Necessary Lies

  “What do y’all think?” she asked, standing back to feel the breeze.

  “Mary Ella,” Nonnie scolded. “You’re standing right in front of it, blocking it for everybody else.”

  Mary Ella was standing right in front of it, arms stretched out, head tipped back, hair blowing wild all around her head. Sometimes she didn’t seem like a regular everyday kind of girl.

  I took her arm and moved her to the side. “It’s real nice,” I said to Mrs. Forrester.

  Baby William was hanging on to my leg.

  “You’ve got to make sure William doesn’t get his fingers near it.” She looked worried.

  “He ain’t that stupid,” Nonnie said. She was facing the fan and the sweat was starting to dry on her face.

  “How’s his rash?” She leaned over and lifted the edge of Baby William’s shirt.

  “Near gone,” Nonnie said.

  “A lot better,” Mrs. Forrester agreed. She stood up straight and looked at her hands. They had a little grease on them from the fan. “May I wash my hands?” she asked.

  “Sure,” Nonnie said, and Mrs. Forrester went to the sink, looked at the pump a minute, then lifted the handle and pressed it down and nothing happened.

  “Just needs priming,” I said, pointing to the cup of water we kept on the windowsill.

  She looked like a little girl seeing a toy she didn’t know how to play with. Then she laughed. “Sorry,” she said. “I don’t know how to do it.”

  “You ain’t never primed a pump?” Nonnie asked, like she never seen a girl so stupid.

  “Here.” I took the cup and poured it in the top of the pump. “Now it’ll work,” I said. “Just make sure to put more water in the cup for next time.”

  She laughed as she scrubbed the greasy marks on her fingers with the cake of soap. “Well, this is a first for me,” she said, holding one hand under the pump, then the other.

  “Guess what I got?” I said. “A transistor radio!” I ran into the living room to get it to show her.

  “She must of stole it,” I heard Mary Ella say. She’d been saying that since I brung it home. She and Nonnie didn’t believe I just found it, like I said. One of the day workers must of dropped it by the fields, is what I told them.

  I looked at Mrs. Forrester as I came back in the kitchen. “I found it,” I said, and she nodded like she believed me.

  I turned it on and put it on the table. “Oh! I love this song,” I said as “Cathy’s Clown” played, but it was almost at the end. Then the radio man said Chubby Checker was coming on next, singing “The Twist.”

  “Do you know that song?” Mrs. Forrester asked. “‘The Twist’?”

  “No, ma’am,” I said, though I thought I heard it once on Henry Allen’s radio.

  “It’s a new dance,” Mrs. Forrester said as the music started.

  “Race music.” Nonnie shook her head. She thought everything was race music unless it had the word “Jesus” in it.

  Mrs. Forrester didn’t pay her no mind. She started moving funny, shaking her hips around and holding her arms up. “This is the dance,” she said. “The twist. Can you do it?”

  Mary Ella laughed, putting her hands over her mouth. “That ain’t no dance!” she said, and she leaned back against the wall, watching Mrs. Forrester do the twist dance.

  “It is,” Mrs. Forrester said. “Want to try it?”

  “Sinful is what it is,” Nonnie said, but she was almost laughing herself.

  I tried it, moving my hips and arms the way Mrs. Forrester done, and pretty soon, we was all twisting, even Baby William, who couldn’t do it good at all. Even Nonnie. We was twisting around the kitchen, first smiling, and then laughing. When the next song came on, Mrs. Forrester took Nonnie’s hands and started teaching her another dance, but Nonnie’s face got red like she was ashamed she was dancing. She let go of Mrs. Forrester’s hands. “Nothin’ but race music,” she said, returning to her pot on the stove. Mrs. Forrester took Baby William’s hands then, and we was all still dancing and twisting and moving whatever way felt good around our kitchen.

  “It’s actually called ‘beach music,’” Mrs. Forrester said. “They play it on the coast.”

  “I ain’t never been to no beach,” I said.

  “Really?” she said. “You’ve never seen the ocean?”

  “Never.”

  “Me, either,” Mary Ella said.

  “Have you seen the beach, Mrs. Hart?” Mrs. Forrester asked Nonnie.

  “Oh yes, ma’am. All that sticky sand. No point to it, really.”

  Mrs. Forrester looked at me and then Mary Ella. “Well, I hope you get to go someday,” she said. “There is a lot of sticky sand, like your grandmother says, but it’s also very beautiful and fun.”

  I suddenly realized that was what we was having right then: fun. I thought the only time I could have fun anymore was when I was with Henry Allen. I thought being with him was the only time I could feel as good as I felt right that minute.

  I was sad when Mrs. Forrester stopped dancing and looked at her watch. “I’d better get going,” she said. “But”—a worried look came to her face—“may I use your … your outhouse before I go?” she asked, picking up her purse from the kitchen table.

  “It’s a johnny,” Mary Ella said.

  “Sure,” I said. “Thank you for the fan.”

  “You’re so welcome.” Her face was all pink and pretty and I felt like hugging her, but of course I didn’t. She left through the back door and I watched her step around the chickens as she walked toward the johnny.

  “If she ain’t used no pump,” Nonnie said, lifting a jar out of the pot with the tongs, “she ain’t used no johnny, neither.”

  I thought of the bathroom at school and how different it was from our johnny. It had soft paper to use.

  I pushed open the screen door and ran after her.

  “Mrs. Forrester!” I called.

  She was almost to the johnny and she turned around. “Yes, Ivy?” she said.

  “Do you know about the johnny?” I asked. “About the … paper?”

  “Paper? You mean toilet paper?”

  I nodded. “We ain’t got none,” I said. “Use the pages from the catalog. Not the shiny pages, though. Crinkle them up a bunch of times to make them soft.” I knew I was blushing, but she didn’t seem embarrassed.

  “Thank you, Ivy. I wouldn’t have known.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said, happy I could help her. I twisted all the way back to the house, dancing to the music in my head.

  21

  Jane

  “You look beautiful,” Robert said, as I took his arm to walk into the country club.

  “Thank you.” I leaned into him a little. Tonight was the night I would not think about my job. I’d promised myself that. Tonight was my gift to Robert. I’d give him all my attention. I’d make friends with the wives of his friends. I’d try my best to be the wife he wanted me to be.

  I’d told all that to my mother when she went shopping with me for my dress the day before, and her response was “Good luck.”

  “Why do you say that?” I stopped sorting through the rack of dresses to look at her.

  “No reason,” she said. “I shouldn’t have said anything. Sorry.”

  “Mother!” I said. “Now you have to tell me.” I thought I’d been careful to keep my problems with Robert from her.

  “Well”—she kept her eyes on the dresses rather than on me—“it’s just that sometimes he seems to want you to be someone you’re not,” she said, and she took a deep blue sequined sheath-style gown from the rack. “How about this one?” she said.

  I knew she was right, but then I could say the same about myself, I thought. Sometimes I wanted him to be someone he wasn’t. I guessed that was typical of ninety-nine percent of all marriages.

  Robert loved the blue sequined dress the moment he saw it. I spent the afternoon at the beauty parlor getting my hair styled into a French twist, little white pearls somehow hooked
through the tresses. Robert said my hair looked even prettier than it had for my wedding.

  The room was a sea of white and gold. Dozens of round tables, some with white tablecloths, others with gold, filled the entire space except for the dance floor, and each table was decorated with beautiful yellow and white floral centerpieces.

  Robert seemed to know everyone—or at least all the men—and he introduced me as we made our way to our table at the edge of the dance floor. I found my place card, and took my seat between Robert and a man who quickly introduced himself and his wife. Gavin and Lois Parker. They were the oldest couple at the table. Early thirties, I guessed. Gavin’s light brown hair was already starting to recede. The other two couples were closer to my age, and I recognized one of the girls. Beverly Ann Somebody. She was the one who’d stopped by the house just after we moved in to tell me about the Junior League, and now I suddenly remembered I was supposed to get back to her. She smiled across the table at me, but it was not the warmest of smiles.

  Five minutes into sitting at the table, I knew the men’s occupations—two pediatricians, one psychologist, and one attorney—and their golf scores. And I knew without asking that none of the three girls worked and they all knew each other. They talked about their children and the Junior League and an upcoming charity event. I kept a smile on my face and tried to make conversation with them, with little success. I was sitting next to the best conversationalist at the table in Gavin, the lawyer, though. He was one of those people who asked lots of questions and looked sincerely interested in my answers.

  “Are you in the Junior League, too?” he asked. He had the most beautiful eyes, a pale translucent blue.

  Robert spoke across me, answering quickly. “Jane hasn’t had time to join yet,” he said. “She’s very involved in charitable work.” I knew I was not to say anything about my job. I tried to imagine how it felt to Robert to have his wife employed when all the other girls at the table—maybe in the room—were not.

  “Tell me about your charitable work,” Gavin said.

  I glanced at Robert, who gave me a resigned look and a nod. “I’m working for the Department of Public Welfare,” I said. Ten minutes into the evening and the cat was already out of the bag.

  Gavin’s eyebrows lifted. “Office work?” he asked.

  “No,” I said, “in the field.”

  “What on earth does that mean?” Beverly Ann asked. “‘In the field’?”

  “I go to my clients’ homes and evaluate their needs.”

  “You mean, people getting welfare?” Deborah, the psychologist’s wife, asked.

  “Yes.”

  I felt everyone’s eyes turn to Robert. Whether they were asking why he’d allow his wife to do such a thing or if his practice was going that poorly, was anyone’s guess.

  “I’d love her to stay home,” he said with a smile it must have taken him some effort to produce, and he put his arm around my shoulders, “but I learned early on you don’t tell this girl what to do.”

  “You don’t have to go into colored homes, do you?” Beverly Ann asked.

  I nodded. “Sometimes.”

  She looked at Deborah. “Can you imagine?” she asked, and Deborah shook her head, a horrified expression on her face. Really, I was starting to hate them.

  “Why?” Beverly Ann asked me. “You don’t need to work, do you?”

  “You mean financially?” I gave a look of mock surprise. “No, of course not. I just want to work for a while before we have a family. I’ve always wanted to have a career of my own. Haven’t you ever felt that way?”

  The two girls laughed. “The only career I want is as a wife and mother,” Deborah said.

  “I’m secretary of the Junior League,” said Beverly Ann, “and trust me, that’s as much work as anyone can handle. And the Junior League is all about charity,” she added. “If helping the needy is so important to you, you can do it without getting your hands dirty.”

  Gavin’s wife, Lois, had been quiet through much of the conversation. Now she leaned across her husband to touch my hand in what felt like a show of support. “I admire you,” she said. “I was a teacher for a few years before I had our daughter. It was very satisfying.”

  “Thank you,” I said, grateful.

  “What sort of law do you practice?” I asked Gavin, desperate to get the topic off myself.

  “Family,” he said. “Divorce. Child custody. That sort of thing.”

  “It must be very interesting,” I said. “You must hear some stories.”

  “You, too, with the sort of work you’re doing.”

  “Well, yes,” I admitted. Somehow, the topic was back on me. “It’s been eye-opening.”

  “Are you working in Raleigh?”

  “Grace County.”

  “Oh my,” he said, “I can just imagine the stories! So rural. Were you raised on a farm?”

  “Me? Oh no. Cameron Park. No, this is all new to me. I feel as though I’ve been shot into space and landed on another planet.”

  “I bet it’s interesting.”

  “It is. And I’m dying to ask David a question about one of my clients,” I said quietly, as if asking Gavin’s permission to talk to the psychologist sitting next to Lois.

  “Go ahead,” Lois said. “David loves to talk. Loves it.”

  “Did I hear my name?” David asked.

  “Do you mind if I ask a question related to my work?” I had to speak up to be heard; the room was full of chatter and the band had started to play.

  “Darling,” Robert said, “this is a social event.”

  “You’re right.” I sat back in my chair, remembering my promise to him. “Sorry,” I said to David.

  “Would you like to dance, Jane?” David smiled at me. He touched Deborah’s shoulder. “Do you mind, dear?” he asked, and she shook her head, but I was afraid she minded very much and he’d be in the doghouse later. David turned to Robert. “May I dance with your wife?” he asked.

  “Of course,” Robert said. What else could he say?

  Once on the dance floor, we fox-trotted to a Sinatra song. “So,” he said, “what’s your question?”

  “Do you do psychological testing?” I asked.

  He groaned. “That’s all I do these days,” he said. “I work for Wake County Schools. Do you need someone tested?”

  I shook my head. “No, I was just wondering if it’s possible that the results of an IQ test can be affected by, say, a child’s environment.” I had to lean close to his ear for him to be able to hear me. “For example, many of my clients test very low—”

  “How low?”

  “Well, all over the place, but I’m thinking of a particular fifteen-year-old girl who tests eighty. She seems smarter to me than that.”

  “She wouldn’t be considered retarded at eighty,” he said. “Dull normal, yes, but not retarded.”

  “I know,” I said, nearly shouting so he could hear, “but I think—”

  He held up a hand to stop me, then took me by the arm and led me off the dance floor to the side of the room where we could hear each other more easily.

  “To answer your question,” he said, “there’s a lot of controversy about this. I believe the environmental and cultural factors do come into play. The tests were created for white middle-class children, so you add in poverty and cultural differences, and it makes sense that the results would be different, though not everyone would agree with me. There are a few studies that show that poor children who scored low and were then adopted into good middle- or upper-class families later tested higher. But Jane, here’s the thing,” he said. “We have to work with the tools we have. This isn’t a perfect world. What’s your concern with this girl? So she tests eighty. So what? How is that affecting her? Is it holding her back in school, or—”

  “No, that’s not it. They—the Department of Public Welfare—plan to sterilize her.”

  “Really?” He looked surprised.

  I nodded. “I’m in charge of putting
together a petition to have her sterilized.” I’d actually finished the petition, but couldn’t bring myself to send it to the board yet.

  “Are there other factors being considered?” he asked. “As I said, eighty is not retarded.”

  “Yes, she’s epileptic—”

  “Ah,” he said, as though that explained everything.

  “But it’s petit mal,” I said. “And I don’t think she’s had a seizure in a long time. Maybe years.”

  “Colored?”

  “White.”

  “How about her parents?”

  I felt Robert’s eyes on us. Maybe Deborah’s, as well, although I may have been imagining that.

  “Her father is dead and her mother … her mother’s insane. She’s at Dix Hospital. My client and her sister are being raised by their grandmother.”

  “And of course they’re on welfare.”

  “Yes.”

  “How are they making out?”

  “You mean…” I wasn’t sure what he was asking. “What do you mean?”

  “In general. What’s your assessment of the family and how it’s functioning?”

  I looked away from him, formulating my answer. Making things seem better than they were would do me no good. “Not well,” I said. “The grandmother’s diabetic. The older sister has a toddler and he’s not getting the best care. The girl I’m talking about, though…” I looked away again, and felt my eyes begin to sting. “She’s really the one taking care of everything. She’s the only one who seems able to manage and she’s pretty overwhelmed.”

  “Hmm,” he said. “Too bad you can’t see her out of her environment. Might be interesting. She might look high functioning to you only because she’s someplace where she knows exactly what’s expected of her.”