“Sure. We’ll follow you.”
As if this is a real treat, to be driven home in a squad car, Mira asks innocently, “Can we have sirens?”
An hour later we’re sitting in my living room with Will and Danny. “So, young men, can you tell me what happened?” the sheriff asks, balancing a little notebook on his knee, ready to take notes. The boys look at each other, and then Will, being older, takes the lead.
“Well, sir. Dan and I were sitting down front with the older kids in the Eagle Theater. His sisters were halfway back. This was the first time we’d been to the movies without our parents.
“The newsreel wasn’t even over before some girls in the row behind us started whispering things about Danny and his pa, like . . . ‘There he is, the son of the draft dodger!’ and ‘Jailbird, jailbird, sitting in a tree’ and ‘Yellow-bellied sap sucker!’
“I could tell Danny was getting mad,” Willie continues, “so before he jumped over the seat and throttled them, I tried to shut them up. ‘Hush, you vixens!’ I said.” He turns to Bitsy. “Is vixen a bad word, Ma?”
Sheriff Hardman wipes a smile off his face with the back of his hand.
“I don’t think so,” says Bitsy.
“It means an ill-tempered female,” I offer.
“Well, that’s what they were,” my son finally comes in. “If the usher hadn’t come down the aisle and shone his flashlight in their faces, I probably would have punched them, though I know it’s not right to hit a girl.”
“Anyway, all was quiet through the cartoon and halfway into the main feature,” Willie goes on, watching the sheriff’s face. “Until about the time the Cisco Kid breaks Miss Ann out of jail, and then the jeering started again, only this time it was the big boys. When intermission came, Danny and I took his sisters out front to get some popcorn and find new seats somewhere in back, and that’s when all heck broke loose.”
“I was drinking from the fountain when a big thug shoved me,” Danny says. “That’s how I got the shiner. I hit my face on the faucet. ‘Son of a coward’ the boy called me, and I punched him hard right in the belly.”
The sheriff’s mouth turns down. He has still not written anything in his book.
“And when another boy jumped in, I walloped him,” Willie says, proud of himself.
“Do you know these boys’ names?” Hardman wants to know.
Danny and Willie look at each other, but don’t answer the lawman.
“I know who they are,” says Sunny. “They’re eighth graders from over near Burnt Town. Troublemakers. They only come to school when they feel like it. Mrs. Archer says she wishes they would just drop out and give her some peace. The Baker boys, Addison and Haywood.” Now the sheriff’s pencil moves.
“Tattletale,” Will grumbles.
“No, Willie,” I say. “Sunny is right to answer the sheriff. He wants to know the facts. You didn’t start the scrap, and I don’t exactly know what you were supposed to do when the boy pushed you into the faucet, but I guess fighting in the lobby wasn’t the best idea.”
“They called Pa a coward. He’s no coward!” Danny argues.
“Calm down, son,” Hardman orders.
“Our pa is brave!” Mira shouts.
“Okay, settle down, everyone!” says the sheriff. “I understand you were threatened and mad, but your pa isn’t going to be home for two years. People have strong opinions about the war, and this isn’t the last time you’re going to hear such things.
“You have two choices: figure out how to deal with it, or stay out of town. Now, I’m going to talk to Mr. Flanders at the movie house and I’m going to talk to the Baker brothers and their parents, but Mrs. Hester, can I see you in the kitchen?”
“I’m sorry, Sheriff,” I say, sitting down at the table. “Danny and Willie are good boys. They’re never in trouble at school. They help me at home . . . I’m sorry,” I say again.
“Now, don’t get all weepy on me, Mrs. Hester. No real harm was done. I don’t know those Baker kids, but I think they’re probably bullies and I want them to know they can’t get away with it in my town.”
“Thank you, Sheriff. I know Dr. Hester will appreciate your help. It’s going to be a hard few years without him.”
“I know, Patience,” Sheriff Hardman says, putting his big hand on my shoulder. It’s the first time he’s ever called me by my first name.
40
October 15, 1942
Boone Memorial
I stare out my bedroom window at the bare trees, whipped by the wind. Almost all the crimson and yellow leaves are gone now and it’s forlorn and gray. The only touch of color is our red barn.
Mr. Roote has had a stroke. I learned about it from Lou Cross, and I must go to see the old man at Boone Memorial in Torrington tomorrow morning. My plan is to stop at the hospital on the way up to visit Dan at the Moundsville Prison.
Though we’ve been corresponding, this will be the first time I’ve seen my husband since I visited him with Sheriff Hardman, the first time I’ll visit alone. His letters sit in my top bureau drawer and I read them over again each night before bed.
At the admission desk of the new three-story brick hospital in Torrington, built just two years ago, after the old wooden one burned down, I ask if I can visit Mr. Roote.
“Mr. Charles Roote of Liberty, West Virginia?” the woman in a blue uniform with white collar and cuffs asks me.
“Yes,” I answer slowly, realizing I’ve never heard the old man’s first name before.
“Room 304,” she says. “You can take the stairs or wait for the elevator.”
I decide to take the stairs. Elevators have always scared me, and I’ve rarely been in one, certainly not since coming to West Virginia. By the time I hobble up to the third floor my knee is killing me. “Room 304?” I ask another nurse. She wears a white uniform and white stockings. She has a little white hat with a dark-blue stripe across the top, and I wonder if Becky dresses like that at Walter Reed. It would suit her well, with her short dark bob.
“You’re headed the right way,” the nurse says pleasantly. “Mr. Roote is in a four-bed ward and he’s my patient. Are you family?”
I’m not sure if you must be family to visit, so I answer cautiously. “Yes . . . I’m his niece. How’s he doing?”
“Well, it was a mild stroke, but he’s bedridden now. It’s affected his left leg, but not his hands or speech, thank goodness.”
“How’s his companion, Mrs. Stone?”
“The older woman with him? I assumed it was his wife. She cares for him so tenderly, even helps with the bedpan. The lady is there now and seems to be holding up okay.” Then the nurse bustles down the hall.
“Mrs. Stone?” I whisper, standing at the open door to Room 304.
“Mr. Roote?” I ask a little louder. I’ve tended the ill at home, have even sat at the bedside of the dying a few times, but I’m not used to hospitals, and the smell of medicine and cleaning solution almost makes me sick. A curtain moves, a white head appears, and the face wrinkles into a smile.
“Oh, hi, honey. I thought I heard someone. It’s so nice of you to stop by,” says Mrs. Stone, poking her head out of a curtain.
“How’s Mr. Roote?”
“He’s a sassy old coot, but he’ll live. Come on in. He’s decent. Just finished his breakfast tray and had his bath. The doc says he’ll be here about a week and then I’m not sure what we’ll do. He can’t live alone. I’m thinking of taking him back to my house.” She pulls me into one of four cubicles. Mr. Roote sits up in bed, looking bright-eyed and clean-shaven.
“Got my own private nurse,” he says, giving me a wink. “And she ain’t bad-looking, either.”
“Now, Charley, behave yourself,” Mrs. Stone scolds. Then, to the patient on the other side of the curtain she says, “Can I borrow your chair, Mr. Phillips? We have a guest.” There’s only a grunt, but she takes the chair anyway.
“I was so sorry to hear about your stroke,” I address Mr. Roote. “Is
there anything I can do for you? I’m on the way to Moundsville today to visit Daniel, so I can’t stay long.”
“Going to see the jailbird, huh?” the old man jokes.
“Charley, can’t you see it’s hard for her?” Mrs. Stone reprimands as she fluffs his pillow.
“Sorry. I just don’t get why the darn fool didn’t register,” says Mr. Roote. “They would have let him alone if he’d signed the papers.”
I take a deep breath. “I’m his wife, Mr. Roote, but I’ll be honest, I begged him to sign. Still I love him and will forgive him.” I swallow hard, trying to make it so. “Danny, our son, is having a hard time with it. He got in a fight at the Eagle Theater when some boys called him the son of a coward.”
“Hell!” says the old guy. “Daniel Hester’s no coward, maybe a fool, but not a coward. I hope the little fellow gave those bullies a pounding.”
“He and Willie tried, but the sheriff was called and broke it up. I can’t decide whether to tell Dan about it or not. What would you do?”
Mr. Roote stares at the ceiling, thinking. “I never had children,” he says, “but I guess I would be proud if my boy defended me, even in the Eagle Theater.”
My visit is short and Mrs. Stone walks me down the hall as I prepare to leave. On the way, we pass a young man in a wheelchair. He’s wearing a uniform and has no legs. Another victim of this awful war, I think, and I give him a small smile.
“Is Mr. Roote going to recover?” I ask the elderly lady.
“Oh, I think so. He’s too stubborn to just fade away.” We’re standing in front of the elevator when the door opens with a ding.
“Here you are, honey,” Mrs. Stone says, putting her hand inside the sliding panel to hold it open as if she’s done this all her life. Then I remember that before the Great Depression, she and her husband lived in New York City, so she probably used these mechanical contraptions all the time. She nods toward the opening, waiting for me to get in.
There’s nothing else for it, so I step over the threshold. The door closes behind me and I hold my breath, bracing myself for the thump and whir as I hurtle down. I wait one minute. Nothing. I wait two minutes, still nothing, and unlike the elevator I rode with my father when I was eight, in Chicago, there’s no operator in uniform to drive the thing.
I notice a row of buttons to the right of the door: 3—2—LOBBY—BASEMENT. Maybe you’re supposed to press one? This takes more courage than delivering a breech baby. I punch the button for Lobby and feel my stomach jump into my throat.
41
Prisoner
I rode in an elevator today,” I tell Dan, sitting again at the back table in the visitors’ room of the Moundsville Prison. “It was an automatic contraption and I had to drive it myself. Can you imagine! Funny how you can get used to anything,” I go on. “Even something fearsome like visiting a state penitentiary.
“It’s only my second time here, but I was able to assist another woman who stood in the parking lot staring up at the big stone citadel with tears in her eyes. ‘Come with me,’ I told her. ‘I’ll show you what to do.’”
Across the room, my new woman friend is sitting with a prisoner who looks about fifteen. I know that’s not true. He has to be at least eighteen to be here, but his very blond hair and smooth pink cheeks make him seem so young and vulnerable. “Do you know that guy?” I whisper, my hand hiding my mouth. “What’s he in for?”
“There are a thousand men here, Patience. I can’t know them all, but I do happen to know about him. A few days ago, I was given a new job. I’ve been sent to work with Dr. Greeley in the infirmary. I’m just there to file charts and clean up after he does a procedure, but I saw the white-haired kid’s name. It’s Peter Kaminski. He was just transferred in from Parkersburg and he’s here for murder.”
“Murder? He looks so innocent. You look tougher than he does and you’re here for your pacifist beliefs.”
“According to his record he hears voices,” Dan says in a whisper.
“Well, then shouldn’t he be in the state asylum at Weston?”
“Yes, but they don’t have a ward for the criminally insane. Doc Greeley, the prison physician, says it’s probably schizophrenia. Kaminski killed a hired hand, in cold blood, on his father’s farm for no reason that anyone has been able to learn.”
“Look at him over there,” I say, turning my head in the youth’s direction. “He looks like he couldn’t hurt a fly.”
“Don’t do that, hon.”
“What?”
“Stare. You learn in the pen to keep eyes and ears closed. Men have been killed just for being too nosy.”
“Oh, Dan! I hate it that you’re here. Do you know how long it will be or when you’ll be transferred to a federal prison? Maybe it will be more civilized.”
“Don’t know. One of the other pacifists from Ahimsa House was in a county jail for two months before they moved him.” He reaches across the table for my hand. “No physical touching!” a loudspeaker blares, and a guard saunters our way, but my husband snatches his hand back, smiles and says, “Sorry, Norm.”
“You know the guards’ names?”
“There’s only about fifty of them on rotating shifts. I don’t know them all, but Norm’s on my cellblock and he’s been bringing me stale bread for Ronald. . . .”
“So how are you doing?” I ask my husband. “Are you still okay?”
“I’m fine. I’m teaching Bones, that guy in for murder, to read . . . How are the kids? Behaving okay? I miss them.”
“I brought some more drawings, but you know how it is, the guards have to search through them first. Danny sent a special letter of apology . . .” Here my husband goes on alert.
“Is he getting sassy again? God, I hope not! There’s nothing I can do about it in here.”
“No, it’s not that.” I fake a cough to give myself time. “I guess I might as well tell you. He and Willie were in a fight at the Eagle Theater.”
Dan raises his eyebrows waiting. “Was it about me?”
“Yes. Some bullies were teasing Danny in the picture show. We took all the kids to Cisco Kid at the Eagle Theater and let them watch the movies alone while Bitsy and I had our hair done at Ida May’s House of Beauty. Bitsy said I was ‘letting myself go’ and she’d pay for it on half-price day. I blame myself. I shouldn’t have done it.”
“What were the bullies saying?”
“You know, the usual stuff. ‘Your dad’s a draft dodger. . . .’” Here I get tears in my eyes. “And other stuff, like ‘coward’ and ‘yellow-bellied sap sucker.’”
“Yellow-bellied sap sucker! That’s a bird.” Daniel laughs. “A small woodpecker that drills holes in trees and sucks sap. It has a red head and a pale yellow belly. I’m surprised the kid had even heard of it.”
“You think this is funny?” I can’t help but smile when I see Dan laugh. “The sheriff was called and he had all five of the kids in the squad car when we got out of Ida May’s. I’m surprised it didn’t get in the local paper. You know how Mr. Blaze is. Hardman brought them home and made the boys tell him the whole story.”
Dan rubs the smile off his face. “I’m sorry, Patience. You shouldn’t have to deal with these things.” Under the table I feel his sock foot caressing my ankle and I slip off my pump.
“You aren’t as upset about the fight as I thought you would be. . . .”
“Shhhh,” he says. “Just listen.” And he begins to sing, low and sweet. “You are my sunshine, my only sunshine. You make me happy when skies are gray. You’ll never know, dear, how much I love you . . .”
Our eyes lock and the gray prison walls fade away. Dan and I are on the top of Spruce Mountain, sitting on the flat rock, looking down at valley still green, still alive, forever.
42
October 20, 1942
My Dear Patience,
How long have we been married? Eleven years? Twelve?
What an interesting life we’ve led and what great friends we have. I got a letter from
Reverend Miller yesterday telling me to be of good cheer that the Lord is with me even in dark places. He asked if I was going to chapel and reminded me that even in prison there’s church on Sunday.
I asked Bones about it and learned there is a service at nine, right after breakfast. You don’t even have to wear a tie. Hahaha. I think I will go.
I heard the other prisoners talking about an execution coming up next week. It’s that young blond fellow you noticed in the visiting area. His lawyers were appealing and now his time’s up.
At night, I lay my hand on my heart and I think of you and imagine your sweet face, your eyes, your smell. Every day that goes by is one day closer to when we will be together again.
Your loving husband,
Dan
October 21, 1942
Dear Daniel,
I’ll start with the big news. Mr. Roote and Mrs. Stone have tied the knot. Can you believe it, at their age?
Yesterday, I went to town for the first time since the boys were in the fight at the theater. Finally, I just had to face it. We were out of sugar, coffee, lard, kerosene, chicken feed, salt-pork, and soap. I took the girls with me, but not Danny. He had to stay and chop wood.
The first stop we made was Bittman’s Grocery and we had to use our ration cards for the sugar and coffee. Lilly Bittman was cheerful and nice, indicating that your imprisonment for pacifism has not affected our friendship. The same wasn’t true for Prudy Ott. She passed me coming out of the store with her nose in the air. Didn’t even say hello. And to think of the trouble I went to to deliver her baby when she was crying and carrying on!
Our next stop was their old elementary school, in town. The twins and Mira had collected a box of tin cans for the scrap drive and they wanted to see their old friends again. Luckily, we arrived just as recess began and they scampered off with half a dozen girls.
Once a Midwife Page 24
