Evidence of V

by Sheila O'Connor

  Sang, V says. She knows exactly what he’s asking. Nearly three years kept from men, but V remembers well. I sing.

  Still? he says, surprised. You haven’t given up that calling?

  Sing! Frankie shouts. You sing a song for me!

  Maybe later, Dr. Taft winks. I doubt V’s songs are meant for a young boy.

  [The fallacy of erasure.

  The fallacy of a clean slate, of starting fresh.

  The fallacy of new beginnings,

  of self-invention,

  of good girl, bad girl.

  The fallacy of being born a child

  like any other child.

  The fallacy of bootstraps.

  The fallacy of self-improvement.

  The fallacy of education. Of amnesia.

  The fallacy of training and retraining.

  The fallacy of effort,

  of merit and de-merit.

  The fallacy of servants just like family.

  The fallacy of family.

  The fallacy of earning or deserving.

  The fallacy of opportunity,

  of chances granted by sweet charity.

  The fallacy of handouts,

  gifts, as if you haven’t paid.

  The fallacy of reclamation

  and reform.]

  Motherly Interest

  V’s first Saturday in service, Mrs. Taft dons a seal fur for an afternoon of shopping in Duluth. A trip out of the house V might enjoy.

  Downtown Duluth, no bigger than a sliver of the city V once loved, the streets where she once sang. Yet, after years trapped in the country, every street noise rattles her raw nerves. V startles at the honking. The rush of people walking past.

  If anyone should ask, you’re just an ordinary house girl. Not a word about that school, you understand? Or God forbid, parole. I wouldn’t want anyone to think—

  Of course, V says, eager to be finished with her last role as a delinquent. A slate wiped clean like Rose after divorce. Also, Mrs. Taft likes V to say, Of course.

  Down Superior, past the jeweler and the drugstore, the butcher and the baker, beneath the street car wires, V trails Mrs. Taft from shop to shop. Schlepping, as Mr. C would say. V’s arms aching from the weight of bags and boxes Mrs. Taft has filled.

  It’s good to have a new girl. Do your best.

  Of course, V says again, well-versed in how a new girl must behave. A new girl must compliment Mrs. Taft’s ivory slip selection, the three expensive winter dresses, the topaz pendant so lovely on her skin, the adorable fur-collar coat she bought for Frankie. V bears another package, sniffs the Shalimar when ordered, agrees the hint of citrus is all wrong, admires the grand piano Mrs. Taft expects for Christmas.

  V a stand-out star in her first Duluth performance, until Mrs. Taft spies the marquee for a double-feature at the theater in town. GIRLS’ SCHOOL and REFORMATORY.

  How perfectly disgusting, Mrs. Taft says. Who would make a movie of your life?

  Home Making and Home Management

  Each morning after breakfast, V must mop the kitchen floor while Mrs. Taft inspects, concerned. A home is not an institution; a family kitchen must be kept clean at all times. There—a film of scummy lather or a place V left a streak, a rim of suds against the wooden rail.

  V must learn to get it right if she wants a good report. Training tells, Mrs. Taft warns V. Three years of good work here, and V can be a housemaid for a family in St. Paul. Or was it Minneapolis where V lived? At any rate, a girl who keeps a clean house will find work.

  Or I could bring my daughter to Duluth, V says. I could take care of your family and June, too. Couldn’t we ask the school to send her? The visitor?

  I’m not one to fan false hopes, Mrs. Taft says quickly, then she’s off to Ladies’ Aid, leaving V with bratty Frankie and a wooden chest of tarnished silver to be cleaned. V could steal a spoon or poke a fork in Frankie’s eye. Frankie with his shrill, incessant whine: I want, I want.

  I want, too, V snaps at Frankie. I want to bust your chops, kid. Bust loose from this place. Get home to my own girl.

  Stop it, Frankie scolds. You’re supposed to play with me.

  Home again from meeting, Mrs. Taft must reinstruct on how to keep a toilet clean. Rotate daily scrubbings of vinegar and bleach. You know men can leave a mess, even little men like Frankie.

  And learn what to discuss, Mrs. Taft continues, while V on hands and knees must scour grout and marble for whatever errant pee she might have missed. Frivolous affairs, Mrs. Taft advises. Or flowers. A girl may always speak of flowers.

  School Days, Night Life Mix

  I’d like to see you in that, V, Dr. Taft says, handing V his precious daily paper. The doctor always friendly when Mrs. Taft has left the room. Full of jokes and winks that V can’t trust. You have that dress packed in your suitcase? By all means replace that frowsy apron with a costume like this girl’s.

  V looks down at the newspaper, the first one she’s been allowed to read in years, and there on the front page, under the headline “School Days, Night Life Mix,” dual photos of a schoolgirl and showgirl. Frances Smith, 18, of Brooklyn living V’s two lives. Left-side schoolgirl Frances plain-faced, sweet naïve, clean white blouse and dull black shoes, studious, posing for the camera with her papers and books. Right-side showgirl Frances primping in a mirror, preparing for the stage, a sultry showgirl pressing powder to her chin. Beautiful bare arms, one milky shoulder draped by sheer chiffon, shapely legs men will applaud, a flimsy slip of dress meant to be discarded.

  I’d like to see you in that, V, Dr. Taft repeats. See one of your numbers.

  V stares at New York’s Frances Smith in her bracelets and her bow, her strappy gold high heels, bright and shimmering like the ones V used to wear. Frances working nights to support her widowed mother. Frances Smith the front-page showgirl V once longed to be. A heroine. A star. A girl worthy of a headline.

  A New York showgirl free to lead V’s double-life while V labors for the Tafts.

  For What We Are about to Receive

  Thankful. Grateful. Blessed. Beholden and obliged. V reaping the daily benefits of close association with good people. Doesn’t V feel gratitude today and every day?

  A house girl at the table. It’s unheard of, one guest says.

  After V presents the turkey, she may take the seat near Frankie. V shouldn’t draw attention to herself.

  It’s all that Christian charity, Dr. Taft says with a wink. And Martha’s mother was a suffragette, you know.

  Well still, another guest tells Dr. Taft. Your family is too kind.

  V slices Frankie’s dark meat, forks away the skin, spoons a divot in his stuffing so the gravy will stay pooled. Promises the wishbone if he’s good.

  That’s not for you to say, V, Mrs. Taft corrects. Mind your place.

  Of course, V says, her eyes lowered toward her plate, the polished silver fork heavy in her hand.

  I might like one of my own girls, a woman says. Mrs. Day or Ray or May, V can’t remember. Too many pearl-necked women at this table to keep track. I could use a girl to watch little Paul, he wears me out.

  Me, too, another says. I’d like a live-in girl.

  Well, it isn’t without labor, Mrs. Taft says with a deep sigh. V was up at 4:00 a.m. to dress the turkey, bake the rolls. It takes the patience of a saint to train a girl.

  I’m sure. Paul’s mother nods.

  Outside, Duluth November is a desert of white wind, a vast expanse of arctic between V and the world. V dreams a silver bridge of ice to Minneapolis, dreams her family at the table, the railroad worker dead. A scene from Little Women. At last, her sisters cheer, our little Amy’s home.

  V dabs a taste of stuffing to June’s lips. Cranberries. Creamed corn. June makes a little face and they all laugh.

  Let Frankie feed himself, Mrs. Taft
scolds V.

  Of course, V mumbles, waking from the dream of June to Frankie’s constant scowl.

  V could drown from lonely.

  V could drown.

  Fa La La La La La La La La

  1.

  In the downstairs of Wahl’s Department Store, homesick V feels the tug of Toyland. The promise of bright packages and bows, the smell of pine, the colored bulbs, the tinsel, all she wants for June, and all that she can’t give to her this Christmas. June standing in the line to visit Santa. June lifted to the reindeer, posing for a picture in a little velvet coat.

  2.

  The Toyland reindeer’s fake, so Frankie throws a tantrum, kicks its lifeless flanks the way he would a horse. Look, he screams, the eyes are made of marbles. Santa’s reindeer’s dead.

  Oh sweetheart, Mrs. Taft says.

  Frankie’s inconsolable, and still he wants and wants. Trucks and trains and cars, a cowboy suit, the fancy one with fur, a lariat, a gun, all the candy he can eat, two teddy bears, a tent, a tub of chocolate ice cream, pudding in his bed, two candy canes, today, no, four or five. That ought to do it, son, Santa says, pushing Frankie off to V.

  Santa doesn’t even ask if he’s been good.

  3.

  A perfect painted tea set, porcelain and rose. V lifts a tiny cup, imagines June opening the gift on Christmas morning. Imagines June playing party with a tea set. Pretty Christmas gift from Mommy. Mommy loves her girl.

  $1.60. V hasn’t saved that yet, but Mrs. Taft could give her credit.

  I don’t think so, Mrs. Taft says, taking the teacup from V’s fingers. No payment in advance. Didn’t you read the rules? And even then, only money for necessities. Credit is a weakness common to the poor.

  4.

  Mrs. Taft offers V a gift choice from their charity donations: Old toys scavenged from the shelves in Frankie’s closet—a wooden top, dull puzzles, a book of Mother Goose, a set of baby blocks. There should be something here that suits June, Mrs. Taft assures. And I won’t deduct the postage from your pay.

  V finds a small stuffed bear in the bottom of the box, scrubs the jam stain from its fur, makes sure it smells likes soap before she wraps it in a box.

  That’s mine, Frankie sobs, and so it is.

  Christmas Morning 1938

  In celebration of Christ’s birth, V prepares the Christmas breakfast of spiced peaches warmed with cream, soft caramel rolls, coffee, the Christmas sausage V bought from the butcher.

  For Mrs. Taft, a diamond watch from the good doctor. A set of diamond earrings. No Christmas morning grand piano though, and so she pouts.

  Scotch again for me, the doctor jokes. And another set of cufflinks! An opera record ordered from New York!

  Toys and trucks and cars and trains and color crayons for Frankie, but best of all that cowboy suit from Wahl’s: red suedine vest and pants, fur-lined down the front, silver ornaments that jangle when he walks. The sheriff’s come to town, he says with a mean swagger. A lariat and hat. Neckerchief. Gun and holster at his hip.

  (And what did V send June? That wrinkled Mother Goose book with Frankie’s name on the first page. The Jack Sprat rhyme torn down the middle. All June will have this morning to know her mother’s love.)

  Bang bang, Frankie shouts, and V must fall down to the floor or Frankie cries. You’re dead, he says, so die.

  And how merry for you, V, the doctor says. To spend your holiday inside a family home.

  Of course, V says. V must always say of course.

  “If you find the girl disobedient, do not wait until the regular call from the visitor, but let her know at once. You should not transfer the girl to any other place or let her visit friends or have friends visit her without permission of the School or its agent.

  If for any cause you desire to have the girl removed, consult your parole visitor.

  THE GIRL MUST NOT BE LEFT ALONE ALL NIGHT with the woman of the house away unless there is a responsible woman in charge.”

  —Instructions to Employers, Minnesota Home School for Girls at Sauk Centre, 1937. Reprinted in the Handbook of American Institutions for Delinquent Juveniles, Vol. 1: West North Central States, 1938

  Personal Interest

  From the door of his dark den, Dr. Taft insists V enjoy an opera. V begs to be excused, but he won’t have it. You’ve seen plays I would presume?

  At school, of course, V says, taking her place on the edge of his settee, her legs locked at the ankles, her hands locked in her lap. V could say she’s been a star—the Little Match Girl in sixth grade, the lead in the eighth-grade operetta—but she doesn’t want to be a girl that Dr. Taft knows well.

  Doctor, jeweler, judge: V understands what men want with a girl.

  Mrs. Taft at bridge and tea? Who else is in this house?

  Frankie napping in the nursery. Only Frankie.

  V could scream into the silence; she’s tempted to scream now.

  But here is Dr. Taft, setting the needle down on Manon, closing the door to his dark study. Dr. Taft insisting V acquire culture and this is where it starts.

  “When we divide the people of a given society into a pyramidic structure of upper, middle, and lower classes it soon becomes evident that the greatest number of social problems invariably occur near the base of the configuration. This is due to the nature and composition of society and the individuals who populate each stratum. Just why delinquency always appears there seems inexplicable. The important fact for the scholar is that maladjustment is more serious at the bottom of the pyramid.”

  —Walter A. Lunden, Juvenile Delinquency: Manual and Source Book, 1936

  Dr. Taft Imagines France

  At the bottom of the pyramid, V vacates her ravished body while Dr. Taft imagines France. Parlez vous Français? Oui Oui. Bonjour. Bonne nuit. Say Merci, Mademoiselle. Embrassez moi. Embrassez.

  Moulin Rouge. You dance at the Moulin Rouge?

  French, the secret language V must learn while Mrs. Taft’s asleep, or bathing in the morning, or tucking darling Frankie into bed.

  Encore! Oh Oui!

  V made to bend over the washtub or forced down to her knees. Je t’aime, ma belle. His maladjusted showgirl and his house girl, gagging down the taste of Dr. Taft.

  [The inheritance of silence.

  Silence as survival.]

  The First Time V Considers

  The house eerily empty, V sitting at His desk admiring Her drapes, settles on those silver braided cords. Wouldn’t one make a perfect noose around V’s neck?

  The plaster lion watches. The lion has been kind, he will not judge. Quiet as he’s been, he’s talking now to V.

  Why not just go to death? the lion asks. What is on this side to keep you here?

  V feels the darkness calling like it did inside the Uptown, the beautiful black moment before the movie would begin.

  This could be the last scene in the movie of V’s life. The ravished house girl seemingly asleep beside a statue. A silken silver cord around her neck. A note beside her body telling Mrs. Taft the truth.

  Why not? the lion whispers. So many stars have quit.

  V a small domestic tragedy, until she rises like the phoenix finished with this world.

  Mrs. Taft’s Assessment

  Before she posts it to the State, Mrs. Taft finds it only right to share her January assessment. If V wishes to improve, she should know her failings and her faults. Of course, Mrs. Taft would like to praise, because some days, albeit too few, she wishes to believe that V does try.

  Yes, V has several tasks she can do well: soft boiling breakfast eggs, preparing roasted chicken—V’s beef roasts are always over-cooked—oiling the mahogany, brushing the lint from Dr. Taft’s suits, keeping the upstairs hallway swept, but V won’t win a medal for her meals or her room. Her drawers look like a hurricane has hit. Private garments willy- nilly. And she of
ten lets her socks sag at the ankle.

  V’s ironing remains a constant failure; unsightly creases have been found on tablecloths and clothes, and Dr. Taft too often needs his shirts re-pressed. More than once he’s had to venture to the basement to reprimand the girl.

  Mrs. Taft can’t say that V complains, and yet the girl exudes a chronic insolence when tending to her chores, or entertaining Frankie, or tidying his toys. As if she isn’t grateful for all the Tafts have done. But perhaps most disconcerting, is her senseless, ceaseless longing for that daughter. How can V attend their child when she’s preoccupied with hers?

  In short, while home training will continue, they are sorely unimpressed.

  Still, despite V’s many flaws, they wish her well.

  “The function of parole is not just protection from temptation but directing the girl not to succumb to temptation.”

  —Minnesota Home School for Girls at Sauk Centre, “Report to Minnesota State Board of Control,” June 30, 1936

  Ladies’ Aid

  Jimmy Washington is all V has for hope. Pimpled, buck-toothed Jimmy working at the butcher, wrapping V’s order of cut beef in clean, white paper, or smoking on the sidewalk when he knows V will arrive. Monday mornings before the butcher even opens, V is always there to buy fresh chops. The doctor only eats his pork chops fresh.

  Swell coat, Jimmy calls this morning, as V walks up the street. Cute curls. Hey there, toots. A whistle now for V. I sure do like those eyes.