Page 38 of Counting Backwards

“I really hope you’re right, Jessa. At least this time.”

14

Carrie

November 1924

We went over to the Amherst County courthouse on a day so cold that the air came up and bit you. The wind was like pins and needles against the skin, the sting of it so unusual for autumn in Virginia. Even so, I was glad for the opportunity to be outside the walls of the Colony. Laying my eyes on new scenery felt like enough of a gift, even if my knees shook with the chill of the day.

The novelty continued when we stepped inside the courtroom, where I saw one face after another that was unfamiliar to me. There was a buzz of conversation throughout the room, as men dressed in fine suits milled about in the aisle and others shoved themselves into the rows of wooden seats. Mr. Whitmore, that bareheaded lawyer they gave me, he took me by the elbow and steered me toward a table up front, showing me where I was meant to sit. He was dressed in a charcoal wool suit, all gussied up for the occasion, while I was still in my regular uniform from the Colony. They’d given me a scratchy dark coat to wear for the day that was far too small for my frame, but even as my shoulders pinched beneath, I didn’t remove it. The ratty dress underneathwas worse to look at, for sure. As I lowered myself into the empty chair, I felt eyes on me from all around the room. I tried not to be nervous or to let myself wonder why it was I had to be the one at the center of all this fuss.

After some time, they called the court to order, and everyone got real quiet as the potbellied judge tromped in wearing a black cape over his clothing. He sat himself at a big desk up front, and then up shot Mr. Aubrey Strode, the lawyer for Dr. Preston. Also dressed in a fine-looking dark suit, the man looked fairly similar to Mr. Whitmore, except for the heavy dark hair on his head that was combed neatly to the side. He explained who he was and told the judge all about how wonderful a place the Colony was, and what good care they provided their patients.

“Your Honor,” he said after he’d been speaking for some time, pausing to pull his suit jacket in around his middle, buttoning it back into place. “The girl before you today is feebleminded and must be sexually sterilized for both her own good and the good of society. She’s part of the lowest grade of the moron class. The evidence is clear that these regrettable traits pass from one generation to the next. We needn’t leave the fine, upstanding citizens of Virginian society saddled with the financial and moral responsibility of caring for additional mental defectives. There is a straightforward, affordable, and humane method through which to cleanse society of this burden, and we are today in a position to avail ourselves of its benefits.” He looked around the courtroom, meeting eyes with many of the folks who were sitting and listening. “And I’d wager the good people here in this room today would thank us for saving them from such a drain on their resources.”

I wanted to stand up and holler at the man that I would take responsibility for my own babies perfectly well, thank you very much. I’d tell everyone in that courtroom about how I’d cared for Doris and Roy when I was barely more than a baby myself. But mylawyer, Mr. Whitmore, he’d already told me I had to sit quiet and not call out, no matter what.

Mr. Strode wasn’t finished anyhow. He began pacing to and fro in front of the judge.

“I’ll tell you what we can do, Your Honor,” he said, a proud smile on his face, like he knew the answer to everything. “It’s called a salpingectomy. A simple procedure that Dr. Preston can perform without any risk to life or limb.” He gestured toward where I sat. Our eyes met, and it was all I could do not to spit at him. “Afterward, girls like Miss Buck can be rehabilitated. Instead of remaining locked up for all her reproductive years, which could stretch as far as three more decades, she can be trained and made ready to rejoin society on some moderately productive level.”

After he finally finished harping on about all the reasons why a person like me shouldn’t be allowed a child, he invited up someone named Millie Hart, a primly dressed woman about Ma’s age. He said she was a nurse. As the woman climbed into the box up front, I felt sure I didn’t recognize her, and I wondered if she worked at the Colony. To my surprise, she told everyone in the courtroom that she’d known me for more than a decade.

“Yes, I knew the mother, Emma, even better than I knew little Carrie all those years ago,” Miss Hart told the lawyer. “The mother, she was on the charity list. Well, on and off, but mostly on.”

Mr. Strode asked her then, “And could you tell this court how Emma Buck’s mind was, if you would consider her feebleminded?”

Miss Hart nodded like she’d been waiting for just that question.

“That woman behaved no better than a twelve-year-old girl. Socially irresponsible and morally deficient. So yes, feebleminded sounds just right.”

“No more questions, Your Honor,” said Mr. Strode.

As he sat back in his chair at the table across from ours, I hoped now was the time my lawyer would stand and defendme—tell everyone all the ways in which I could prove I was not of any feeble sort of mind.

Mr. Whitmore pushed back his chair. As he stood, my heart banged loud against my chest while I waited to hear what he’d say.

“Miss Hart, how well are you acquainted with my client, Carrie Buck?”

That’s right, I thought to myself.He’ll show them how that woman doesn’t know a darn thing about me.

“Well, I didn’t see as much of her after she went off to live with that other family. I know she was poor and at times unruly. I did hear she made a problem in her school, that she was badly behaved, inferior in her appearance. And there was an incident involving passing a note with a boy.”

“And would you call all young girls who pass a note at school feebleminded?” Mr. Whitmore asked.

“Well, that depends on what they put inside the note.” Then she pursed her lips tight like she didn’t want to say another word about that.

“Anything else you can tell us about the girl?”

“Well, like I said, her mother was of dubious morals. I wouldn’t repeat in polite company the sort of things that were suggested about her.” The woman’s eyes shifted to the side, and she looked at the judge before turning her attention back to Mr. Whitmore.

“No further questions, Your Honor.”

As my lawyer made his way back to the chair beside me, I thought maybe I’d misunderstood why Mr. Whitmore was there with me. I turned in my seat to ask why he’d stopped with his questions so soon, but he just held a finger to his lips, reminding me to keep quiet. Shame on me, but I did as he said, afraid as I was of doing anything to make things worse.

Next, Mr. Strode brought up three different teachers to talk about my behavior in school. Not one of those teachers knew me;they admitted as much themselves. But they told Mr. Strode that I was known to be dull. A “misfit,” one of them said. My neck got hot listening to the way they described me. Maybe it was true that I’d kept too much to myself at school, making room only for Billy, but it didn’t seem fair to call me dull, especially not all these years later. Weren’t lots of children at school shy sometimes?

Finally, they called up someone I did recognize: Caroline Fillmore, the pretty nurse from the Red Cross who’d brought me to the Colony when I left Charlottesville. She climbed into the box and put her hands neatly in her lap.