Ruby

by Allison Luther

I was no stranger to cities, but this big city by the even bigger lake felt different. I felt different. People pushed past me, the crowd parting as if it, too, could sense I didn’t belong here. Or maybe simply because I was in their way.

The number on the building matched the address on the crumpled paper in my hand, but it wasn’t what I had expected. Of four stories and wide terraced steps, it reminded me of the pictures I had seen of brownstones in New York.

I had always imagined places like this as large country estates. The bigger the building, the more land you had access to, the more children you could house. The more good you could do. Giving hope and love to those who had nowhere else to go. This place seemed … limited in potential.

Much like the girls who lived here, from what I understood. The girls who had nothing: no families, no future.

Melichoir House.

Despite the bright sun, I shivered in the shadow cast by the building in front of me. The wind tripping down the street carried a hint of the lake with it and in any other place or time might have conjured up thoughts of picnics and laughter, but instead my mind filled with images of dark cellars and things best forgotten.

I squared my shoulders and with a deep breath started to move to the wide stone steps hopefully leading me to the end of my search. If they would even let me inside.

“Oh, there you are, Miss Barton. You are Miss Annette Barton, aren’t you?” The sudden voice at my shoulder made me jump and I stumbled into a passerby who continued on their way without stopping. Who was he talking to?

A man, undistinguished in both stature and appearance, peered at me from behind his round glasses and I realized he was speaking to me. His coat and hat gave the impression of a little boy playing dress-up, but his hands clutched a leather satchel that looked as heavy as the frown on his face. “It’s nearly noon. I was expecting you an hour ago. I am Mr. Gibson, secretary of the Melichoir board.”

“My apologies. The train was delayed unexpectedly.” This was not a complete falsehood; my train had sat idle for more than an hour because some poor soul had felt it necessary to leap in front of it. It was not an unusual occurrence these days with so many out of work and desperate. I knew as well as anyone what despair could drive a person to.

Which was why I was here, really. Even if I was not who they seemed to think I was.

* * *

“Where are the children?”

The silence inside Melichoir House was as absolute as a tomb. Had I not known better, I would have sworn a child had never stepped foot into the foyer. The polished floor reflected back both the soft electric lights and the sound of my shoes striking the wood.

I could see the twitch of Mr. Gibson’s left eye as he removed his hat. “It is a Saturday. They should be in the dormitories. You will meet them later, of course. For now, I’ll show you to the headmistress’s office.”

The room was only slightly larger than a closet, which may have very well been its original function.

“Please have a seat.” He had to turn sideways to slide between the wall and the table acting as a desk. A radio cabinet, barely visible underneath piles of papers, stood behind the table, the only concession to pleasure in the room I could see. A single bare bulb dangled overhead. “This will be your office. As you can see, your predecessor, Mrs. Harper, left things in some disarray. Nurse Ellisbrook has been trying to keep on top of it, but she still has a lot on her hands with, well, the current situation. As you are aware.” His voice was as sour as his look.

Not as aware as I would like to be. It seemed as though Annette Barton was to be headmistress here, but as I was not she … “The letter was vague, Mr. Gibson. Why, exactly, did Mrs. Harper leave Melichoir House?”

His eyes slid to the left where a crucifix hung on the wall and his hands clutched themselves together in front of him. “Mrs. Harper had a family situation requiring her to relocate out to California. Out of respect for her, I really cannot say any more.” A slight cough as he looked at me over the rims of his glasses. “Your last posting … you weren’t there very long, were you?

I kept my eyes fastened on his, trying to keep pace with this shifting reality. “Situations change, Mr. Gibson. As you well know.”

He cleared his throat, a sound of gravel being poured into mud. “Apparently. Well, despite that, the board thinks you suitable for the job. Let me show you around, Miss Barton.”

And just like that, I, Josephine Kingley, became Annette Barton, headmistress of Melichoir House.

* * *

He stood up, gesturing out into the corridor. We walked towards an open room with hallways branching off each side of it and a large staircase directly in front of us. Mr. Gibson turned down the left hallway while I hurried to keep up. “The other corridor will take you to the classrooms. Dormitories are upstairs. Down this way are the kitchen, bathing, and dining rooms. You’re lucky to have hot water pipes and water closets. The infirmary is down here as well.” He stopped outside of a closed door and knocked brusquely.

A moment later, a woman opened the door, her face red and sweaty. “Oh, Mr. Gibson.” Her brown eyes, looking like someone had pushed two dark rocks into a ball of dough, darted over to me. “Please tell me this is the new headmistress. Thank goodness you’ve arrived. I don’t believe I’ve slept since Mrs. Harper left.”

“Miss Barton, this is Nurse Ellisbrook. She’s the only other live-in staff you have. Nurse, this is your new headmistress, Miss Annette Barton. How are things today?” He stood at a distance from the door, as if afraid of catching whatever might lie within.

“I have over a dozen still down with measles, sir. Some are very ill; I may need to call the doctor back. And Blanche fell and broke her arm on Wednesday.” Her words were rushed, flustered, and she turned away at the sudden sound of harsh coughing.

“We won’t keep you from your duties. Miss Barton, you will sit down with Nurse later and learn the way of the place, won’t you?”

Nurse had already disappeared back into the infirmary without acknowledging Mr. Gibson and he frowned at the closed door.

“Well, that’s the nurse. Let’s move along, shall we?” He sniffed as if offended by the smell of the sick room.

“Of course. I’d like to meet the children now if possible.” Would I recognize her after all these years? If, indeed, she was even here at all.

* * *

It wasn’t until we were walking down the other corridor that I finally saw an actual child. A young girl, no more than ten, was trudging towards us, eyes fixed firmly on her clunky, unfastened, too-big boots. Lank brown hair obscured her face, but I knew she wasn’t the one I was looking for. She didn’t even glance at us and Mr. Gibson pointedly looked away.

But I was the headmistress now. I was responsible for her, even if it was because of a mistaken identity. I should at least act the part and something about the sight of her moved me. I stooped down to her eye level. “Hello there. My name is Miss Barton. Who are you?”

Dark eyes rimmed in darker circles met mine then drifted away. “June, ma’am.”

“How are you today?”

Her little brow furrowed. “I … I don’t know, ma’am.”

Mr. Gibson made a little grunting noise and waved the girl away. “On your way then. Headmistress, shall we continue?”

June shuffled away without a further word and my heart sunk. Were all the children like her? It seemed like the whole country had turned a murky shade of gray in these three years since Black Tuesday.

“Is she unwell?” I couldn’t help but turn and watch her.

Mr. Gibson snorted. “All of the children here are unwell in some form or another. We currently have no cases of consumption, though, if that is your concern.”

Consumption was not my concern. “How did she come to be here?”

“How most of them come to be here. Bastards. Orphans. Problem children. Cripples. A lot come from Oklahoma these days. With the droughts and everyone out of work, parents just can’t afford to keep all of their children and they seem to get rid of the girls first.” He pulled out a pocket watch and frowned at it as we stopped outside a large set of double doors. “Unfortunately, I must take my leave of you now. My train will be departing soon. I’m to report back to the board tomorrow.”

“Excuse me?” How could he leave me alone?

He squinted at me over the rim of his glasses, sucking air in through his front teeth. “You’ll be fine, Miss Barton. A woman of your qualifications should have no trouble with so small a school and Nurse will be able to help you put the place to rights. I shall send a wire in a few days to see how you’re getting on.” His shoes made slithering sounds as he hurried away.

Disheartened, I walked through the school before spending the remainder of the day in what was now my office. Mrs. Harper had indeed left things in confusion, with no order to the stacks of papers. I found a small alcove full of boxes seeming to contain the records of the children, but since I did not know the name she had been given, those were of no use to me.

In another corner, covered in dust and cobwebs, I found a box marked “Family Inquiries,” containing a jumble of unopened envelopes and a rather large, very dead, spider. An hour later, I had several stacks of letters organized on the desk, the closest ones covered in familiar handwriting.

My handwriting.

Dear Sirs:

I write again with great urgency in trying to locate my daughter, whom I believe may have been placed into your caring hands. She was born on the 23rd day of January, 1924, in St. Louis, Missouri. Due to my age at her birth, she was placed for adoption without my consent. I am now of age with means of support and I should like to be reunited with my child.

Dear Sirs:

Having waited anxiously with no response from you, I am writing again to locate the whereabouts of my daughter, born to Josephine Kingely in Saint Louis on 23rd January 1924.

Dear Sirs:

Please tell me where my daughter is. I was told she died at birth but have discovered this was a falsehood. Please help restore me to my child. All other lines of inquiry lead back to you. I beg you.

I wanted to put my head down to the desk and sob but crying wouldn’t find my daughter. She had, I was certain, once walked these floors, once slept and ate and breathed here. If she was not still here, there must be some indication of where she went.

I turned back to the individual files. Most contained very little information. Sometimes a letter from family, explaining why the baby had been left at Melichoir. A birth certificate was an uncommon treasure. Finally, I found a ledger of all the children who had been brought here. Their name, if they had one. The date of arrival. Age or date of birth. And if they had ever left.

The clock on the wall tick-tocked unevenly as I listed all the children who arrived after she had been born and would have been close to the correct age.

By all miracles, I found her.

Baby Girl, called Ruby. No last name. Father unknown. Born January 1924, exact date unknown. Transferred from Saint Louis Department of Families, May 1927.

I scrambled back through the individual files until I found the one marked ‘Ruby’. It contained the same sparse information as the ledger, but a handwritten note caught my eye. “Mother refuses to disclose identity of father. Mother mentally unsuitable due to loose morals. Any contact from mother should be disregarded. Child born without right hand. Adoption unlikely due to deformity.”

Those words whisked me back in time. When my pains started, Mother fetched the doctor from down the road and he held a cone of chloroform over my mouth until I got woozy. He told me the gas would make the pain go away, but he lied, and I screamed while my mother held me down. “This is what you deserve, you wicked hussy.”

My hands were forced down to the table along my sides and I was unable to move, as my body continued to relieve itself of its burden whether I cared or not. I stared at the oil lamp flickering against the wall and felt the warbling cry of a newborn deep inside my soul. And then the crying stopped and I remembered nothing else until the next day, when they told me my child was dead.

It wasn’t until after my mother’s own death that I discovered they’d lied.

* * *

I had wept for four years, thinking her dead, until my mother’s funeral when a senile aunt had asked me where my daughter was. Surprised, for my disgrace was never mentioned, I replied she had died when she was born. Aunt Eunice had shaken her head vigorously, sending her glasses askew, confusion plain on her face. “Oh, no, dear. That’s not right. She stayed with Mabel and Jimmy while you recuperated from your troubles and then …” Her voice trailed off and her eyes misted over briefly before brightening again. “Hello there, Josephine. Isn’t this a lovely wedding?”

I had demanded answers from my father and my sister, but they both refused to speak of it, saying what’s past is past and there’s no need to go dragging up the family’s shame again. I scoured my mother’s belongings for clues, but since she could barely read or write, there was nothing in the way of family records. It wasn’t until a kindly nun overheard my pleas to the priest and suggested the Saint Louis Department of Families might be able to help me that I was able to finally realize the truth.

My daughter was alive.

* * *

The clock in the hall proclaimed the hour to be seven, the dark window pattering with rain. I ran down the corridor, my feet threatening to slide out from under me on the smooth floor, file clutched in my sweaty palm. If anyone knew where Ruby—what a lovely name—was and if she was still here, it would be Nurse Ellisbrook.

Before I could turn the corner towards the infirmary, desperate to not leave my questions unanswered for a moment longer, there came a knock at the front door.

In the twilight stood a rain-soaked, middle-aged woman with an exasperated air and a leather satchel at her feet.

“May I help you?” I tried to force a smile. Headmistress as I was supposed to be, I tried to be warm and welcoming despite the fact I simply wanted to turn and run to find Ruby.

“Oh, thank goodness. Yes. I do so hope my tardiness has not been an inconvenience.” She thrust a firm hand out to me. “I am Miss Annette Barton, the new headmistress. What an adventure today has been!”

I blanched as I realized what this meant and for a brief moment I contemplated pushing this woman, this headmistress, out into the street and locking the door forever. I wasn’t leaving until I found my daughter.

“There must be some mistake.” I started to turn away, not wanting to waste time.

“Not at all. I have the welcome letter from Chairman Allan and the wire confirming the date I was supposed to start. I am to meet with a Mr. Gibson, I believe.” Her voice carried the authority that I so lacked. “My train was dreadfully delayed.”

Just as I was opening my mouth to say Mr. Gibson was not there and she would have to come back another time, hurried footsteps behind me made me turn my head.

It was Nurse Ellisbrook. “Headmistress! There you are!”

“Yes?” The other Miss Barton strode forward, stepping firmly into her rightful place, despite my presence. Nurse Ellisbrook looked between the two of us, unsure of what was happening. Heat flooded my face and my stomach dropped, threatening to spill its contents across the new headmistress’s woolen coat.

“What is it?” I leapt forward to step in front of the usurper, determined to keep my place until I could find Ruby.

“We need to send for the doctor. One of the girls is in great distress.” Again, her eyes moved over us, trying to work out who the other woman was.

* * *

A half-dozen beds lined the walls and pallets lay strewn about on the floors. Children were everywhere, some with the bright red rash of measles, others pale and coughing. As far away as possible from everyone else was a small girl with a splint on her arm, looking terrified at the goings-on around her. June, the small girl I had seen earlier, was asleep on a cot in the corner, a sheen of sweat on her face. The air was heavy and hot, acidic with the smell of excrement and vomit. I gagged, willing myself to not add to the stench.

Nurse Ellisbrook had taken her place next to one of the beds. I couldn’t see who it was, but even from the doorway, it sounded like the child was trying to breathe underwater. Nurse motioned frantically at me to come in and Miss Barton followed.

The child looked no more than six years old, but so many of the children here seemed under-sized and she could have been anywhere from four to ten years of age. Her skin was devoid of all color except for the bluish tinge to her lips. Her chest shuddered with the will to live, even when it was obvious to everyone the fight could soon be lost. Only her bright blonde hair still seemed alive.

She let out a moan and writhed around, trying to find a spot where existence was not quite so painful. As she moved, the sheet covering her slipped.

And my world turned sideways.

Because the child was missing her right hand.

I clutched at her left hand, the heat pouring off of her like an iron. I looked quickly to Nurse, who huddled with the real Miss Barton, whispering together, looking at a piece of paper I could only assume was her letter of employment.

“What is this child’s name?” My voice filled the room with urgency.

“I think the more important question is what is your name?” The real headmistress had stepped fully into her role without any prompting.

Had I been willing to let go of the girl, I would have smacked her. “What is this girl’s name?”

Nurse Ellisbrook stepped next to me, giving me a look of apprehension. I couldn’t blame her: in her view, I was some deranged stranger who had been pretending to be the headmistress. She seemed to come to a decision; repercussions and explanations could wait. Right now, all that mattered was the dying child. My dying child.

“Her name is Ruby.”

I bent over Ruby, wiping her face with a vinegar-soaked cloth from the table next to her bed. From some lost memory inside me came the lullaby my Granny used to sing. “When your smile graces the garden green, my love, you will come home to me.” Ruby moaned, turning her head towards my soft words, eyes fluttering open.

“Mama?” That word, barely audible, tugged at my heart and my tears splashed down on her golden hair. I knew it was just her illness speaking, with no knowledge of who I was. She was responding to my kindness, not to me.

“The child is delirious with fever.” Nurse Ellisbrook spoke from my side as Miss Barton reached across the bed to grab my arm.

“I don’t know who you are, but I must insist you step away from her and explain yourself.” Miss Barton projected all of the authority of a tried-and-true headmistress and I hated her for it.

I could almost hear what they were thinking. Should they deal with the obviously insane woman who had lied her way into the building, or should they give their attention to the seriously ill child before them?

I wrenched my arm away, placing it protectively over Ruby while my other hand cupped her dear face. My eyes never left hers, the same bright hazel that had graced so many in our family, although my words were directed to the women who gazed apprehensively at the scene unfolding before them.

“Ruby may be delirious, but her words are nevertheless true. I am her mother.” I picked up the file, thrusting it at Miss Barton. “I was just fifteen when I had her. They told me she died at birth. It was my punishment, they said. My shame. For years I believed it and, may the Lord forgive me, I thought she was better off. Until I learned the truth.” I pressed my forehead against hers, trying to give her my strength, help her to just keep breathing. “Please go fetch a doctor at once. My daughter—” My voice skipped with emotion. “My daughter is very ill.”

“I never heard of such a thing.” Miss Barton’s skepticism was like salt on the wounds of my soul. “Miss, you need to leave these premises at once or I shall get the police.”

“Then get the police. I am not leaving my daughter.”

“She needs a doctor, Miss Barton. The hospital is just down the street. I’ll be back in no time.” Police or no, the sick child was Nurse’s priority and she ran out the door, not bothering to close it behind her.

Miss Barton didn’t notice Nurse had left, instead continuing to glare at me. My only concern was for Ruby, who had fallen unconscious again with an alarming bluish pallor over her whole sweet face. It was all too apparent time was running out for my daughter and I couldn’t wait for Nurse to return with a doctor.

Despite her eight years of age, she weighed less than the bags of flour I was used to moving at the Gerber Mill. She fit into my arms as if she had always rested there, her head on my shoulder.

“Where do you think you’re going with that child? Put her down!” Miss Barton’s face was an astonishing shade of red to match her voice and the noise from the rest of the room vanished as all the children looked over in horror.

“I am taking my daughter to the hospital. Excuse me.” I didn’t look back as I carried Ruby out of the infirmary. The pounding of my heart drowned out her shouts to stop and my steps landed steady and true through the empty halls.

Rain, cold and cleansing, fell as I carefully descended the steps to the sidewalk. People walking by barely glanced at us, as I looked up and down the street, searching for some sign of the hospital. We might have been the only two people left in the world.

As the rain hit Ruby’s face, she stirred, her eyes blinking up at me. “Who are you?” I felt, rather than heard, her words, so soft were they.

“I’m your mama, Ruby. I’ve come to take you home.”

About the author

Allison Walters Luther is a story-crafter who defies strict genre classification. Believing that no story is ever really over, she frequently leaves her pieces open-ended and doesn’t feel the slightest bit bad about it. You can find links to her published works and read some unpublished stories at allisonwaltersluther.com.

She resides near Seattle with her husband, three children, and a grouchy parrot. She is currently working on her first novel, The Other Side of Winter. You can follow her on Twitter at @AllisonLuther.

About the illustration

The illustration is a photograph of 3 children, ca. 1930. Provenance unknown.