“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.