The attendants never spoke—to her or to each other. She respected them for being good at their jobs, but at the same time understood that it was a bad sign. People good at their jobs when their job was to guard you was not good news. She’d have to wait at least until their shift was over and hope for less attentive, and weaker, guards. She knew it wouldn’t take long. In London’s fourteen years, she’d learned a few things, and one of them was that not many people were good at their jobs.
She’d also been locked up before. Plenty of times. And that was surely where these two were hauling her, somewhere to be locked up.
Her stomach growled, and she wondered if the bread was still rolled up in her sleeve. The smell of the hallway didn’t bother her stomach in the least. Nothing much ever did. The morning in the gutter, yes, but that had been another matter altogether. A matter London ignored in this moment.
She thought about what she had seen so far. A front door with a nurse’s station, where it looked like an attendant also might be posted. Large windows, unfortunately with bars. Many open rooms, perhaps with windows, and perhaps with bars. The building itself had at least two floors above the one she was on, and a basement, which she was being dragged down to. She hated basements.
The stairs seemed centered in the building, and once down them, the attendants yanked her to the right. More rooms, but these doors were all closed with no light shining out from under them. Maybe offices?
London’s head throbbed. She’d been unconscious when they’d thrown her into the truck. Jesus, Mary, and Henry, that old turd could have gone a little easier with the shotgun.
One of the attendants began to dig around in her uniform pocket for keys. London supposed she was close to where she’d be dumped for the night.
“I’m hungry.” She might as well give it a try.
“You missed dinner,” was the response from the one with the keys.
Well, that sucks, London thought, hoping again that she still had that bread. She thought about pleading the pregnancy thing, but something stopped her. She was never queasy about using circumstances to get what she wanted. Surprised by her own hesitation, she lashed out at the women.
“Ass lickers!”
No response. Not even a jerk of their arms. For the first time, London figured she might be in real trouble. What was this place? Who were these women? She’d been dragged around by someone her whole life, but as she was realizing right now, they’d all been men doing the dragging. There was something disconcerting about being dragged by women. They were more impenetrable.
The key attendant opened the door. A thick door. A door that she locked behind them. They were now in another hallway, identical to the last—long, and lined with doors—except the smell was hotter and more intense, and the hall ended in a wall. They were at the far end of the building. The only way out was back through that locked door or through a possible window in this hall.
The lighting was still dingy and dark, but it was, unfortunately, light enough to see inside the rooms as she was yanked past. Each door had a large barred window without glass. Each room held a human form and no window. London’s plan had been to break out tonight. That would not be happening.
The trio stopped in front of a door. One attendant released London’s arm for the first time and fumbled for the key to the room. For a moment London thought about ripping away from the other attendant, grabbing the keys, and making a run for it. But the keychain held about fifty keys, and though London had tried to watch which one the attendant had chosen at the last door, there had been no way to tell.
She tried again for the second-best thing after freedom—food. This time using what she had.
“Really, no food? I’m fucking pregnant.” She immediately regretted the cuss.
The attendant unlocked the door, and London was shoved in. She hated being shoved, even if she knew she had brought this one on herself.
The door was locked behind her.
She used her new bodily freedom to race back to the barred window and shout at the retreating women.
“Whoresacks!” It wasn’t truly a cuss, but in any case, she didn’t regret it.
Once she heard the attendants leave, she let go of the bars and turned to inspect her cage. It wasn’t much. A room, about six by eight with a mattress. No sheets. No blankets. And London was sure the mattress was filled with piss. She bent down, picked it up with two fingers, and violently flipped it. This side didn’t look or smell any better, but the physical act was something.
She went back to her door and checked out everything she could see through the barred window. The corner of a door across the hall. The cement blocks of the hallway. A piece of plaster ceiling showing the yellow stain of water damage. Not much.
The bread! Reaching down, London discovered her first bit of luck since that old mug had smacked her in the head with his gun. Pulling the bread out, she plopped onto the disgusting mattress. At least it was softer than the pissed-on floor. And she nibbled at the bread like a mouse to make it last.
Dinner at the table and two chairs on Bennington Street came to mind. The old lady was most likely about to sit down to dinner. Was it canned peas tonight? Chicken broth and bread? Remembering the salty taste of chicken broth made London ache. The stale bread could use a dip or two into that broth. She’d never tell the Missus that. How much she missed her broth.
As London licked the last crumbs from her fingers, the lights snapped out and she was plunged into a darkness so complete that she couldn’t see her own hand in front of her face, not that she tried. What she did do was pull up her dirty nightclothes to use against the potent smell of the mattress, and stretch out onto it.
Because when someone locks you into a dark room, you sleep.
Rose watched the nurse lay out the instruments on the steel table: the press-on-your-tongue wood, the cold listen-to-your-heart necklace, the measuring tape. She usually enjoyed helping the nurse check her over each month—answering questions, opening her mouth really wide—but today she was too busy thinking about the girl with the dark eyes.
Rose didn’t tell Maxine she’d helped the girl run. She’d wanted to tell her sister, and Alice, too, because Rose was proud that she knew about the window, proud that the girl had gotten out with her help. She loved to help. But Rose had held on to her secret, afraid that if she let it escape, the tingling feeling inside her would whoosh out right along with it.
Knowing things her sister didn’t know sometimes felt nice—like stealing food, and helping the girl elope. Rose loved Maxine and loved being her little sister. But Rose couldn’t help hearing the word “Mongoloid” that always sat between the other words. Often because people said it out loud that way: “Maxine’s Mongoloid little sister.” But when it wasn’t said, when it was left out, sometimes Rose felt she heard it even more loudly.
Mongoloid.
The word made her feel like she often did while walking the endless paths of the circles. Rose had once asked Miss Barrett, one of the nice ladies who now worked in the superintendent’s office, why the paths went in circles. Miss Barrett had said, “My dear, the feebleminded body is lacking a vital force. The paths circle to remove decision or choice.”
Like so many things said to her here at the school, Rose didn’t understand it but also vigorously disagreed with it.