The Degenerates Read online

  Alice’s brother had dropped her off at the school on a long-ago summer afternoon. It had been a hot day, but she’d forgotten about the heat while traveling in the automobile. Her first auto ride. He’d borrowed it, and then taken her for candy on Tremont Street. Another first. She’d never tasted anything that came out of a wrapper. After, they’d taken the long eleven-mile drive out into the country, leaving behind the dense streets of the South End, where two of her brothers worked as Pullman porters and the third as a lineman for the railroad, and where she had lived with the eldest of her brothers, and his now-pregnant wife, since the death of her father.

  Her brother hadn’t explained what they were doing or where they were going, and Alice hadn’t asked. Her life had been a series of things she’d had to do—leave school, clean for the neighbors, take care of the children of her brothers—and knowing ahead of time what those things were didn’t change anything.

  Though Alice didn’t ask where they were going, she had a pretty good idea why. A few days earlier, she’d been walking down Columbus Avenue with her brother’s wife when a white woman had caught sight of her clubfoot and clicked her tongue, a pretty common reaction to Alice living her life. But then the woman had noticed the large belly of Alice’s brother’s wife and said, “Pray to the Lord this next one don’t come out tainted.” And Alice had seen the fear in the young, pregnant woman’s eyes.

  Less than a week later, Alice and her brother were rolling through the entrance gate and up the curving driveway of the institution, slowly, as if the borrowed automobile itself felt unsure of this decision.

  Every so often over the years, something would flash in Alice’s mind and she’d see the school again as she had that first day—the massive brick buildings presiding over great expanses of lawn. Alice had never seen so much mowed grass in all her life. It had made her shy. Her brother had taken her hand as they’d climbed the steps, and for the first time that day she understood the seriousness of her situation. He’d never held her hand before; though she’d been limping on a twisted foot all her life, Alice had never needed help walking. It was only later that she realized he’d held it for another reason, because it would be the last time she’d ever see him. Within an hour, Alice would be swept into the moving river of routine that was the institution.

  She now sat in the very room and in the very spot where she’d been placed that first day—following a short stop in the small office with her brother and a nurse—next to the front doors of the dormitory, where he’d told her that this was for the best.

  Alice now stared out across the darkening lawn and listened to Maxine and Rose chatter, the sweet sound of their voices smoothing out the long day that had coiled up inside her. She was always amazed at how much the two had to say to each other, especially since the pair spent most of the day together. Maxine was her sister’s caretaker, and the school matched their classroom and manual-labor schedules, at least until Maxine turned fifteen, which would take place next year… for both Alice and Maxine.

  At fifteen, school ended at the institution and adult life began. Alice and Maxine would be moved from the girls’ dormitory to the women’s dormitory. They’d still be called girls, though. All women inmates at the Massachusetts School for the Feeble-Minded—or the Walter E. Fernald State School, as it had now come to be called after the death of the old superintendent—were referred to as girls, whether you were fourteen or forty. No matter the name of the institution, it was a lifetime placement, and no one—no matter the diagnosis—ever left.

  Although, it wasn’t only age that had the potential to separate the sisters, but the machine of the institution itself. The groupings within the girls’ dormitory were now firmly set within the system of the institution. And once set, the machine of the place rattled on, never changing. But if you were scheduled to move into the women’s dormitory, who knew what the machine would do? Perhaps it would separate the sisters by diagnoses? Rose had been born a Mongoloid and diagnosed an imbecile. Maxine and Alice had been diagnosed morons. For all Alice knew, morons, imbeciles, idiots, Mongoloids, cripples, epileptics, and so on could be placed into different women’s dormitories or cottages across the huge expanse of the institution’s grounds. The chances of the machine keeping the sisters together were slim, and slimmer still for keeping Alice and Maxine together. Maxine never spoke about the coming move, or their inevitable separation, but it was all Alice ever thought about.

  “Police wagon,” Maxine said suddenly.

  Alice had been staring out the window but had seen nothing other than the coming darkness. Now she saw the truck with its two dimly shining headlamps making its way toward the girls’ dormitory, the same route her brother had driven long ago. It wasn’t an uncommon sight, this truck. It had actually grown much more common in the past few years.

  “Bet you a nickel this girl is a moron,” Maxine said.

  “You don’t have a nickel.” Rose laughed. Rose laughed a lot. As long as she was with Maxine, anyway. “Do you have a nickel, Alice?”

  “No, baby,” Alice said. “But I wouldn’t take that bet because your sister’s probably right. The girl’s a moron.”

  Female idiots showed up at Fernald most often in hospital wagons, not police wagons, and were taken straight to the large North Building that housed the Sick Ward. They were the inmates who needed the most care. The doctors at Fernald diagnosed as idiots those who would never grow mentally past the age of two years old. Female imbeciles—Rose’s diagnosis—could mentally reach the age of seven, and might end up in either the dormitory or the Sick Ward, depending on whether they were mobiles. Morons were almost always dropped off at the dormitory, and they often showed up in police wagons. Morons could attain the mental age of twelve years old.

  When Alice had first arrived, she’d been seven and couldn’t believe she would ever be twelve. Double digits. Almost a teenager. Impossible. One of the nurses had told her in the kindest of voices that as a moron, Alice would be able to attain a level of usefulness to society. That long-ago day, Alice had kissed the nurse’s hand. Here was a white woman, a nurse, telling her she’d be someone. But by the time Alice had reached double digits, she’d used the shame of that kiss to seal herself away from everyone. Even Maxine.

  “If I had a nickel,” Rose announced, “I’d bet this girl is going to be my new friend.”

  Maybe Alice hadn’t sealed herself away from everyone. No one could seal themselves away from Rose.

  As the police wagon made its way to the front steps of the dormitory, it began to rain. The driver stepped out, hatless, his silver hair whipping about in the wind. Another policeman appeared at the back and unlocked it. A moment went by where the men stood in the rain and nothing happened. The silver-haired man howled into the truck, gesturing angrily with his thumb for the person in the back to come out. Its occupant obviously didn’t move, and the man was forced to crawl in.

  Alice watched with a little more interest.

  The cop backed out of the truck, his hand wrapped firmly around the forearm of a girl with wild black hair, her body swinging about like a fish on the end of a short line.

  The second cop grabbed her other arm, and she was caught tightly between them. There was nowhere to go, and the girl, realizing it, threw her hair out of her face to catch her first glimpse of the institution.

  Rose let out a light groan. “She’s hurt.”

  The girl had a large wound on her cheek, clotted but fresh, a red bruise swelling up half her face. The men pulled at the girl’s arms, but she snapped them back, glaring. And then she walked herself, still cuffed, up the stairs and into the dormitory.

  Alice smiled, but only in her mind—something she had learned always to do on the inside of herself, never the outside. I will bet myself a nickel that this one finds her way out of here within the week. Four hand claps rang out across the room. The signal. Time to line up for toilets, clothes, and bed.

  Lights-out happened at five thirty, no matter if the sun was still
streaming through the large dormitory windows or not.

  Rose hated bedtime, but she didn’t mind toilet time. Toilet time meant water time.

  The ladies locked the group of them into the bathroom alone, and Maxine let her play in the sinks. Toilet time came before nightclothes, and so Maxine never cared if Rose got herself sopping wet… so Rose got herself sopping wet.

  She scrubbed her face, her ears, her neck, and ran water all through her hair while the other girls sat on the toilets.

  Of course, she “urinated” or “defecated,” as the ladies liked her to call it. She was in the bathroom. It was a good time for this. But then came time at the sink.

  Sometimes she’d get her hair really wet, and then toss it over her face and head toward Maxine and Alice, with her arms stretched out in front of her, growling like a monster. Maxine always laughed, but Alice would tell Rose to pipe down. Alice was afraid of the ladies. Alice was afraid of so many things. Rose understood. She was afraid of stuff too. Like being without her sister. Everything looked different when her sister wasn’t in the room.

  “Do you think they’ll lock her in Twenty-Two for the night?” Maxine asked. She was talking about the girl from out in the rain. The one with the cut on her face.

  “Most likely,” Alice said.

  Rose knew that Alice was usually right. Thinking about the girl being alone in the cages made splashing in the water less fun. Rose had never seen the cages, but all the girls talked about them. They were in the place called Ward Twenty-Two, a place Maxine promised Rose would never go. A place Maxine had never been. Alice had. Bunches of times. For “giving a look” to one or another of the ladies, something only Alice seemed to be able to give, this special look that the ladies hated. And when Alice came back, she sure wouldn’t look at anyone, not even Rose.

  Rose had begged Alice to tell her about the cages, but all Alice would say was they weren’t so bad. She knew Alice didn’t like it in the cages. She also knew Alice didn’t want to tell her this. But the cages were bad. Rose knew.

  Rose knew a lot of things people thought she didn’t. She knew she and her sister were in a place for sick people. She knew she and her sister weren’t sick, and that most of the kids who surrounded her weren’t sick. She knew that some of the ladies who cared for them were kind, and that many of them were not. She knew all about the reports and evaluations and lists and schedules that were kept on everything from how many pounds of laundry were washed each day to who visited on visiting day each month to what kind of attitude she had on a Monday at lunch.

  She knew about the fights the bigger girls got into, and also how this place sucked the fight out of them behind closed doors. She knew about the cut-up body parts floating in jars in the back of the Sick Ward, and about the men and women locked forever in the Back Ward of the North Building. Rose knew because she listened, and because she watched. Most especially she watched her class, the twelve girls locked in the bathroom with her right now.

  She knew that Lizzie cried at night in her cot because her head—filled with water—ached much more when she lay down. But also that Lizzie liked to eat. And on days when Lizzie’s head seemed to bother her most, Rose would steal an extra piece of fruit at dinner to give to Lizzie when they changed for bed in the clothing room. Rose found it easy to steal. All she had to do was smile nicely at the ladies in the dining hall, and then snatch the fruit quickly under her skirt when they turned away. They never suspected her, and she never felt any guilt over it. Rose wasn’t the only one who stole things. Everyone did.

  The best at it was Frances. Frances had been at the school for as long as Rose, and had a bad case of rheumatism, which made her knees weak and her walk wobbly. She fell constantly, and always had cuts and bruises on her arms and legs. Although, sometimes Frances would fall into the bread bowl at dinner, and come away with a few slices that no one saw her take… except for Rose. Once, Rose even saw Frances stumble into the collection plate at church. The flash of coins popping into her pocket made Rose laugh right out loud, which caught the attention of the meanest person at the school, the lady called Mrs. Ragno.

  “That one is always laughing at nothing,” Mrs. Ragno said.

  Rose was quick to laugh again, this time at nothing, so the lady would be right. Because another thing Rose knew was that the lady liked to be right. Rose also knew to stay far away from her, and from Bessie and Ellen, who sat on the toilets farthest away from Rose standing at her sink. Bessie and Ellen did terrible things to the girls who the lady was mad at. Rose was afraid of them and closed her eyes whenever they came near. Mostly they attacked Sarah and Neddie. Rose knew it was because Sarah and Neddie behaved the most differently from the others.

  Sarah didn’t have water in her head like Lizzie or wiggly legs like Frances, but she did things that no one else did, like pull her skirt up over her head whenever the ladies clapped too loudly to call everyone to dinner or toilet. Neddie was a Mongoloid, but unlike Rose, Neddie spoke in a really loud voice that attracted Bessie’s and Ellen’s attention. Though, anybody could be hurt by Bessie and Ellen, even if you didn’t talk too loudly. Rose knew this because Bessie and Ellen hurt her, too.

  They only did it when Maxine and Alice weren’t watching, like during shoe shine time or when Maxxie helped Alice run the mangles. Bessie and Ellen would drag Rose into some corner and quietly knee her, over and over and over… sometimes until Rose thought she would be killed. But it always stopped. Eventually. And then Rose would wait until they were gone, crawl out of the corner, and wipe all the tears and snot off her face so Maxine and Alice wouldn’t know.

  Maxine could never know. Rose definitely knew this. To tell Maxine would be bad. It’s what Bessie and Ellen wanted her to do.

  The only girls Bessie and Ellen never physically attacked were Alice and Mary. Alice said it was because they were Negroes. Rose knew Alice was right. Rose could tell that the brown color of Alice’s and Mary’s skin made Bessie and Ellen afraid of them. Rose’s skin was the color of most everybody else’s at the school, including Bessie’s and Ellen’s, so they weren’t scared of it. She often wished these girls would just disappear. But there were so many things to wish for at the Fernald School, like wishing Lizzie’s head didn’t hurt her so much, or that the ladies served Bit-O-Honeys for breakfast, or that she could wear a red dress sometimes… one with a long, flowy sash, and a—

  “Rose!”

  Rose pulled her hands from the drain and jumped back from the overflowing sink, her boots sopping wet.

  “Clean it up,” Bessie barked from her broken toilet seat. Bessie was always the one to talk. Never Ellen. Which made Rose more afraid of Ellen.

  Rose scuttled over to Maxine while Alice went for the mop.

  “Sorry, sorry, sorry,” Rose whispered into her sister’s ear, squishing her wet body in between the wall and the toilet.

  “Oh, Rosy,” Maxine sighed.

  “It’s just water, Maxine,” Alice said.

  “Shut your trap and mop it up,” Bessie growled.

  Rose kept her eyes closed, but she could hear from Bessie’s voice that she was still on her toilet and not heading toward them, meaning she probably wasn’t in the mood to be punching today.

  The key clicked in the lock, and all the girls stood up from the toilets. Rose opened her eyes and let go of her breath. It was time for bed. She hated bed.

  Following behind Alice and in front of Maxine on the way to the clothing room, Rose remembered the girl with the hurt face.

  “Is that girl going to the cages tonight, Alice?” Rose asked.

  But before Alice could answer, they entered the clothing room and there she was. The girl. Standing in nightclothes, her long, black hair still dripping from the rain, and a bandage stuck across her cheek.

  Bessie walked right up to the girl and bumped her hard with her shoulder. Rose ducked behind Maxxie. She couldn’t watch.

  “Those are my nightclothes, wop,” Bessie said in her low, mean voice.

 
; “Back off or I’ll paste you.”

  It was the girl with the cut on her face. Talking to Bessie. Without even a tiny shake or quiver in her voice.

  Rose clenched her left hand into a fist against her chest and tapped on her forehead with her right hand. Four times. Then four times. Then four times.

  Bessie wouldn’t do it now. She’d do it in secret. Where no one could see.

  Tonight. Tomorrow. Soon.

  That girl was going to get it.

  London had seen enough. She wasn’t staying. Not even the night. She couldn’t have cared less about the big girl with the thick bangs who’d sized her up. Or her white-haired friend with the lightest blue eyes London had ever seen—so light that the dark centers of them stood out and made the girl look like a corpse. Two pieces of shit like that, London could handle. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t been jumped before—dozens of times—on the street, inside orphanages, and in just about every house she’d been fostered in. Being beat on wasn’t that bad… compared to what else could happen. But if those girls came with a crowd, she might have trouble. She had to think about the baby.

  The baby.

  That’s what the nurse in the office kept calling it. London hadn’t stopped thinking about her situation since the morning she’d vomited into the gutter, but she’d never thought about it this way—as an actual child that might be born.

  “The baby will come in June. Do you understand?” the nurse had asked.

  Since London wasn’t sure yet of anything in this new place, she had nodded instead of telling the woman to go suck off a dog—the old lady would have enjoyed that one. But thinking about the Missus also meant thinking about the sound of the old lady’s head hitting the window frame, and the last moment before London was dragged away. London was going to make those scrubs pay for what they did… once she got out of here.

  The nurse had proceeded to poke about on her, studying and taking notes. She’d peered into London’s mouth and ears, and asked her strange questions, like could London give three differences between a king and a president. London had looked around her for the first time and realized she was in a kind of hospital, and not a hospital for her busted cheek.