The Benedict Bastard (A Benedict Hall Novel) (3 page)

The young woman stopped and knocked on an open door. She said, “Mother Ryther, here they are.” She stood aside, and gestured for them to go in.

A battered desk filled most of the small room, with two spindly, mismatched chairs facing it. Bookshelves and glass-fronted cabinets, all stuffed with books and magazines and what appeared to be photograph albums, crowded the rest of the space, and an enormous ledger rested on the desk’s surface. Seated behind it was a woman much older than Margot had expected. She had a long face, sharp dark eyes wreathed in wrinkles, and gray hair falling out of its pins in a way that suggested she had put it up in a hurry. She held a fountain pen poised over the ledger, and a sheaf of paper in her other hand. She laid both down, and waved her ink-stained hand toward the mismatched chairs. “There are only two, I’m afraid. No room in here for any more.”

Miss Chisholm introduced them, one by one, applying their correct titles. Mother Ryther scowled at each of them in turn, peering through a pair of round spectacles. She reminded Margot of someone, but she couldn’t think yet who it was. Blake stood to one side, leaving the chairs to Margot and Sarah. Miss Chisholm withdrew, closing the door of the cramped office behind her.

“So,” Mother Ryther said. “You want to examine my children. Inspect my home.”

It was spoken like a challenge. Margot tried to choose her words carefully. “What we want, Mrs. Ryther,” she said, “is to apply for funds on your behalf. They’ll be supplied through Sheppard-Towner, but there are requirements to be met.”

“Oh, yes, Sheppard-Towner,” Mother Ryther said. Her lips pulled down, drawing deep lines around her mouth. “The Better Babies Act.”

Margot disliked the jocular label. It was misleading, for one thing. The Sheppard-Towner Act wasn’t just about babies. It provided aid and assistance to mothers as well as their children. The Women and Infants Clinic could not have existed without it, and though the clinic was barely a year old, Sarah and the physicians who assisted her had more work than they could handle. It was Sarah who had called the Ryther Home, and its unvaccinated children, to Margot’s attention.

Sarah spoke in her pragmatic way. “Government money will help to provide medicines and supplies, and educational materials as well. I’m told you place a high value on education for your children.”

With a deliberate move of her heavy body, rather like a great ferry turning toward a dock, Mother Ryther faced Sarah, and contemplated her for a moment that went on slightly too long for courtesy. Margot was just drawing breath to remonstrate when the old woman spoke at last. “Nurse Church,” she said. “Fully trained, I presume?”

Sarah met the old woman’s gaze with a level and unwavering one of her own. “Of course. I manage the Women and Infants Clinic.”

“You’re a properly registered nurse?”

Margot bristled, and drew breath again, but Sarah said, without rancor, “I’m a graduate of the University of Washington, Mrs. Ryther.”

“That can’t have been easy for someone like you.”

It was too much. Margot rapped, “Nurse Church has my full confidence.”

Mother Ryther ignored her. “I’ve never met a nurse who was a Negress.”

Sarah’s dimple flashed. “I must send you a biography of Mary Eliza Mahoney, then. She’s also a nurse. My mother studied with her.”

“Hmm.” Olive Ryther gave a sharp nod, as if granting her approval. Margot saw laughter in Sarah’s eyes and in her fleeting dimple. She herself couldn’t see the humor.

Mother Ryther turned next to Blake, and Margot had to press her lips together to keep from protesting this examination of her staff. The interview was not going as she had planned. “Mr. Blake,” Mother Ryther said. “Why did you feel the need to come inside? I believe the usual custom is for the driver to wait with the automobile, especially one as fine as your Cadillac.”

Blake’s deep voice reverberated in the small room. “Ma’am,” he said, “these two ladies are in my care, just as your children are in yours. Meaning no disrespect, but we didn’t know what we would find within your walls. We heard a good deal of shouting from the front door.”

For the first time, the flicker of a smile twitched at the old woman’s mouth. “Bath day,” she said. “And housecleaning. Squabbles and stains seem to go together.”

Margot leaned forward, and picked up her medical bag with a decisive gesture. “All that’s needed, Mrs. Ryther,” she said, “is for us to inspect your dormitories, your kitchen, and your bath facilities. We want to assess the needs of your children. Vaccinations will be required, of course. Nurse Church will handle the paperwork.”

Mother Ryther gazed at her through her spectacles. “I don’t hold with vaccinations.”

“Why?”

“Sticking my children with needles? Putting God-knows-what into their little bodies?”

“It’s 1923, Mrs. Ryther,” Margot said, striving for patience. She could feel the clock’s swift ticking, the relentless passage of her one free afternoon. “Medicine has advanced a great deal, which you must know. Diphtheria, smallpox, whooping cough—our children don’t need to suffer these anymore.”

“Newfangled,” Mrs. Ryther said.

“Hardly,” Margot said. “Their efficacy is well proven.”

“It doesn’t make sense, injecting germs into children.”

“You misunderstand,” Margot said. “Vaccines are inactivated viruses and bacteria. They’ve been used for thirty years and more. I can send you the research, if you like. In the meantime, the governor supports our work, and wants your children to benefit as the ones at the Clinic do.”

Mother Ryther was clearly an expert at the long, considering stare. She favored Margot with one now, and Margot’s foot began to tap in irritation. Finally, the old woman said, “Dr. Benedict, the governor is a good man, but he doesn’t know what’s best for my children.”

“No, he doesn’t.” This was Sarah, speaking crisply. Mother Ryther’s eyebrows lifted. “But you turn to donations and assistance when you need them, don’t you.” It wasn’t a question.

“It’s good for the community to help,” Mother Ryther said.

“No doubt,” Margot said. “The question is, do you want us to help as well? If not, perhaps we should waste no more of your time.” To underscore her point, she stood up, her bag in her hand. Beside her, Sarah also stood, though she left the heavy box of supplies on the floor.

Mother Ryther pointed to the box. “What’s in there?”

Sarah seemed not to share Margot’s impatience. She answered in detail, listing the contents of her box and ticking the items off on her slender fingers. “Thermometers. Two stethoscopes. A supply of vaccines and serums for common childhood illnesses.”

“We can test any children you think are at risk,” Margot put in. “We should also test for tuberculosis.”

“What do you usually do about medical attention?” Sarah asked.

“What any other mother does,” Mother Ryther said with asperity. “I call a doctor.”

“Can you pay your physicians?”

“We trade,” Mother Ryther said, with no evidence of embarrassment. “Milk and eggs and vegetables.”

Margot had taken her share of such “trade,” especially in the early days of her private clinic. Some of the offerings that had come her way were less than helpful, but she had accepted them just the same.

“Well, Mrs. Ryther,” Sarah said, brusque and efficient now, as if the matter were settled. “Your children will fare better with preventive care than waiting until they’re ill to see a doctor.”

“And the government will pay.”

“The government will help. But applications need to be made.”

The old woman picked up her pen and toyed with it, glancing from Sarah to Blake to Margot, evidently in no hurry to make a decision.

Margot said, “The vaccinations will be required. There will be no money without them.”

Mother Ryther’s eyes flicked down toward the ledger on her desk. Margot could see now she was in the process of managing bills. Surely this woman felt the pressure of time just as she did.

Mother Ryther said, “And who is going to give these vaccinations? This nurse?”

“Nurse Church has been doing this work for some time now, Mrs. Ryther. We’re lucky to have her. Her skills are excellent.”

“Hmm. I suppose we’ll see.” Mother Ryther put her hands on her desk and pushed herself to her feet. She was wearing a long dress with a high collar, and when she stepped in front of the desk, Margot saw old-fashioned button-up boots beneath it. She moved stiffly, and her hand moved to her back, then dropped self-consciously to her side. As she approached the door, Blake opened it, and gave one of his small, formal bows. Mother Ryther, seeing this, raised her eyebrows at Margot once again, as if to warn her she wouldn’t be charmed into compliance.

 

A new odor struck Margot at the top of the staircase of the Ryther Home. It reminded her a little of the hospital smell, that miasma of disinfectant and medicine, floor wax and bleach. In this case it was overlaid with the sort of aroma she associated with bodies. Young bodies, big and small, clean and very likely not-so-clean, healthy and—at least some of them—ill. Her nose twitched, and when she glanced down at Sarah, she saw Sarah’s wide, delicate nostrils flutter. The noise was muted now—she could only suppose the bath day crisis had passed—but the house was full to the brim with the sounds of children.

“Usually most of the children are at school,” Mother Ryther said over her shoulder. She walked steadily, but with a side-to-side gait as if her feet hurt her, or perhaps it was her hips. She was too old for such work, Margot thought. But who else would take on such responsibility?

“Today is a holiday,” Mother Ryther said, “so we moved up bath day to keep them busy.” She paused at a door. A torrent of voices poured out when she opened it, but when Mother Ryther put her head around the doorjamb, the room fell quiet. She clicked her tongue, once, the way Hattie sometimes did at Benedict Hall, and then withdrew, closing the door. She seemed not to notice the tide of sound rising again as they walked on.

“You may already know that we require all our children to stay in school until the age of fourteen. The boys learn a trade, and the girls enroll in business school. We rarely accept pregnant girls, because fortunately there are other places for them to go. Our mission—” She stopped again to open a door. In this room there was only a murmur of conversation in light feminine voices. A girl greeted her, and she nodded, and closed the door again. “Our mission,” she repeated, as she led them onward down the corridor, “is to give orphaned or abandoned children the same opportunity in life as those who grow up with their own parents.”

She paused before a double door, behind which came the sounds of small children at play, mixed with the wails of at least one baby. With her hand on the knob, Mother Ryther said, “I believe these are the children you should meet first. They’re the ones with the greatest need, because they’re so young.”

“How do you find them?” Sarah asked.

“Mostly,” Mother Ryther said, her voice softening, easing into a tone of resignation and sorrow, “our children find us. Infants are sometimes left on our doorstep. Occasionally, the hospitals send newborns, either because they’ve been abandoned or because the mother died in childbirth.” Margot winced at this. “Once in a while a poor mother comes in person, and either leaves her children, or takes up residence with us if she has no place else to go.”

It was the first time she had spoken with any emotion, and she gave a slight shake of her head, as if to deny the hint of weakness. As she pushed the doors open, Sarah and Margot exchanged a glance. Blake, close behind them, with the box of supplies balanced on his hip, cleared his throat.

Mother Ryther cast a warning eye back at him. “Men are not generally allowed here,” she said. “Some of our older girls help out here in the nursery, and we want them protected.”

“Will you accept my voucher for Mr. Blake’s character?” Margot asked solemnly.

“I will. This time.” The wrinkled lips pulled down again. “Come in now, and meet my youngest children.” Mother Ryther went into the room, and held the doors wide for the three visitors to pass through.

Margot’s experience of nurseries was of two extremes. At Benedict Hall, little Louisa and her nurse dwelt in a beribboned haven of pink and cream silk, of puffy quilts and tufted pillows and pastel flocked wallpaper. At Seattle General Hospital, the nursery was all white, with cribs of white-painted iron, bleached sheets and pillowcases, nurses in long white aprons and starched caps. Only the floor was dark, the uniform brown of the linoleum that covered every hospital floor.

Here, in the Ryther Home, her first impression was of unrelenting drabness. Cribs and cots lined the walls, each covered in blankets clearly handed down from an earlier time, and washed until their colors had melded into one vague gray. The walls were dingy, though the house was only three years old. The curtains, hanging dispiritedly from their rods, were a sallow beige, and the linoleum floor was also beige. A bucket of diapers soaking in Fels-Naptha stood in one corner, its distinctive smell permeating the warm air.

The only color came from the children themselves. Margot counted fourteen of them, their hair every shade from blond, to red, to a curling head of hair as black as Sarah’s own. There were no Negro children, but there were two that must, Margot thought, be Indian. The youngest was standing in a crib, the source of the wailing she had heard from the corridor. Tears ran down the child’s cheeks, and its nose ran copiously.

Two teenaged girls in printed aprons were ferrying children back and forth from an attached bathroom, wrapping the clean ones in towels, seizing the reluctant remainders to work their clothes off and get them into the bath. It was obvious they had their hands full, but when the visitors came in, they lifted the current wet ones out of the bath and carried them to Mother Ryther. Four older children, five or six years of age, trailed behind them. Others, several who looked to be about four, and one silent, slow-moving child of about three, wandered aimlessly through a litter of toys and blankets. The remains of lunch were stacked on a sideboard, and a counter held a stack of boiled and folded diapers next to an enormous jar filled with nickel-plated safety pins.