Page 21 of The Reformatory

“She says…” The old woman’s raisin face puckered. “Well, that’s—that’s—”

Old Lady Powell couldn’t stand when Gloria contradicted her. Most often, Gloria kept her objections silent. After all, this was just an old lady losing her memory, or making up memories. The true rumor on Lower Spruce was that Old Lady Powell and Miz Lottie had the same white granddaddy, Gracetown Civil War hero Arthur Powell, but Gloria knew better than to say so. Gloria doubted it herself, since Miz Lottie was mostly brown-skinned, although her hair was thin and fine like an Indian’s.

“Well, she’s a lying little pickaninny then, because that’s exactly what happened. She’d lay right down at the end of Mama’s bed across her feet.”

“I guess if that’s what your mama told you.”

“Didn’t I say not to give me that evil eye? I want Daisy to get you out of this house.” Daisy was Old Lady Powell’s daughter who had died of flu during the Depression.

“Yes, ma’am” was all Gloria said.

Old Lady Powell’s glare softened as she studied Gloria, trying to place her. She often had that faraway look, lost in time. The sadness and confusion made Gloria feel sorry for her despite the awful things she said. The weaker Old Lady Powell got, the meaner she got. Gloria had learned to tolerate the meanness by reminding herself that the old woman’s tiring body must be in pain. Even breathing was a labor. Even eating. Gloria had strained the beef out of her stew, and all but the softest potatoes and carrots.

“Let me spoon your stew, ma’am,” Gloria said.

Old Lady Powell snatched the spoon away. “I’ll spoon my own damn stew. All that evil in your face, you’d prob’ly choke me.”

Gloria was on the verge of leaving the old woman to spill broth all over herself, but instead she waited for Old Lady Powell to change her mind. “All right, then. But I’m watching you. You better not choke me or slip me poison.”

I’ll try, Gloria thought. God help me, I’ll try. Was this all life was? A series of experiences and then someone feeding you as if none of it had ever happened? As if you’d never left any impression on the world? Each day Gloria worked at the Powells’ house instead of going to school the way she and Mama had planned, she felt an unlived version of her life sailing away, out of grasp. She’d never felt so trapped, wishing to be anywhere else to help Robbie.

An upright black phone gleamed from Old Lady Powell’s telephone table in the corner. The Powells had their own home telephone line, a luxury; most people in Gracetown had a party line. At least no one outside of the house could spy on her. Gloria picked up the phone.

“Who you think you’re calling, Lottie?”

Gloria had forgotten Old Lady Powell was with her. Her heart jumped. “I have to call to the pharmacy for your medicine.” Gloria was learning she could lie easily, with no trouble from her conscience. Not when it was for Robbie.

“Anne takes care of all that,” Old Lady Powell said. Oh, her mind was sharp when she wanted to thwart you.

“She asked me to. Pay me no mind, ma’am.” The nightstand clock gave Gloria inspiration when she saw it was 1:45. “It’s time for The Guiding Light, Missus Powell.”

Delight smoothed wrinkles in the old woman’s face. Gloria flipped on Old Lady Powell’s bedside radio, and the Duz detergent ad was still playing with cheerful music and voices that sounded nothing like washing clothes.

“Turn that up,” Old Lady Powell said.

With the dull chatter from the radio on, Gloria had the freedom to sit at the telephone table and dial the operator to ask for Children’s Services in Tallahassee. She was relieved when the operator said, “One moment, please,” and a line burred. Gloria looked furtively up at the closed door, hoping Miss Anne would not choose that moment to hover. She would tell Miss Anne she’d made the call, but she did not want it interrupted. If a call to Tallahassee carried extra charges, she’d pay out of her salary.

L-O-E-H-M-A-N-N. Gloria had memorized the spelling of the man’s name.

It took the entire fifteen minutes of the radio program before Gloria’s call was transferred to an office where someone had heard of a social worker named Loehmann. While she waited for him to come to the line, Gloria imagined a spirited conversation with him, a plan of action.

“He’s not in. May I take a message, miss?” a secretary finally said.

If Gloria had visited his office in person, she might have been sent to a separate colored area, much less would anyone call her “miss.” The telephone line hid her race and won her courtesy. She added another drop of primness to her voice, like playing dress-up.

“Tell him this is Gloria Stephens—S-T-E-P-H-E-N-S. He took my brother, Robert, to the Reformatory this morning. I wanted to find out if he’d had a chance to talk to Judge Morris yet.”

A moment of silence during routine note-taking. “All right, miss. Is that all?”

“Yes, that’s all.”

“Where can he call you back?”

“Uhm… he can call over to Anne Powell’s. The late Councilman Powell’s daughter.” And she gave Miss Anne’s telephone number. “Tell him it’s very urgent, please.”

Gloria felt empty when she hung up. The grand plan she’d imagined had resulted in nothing but a phone message he might never see or would ignore outright. The organ music at the end of The Guiding Light sounded like a funeral march to match her mood.

Gloria was surprised to see Old Lady Powell staring at her with strangely lucid eyes. “The Reformatory,” the old woman said in a soft voice. “That’s a terrible place. Terrible. I hope Fred doesn’t end up there.”