A Southern Place (18 page)

Cal wanted to slam the damned thing on the table, busting it wide open, sending baby toys flying across the room. He reached to his forehead with his good arm, using his sleeve to wipe away the layer of cold sweat that was a part of his person these days. Who was this self-righteous bitch, forcing him to do silly shit he’d never have the need to do with-or-without his arm, making him feel like a useless idiot, not offering him any skills or training that a real man in the real world could possibly use? He wanted to break the box, the table, the toys, and if any exploding debris caught her pretty face, that would be fine, too.

He wanted to hurt something or somebody or both, but he didn’t want to be accused of a temper tantrum while playing with toys. So Cal sat quietly, continuing to try and gently pry or shake or mentally project the flimsy red box from his metal appendage.

“The object here,” Julie said, “is not only to place the right shapes through the corresponding holes, but also to do so with agility, grace, and precision. You’re a big boy and of course you’re insulted at playing a child’s game, but this can help you more than you realize.”

Her scent of roses seemed to stifle the air with its artificial sweetness. Cal noticed a small, black mole peeking out of her neckline. He said nothing, still attempting to remove the box, but with less agitation, stilling it quietly on the table and working to remove it from the hook with his good hand.

“Speed isn’t everything, you see,” Julie said. “If you take extra care in small spaces, you won’t run into problems like you’re experiencing now.” She gestured to the box on the table. “Practice precision, and speed will come later.”

She sounds so smug
, Cal thought,
with her two hands and two legs and everything perfect and where it’s supposed to be.
Why would a woman who looked like her choose this kind of profession? She probably went to college, somebody paying top dollar, for her to sit here, in her perfect little skirt and sweater, treating grown men like retarded kids. Cal pictured her going home, to some little brick house with a picket fence, telling her husband or boyfriend or even her parents and some frilly little dog about the pitiful losers she worked with. They’d look at her with glowing smiles, thinking how wonderful she was, out making the world a better place, one pathetic loser at a time. She even believed it herself. Then Cal thought of Delores, alone in that sad little apartment, giving up her dreams of business school for a shift job at the panty factory.

Smug bitch
, he thought.
If you only knew.

Cal wanted to leave, before he blew up and told Julie what he really thought of her therapy. But as useless as the place was, it was probably expensive, everything medical was expensive these days. And Mr. Foster had already paid for his stay here, as part of the settlement agreement he’d signed before coming. If leaving was breaking the agreement, could Foster turn around and take back the money? Surely not. He already had the money, had paid for his land and paid the contractors building his house. The rest was in the bank. He’d cashed the check. It was a done deal.

“But I don’t teach kindergarten, or whatever the job is where this skill is so damned important,” Cal said through his teeth. “And I’m willing to do whatever it takes to compensate for my arm, but this is ridiculous. I need to learn how to lift and pull, use leverage for moving heavy weights, shift gears on a tractor. Mr. Foster didn’t pay you guys primo dollars to have me playing with baby toys.”

Julie slammed her manicured hand on the tabletop, a gesture that looked stern but made hardly a sound. “Mr. Foster,” she said calmly, “didn’t pay a dime for your rehabilitation here. This is a government subsidized program. Your thanks should go to gainfully employed taxpayers. Like me.” She sucked in and clenched her perfect teeth.

Cal’s mouth dropped open. “But Mr. Foster said—“

“I don’t know who this Mr. Foster is or what he told you, but this is not a private institution. People come here when they don’t have insurance, can’t pay for medical care, and need to find some way of supporting their existence on the planet. Some are retarded and basically useless beyond the simplest rote tasks. Some have physical handicaps that render them excused from manual labor. Virtually none of them have any education to speak of, and our teaching them to sort forks and spoons or fold towels is the closest they’ve had to schooling in decades. We do the best we can for the poor creatures, and at best they can find menial jobs that somewhat subsidize their care. Then there are the ones like you, Mr. Mullinax.”

“Like me?” Cal said. “You mean you don’t count me with the useless and retarded?”

“No, Mr. Mullinax, you are worse than the poor mental defectives we serve,” she said. “Most of them were born that way, of people just like them, with no hope of doing any better. Our country has a legacy of caring for such people, though surely we’ll one day see the error of our ways. But the ones like you, who have earned a good day’s wage and are capable of taking care of themselves, you are just here for the free ride. A paid vacation, if you time it right, maybe for the rest of your life. Probably got hurt on purpose with this in mind. A little pain, some good drugs for a while, then a free ride on the government train for as long as possible.”

Calvin saw the last three months in a high-speed movie in front of his face. He was on the tractor, whole, sweating profusely and counting the rows left to harvest. He was grabbing the pitchfork, hoisting it over the side of the picker and watching the clouds. He felt the white-hot tearing pain, saw the field around him flicker and fade and go black. He smelled alcohol, then saw the hospital, its needles and tubes looming larger than the faceless white-clad drones who carried them. He saw himself in his little house, learning to light cigarettes, feed himself, wipe his ass. He saw the friends who now avoided him, the boss who bought him off, and the sister who put him in this godforsaken place, believing it was for the best.

“Yeah, I got myself hurt on purpose,” he said finally. “Who wouldn’t give his right arm for a chance at all this?” Cal used his good hand to sweep across the room, then stood and walked out. The plastic box still dangled from the hook.

“I take it that you’re through for the day, Mr. Mullinax?” Julie said, remaining seated.

“I’m through with this damned place forever,” he said as he headed down the hall, never looking back.

Cal kicked open the door to his dorm room, too riled up to stay there. Going down the hallway, he stopped at the empty nurses’ station. When he reached for the doorknob, it was miraculously unlocked. A black rotary phone sat centered on the desk, the friendliest face Cal had seen since his incarceration there. He grabbed the receiver and dialed the operator.

“Nolan, Georgia,” he said. “Nolan Manufacturing.” A few seconds later, a slow southern soprano answered.

“Could I get a message to Delores Mullinax?” he asked.

“We can’t call her off the line, but we could have her call you on her break, if it ain’t long distance. Or I guess I could take a message, if you like.”

Cal saw a bovine-like nurse at the end of the hall.

“Tell her that her brother called,” he said quickly, “and tell her to come and get him, right now.” He hung up the phone before the nurse stepped inside.

“Why are you in here? Are you looking for drugs? There are no drugs in here, and patients are not allowed behind the desk. I’m calling security,” she said, grabbing for the phone.

“No need,” Cal said. “I was gonna ask—what time it was, but then I saw the clock. Sorry to bother you, ma’am.” He kept walking.

“Don’t come in here again,” she called to him.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “You folks are safe from me, most definitely.”

Closing the door to his room, Cal realized he was still wearing the silly plastic box of shapes like a queer fashion accessory. Releasing the lever on the hook, the box came away with a simple nudge.

Maybe I’ll keep it as a souvenir
, he thought.
Something concrete, something to remind me what a waste of time this place was. To make sure I’m not exaggerating, making up the whole
bad dream
.

Calvin dropped the child’s toy in his suitcase.

The house on stilts was well in progress when Delores delivered her brother back to Nolan. Driving by, she stopped so that he could investigate.

The outside walls were up. Calvin climbed the newly finished stairs and walked through the empty doorframe of his new home. The bittersweet smell of fresh cut pine opened his sinuses and seemed to quell the narcotic-craving nausea he’d been battling the past few days. Inside he saw the skeletal frame, waiting for sheetrock, paint, and paper. He leaned against the 2x4’s, checking their sturdiness. He smiled at the rectangle cut in the wall, where the hub of his wiring would rest. Slowly crossing the dusty plywood floor, he stopped at the great room’s center, two tall windows with a box-like seat underneath. He sat down, reverently, looking out across the slow-moving, brown-blue Flint River. This place was his.

Breaking away from his long awaited moment of joy, Cal saw Delores still in the doorway, staring absently at nothing, seeming deep in thought.

Like she seemed the whole way home,
Cal pondered. He turned back to the river. Something about Delores was different. She’d been so excited before he left, talking about color schemes and appliances and such. Now it was like she was in the building but still far, far away.

Surely she didn’t think his leaving Warm Springs, which turned out to be pretty much a government nuthouse, was gonna cause any problems down the line. Cal could see now that he should have left the place the first day. If Harvey and Tina hadn’t given him a clue, the medication issue should’ve been a full-scale alarm. They couldn’t do anything there to help him, he’d have to help himself, which he intended on doing. But Delores was a woman, and like their mama, she worried about the damnedest things.

He’d talk to his sister about how the Warm Springs Institute really was. They’d laugh about it, forget about it, then get on with their new and up-graded lives. This house was gonna be great. He could work on his own motor coordination skills, and he’d be back helping on some farm, somewhere, by the fall. Delores could quit the factory, quit the bar, and go back to school then, too. They were a little off schedule, but not doing bad, either. Yeah, he’d talk to Delores about whatever was bothering her.

But not today,
he thought. Today was for being happy. Things were better now. He’d call the doc tomorrow, have him check out his stump, put him back on whatever meds he might need. Cal smiled, looking back out at the bright sky and the lazy river. Happy—for the first time in way too long.

Chapter 12: February 1959

Delores

A forty-eight hour stomach bug went through the girls at the plant. Gradually, they all contracted it, but only Delores seemed to keep it far beyond its two-day course. She blamed her friends, saying every time she’d start to feel better, another one of them would re-infect her. It was a shallow story, but the only one she had; and the girls were too kind to say what she suspected they really thought, which was the truth.

Her tummy troubles had started in the awful one-on-one with Mr. Foster, which she could easily chalk up to nerves. Then there was the excitement of Cal coming home, the agony of avoiding Phil, and the stress of worrying what Mr. Foster could do to her brother. The horror of just imagining the outcome if Cal found out about Phil, if Phil found out about his dad, if Mr. Foster found out she had any communication at all with his son. Or if the man simply changed his mind, and decided to turn the Mullinax purgatory into literal hell, just because he could. These were Delores’s thoughts of every waking moment, plaguing even her dreams. It was no wonder she’d given up on the simple acts of sleep and digestion, leaving her thin, red-eyed and disoriented like the effects of a serious illness. But when days turned to weeks, there was nothing to do but seek the truth she already knew.

She took Cal’s truck, claiming to have planned a girl’s day out with Imogene, telling him they’d be going to Albany for shopping after work. An hour later, Delores sat on the Naugahyde examining table in the office of a doctor she’d never seen, in a small clinic thirty miles away. On the mimeographed form attached to a clipboard, she’d given her name as Mrs. Martha Smith and claimed to be twenty-four, a housewife with no insurance. She used her mother’s birthday and printed that she was born in Bibb County, which she hoped was Macon, though she wasn’t sure. She said her husband was Johnny Smith, employed by Pet Milk Corporation, and she gave him Cal’s birthday. She didn’t know his social security number and left that space blank. A pale, brunette nurse with bouffant hair and a no-nonsense demeanor had asked further questions, like if she smoked cigarettes or drank liquor, and when was the date of her last period, which she didn’t remember. The nurse checked off something on the clipboard, cut her eyes quickly to Delores’ left hand, then exhaled with a snort and left the room.

Stupid, stupid, stupid,
Delores thought to herself, grinding her teeth and clinching her stomach.
I go to the trouble to invent jobs and birthdays, and I don’t bother to fake a wedding ring. She’s probably writing me up as a prostitute while I sit here.

Another nurse, this one blonde and chubby, came back with a plastic cup and two faded cloths folded with military precision. “All right, Mrs.—
Smith
,” she said, “First we’ll need you to empty your bladder into this cup. The restroom’s just down the hall to the left, and I’ll be waiting outside. After that, you will take off all
of your clothes, including your brassiere and panties, and put on the gown on top.” She nodded to the stacked cloths. “It ties in the back. Since the back is open, you can use the second cloth to wrap around you until the doctor comes in. Understand?”

Delores nodded, though in truth she understood nothing. In nineteen years of doctor’s visits, she’d never been asked to remove all her clothing, a level of humiliation she didn’t know possible.

“But first we need the urine sample,” the nurse said, as she handed the cloths to Delores. “Go ahead, I’ll be waiting right outside the door. Skit skat.” Delores took the cup and walked out the door to the restroom. Closing the door behind her, she felt dismissed like an errant stray cat. She did as told, awkwardly returning with the plastic cup of warm urine, her face flushed with embarrassment.

“Good girl,” the nurse said. “All right, let’s get undressed. Don’t keep the doctor waiting.” She took the cup and disappeared down the hallway.

Back in the examining room, Delores’s stomach was a mass of knotted muscle, her mouth tasting of acid and her head aching of held back tears. The gown was soft and antiseptic-smelling, but thinner than a worn bed sheet. The two ties at the back left her entire backside exposed, and she wrapped the second cloth around her, then sat on the edge of the table, awaiting whatever indignity came next.

She indeed did not keep the doctor waiting, in fact, Delores waited for what seemed like a half hour, staring at the pale green walls and wondering what instruments of torture waited behind the metal cabinets. The room was unusually cold, and she kept her arms crossed over her breasts to cover her nipples, painfully pointing out through the thin cloth. Startled by the sound of the door opening, she jumped involuntarily, dropping the cloth and then grabbing it quickly, trying to cover what she could.

“Didn’t mean to scare you, there,” a soft-spoken, gray haired man said. She assumed he was the doctor, followed by the bouffant brunette from before.

“No need to wrap up, though, that top cloth has to come off anyway. I’m Doctor Jenkins,” he nodded as he went about his business.

The nurse reached over and started to remove the cloth, but could not because Delores was sitting on it.

“Stand up so I can get this off,” she said, sounding put out by Delores’s lack of cooperation. Delores stood quickly as the nurse snatched the thin but shielding cover away. Delores sat back down quickly, the paper-covered surface sticking to her buttocks with a crackly sound.

“Go ahead and lie down on your back,” the doctor said. He pulled a small stool with wheels and a brightly lit metal lamp to the end of the table.

“Put your feet in the stirrups,” he said, the nurse grabbing her feet and stuffing them into something cold and metal.

The doctor was sitting now, inches away from the end of the table. Her legs were apart, where she was wearing
nothing
. “You’ll have to slide down some, way down,” he said.

“Slide your bottom down,” the nurse said, still sounding mad. “Your bottom should be at the very end. Come on, more. More, more.”

Delores raised her knees, pushing her feet against the cold metal and careful to keep her feet planted in the right place. It was like she was throwing her privates into the doctor’s face, the most embarrassing and disgusting act she’d been a part of. She wanted to jump up and run out, killing herself would be better than being here, but there was no way to run out with any dignity, either. Virtually naked in the back, with her breasts and private parts visible through the front’s thin covering, the whole world would know she wore nothing underneath. There was no way to escape and nowhere to go without exposing herself to countless others, not just this doctor and nurse combo. Delores shut her eyes tight and continued to push downward toward the edge of the table.

“There you go, that’s good,” the doctor said, just as she felt her buttocks hanging off the edge.
Surely this is the worst
, she thought.

It wasn’t.

The nurse pushed over a rolling cart, it’s top covered with a white towel. She removed the towel, then helped the doctor put on tight, plastic gloves. Lying flat, Delores could not see what the cart contained, but could hear the clink of plastic and metal, the rubber band–like sound of the stretchy gloves, then a wet, squirting sound like squeezing a half-empty plastic bottle.

“I assume you’ve had a gynecological exam before?” the doctor asked.

“No, sir,” Delores answered softly, staring into the ceiling tiles.

“You’d think a married woman of twenty-four—” the nurse said, but was stopped by the doctor.

“Now, Norma, she’s young,” he said. “It’s time, for sure, but sometimes when there’s nothing broke, we don’t rush out to have it fixed.”

He’s at least trying to be kind,
Delores thought.

“All right, ma’am,” he said. “This is gonna be a little cold, and then a little uncomfortable, but it shouldn’t cause you any real pain. And I can’t stress to you enough, the more you let yourself relax, the less uncomfortable you’ll be. I’ve done this for going on forty years, and I swear to you it’s the truth.”

She felt his gloved hand spread something ice-cold and jelly-like on the opening of her vagina. When she looked down, she only saw the top of his balding head illuminated by the light shining between her legs. The sound of the wet goo being spread with the rubbery glove made her cringe with disgust, even more so as she felt the gloved fingers probing inside her.

“Speculum, please,” he said, and the nurse handed him an object.

Delores felt something hard and cold being pushed inside her, and she covered her mouth with her hand for fear of vomiting.

“Now’s when you really need to relax,” the doctor said. He seemed to have stopped pushing, and Delores caught her breath. Then the object inside her expanded, painfully stretching her as though ripping her apart.

“Don’t fight it, honey,” he said. “The more you tighten the harder it is against the vaginal walls. Just relax, and you’ll stretch naturally, without pain, and we can have this over in just a minute.”

Delores shuddered and let out a cry, biting her lip to hold it in the best she could. She felt the hard thing grow wider and wider, while both the doctor and the nurse concentrated on staring at her down there. The doctor made adjustments on the instrument, turning some sort of wheels that made a noise. She felt an involuntary gag as she remembered her daddy teaching her “right-y tight-y and left-y loose-y” for adjusting the water faucet. Delores could feel both the heat from the lamp and the doctor’s actual breath on her most private openings, and she wasn’t sure how much longer she could stand it. Tears streamed down the sides of her face, landing in her ears and causing her to toss her head from side to side.

“If you want it over with, you need to be still,” said the nurse.

“Try and relax, honey,” the doctor said. “Breathe through your mouth, slow. In and out. In and out, I’m almost done here. In and out—” On the last
out
she felt the hard thing retract, still feeling sharp but not tearing, and then she felt a gentle pull as it was removed completely. She closed her stinging eyes and sighed.

“You can sit up now,” the nurse said.

Delores felt her skin stick to the paper as sat upward, smearing the sticky goo with her woman parts. The white sheet was nowhere to be seen, but she smoothed the gown over her front and tried to pull enough fabric behind her to cover her butt, with little success. She saw the doctor removing his gloves and throwing them into the trash.

“I’ll see you in my office after you dress, missy,” he said as he walked to the door.

The nurse remained, giving Delores a handful of tissues. “You’ll want to wipe yourself off before you put on your underwear. You could see a smear of blood, it happens a lot on the first visit. The doctor’s office is at the end of the hall,” she said as she left. The sound of the nurse’s voice told Delores that
she
didn’t expect to see any blood, not from girls like her.

There was nasty, sticky stuff on the white paper, with bright smears of blood as well when she wiped between her legs. She dressed quickly, and as a last grasp at saving her dignity, Delores tore off the soiled white paper from the table, balled it up and placed it in the trashcan. Folding the gown to its original square, she left it on the now-naked table, its metal stirrups shining brightly, beckoning their next victim.

The doctor sat behind a desk, framed diplomas and awards on the wall behind him. He looked up at her and smiled. “Come in,” he said. “You can close the door behind you.”

Delores was grateful it was only him for the rest of the visit, feeling sure the hateful nurse was off somewhere passing judgment on her private parts and private life.

“Sit down,” he said, motioning to the chairs in front of him, upholstered in a brown brocade fabric and shaped somewhat like the chairs in Mr. Foster’s office. Just the thought of her last meeting in such a place brought a bitter taste to her mouth.

“Feeling better now?” he asked with a smile.

Delores wanted to like the man, but it was hard to like anything about this visit, considering the reason she was here. “Yes, sir, I guess,” she said. “I’m sorry I was—” She had no words to finish her sentence.
Sorry I acted like a baby? Sorry I lied? Sorry I’ve brought shame on myself and my whole family?
There were too many choices, and none of them really worked.

“You have nothing to apologize for,” he said. “A lady’s first visit to the gynecologist is always a little frightening, and I have the feeling no one really prepared you for it, either. You didn’t talk to your mother, a sister, a friend before coming?”

“No, sir. My mother died, I don’t have a sister, and—my friends don’t really talk about—”

“I see. Well, considering that, I think you did really well for your first time in the stirrups. It’s never as hard as the first time, they tell me.”

Delores tried to look into his eyes, but they were too kind, too grandfatherly. If their eyes locked, she might burst into tears. She concentrated on the words behind his head—Bachelor of Science in Biology. Master of Science in Chemistry. Doctor of Medicine, General Practice. Georgia Southwestern College. University of Georgia. Medical College of Georgia. Magna Cum Laude. Barney Thomas Jenkins.

“Well, Miss—” He looked down at the papers on his desk. “Mrs. Smith, I guess the main question you want to know is the obvious one. You want to know if you’re having a baby. Right?”

“Yes, sir,” she said to the diplomas.

“Is there anything else you want to tell me, before we talk about your situation?”

Delores looked down at her hands, then back towards the wall, but his eyes found hers before she could look away. Just as she expected, the floodgates opened. He handed over a box of tissues from the side of his desk.

“It’s okay, honey,” he said. “You’re not the first to be in your shoes, nor will you be the last.”

Delores blew her nose, wiped her face, and took a deep breath before she spoke. “I’m not married. I’m nineteen, not twenty-four. And I don’t live here.”

“I figured as much,” the doctor said. “Good thinking on your part; small towns are all notorious for spreading the news before it is news. You mind me asking where you live?”

“Nolan,” she said through clogged nasal passages.

“Your parents?”

“I wasn’t lying about that. Both my parents are dead. I live with my older brother. I work in a factory, but I was saving up to go to vocational school in the fall.”

“The father of the child?”

Delores sucked in air, then burst into sobs. “There is a child? Why couldn’t you just tell me?” Suddenly freezing, she wrapped her arms around her torso, her chest heaving.

“Actually, I can’t be one hundred per cent sure until later today, but from my experience, I would say yes. Around five to six weeks, I’d calculate. But, you’ve heard of the rabbit test, haven’t you?” Delores nodded. “I can’t tell you for sure until the rabbit test is complete.”

“So there’s a chance?” Delores pleaded.

“There’s always a chance, but I think you need to start facing facts and looking at your options. The baby, if indeed there is a baby, what about the father?”

“No,” Delores said. “He can’t know. Ever.”