywhere that looks like a princess might go? Off in the distance, high on a hill is a very large house that overlooks the hospital grounds. Maybe she’s gone in that direction. I’ll follow that idea. At least it’s a plan.
Helen is shuffling up the road. My guess is that her destination is the old mansion and it’s within shouting distance. Helen’s face is sweaty, her face gray, and she breathing hard from the effort put forth to climb the steep gravel road. There’s a tree stump at the end of the drive.
“Come Helen, let’s sit down. I’ll get help and we can go have tea with the princess.”
This time, she takes my outstretched hand. She seems too tired to resist. I guide her to the tree stump.
“Here, sit here.”
I keep my gaze on her as I run to the stranger’s door and knock. The elderly owner says he’ll call the hospital and get us a ride. He joins Helen and me to wait.
I’m happy I followed my heart and found Helen, but am I in deep trouble?
Both my parent’s lecture me about how adults are in charge for a reason. Adults tell me to follow what they say because they are responsible to keep a child safe. If an adult says, ‘go home,’ that means go home, unless some stranger says to come with him, of course.
“But it turned out well,” says Mom. “I’m happy you found and took care of Helen.”
My parents and I sit in the living room and listen to the Sammy Kaye Show. My mother reclines on our royal blue sofa near the piano and my father in his wingback chair next to our console radio. When the show is over my normal routine is to kiss my parents good-night and head off to bed. Tonight, however, Mom tells me to wait a moment and scurries into the bedroom.
Dad stretches, turns down the radio, uncrosses his legs, and leans toward me. “I wonder what she’s up to?” he says loudly in a mock whisper as my mother saunters back into the living room.
“You might like to keep a record of the exciting events of your life or new thoughts and ideas. I had one when I was small. Heaven knows where it is now, probably in one of those trunks. Anyway it doesn’t matter. Since you are living this exciting life, this is a way to record it. It’s for you. From me and Dad.”
It’s a thin, red, spiral, notebook with Janie’s Diary printed on the front. I can’t stop smiling as I flip through the pristine white pages. I imagine my thoughts all written there. I hug both of them. I hurry up the stairs to my room, put on my pajamas, and hop onto the bed.
The blue ink of the first word contrasts against the white sheet on page one.
April 7, 1946
Dear Diary,
My name is Janie Webster. I’m in fifth grade. I live in town now because we moved from Mr. Golfer’s farm where my dad worked during the war. Sometimes I miss the farm, the horses, and the cherry trees. We were all happier then.
My best friend is Eddie and also Rhonda and Marylou. Eddie doesn’t have any family like me. I’m so lucky to have a real home and parents. My mother is Mattie and my father is Bill. I am going to be a nurse just like my mother, except I’m going to attend college and be a head nurse. I helped Helen today. She lives in the asylum because she is crazy.
It’s really hard not to tell people what I really think, so I’ll tell you.
It bothers me that I lied to Helen, but it was a good lie, so maybe it’s not a sin. I don’t think it was. But is there such a thing as a good sin?
Janie
“Just a lecture? That’s it?” Eddie says. He tips his head to one side. “Well, you did find her. And it wasn’t like it was your mom or dad that said to go home. Actually you did good, Janie. Real good.”
“I think so too.”
With that Eddie waves his arms like a large, lumbering bird soaring into the heavens.
“Freedom!” he shouts. “That’s what we want! Helen and me!” Then he runs and waves his arms up and down.
Usually I run faster than Eddie, but today his energy has him leaping way ahead of me, tromping across the dried prairie grass with bits of early green crabgrass coming through. Irritated to be left so far behind I yell, “Wait! Slow down!”
Surprisingly Eddie stops and turns around to start back toward me. Using the same arm flapping ritual he quickly closes the distance between us, thunders by then stops two steps beyond me as though he couldn’t get his brakes on early enough. His arms rise over his head momentarily lifting the back of his too small jacket. Flashes of a yellow tinged bruise emerge inches above his waist.
I pretend not to see it. It’s best. Eddie wouldn’t like it. Adults don’t like it either. Grownups say they want to know everything but they don’t really like it much when a kid does say something. Like when I asked my mom why Dad wasn’t speaking to her. The whole question hung in the air sort of stinky.
So, what do I do? Nothing? That doesn’t seem right either. But what? Something. Like with Helen. Maybe something is better than nothing.
Eddie’s faded yellow jacket bounces across open acres that edge our neighborhood. The smell of new grass permeates the freshness of spring air. I tromp into the path that Eddie has created. Dried grass crunches beneath my tennis shoes and slows me as I struggle to catch up with him. Flickers of auburn curls bobble around his head as he dashes across the butterfly field toward Asylum Creek that borders the back of my house and winds around the State Hospital grounds.
Eddie’s my best friend since he moved into the foster home last year. Being a new kid and a poor one with no real family makes him the kid that most other kids avoid. Even so, I like him in a special way, like maybe if I had a brother. I’m glad I have a mom and dad even though they argue a lot. I pray and pray that they will stop fighting.
The Belcher foster house is on the corner. An old gray mansion with a round tower faces the street right across from the insane asylum. Three other kids, Bobby, John, and Lester also live there, but they are older, like fifteen or sixteen. Eddie’s the youngest kid. He’s twelve, almost two years older than me, but in the same grade. I think he’s in the same grade because his parents died and maybe he missed a lot of school that year.
We stop at the edge of Asylum Creek. The small stream bubbles across layers of stones. Stones I like to collect. “Listen Janie. I hear something.”
Eddie’s gaze moves from my face to something behind me. Placing his right forefinger to his lips, he drops his voice to a whisper. He has a habit of switching from one thing to another. Eddie’s left hand grasps my arm.
“Listen.” Eddie moves his right finger to my lips to shush me. I twist my arm free, but stay quiet. Eddie’s eyes sparkle with excitement. It is clear he sees something. He continues to stare over my left shoulder.
“Stay still. It’s behind you.” Pointing past my shoulder, he whispers. “Here, turn quietly and look.” Eddie takes my shoulders and slowly turns me toward the direction he has been pointing. “Look, see that rabbit? I think she’s a mom on high alert. Maybe she has a nest. See?”
“Where?”
Eddie points but I see nothing but grass.
“There isn’t anything there.” I shrug.
Eddie is frowning. It’s clear he is disappointed in my failure. My stomach sinks. This is a true reversal of how our relationship works. Eddie drops his arm and steps backwards into the water. “It doesn’t matter,” he mutters. “Let’s go. I don’t want to scare her. We can come back later.”
I try again, but there but there is only tall thick grass. I do see two large spiders, but that’s all. I want to point out the spiders, but find Eddie’s already turned away.
“Let’s go over to the asylum and visit Helen.” I want to play like usual with me leading so I take off toward the alley behind my house, only a half-block from Eddie’s place. Just as I had hoped, Eddie joins me as I reach the corner where the alley ends behind his foster home and across from the insane asylum.
A flicker of movement jars me to a stop. Mr. Belcher’s tall, skinny frame is outlined against the porch door.
“Eddie, you haven’t finished cleaning your room!”
Eddie freezes for a moment, his face expressionless. “Ya, I did,” he mutters.
He slowly steps toward Mr. Belcher and away from me.
“Gotta go, Janie.” His voice is more sigh than words. His shoulders slump.
Eddie ducks his head when Mr. Belcher reaches forward to take his shoulder and move him inside the house. The lump in my throat is bigger right now than when my parents yell at each other. Turning toward our original destination I glance back long enough to view the dark tower of the Belcher home looming in the quivering shadow of an elm.
Chapter Two
April, 1946
“LOTS OF PURPLE SILK AND VELVET.” HELEN MUTTERS TO HERSELF AS SHE steps onto the asylum’s enclosed porch and seats herself in a wicker chair.
The porch is enclosed top to bottom with chain link fencing. After skipping up each of the steps toward the encircled porch I grab onto the chain links to peer closer. Her faded blue eyes seem slightly empty like a dark pond. She frantically bobs her head.
“You’re that little servant girl, aren’t you?”
I find it easy to smile back and wait for her usual banter. After all she’s locked in now, like she should be.
She raises her chin a bit. “I’m the favorite nanny to both of them.”
I lower myself to a sitting position on the top step to listen but Helen’s story is interrupted by the scuffing of soft slippers. Nurse Miller, a co-worker of my mother is supporting another woman onto the porch.
“Here Emily, that chair just in front of you it’s only a few more steps.”
Even though I visit this porch about two times a week, I haven’t seen this patient before.
Like a lot of the other female inmates, Emily is wearing a cotton flowered dress that hangs over her like a loose robe, almost touching the floor. Emily shuffles forward, her knees bent, leaning on Nurse Miller. She’s staring straight ahead. Her face is expressionless.
“Hi!” I say in my friendliest voice. It’s really important to be helpful. When I’m all grown up and an adult I hope to be the best person I can be. Just like Mom says the key to life is to be of service.
Emily says nothing. She stares into space, her brown hair limp, falling straight down to touch the top of her shoulders.
“Good job,” says Nurse Miller placing Emily in an oversized wicker chair. “Sit here. I’ll be back to take you in later.”
Emily sits in a way that makes her brown dress twist cock-eyed across her waist, lap, and legs.
Nurse Miller nods at me as she brushes off her uniform. “Hi, Janie, this is Emily. She needs visitors so it would be nice for you to chat with her. Okay?” She doesn’t wait for an answer before bustling back through the open door.
It feels very grown up to be asked to help a crazy person
“Hi Emily, I’m Janie Webster. My mother is a nurse here, just like Nurse Miller. Do you know her? She is Mrs. Webster, Mattie Webster.”
Emily turns her head toward me, but otherwise doesn’t move or say anything. Her eyes are dull and lifeless like those in an old worn out porcelain doll. I grip the cold metal links of the fencing with more force.
“I like to come and talk to everyone who lives here. I want to be a nurse when I grow up. That way I can help people, just like my mother.”
It’s best to keep talking.
“When you start feeling better you can get permission to come outside and walk around the flower gardens. The lilacs smell real sweet and if you like, I’ll walk with you. My friend Eddie will come with us if it’s okay. I think you’ll like him. Most likely he’ll come next time. I also have a friend Marylou and sometimes she’ll come with me. We could all picnic.”
My enthusiasm seems to work as Emily gives a slight bob of her head. I take this as a sign that I’m doing a good job. My practice of talking to others on the porch and my experience with Helen makes a difference.
“Do you like golf? Mr. Golfer practices his golf here almost every day. If you keep watching someday you will be able to see him. He is usually over there.” I point toward my favorite elm tree. “Right there just in front of the creek. My friend Eddie and I take turns being his caddy. Mr. Golfer’s not his real name, its Prezlimokos or something. Something like that. Okay?”
I see her eyes follow where I point then she looks back.
“Do you like golf?” She doesn’t move. Her eyelids drop closed. Perhaps my talking has tired her out.
My bottom is getting cold so it seems like a good time to leave.
“Bye-bye Emily. I have to go, but I’ll come again if you like.”
Emily opens her eyes and stares at me.
Helen has stayed quiet through most of my talking. Her hands are busy moving in mid-air, as though she’s knitting something even though she’s holding nothing. I start down the stairs.
“I think Emily liked what you told her.” Helen says.
I glance at Emily and to my surprise her head bobs. My shoulders go back an inch. Even Helen noticed what a good job I did.
I run down the steps and am crossing the huge expanse of lawn when the pitiful wail reaches me.
“Aghhh! Help!”
An inmate screaming. This happens sometimes, a pained plea for someone begging to be let out or a loud scream, “Help!” My mother assures me that even the ones who scream are well taken care of and cannot get out. They are locked in separate rooms where they are bathed and fed. I tell myself everything is okay, but I feel a sad ache in my chest. I glance back as if to assure myself that all is right. Several brick resident cottages, three stories high with steeples on top, sit like old fort on a green field.
I walk across the asylum’s acres of grass and row of elm trees toward my street. Usually it’s a joy for me to climb these trees because I like to be alone and watch and think. I see neighbors, strangers, doctors, nurses, and even those people who are locked up. From high in these trees with a breeze rustling the leaves, I have a view of the entire world or at least my entire world. But not now. It’s dinner time. I pause long enough to enjoy the pleasant flickers of sun on my face. Then I catch a glimpse of the Belcher home and suddenly feel very alone.
I wonder if Eddie has finished his chores.
Maybe I’ll talk to dad about Eddie and his bruises. But I think my Dad likes Mr. Belcher At least I think he does. I’m still not certain what to do, but I’m going to do something.
I’m stepping into the street when a black car drives past. The driver stares straight at me. My stomach tightens. Something about that stare that jars my head. My mind goes blank. It takes a few minutes for me to regain my thoughts. As I tread into the street I continue to watch for him. I’m uncertain why the intensity of his look upsets me so. I wonder what could be wrong with me.
Why is he is looking at me?
I’m wearing a regular red plaid dress with a white lace collar that my mother had carefully stitched together. My short dark hair is a little windblown but not messy. My brown eyes and small scattering of freckles aren’t much different than other kids. I feel across my temple to find my barrette is still in place. There is nothing about me that anybody should particularly notice. At least I don’t think so. I’m not certain why but there’s cramping in my gut.
Adults can be so strange.
Chapter Three
April, 1946
AFTER DINNER, WHILE MY MOTHER IS WASHING DISHES AS I DRY, I TELL her I met Emily. For a few seconds she stops scrubbing the cast iron kettle she has been holding over the sink of soapy water. Then without looking at me, she slowly returns to her task. The silence is broken by the metallic scratching of a Brillo pad.
“Mom, what made Emily lose her mind?”
She stops scrubbing the cooking kettle. The soft cracking sound of popping soap bubbles fills the strange silence. Strands of wavy black hair fall over the left side of her face.
“It’s an ugly story. Are you sure you want to hear it?” My mother’s voice has a raspy strange hoarseness. She slowly lifts the worn pad out of the dirty soapy water.
I nod.
“I’ll tell you when we finish here.”
Gradually she turns back to the sink and her hands continue their cir cular motion slower yet. She takes the time to dry her hands and push her long hair into place. My mother is really very pretty, with deep brown eyes. She calls the look, ‘Black Irish.’
A door slams. I jump.
Mr. Danville, our neighbor slams his back door twice more, runs past our window, jumps in his car, and roars out the driveway.
“Just a minute Janie,” says Mom hurries out holding her hand up as a ‘stay there’ motion.
Mrs. Danville has emerged, her hands over her face and her shoulders heaving while sobbing. She and Mom meet in the drive between our houses. Mom hugs her and pulls her toward the steps on our back porch.
I wait at the kitchen table. I know Mr. and Mrs. Danville fight a lot even more than my parents.
It a long time before my mother returns. “Come Janie, I’ll answer your question now.”
“Is Mrs. Danville okay?”
“Yes. Come sit down.”
After pouring each of us a glass of water, we seat ourselves at the kitchen table. She turns the glass in her hand a few times and a furrow develops between her eyebrows. Her lips seem tight, her posture rigid as her deep brown eyes gaze into mine. I hope that she tells me everything not some watered down version that she thinks is fit for a curious ten year old girl.
“When Emily was nineteen she married a man who was seriously charming. She was so charmed she lost her better judgment. Do you know what that means?” Without waiting for a response she continues. “It means he pretended to be loving and fawned all over her like she was a princess. He promised her a perfect life and she believed him.” Mom takes a sip of water. “Her parents, her father who’s a pastor, tried to warn Emily that he was a bad penny. That he was worse than a bad penny, more like a monster, but she wouldn’t listen.”
My mother’s voice sharpens. “Always listen to your parents Janie. We make rules because we love you. God put us in charge because of that. Got it?”
I nod and smile to keep her talking.
“When Emily refused to listen they went to extremes and told her if she married him to never darken their door again.” She pauses a moment, then sighs. “But she did anyway. She left home and married him. They didn’t hear from her again. They didn’t hear anything, not for a long time. But they didn’t reach out either.”
“Why not?”
“Parents are to be honored Janie. It’s in the Bible. So it was her responsibility to return to them and ask forgiveness.” Her voice is preacher like as glances at me. “Got it?”
I want to argue that her parents should have checked on her because that makes more sense, but I stay quiet. “Then what happened? She lost her mind?” It doesn’t seem to me that being away from her parents would make her lose her mind but I want to check. It would be sad but it wouldn’t make a person crazy.
I wish my mother would hurry up and get to the important part.
Mom places her hand over mine. “I know this is hard to hear Janie, but some men beat their wives. It’s not anything in particular that a woman does, it’s because the man looks around until he finds a reason to be angry. Anything to justify a beating. That’s what happened to Emily. And her husband did that a lot.”
“Beat her? Like in that movie I saw?”
“Yes, like that. By that time Emily didn’t have anywhere to turn. She was completely alone. Then one day, I’m not sure for how long after she was married, maybe a year the rural route delivery man found her collapsed next to the mailbox. He took her to a local hospital.”
My heart is pounding. “And then she was crazy? Does that make you lose your mind?”
“No, not at all,” a sigh escapes her lips. “That isn’t why she lost her mind. You see she had fallen because she had lost a lot of blood from a miscarriage. You know what that is.”
She knows I do because it happened to Mrs. Belcher more than once and I’ve heard that is why they take in foster kids.
“When Emily’s husband visited her he accused her of adultery, cheating with other men. That’s why he had kicked her in the stomach and likely why she miscarried. So he kept accusing her while she was hospitalized. That’s when she lost her mind. Does that make sense?”
My stomach hurts although I continue to nod.
“The nurses at that hospital could hear him cursing her and they said that after a couple days Emily started saying things that didn’t make any sense. She stopped feeding herself. She stopped speaking a straight sentence. After that she was admitted to our hospital. That was seven years ago.” My mother picks up her water glass on the table and takes a sip.
We sit in silence a long time.
I can’t think of anything to say except, “She lost her mind because she was so scared?” I think again. “Maybe because she didn’t have anywhere to go except back to her husband?”
My mother swallows a couple of times before she straightens her back then switches back to her previous lecture tone. “Always listen to your parents. They know best.”
I stop listening. I’m picturing Emily with her unkempt hair sitting on the porch. Then I remember how she nodded at me when I left.
“But she’s getting better now, right?” I interrupt.
Mom pauses. “Yes, she is. At first she didn’t talk at all really, just screamed every once in a while. That’s changed.” Now her hand comes back to rest over mine. “The interesting thing is about three weeks ago there was a letter from the court sent to Emily that her husband had died in a car accident. Most of us didn’t think Emily would understand the letter but I read it to her anyway.” Mom leans back and crosses her legs as she sips more water, her voice less stressed. “I’m happy to say that she’s been better every day since then. She eats on her own and even though it’s a struggle, she’s able to dress herself now. Emily doesn’t say much but when she does it comes out fairly normal. Hopefully she still has a chance at life.”
“Did her husband go to jail? I sure hope he did.”
“No, honey that isn’t what happens. Husbands have the right. ”
“But Mom if he went to beat up someone else, like a neighbor, wouldn’t he go to jail?”
Mom nods her eyes directly on mine.
“Then I don’t understand.” I think that he should have been put away for a long time, but Mom doesn’t like for me to argue.
Mom’s eye gaze drops toward the floor. “There’s nothing that can be done. It’s just the way it is.”
I shake off my sadness. The best thing to do now is to be confident and develop a plan to help Emily. I close my eyes tight to think it through. “I’ll help Emily get ground parole by this summer. I’ll help her. Then she can get even better.”
My mother’s lips curve to a tiny smile, “Yes, you can. It’s up to the doctors, the nurses, Emily, and you.”
“I’ll work hard to help Emily and when she gets better she can get permission to leave the hospital and even walk downtown.”
“She likes poetry,” Mom says. “You might get a poetry book from the library. Maybe Emily Dickinson? Or Byron? You can read her some until she’s able to read on her own. Do you think you can do that?”
“Yup, for sure.” I pause a moment then add, “I have another question.”
“Hmm?” she shrugs. “Go ahead.”
“Have her parents ever come to see her? It would be awful if they haven’t forgiven her.”
“Of course, that’s what parents do. They forgive her even though she didn’t ask.” Mom pushes back from the table, stands and gives me a long hug. “They visited every six months. We telephoned her parents last week and they’ll be back soon.”
Mom grabs a kitchen sponge, walks toward the cabinets, and begins to wash fingerprints off the doors. I quietly finish my chores by sweeping the kitchen floor. Doing our normal activities somehow helps me feel better. I wonder though why parents wouldn’t speak or check on their kid just because she didn’t do what they want. What kind of a rule is that?
Later, when I’m in bed, I hear their regular argument. Their voices rise through the heating register in the center of my room. It’s usually about money. Or rather the lack of money. My mother complains she’s tired. My father explains he’s trying. It’s almost always the same. I’m stiff and rigid in my bed waiting for something to happen, but not certain what.
My mother calls up the stairs, “Janie, did you say your prayers?”
“Yes, Mom. I always do.” Praying makes a difference, at least I hope so. I hope God listens. I’ve been praying a long time and nothing changes.
“Marylou, do you think I could use your dad’s typewriter.”
“I don’t know. I can ask him.”
“I need to use it now and he’s working isn’t he?” I press her more. “Just for a simple note. It’s just a paragraph.”
She looks at me for a long minute. “Well, I guess. Follow me.”
She leads me into his office just off their living room. I scroll a piece of tablet paper into place.
Marylou stands behind me and watches.
Dear Mr. Belcher,
Eddie is a good boy. He really tries to do the right thing and he’s smart. Please don’t hit him anymore.
From a friend.
“Thank you, Marylou.”
I slip the note into an envelope and, making certain no one is watching, I slide it into their mailbox.
Chapter Four
April, 1946
“WHERE DID YOU LIVE BEFORE MOVING HERE?” ASKS MARYLOU.
“On Mr. Golfer’s farm.” My chest twinges.
“Oh, until the war ended?” Marylou’s mouth twists into a strange smile, sort of upside down.
I feel it happening. It’s happened before when I first started in this school. It was a teacher though, not a kid. The memory hasn’t faded. The person asks a question but the question really means something else.
“What is it, Marylou?” I ask, but she doesn’t answer. No, she wouldn’t answer.
Marylou, Rhonda and I almost always walk together. We talk about lot of things, like movie stars, college, and boys, but this morning it seems I’m an outsider. Marylou and Rhonda lean into each other while Marylou whispers into Rhonda’s ear. I think they are whispering that my father was foreman on Mr. Golfer’s farm during the war and that along with having a child saved him from the draft. My dad doesn’t believe in war, but he doesn’t believe in religion either so he didn’t qualify as a conscientious objector. Mr. Golfer doesn’t believe in war either but he does believe in church.
My dad’s decision always seemed right to me while we were on the farm. Now that a lot of people whisper about us I’m not so sure. I want to figure out adult rules, but also want to do right. God is watching.
I skip along pretending their words don’t bother me and casually look behind me as if everything is normal.
Eddie is walking with the other foster kids. He gives a half-wave. Even though they don’t really talk to him much, Eddie walks to school with them. Maybe it’s a Belcher rule.
I wonder if the Mr. Belcher got the note yet.
“Fair was she to behold, that maiden of seventeen summers. Black were her eyes as the berry that….”
Miss Witherspoon drones on. Her English lesson consists of reading “Evangeline” aloud. Sometimes her voice quivers and her eyes fill with tears causing her to put the book down while succumbing to saddened silence. She wipes her tears, pats the white bun atop her crown and instructs us on the meaning of the story, emphasizing the sadness of Evangeline’s life.
This all seems like she is a very sensitive person. But if you’re not paying attention she’ll snap your hand with a ruler. She sighs a lot as though giving up on us kids, especially Eddie and sometimes me.
Miss Witherspoon is a lot like many other adults. She has one part of her that is kind and sweet. That seems to be in a part of the world that is imaginary, like Evangeline or other fiction. Then another part of her, the one that makes me sad and sometimes angry is stuck in the day to day world of reality, like earlier today. We were all headed for class when, Polly, the older sister of one of my classmates, fell against Miss Witherspoon then ran down the hall, her too short skirt swishing across her legs.
“Hussy,” muttered Miss Witherspoon as she gathered herself together. This word shocks me. Not only is it a bad word, but Miss Witherspoon is more like an elegant empress than a plain spoken woman. Perhaps this is because she’s the daughter of a former city mayor who ran for governor once but didn’t win. This whole history makes her rather extra special.
The school principal brushes past me toward our classroom. He tips his head when he greets her. “Good morning, Miss Witherspoon,” he gives her a lopsided grin along with a slight tilt of his head.
“Yes, please come in. I have something that needs to be addressed,” Miss Witherspoon says twisting her mouth downward while pulling out her lace handkerchief to cover the doorknob.
Polly’s going to be in trouble this time. She’s does this kind of thing to other kids, but this was a first for a teacher.
It isn’t that I don’t like Miss Witherspoon. She’s usually nice and sometimes even interesting. It is just that she believes that some kids are more special than others. Spelling bees, recess games, lunch mates, and more are made into groups along the special and not-so-special kids. I’m too poor and plain to be special.
I run all the way home after school and give my dad some papers Miss Witherspoon had jabbed into my hands. My dad is a quiet person, tall and thin, sort of a Gary Cooper type look, but doesn’t act at all like a gunslinger. He’s our housekeeper doing most of the cooking. And if the smell is any indication, we’re having beef and potato boiled dinner tonight.
“I’m going to visit Emily.”
“Oh no, young lady. We’re going to have a talk.” Dad motions me to the couch.
I obediently sit as directed.
“What do you know about someone writing a note to Belcher?”
“Nothing,” I whisper looking at my hands.
“You’re sure?” Dad says. “You know that Mr. Belcher is going to find out. He’s intent on that. So, if you do know it’s best to tell the truth now.”
A lump in my throat gets bigger. “No.”
After all, Marylou promised not to tell.
“Your mother and I can handle any truth. It’s a lie that we won’t tolerate,” he says. “Now look at me and say you didn’t write the note.”
I swallow the lump. “No, I don’t know anything about it.”
“Okay, then. Go practice your piano.”
I breathe a sigh of relief. It’s over.