A Southern Place (19 page)

“Now, honey, is that really fair? It takes two to tango, and he has a responsibility to—”

“No,” Delores said again, then, “It’s complicated. His father warned me, he could take away my brother’s house. My brother lost his arm and doesn’t have a job, and if he finds out—” Delores gasped, then covered her mouth with a wad of tissue and began to retch, tears mixing with vomit. The doctor picked up his phone and punched a button.

“Norma, we’ve gotta a little upchucking situation. Can you bring us some necessaries? Thanks, honey.”

Dr. Jenkins reached under his desk and pulled out a second, unopened box of tissues. “There, now. Everything’s okay. Use all you need. I’ve got ice coming, and crackers, and—”

The nurse knocked while entering, rushing to Delores with a silver bowl, wet and dry towels, a paper cup of ice, a can of ginger ale, and a sleeve of saltines. She pulled Delores’s hair away from her face, and handed her the bowl. Wiping her face with the wet towel, she laid the rest on the doctor’s desk and left.

“Call if you need anything else,” she told the doctor.

“Thank you, Norma.”

After a moment, Dr. Jenkins spoke again. “Listen, honey, just stay in here a while. I need to see another patient or two, but there’s no reason you can’t sit here ’til we get those results. Try to relax. And I’ve got a few things you can look at while you wait. Just try and calm down.”

Delores nodded, wiping her face and wishing he would just leave. She needed to be alone, at least for a few minutes. Reaching on a shelf behind his desk, the doctor pulled out several brochures and a thin blue booklet. He laid them face down beside the crackers, then patted her on the shoulders.

“Relax, now, we’ll talk in a bit,” he said, heading out the door.

When she heard it shut, Delores opened the ginger ale and poured it over the ice. Its cool, stinging bite cleaned the vile taste from her mouth and rapidly began to settle her stomach. She set down the bowl, then reached over to see what kind of information the doctor had left.

The blue booklet was straightforward and to the point:
Preparing for Childbirth: A Young Mother’s Guide.
It had diagrams, old-fashioned cartoons, and looked to be produced by the same people who made
What Every Girl Should Know
, the pink booklet they’d received in seventh grade health class when the girls were separated from the boys for the menstrual cycle lecture. The gray, tri-folded pamphlet was more or less just a commercial for Similac Infant formula and other products by the same company. The third brochure was the most colorful and on stiffer paper, making Delores curious to examine its contents.

The cover boasted the title “The Florence Crittenton Home,” written in fancy Old English lettering which wrapped around a stately crest of some sort. The words were superimposed over a glossy color photo of an antebellum-type mansion, sitting at the top of a tree-lined hill. Delores had never heard of Florence Crittenton, but she sure liked the look of her home. It reminded her of civil-war era romance novels she and her mother had loved to read. She opened the brochure to see what it was all about.

The contents listed a letter from their president, an article on fall fundraising events, lots of pictures from their recent 60th Anniversary celebration, and two full pages of testimonials. As Delores read on, she learned that Florence Crittenton established homes for unwed mothers all over the country, and this particular booklet was dedicated to the Charleston, South Carolina branch.

Charleston
, she thought, almost smiling as she remembered her first lengthy conversation with Phil, when he talked of Savannah, and Atlanta, and Charleston—all those beautiful cities he knew and she could only imagine. But what a fool she had been, listening to his pretty talk, thinking despite their backgrounds, they were basically the same. Yeah. And look where she was now.

Delores shook her head as if to shake the memories away. She examined the pictures, reading the captions of the more interesting ones. “
Family living skills and rewarding craft projects are all a part of the Crittenton design
.” Several young women were seated at sewing machines. Two thin teenagers, pregnancies not showing yet, were standing at easels and holding long paintbrushes. A girl in her last weeks was knitting a tiny bootie, almost finished, while two others were winding a skein of thread into a ball. They all bore zombie-like smiles, eyes on their work, not the camera.

“
Girls remain on track for classes with high quality academic instruction
.” This picture showed a standard classroom, a teacher at the blackboard explaining an equation while a roomful of female students wrote in notebooks. Seated at tables, the various stages of growing bellies were camouflaged.

“
Girls have regular doctor’s visits, and a nursing staff is present on site at all times.
” Girls stood single file, waiting their turn as cheerful nurses recorded each girl’s weight.

“
Happy social activities enhance self-esteem and physical well-being.
” This was a large caption with several photos below, showing what looked like a Halloween party, then a Christmas tree with gifts, and lastly, the same vacant smiles wandering about a barnyard with some farm animals.
Weird
, Delores thought.

She licked her finger to flip the page, which was stuck to the previous one. Pulling the two apart tore a little of the page’s edge, but the double spread which followed was a dozen variations of the same scene, the overhead caption reading “
Our Fairy Tale Endings
.” The final two pages were filled with photos of handsome, rich-looking couples, standing and smiling while holding ridiculously overdressed infants.

“We knew the moment we saw our little Elizabeth,” said Mrs. Chauncy Tolbert IV, “that this is a union of Divine Inspiration. God bless the Florence Crittenton home and the wonderful work they do.”

“Our son, Horace,” explained Dr. Williams H. Warren, “will have every opportunity a young man could imagine—a quality home environment, travel experiences, the best in education. The Florence Crittenton Home provides impoverished children with little hope a chance for all the
best things in life.”

Delores looked at little Horace, dressed in velvet knickers with a vest and bow tie, looking awkward, uncomfortable and much like a tiny old man. His father, also wearing a bow tie, held Horace out towards the camera, a foot away from his chest, as though afraid the infant might soil him. The mother wore a severe suit with a peplum, spectator pumps, white gloves and a pillbox hat. The whole family seemed more like department store mannequins than real people.

“Opal Anne is the light of our lives,” claimed Mrs. Opal Leggett of Montgomery. “John and I were not blessed with children of our own, but through the Florence Crittenton Home, we are able to experience the next best thing. We’re proud to give Opal Anne a life outside of poverty, two loving and responsible parents, and a fine, Christian home. I shudder to think how she might have ended up without the Crittenton Home, and us.” Mr. and Mrs. Leggett looked like Superman’s parents—two or three decades too old to be raising an infant.

Delores’s stomach heaved again. She swallowed the bitter liquid, wiped off her mouth, and finished the last of her ginger ale. Delores Mullinax, nineteen and single-with-no-hope-of-a-husband, was pregnant. Hanging around for the rabbit’s final verdict was useless; she needed to get out of the stifling environment and head back to Dumas County.

Then she’d decide what to do with the rest of her life.

❦

“C’mon, Sis, it’s Saturday night,” her brother said, looking out the window in their rented apartment. “You’re outta the Sundown at twelve, when the night’s still young. Come on out to the house; that pig we been cookin’ oughta be peakin’ about then.” It was three in the afternoon, and Cal was finishing off a six-pack. “Bring some of your girlfriends if you want, specially if they’re purty as you; we’ll be livin’ the good life, partyin’ all night!”

“Grow up, Cal, there’s more to life than partyin’ all night,” she said. “Besides, Sunday’s the only day I can sleep in: I’m comin’ straight home when the Sundown closes. You can find your
own
girlfriends.” Delores stood in the bathroom with the door open, getting ready for work. She ran a wide-tooth comb through her hair before pulling it back into its customary ponytail.

“Have it your way, Party Pooper, but I wish you’d come, just the same. It’s our house, our new life we’re celebratin’, and it don’t seem quite right with you missin’ out on it.” They locked eyes and she almost smiled, then looked away.

“You’ve been celebratin’ for two months straight. You’re gonna have that fancy tree house a damned pigsty before you get plumbing or electricity.”

“We’ve got plumbing, we’ve even got electricity. We’re just waitin’ on the drywall guys, who’re sposed to start Monday, and when they’re done, it’ll only take a few days to do the paint and linoleum. We could be moving in come another week or two,” Cal said.

“So you’re not partying at the river as you call it, you’re having brawls and card games and all night orgies, right there in that new house that ain’t even finished yet. I bet it’s filthy as—”

“We are too down at the river. The weather’s been so mild, build a little cookout fire and it’s damned cozy. We have electricity, but there ain’t no furniture or nothing, so we stay outside.”

“You’re telling me you don’t take people inside? Come off it, Cal.”

“I show folks around, if they ain’t seen it yet, but we don’t party in there, and the only folks that’s been inside without me were a couple a gals that had to go to the bathroom. Guys just as soon go outside—”

“Cal,” she said, “I know how boys like to go outside. And it’s
your
house, and I don’t really think you’re gonna let it get totally trashed. Mama taught you better. But I don’t have any intention of joining your little celebration, not tonight or anytime soon. I’m coming back here and going to bed after work.”

“But couldn’t you come for just a little while?” Cal begged. “We’re barbecuing a pig. You love
good roasted pork.”

“Love it a bit too much, I’m afraid. I’ve put on a few pounds, and I’m currently on a strict diet before I bust out of all my clothes. The subject is over. No roast piggy for me,” Delores said.

Delores wondered if Cal had seen the slight thickening of her waist, but then again he had always said she was too skinny. Maybe he didn’t notice at all. He was her brother, maybe he was too used to her to see the changes.

“You sure you’re goin home, alone, to sleep?” Cal teased. “You ain’t bringing over that mystery man you was slippin’ out with a while back?” Delores rolled her eyes. “I’m coming home, alone, to sleep by myself. I’ve yet to meet a man that’s worth the trouble of anything else.”

“Fine, babe,” Cal said. “You come back to Mrs. Short’s apartments, get some shut-eye while you can. If there’s any pork left by morning, I will bring some home, and ten-to-one you will
eat some, silly diet or not. And remember, don’t get too attached to this place. We’ll be moving soon, by the end of the month at the latest.” Cal leaned forward and embraced his sister in a quick hug, awkwardly holding the prosthetic metal arm at his backside.

Delores returned his gesture with a girlish squeeze, sealing it with a breakaway nudge to his jaw, turning her own face away in disgust.

“Good God, Cal,” she said. “You smell like the Pabst Blue Ribbon assembly line. No wonder you use your sister for scoring a date.”

“Bullshit, missy, I only let you think so to make you feel useful,” he proclaimed, adding, “you—who work as a barmaid.”

“That’s
Miss
 Barmaid to you, Plowboy,” she said
,
busying herself with checking her purse, her keys and a quiet getaway.

“Good luck tonight,” Cal said as she reached for the front door.

“Y—you, too,” she stuttered. “See you tomorrow?”

“If not before,” said Cal. “And remember, there’s always time to change your mind.”

“Sure,” she said, waving as she hurried out the door.

Though Delores was sure the girls at work were beginning to talk, Cal had no suspicions whatsoever. All those last weeks before the new house was ready, she expected every day to come home to a Cal-on-fire, raising hell for bringing shame on the family, and even more hell when she refused to tell him who else was involved; but it didn’t happen. Cal’s naiveté about his sister’s predicament bought her the precious time she needed—time to think, and reflect, and make decisions.

Delores had heard tales of a backstreet doctor, just north of Albany, who could take care of such problems for a fee, but this was an option she never considered. Though she’d run out of her first doctor’s visit empty-handed, after several sleepless nights Delores turned to the public library for more information on the Florence Crittenton Home. She also read about the Baptist Children’s Home and the Vashti Methodist Home for Girls. But in the end, she could not sever herself from this tiny new leaf of her family tree, this unexpected chance at regaining the all-important sense of family she lost with the death of her parents. She simply could not let go, and once she realized this, the rest became clear.

Delores could never let her brother know the father of her child, and it was imperative that the Foster family be kept in the dark as well.

I’ve gotta do right by Cal,
she thought to herself, knowing that with the blink of an eye, Mr. Foster could take away what little happiness her brother now found in the world. If Delores kept the child, no one, absolutely no one, could know the origin of his or her birth. And so her plan began.

Soon after that first doctor visit, Delores spent weeknights much the same as always, but became more mysterious about her weekend activity. She claimed to have “blind dates,” or “nights with the girls,” even “don’t ask, don’t tell” nights, for the first few weekends Calvin was at home. Since parties, poker games, and all-nighters were a staple in Cal’s lifestyle, Delores often came home long before her brother; but just to make sure, she budgeted her money enough to spend several nights alone in Albany motels, careful not to be seen by anyone. She hinted that there might be a “special guy,” but gave no further clues.