Page 39 of Counting Backwards

“Why was it, Miss Fillmore, that Mr. Dobbs wanted you to accompany Carrie to Lynchburg?” Mr. Strode asked her.

“Oh, he wanted her committed,” she said matter-of-fact. “He had come to the welfare office to report that the girl ought to be in state custody on account of the fact she’d gotten herself pregnant. He said he wouldn’t keep a girl like that in his house for even one day longer.”

“And what of Emma Buck, the mother?” he asked Miss Fillmore. “What do you know of her?”

“I know that Emma Buck has borne multiple illegitimate children.” She didn’t say whether she’d ever met Ma.

“And what do you know of Carrie Buck’s illegitimate child?” At the mention of my Vivian, I sat myself up taller. “I understand you’ve seen her. Can you tell us what you observed?”

“I saw the child just recently, shortly before her eight-month birthday. The Dobbs family has agreed to raise the child, so long as they needn’t house the unwed mother.”

It was hard for me to imagine what Vivian must look like now, already eight months old. I wondered if she had any hair growing in yet, dark like mine or lighter like Doris. Did she have a pointy chin like her uncle Roy? Round cheeks like her granny Emma? The harder I tried to picture her face, the heavier sat the weight against my heart.

“And how did the baby seem when you examined her?” the lawyer asked.

“Not quite right.”

Something was wrong with my baby? Was she sick? Sitting quiet in that seat then, instead of shouting out for more answers, was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. I had to let them drone on, talking about where the nurse had earned her credentials and how long she’d had her job, while I waited so anxiously to find out more of what was the matter with my girl. I knew I had no choice, so I waited nervously to hear what she would say next.

“Returning to your impression of the Buck child,” Mr. Strode finally said, “how could you tell something was off with it?”

“Well, the adult daughter in the Dobbs house, Loretta, she has a baby of her own about the same age as the Buck child. I was able to view the infants one beside the other, and there is simply a certain look to Miss Buck’s baby.”

“What kind of a look, exactly?” Mr. Strode asked.

She shrugged. “Just something... odd looking, not appealing like a baby should be.”

Not appealing! That woman deserved a smack across her cheek. But Mr. Whitmore, he must have known I thought so, that I was maybe fixing to go at her, because he looked at me out of the corner of his eye. He held up a finger, waggling it back and forth to tell me to keep still.

I wasn’t sure I could keep myself hushed like he wanted, not with them saying those things about Vivian. Maybe my baby girl was just feeling blue about being separated from her mother. Had they even thought of that? And what kind of attention was she getting in the Dobbs house anyway? I wanted to know. What if all the favor was going to Loretta’s baby, leaving my girl little better than just fed and watered? That’d be enough to make any child forlorn.

When Mr. Strode said he was finished asking the nurse questions, Mr. Whitmore again pushed himself out from his chair. I thought surely this time he would do his job, if not to advocate for me, then at least to defend my poor Vivian.

“Have the record show,” he said from where he still hovered beside his chair, “that all parties are here. Including Miss Buck’s appointed guardian.” Then he sat right back down and said no more.

In my shock at his behavior, I finally did shout out, this time at my own lawyer. “That’s it?”

“Not now,” was all he said, patting my arm to shush me.

“But aren’t you going to ask any questions?” I protested.

“Carrie, enough! You’ll hurt your case.” He looked at me so fiercely that I clamped my mouth shut.

Then Mr. Strode said, “I’d like to call to the stand Mr. Harry Laderdale.”

From the back of the room rose a man so handsome that I felt certain he must be good on the inside too. With a head full of dark, bouncy curls and blue eyes that looked to be sparkling with delight, it seemed impossible that he could be there as anything other than a helper, someone who would protect me.

After the man settled into the witness seat and stated his name, Mr. Laderdale said, “I have served as the superintendent of the Eugenics Record Office in Cold Spring Harbor, New York, since it opened in 1910.”

“And what is it you do over there at that office?”

“Quite a bit, in fact.” He smiled widely like he’d made a joke. “We are at the forefront of the research on eugenics, studying the effects of ancestry on hereditary traits and promoting race betterment.” I didn’t understand what-all type of work he did, but from the way his chest puffed out as he spoke, I could tell he was right proud of himself for it.

“Can you elaborate on what you mean by the wordeugenics?” Mr. Strode asked, and I guessed I wasn’t the only confused one in the room.

“Of course. Through the study and practice of eugenics, we can improve the composition of the entire population of this country and beyond. If we encourage reproduction of the brightest, healthiest individuals among us, we will propagate strong, capable, attractive humans. It follows naturally that limiting reproduction of the weaker, less intelligent, less fit individuals will eventually lead to the extinction of their undesirable traits. So long as we discourage activities that could potentially dilute a superior gene pool.”

As Mr. Laderdale talked on about science and breeding, I set to stewing about that Red Cross woman and what she’d said about Vivian. I could hardly even pay attention to the conversation between those two men. Mr. Strode was asking Mr. Laderdale all manner of questions about science and passing behaviors down from generation to generation. They weren’t even talking about me anymore, so I stopped listening, thinking instead about Vivian and what she must be doing every day over there at the Dobbs house. I supposed Mrs. Alice thought looking after Vivian somehow made up for what she and Mr. John had done to me. I wondered if they had my baby sleeping in that same little alcove off the kitchen where they’d once put me, or if maybe they’d created a nursery for both Vivian and Loretta’s baby. Even if they didn’t want to admit it, Vivian was one of their relations. I imagined a bassinet with yellow butterflies painted on the wood.