Second Glance (30 page)

Eugenics is the scientific projection of our sense of self-preservation and our parental instincts.

—O. F. Cook, “Quenching Life on the Farm: How the Neglect of Eugenics Subverts Agriculture and Destroys Civilization,” from a review by E. R. Eastman in the
Journal of Heredity
, 1928

As a child, I used to go to my father’s office at the university and pretend his big leather desk chair was a throne, and I was the Queen of Everything. My subjects—pencils, paperweights— lined up at attention on the desk to hear me speak and watch me twirl in circles. My court jester, a typewriter carriage with a bell at each return, sat at my elbow. I was only three-and-a-half feet tall, and I pretended I could fill this space with as much command as my father.

He is sitting at the desk, laboring over a legal pad, when I let myself inside. Seeing me, he puts down his work. “Cissy! This is a nice surprise. What brings you to town?”

For the past few days, my belly has been stretched to breaking, my skin on the verge of splitting. “Your grandson wanted to pay a visit.”

He sees me looking at his chair, and he smiles slowly. “Did you want to take a spin, for old time’s sake?”

Ruefully, I shake my head. “I wouldn’t fit.”

“Of course you would. I’ve seen Allen Sizemore stuff his considerable, er, assets into that seat.” When I don’t laugh along with him, he stands and reaches for my hand. “Tell me what’s the matter.”

Oh, God, where would I even start? With the way I look at a blade as a silver opportunity? With the nightmares I have of my own father and Spencer, pulling this baby out from between my legs? Or should I appeal to him as a scientist:
Hypothesis—fear is a room six feet by six feet, without any windows
or doors.

What comes out of my mouth instead is a single word. “Mama,” I whisper.

“She would have been so proud of you. She would have loved to see this baby.” He pauses. “It’s perfectly natural to worry. But Cissy, you’re a different woman from your mother, God rest her soul. You’re stronger.”

“How do you know?”

“Because part of you came from
me
.” Suddenly he tugs me into his leather chair. He spins it slowly, a carousel.

“Daddy!”

“What? Who’s here to see?”

So I lean my head back and try to find the eye at the center of the cyclone. My feet fly out in front of me, my hands rest heavy on the armrests. “That’s my girl,” my father says, and he brings me to a stop. “I might come out to your place this afternoon. I hear you’re having some work done by a Gypsy.”

“Yes.” I wonder what else Spencer has told him.

“Never hired one, myself.” My father leans against the desk. “There was an Indian in grade school with me. Linwood . . . good God, I can’t believe I remember his name. This kid was as Indian as the Indian on a buffalo head nickel. Braids and all. Of course, every boy back then played cowboys and Indians. The highlight of the summer was heading up to South Hero, where there would be Indians at camp to teach us to make trails in the woods and such . . . but that was all for
play
, you know. Linwood, though . . . he lived it. He could actually trap and hunt and shoot a bow. Hell, he could
make
a bow.” There is a strange tone of admiration in my father’s voice. “He wore moccasins to school,” he says faintly. “He did all sorts of things the rest of us couldn’t do.”

I wonder if something as simple as this could have been the raw splinter that stuck in my father’s mind, the one that brought him to eugenics in the first place. A chance meeting that means nothing at the time might bloom into an event of enormous importance. You don’t think twice about an Indian boy’s coveted leather shoes, but you may never forget them. You ignore the man staring at you across the stage of a July 4th historical pageant, until it seems he was fated to be there.

I study his face. “What about Mama? Did she know any Indians?”

The light leaves my father’s eyes. “No,” he answers. “They scared her to death.”

June 13, 1933

Miss Martha E. Leighton
Agricultural Extension Building
City

Dear Miss Leighton:

I think I shall choose “Registered Human Stock” as the
topic for discussion with the 4-H older boys the last of the
month.

Sincerely yours,
Henry F. Perkins

—Correspondence from H. F. Perkins, ESV and VCCL papers, Public Records Office, Middlesex, VT

The town diner looks the same, a squat clapboard eyesore sitting like a blister on the lip of the town. What makes no sense, though, are the odd things surrounding it. There are more cars than I have ever seen in all of Burlington, in the sleekest of shapes. A boy with wheels on his feet rattles past me. When I turn the corner, the long-haired man stands up, and he hands me his heart.

Waking abruptly, I stir in Spencer’s arms. “What is it?” he murmurs.

“A dream.”

“What were you dreaming?”

I have to think about this for a moment. “The future, I think.”

Spencer’s hand splays over our son. “That’s a start,” he says.

Styla Nestor, a cousin by marriage to Gray Wolf Delacour, relates his heavy periodic drinking and sex immorality to his Gypsy-like travel, due most likely to the fact that overseers and townspeople wanted to get rid of him. The only semi-permanent address she could recall for her cousin, in fact, was the State Prison.

—From the files of Abigail Alcott, social worker

The afternoon sun is a cat, tickling me beneath the chin. Bolting upright in bed, I check the clock, and then check it again. I am shocked to have slept so late; I wonder why Ruby has not come in to wake me.

I wash and dress and run a comb through my hair, in a hurry to get outside. The steady beat of the hammer overhead tells me Gray Wolf is already working on the roof, and there is so much I want to ask him.

“Coffee?” Ruby asks, as I come into the kitchen.

“Not now.”

“Miz Pike—” she says, when I am already halfway out the back door.

I shade my eyes with a hand, heading in the direction of the noise. “Gray Wolf?” I call, and nearly lose my footing when my husband’s face peers over the edge of the roof instead. “Spencer, what are you doing here?”

“Finishing what I should have done myself. I don’t have to teach until this afternoon.” He tucks the hammer in the back loop of his belt and begins a careful climb down to the porch, leaving the ladder propped against the house near the sealed bedroom window. “I fired him,” he says, when we are facing each other.

“What . . . what did he do?”

“What
didn’t
he do, Cissy?” Spencer hands me a paper from his pocket. It is a carbon copy of a court conviction from nearly two decades ago, in which John “Gray Wolf” Delacour was sentenced to twenty-five years in jail for murder. Stapled to it is a second page—the paroled release of Gray Wolf from the Vermont State Prison, dated July 4th of this year.

“He was here alone with you and Ruby, for God’s sake!”

“He isn’t like that,” I blurt out.

“
Cissy
. Did he tell you he’d served time in prison?”

My gaze slides away. “I didn’t ask.”

Spencer’s hand cups my cheek. “That’s why you have me.”

John “Gray Wolf” Delacour is alleged to be the grandchild of Missal Delacour, the old Gypsy. John does not show the colored blood quite as dark as his ancestor, but has the loose, shambling walk of the Gypsy. He is considered by his own relations to be arrogant, ignorant, and immoral, although he has managed to learn to read and write. If you are interested in Evolution you won’t have to trace back very far from John Delacour to find the Missing Link.

—From the journals of Abigail Alcott, social worker

As anyone who’s ever contracted it knows, lies are an infectious disease. They slip under the almond slivers of your fingernails and into your bloodstream. Maybe this is why it comes so easily to me—the fabrication of a doctor’s appointment to check the progress of the baby, the hurried drive into town, the turn I take to bring me to the camp on the edge of the lake.

This time as I walk through the labyrinth of tents, I notice the color. A woman steps outside to shake wrinkles from a rainbow-ribboned coat, brilliant silks spilling like paint across the dust. It is Madame Soliat, I realize—the fortune-teller from the Exposition on the Fourth of July. A few tents away an old woman hunches over a stool, lashing a thin ash splint to a wide-lipped basket. A calico cat plays at her feet; a splash of canary sits on her shoulder. Men who work the carnival circuit pack their wares in brightly painted boxes, loading up for the next journey to a country fair. My whole life, it seems, is pale by comparison.

When I walk up to the basket weaver she pretends she can see right through me. “Excuse me,” I say. Her cat yowls, and runs away. “I’m looking for Gray Wolf. John Delacour?”

Maybe it is my advanced pregnancy; maybe it is the wildness in my eyes—but this old woman gets to her feet and plucks the canary from her shoulder to sit on the back of her chair. Leaving the unfinished basket on the ground, she begins to limp toward the woods.

We walk for several minutes, past the point where the Gypsy tents thin out. The old woman points me toward a copse of pine trees that grow up the base of a steep hill, and she leaves me to my own devices. My legs begin to burn with exertion; I am not certain I will make it. I am even beginning to have doubts that this woman understood who I was looking for, when suddenly the forest opens into a small clearing. The ground is uneven, as if the earth is boiling just under the crabgrass. In the middle of these mounds sits Gray Wolf.

He gets up when he sees me coming and a smile washes over his face. “I didn’t know when I would get to see you,” he says, relieved.

Uneasy, I fold my arms across my stomach. “You lied to me. Spencer found out that you were in jail. And my father says that my mother never knew you. That she was terrified of people like you.”

“People like me. Did it ever occur to you that maybe
I’m
not the one here who was lying?”

“What reason would they have to lie?”

“Why does anyone?” he says. “Down by the river, you go ask any of those people who they are, and they’re gonna tell you they’re dark French. Or that they’re cousins, six times removed, from someone Irish or Italian. I know one family that passes themselves off as Negro or Mohawk, because even that’s not quite as bad as being Abenaki. You should understand, Lia, that there can’t be any
Indians
around. Because that would mean someone lived here before all those old Vermonters who think they came first.”

“That has nothing to do with going to prison for murder,” I argue. “You don’t get convicted of a crime if you didn’t do it.”

“No?” He takes a step toward me. “Did Spencer tell you about the man I killed? He was a supervisor at the granite quarry, and he was beating a man for not hauling stone fast enough. A man who was seventy-nine years old, and who happened to be my grandfather, and who died in front of my eyes.”

I recall Abigail’s reports:
John Delacour is an absolute
liar . . . it is impossible to get the truth out of him.
“A jury would understand that.”