The House of Eve (74)
“That’s because you were partying too much.”
“Well, I have to pass it this time or I won’t graduate on time and my parents would never let me hear the end of it.”
Eleanor didn’t want to get up and risk a hug. “That food weighed me to my chair. Do you mind seeing yourself out? I’m going to sit here and read awhile.”
“Of course not.” Nadine pecked her on the forehead and said, “Take good care of my godchild.” And then she was off.
As the door clicked behind Nadine, Eleanor thought about that darn Greta.
After everything, she was still a thorn in Eleanor’s thigh that would not come out.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE SLUT
Ruby
I waited outside the lounge for my turn with the social worker, Ms. Jeanne. We met every Tuesday, and I had seen her three times since I arrived at the Gingerbread House. The windows were open because Mother Margaret said the mid-September air was cleansing. My sweater no longer buttoned over my belly, but I pulled it tighter across my chest. Clara had been called in ahead of me. She had gone over last week, and when she returned from the clinic two days ago, she looked like she had aged three years. The door to the office was left slightly ajar, and from where I sat, I could hear every word.
“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.