The House of Eve (83)

On the Tuesday before Thanksgiving, two girls went into labor within hours of each other, and Georgia Mae was one of them. The white girl was ushered out the back door into a van. When Georgia Mae made to follow, Mother Margaret stopped her.

“The clinic is for whites only. You come with me.” Then Mother Margaret caught my eyes. “Ruby, why don’t you come and help her get settled.”

We followed Mother Margaret down three short steps and into her office. It was a cozy room with two large bookshelves, an oak desk and matching swivel chair. A framed painting of Jesus hung crookedly from the wall and the room smelled faintly of gin. Mother Margaret’s habit swished around her feet as she opened the narrow door between the two bookshelves. The room inside was dark and windowless. It was barely a room at all—more like an oversized storage closet, containing only a twin bed pressed against the wall and a folding chair.

Mother Margaret thrust a Bible into my hand. “Read from 1 Corinthians, Ephesians and the book of Mark. The nurse will be called when it’s time.” She spun on her heels, closing the door behind her. I squeezed Georgia Mae’s hand and placed the Bible under my chair.

Since Georgia Mae didn’t talk, I rambled on, reciting stories from the books that I read. I rubbed her back the way she had done for Bubbles and mopped the sweat from her brow. Two hours later, Georgia Mae’s pains had escalated to the point that she was hollering like something was ripping her apart from the inside. I hadn’t known she could make such sounds. Eventually, a nurse came and sent me away. I was relieved; I wasn’t eager to witness another birth so soon.

Georgia Mae’s baby boy was born so fair-skinned that it was almost hard to believe that a girl with such rich, inky skin had birthed him. I was glad when Mother Margaret made it my job to check on her and help with the baby. While Georgia Mae recovered in that little back room, I brought her warm rags and clean pads, hot black tea and vegetable stew, then held the baby so that she could check her bleeding and relieve herself in the bathroom. She was given no medication, and I could see her pain in the depths of her eyes.

On the fifth day after Georgia Mae gave birth, I was on my way to Mother Margaret’s office when I overheard her and our social worker, Ms. Jeanne, conversing.

“Georgia Mae Rowe has no parents. Her employer brought her in. A white lady from Roanoke. According to her paperwork, a distant aunt who lives in Richmond would like to adopt the baby,” Ms. Jeanne said.

“Hmph, that child is too fair-skinned to live among poor Negroes. We have clients much better suited to raise that boy—clients who I’m sure would give a substantial donation.”

I heard some papers shuffle.

“It’s a few weeks too early for my D.C. doctor couple, and their baby will be Loretta’s. There is a couple in New York that has been waiting patiently. The husband is a lawyer and I’m sure a prized boy would bring in extra—”

Just then, I dropped a spoon from the edge of the tray I’d been carrying.

“Who’s there?” Mother Margaret barked.

I stepped into the room.

“Child. Do make yourself known as you walk about. Drop off the food and then get to class.” Mother Margaret frowned.

I hustled through the door with the tray of tomato soup. Ms. Jeanne pushed back from her seat, watching me. With her keeping such close company, there was no way I could relay what I had heard without being caught. I wanted to warn Georgia Mae that her son wouldn’t be placed with her aunt where she could see him from time to time, but instead would be sent to a family elsewhere, but there was no way. Besides, when I entered the room, Georgia Mae and the baby boy were fast asleep. I left the food for her on the folding chair, and Ms. Jeanne closed the door softly behind me. As I crossed back through Mother Margaret’s office, she called my name.

“Yes, Your Excellency?”

“Mrs. Shapiro called this morning. She asked me to remind you not to forget why you were here and what’s at stake. I know that Bubbles was your friend.”

“I am aware, Your Excellency.”

She looked me up and down with a scowl on her pinched face. “We will take care of Georgia Mae from here. You are dismissed from this post. Hurry along to charm class.”



* * *



That night, when Loretta and I were alone in our room, I disclosed what I had overheard.

“We all know why we are here,” she mustered lethargically. Loretta’s nose had spread and it sounded like it was hard for her to breathe. “I just want to get this over with and go home. I can’t take it anymore.”

Between worrying over Georgia Mae and listening to Loretta’s snores, I barely slept, but I cried for all of us in my pillow until it was soaked. How much more of this house of crazy could I take? My legs were restless, and I kept tossing them in and out of my covers all night. When it was time for breakfast, I told Loretta to say that I was in bed sick. Little Sister Bethany came up a few minutes later and took my temperature.

“What’s wrong?”

“I’m just so tired,” I said.

She looked deep in my eyes. “Rest, child. Please make sure that’s all you do. We can’t afford anymore incidents around here.”

I nodded, turned toward the wall and fell into a deep sleep. I was dreaming about swimming in the ocean at Chicken Bone Beach in Atlantic City with Aunt Marie and her gang from Kiki’s when the door to our room burst open.