How Ruthie Ended the War: Chapter Nine

Welcome to Kingsley Memorial

This is an ongoing serialization of an unfinished novel I wrote and Carson illustrated in 2001. New chapters will be published every Friday at 10 a.m. Read: Chapter One, Chapter Two, Chapter Three, Chapter Four, Chapter Five, Chapter Six, Chapter Seven, and Chapter Eight.

In a large, squalid room lined with long, wooden tables, Ruthie sat alone, pensively stirring a bowl of boiled grain with a wooden spoon. With no brown sugar to sweeten the stuff, Ruthie found it completely repulsive, and it was all she could do to quench the nagging hunger in her stomach by sipping at each spoonful’s contents. The Madame had left her alone, giving her fifteen minutes to eat, and she relished the solitude in which she might fully comprehend her present, pathetic circumstances. Her heart, so broken by the myriad of deceit and abandonment she had experienced over the last several days, was in shambles, and with each bite she took of her revolting fare, she choked back a sob of distress. So consumed in her own despair was she that she failed to notice the pale rag-clad girl who presently walked into the room, carrying a mop and a bucket of hot, soapy water.

“Hello,” said the girl, “You must be the new one they brought in this morning.” The girl set her down her mop and bucket and walked over to were Ruthie sat, extending her skeleton thin hand in greeting, “I’m Vera.”

Ruthie, upon taking the girl’s hand and looking up at her face, was surprised to see, perched upon Vera’s bony nose, a monstrous pair of spectacles whose lenses were so thick and cumbersome that they were attached to the frame by a series of rusted bolts and screws. The spectacles themselves were obviously so heavy that the girl’s head listed downwards, attached as they were to her head by a several crude leather straps that wrapped around the girl’s head. Vera obviously read Ruthie’s surprise, as when she retracted her hand, she motioned to the cumbersome spectacles. “I don’t see too well,” she said in explanation, her eyes, all distorted and obscured by the thickness of the lenses, staring intently just inches above Ruthie’s eyes.

“Emm. . .I’m sorry,” said Ruthie, at a bit of a loss for words, “My name’s Ruthie.”

“How’d you get here?” the girl asked, running her fingers along the edge of the table and down on to the bench on which Ruthie sat. Finding her target, she carefully sat down beside Ruthie.

“I don’t really know, actually,” said Ruthie, “Some soldiers brought me here, I guess.  To be honest, I’m a bit confused right now.”

“Oh, you’ll get over it soon enough. We’s all a bit confused when we first come here, that’s for sure. Tragic figures, we is. A bunch of abandoned children, forsaken by our parents, waiting patiently for the kind charity of a new mother and father.” Saying this, Vera’s eyes drifted farther away from Ruthie’s forehead and gazed off into the air, her voice turning to a sentimental whisper. Quickly snapping out of her reverie, Vera leaned in conspiratorially to Ruthie, saying, “But I’m not really like the rest of ’em. Apparently, my own mother and father are famous explorers and are off now in India, looking for treasure in the Kashmiri Caves, and will come to retrieve me once they’ve returned.”  She looked around, making sure there was still no one in the room, and continued: “The older children tell me that when I come here I was dropped from a dirigible balloon as it flew low over the orphanage, carried safely to the ground by a small parachute to land at the Madame’s feet.” She smiled proudly and thrust her hand in to her dress pocket to bring out a crumpled piece of paper. “I was not to know this until I was much older, when one of the older ones gave me this letter, saying it was found attached to my swaddling when I was brung here.” She unfolded the piece of paper carefully and presented it to Ruthie. “It says how my parents could not risk taking me with them on their next exploring mission, but once I was old enough they would come back and get me and I would join them.”

Ruthie looked at the piece of paper. The letter, worn to an almost fabric-like quality from much folding and unfolding, was addressed to a Mr. Sergei Mirov, written on what appeared to be the stationery of the local sewage maintenance company, informing him that his bill was two months past due and would he please write to make arrangements before they considered emptying the contents of his septic tank in through his bedroom window. Ruthie forced an impressed smile.  

“You’re very lucky,” was all Ruthie could muster.

“Indeed,” said Vera, taking the letter back from Ruthie and, after eyeing it proudly, she carefully refolded it and returned it to her pocket. “What happened to your parents?” 

“My mother died when I was very young. I don’t remember her at all. But my father…” Ruthie paused and stirred at her oatmeal. “My father is a tea merchant. I don’t know where he is right now. He just disappeared. Just like everybody else in my house.”

“Just disappeared?” Vera whispered in enthusiastic disbelief.

Ruthie was caught off guard by the girl’s earnestness.  Truly, this odd, bespectacled girl was the first to show any interest whatsoever to Ruthie’s circumstances. “Yes,” Ruthie said, “I haven’t the slightest idea where they are. My father, our maid, our butler—all gone.”

“Did they leave any trace?”

“No,” said Ruthie. “Everything had been left as it was the night before they disappeared. My father’s dinner was cold on the dining room table when I came in that day.” Suddenly Ruthie remembered something, and reached into her dress pocket, saying, “There was something left on the table in my father’s study from the night before, but I don’t know if I’ve lost it along the way. . .no, here it is!” She pulled from her pocket the small, brassy key that she had pocketed those days previous before she had begun her journey. It was the only surviving item she possessed.

Vera’s eyes brightened. “What does it open?” she said.

“It’s very strange,” replied Ruthie, “You see, the night before my father disappeared we were unexpectedly visited by a soldier, who had walked all the way to the door of our house from beyond the northern front.” Ruthie then went on to retell, in no small detail, the story the soldier had told to her father while she had hidden behind the potted fern outside her father’s study. Vera, throughout, was an absolutely captive audience, gasping and cooing at each horrific turn of the story. When Ruthie had finished, Vera took the key in her small fingers and turned it about.

“There’s something to that, Ruthie! You’ve a real mystery on your hands.” Vera handed the key back and nodded. “I’d wager that the disappearance of your father has something to do with that key. Though what that would be, I’ve not an inkering of an idea. Seems kind of funny that all that should happen and then the next morning, poof! Everyone’s gone!”

“I know,” Ruthie said, returning the key to her pocket, “Though I seem to have reached a bit of an impasse.” She gestured to her surroundings: the rows of tables, the drab gray walls, her now cold bowl of oatmeal.

“I know exactly how you feel,” said Vera, “Why, I’ve been in here for seven years.  Seven bleeding years. Tha’s a bit of an impasse.”

“How come you haven’t been adopted?” Ruthie asked.

“My parents, of course! The Madame knows that they’ll be coming back to get me, so she makes sure to tell all of the mums and dads that come ‘round here that I’m not on the market. You know, an Unadoptable.”

“An Unadoptable?” 

“Yeah. Granted, some kids have worse reasons than mine for being an Unadoptable.  Some got into accidents when they were younger, some of them have certain mental problems, some of ‘em are just plain ugly. In any case, no decent mum or dad in their right mind is going to adopt them, so we call them Unadoptable.”

“And the Adoptable kids?” Ruthie probed, curious.

Vera stuck out her tongue and scrunched her nose.  “Bleagh! A bunch of snot-nosed little prissy fingers. They’re all primping and posing and strutting about in front of the mums and dads all the time, saying, like, ‘Look at me!  Aren’t I pretty?  Aren’t I cute?’ and all that rubbish. Personally, even though I am technically an Adoptable, I would much prefer to hang out with the Unadoptables. They’re much more pleasant.” Through the course of their conversation, Vera’s massive spectacles had slid a considerable distance down the ridge of her nose and she took this moment to shove the glasses back to their rightful place and, struggling with the bulky mechanism on her right temple, she re-tightened the leather straps.

“I don’t think I want to be adopted,” said Ruthie, distantly. She thought of her father and how she could never allow herself to call someone else her dad until she really knew for sure what had happened to her own.

“Grand!” Vera cried, clapping her hands together, then looking serious, said: “We shall have to think up something so as to make you unadoptable.”

Ruthie joined her in thought, trying to dredge up something that would make her an unappealing adoptee. “Sometimes I chew with my mouth open,” she offered, smiling.

“No, not severe enough,” Vera said, plucking at one of her glass frames’ many protruding bolts, “Any birth defects?”

Ruthie thought about it for a moment, then replied hesitantly, “I’m flat footed.”

“I’ve got it!” Vera exclaimed, “We’ll put one of your eyes out!”

Ruthie recoiled and shuddered.  “M-my eye?”

“Yes! Muska in Block C only has one eye and the mums and dads won’t even look at him. Though he doesn’t have any hair either. Perhaps we could singe your eyebrows with a candle or. . .” 

Vera’s macabre musing was, to Ruthie’s relief, interrupted by the sound of the cafeteria’s doors flying open, and in walked three young girls, roughly Ruthie’s age.  Vera’s face soured and turned pale and she immediately stood up and shuffled away from Ruthie, back towards her mop and pail. 

“That’s right, bolt-face,” the first of the three girls shouted at the retreating Vera, “Back to your cleaning!” The girls entered the room in a sort of wedge phalanx, with the speaking girl leading, while the other two followed at her either elbows. The girl who spoke was dressed in a prim, floral patterned dress, which contrasted strongly with the dour and dirty housedresses that both Ruthie and Vera wore. Her hair was impeccably done in a close bob, butterfly’d beret adhering an errant shock of her luminous blond hair over her brow. She was wearing make-up, which struck Ruthie as markedly odd in this environment, and her cheeks blushed rose beneath her bright lashes and shiny blue eyeshadowed lids. She evidently had little experience in applying said make-up, as her lipstick had been so liberally applied that it scarce stayed within the curve of her lips.  The two girls who followed her bore a striking resemblance to their leader in their attire and carriage, though the one on the right was slightly more heavyset, and the one on the left was a brunette and walked with a heavy wooden crutch cradled under her arm.

“Who are you?” the leading girl asked as the threesome approached Ruthie.

“Ruthie Baumbaum,” said Ruthie.

“Oh,” said the girl, blowing a strand of hair from her face, “You’re the new girl. Right?”

“I. . .guess so,” stammered Ruthie.

“I thought so. I’m Regina. And this is Sheryl and this is Olga.” The girls nodded proudly when the Regina announced their names, the latter grimacing a little as she shifted her weight on her crutch. “You weren’t talking to that bolt-faced reject over there, were you?”

“I was, yes,” said Ruthie, glancing over at Vera, who was now mopping a section of floor in the far corner of the room, her shoulders slouched and her hair hanging over her face.   

The larger girl, Sheryl, spoke up:  “What, did she mistake you for the floor and try to mop you up?” Olga began laughing hysterically, her frame rattling unsteadily over her wooden crutch.

Regina smiled a bright, polished, toothy smile. “Don’t waste your time with her lot.  You shan’t get very far. She’s an Unadoptable.” Her tone turned acrid as she said,“Though I can’t imagine why.”

Her retinue chortled conspiratorially as Regina turned and shouted at the moping, mopping Vera: “Don’t suppose you’ve heard from your famous explorer parents yet, have you, Vera?”

Vera stopped in her labors and stared at the group of girls, stammering for a defense.

“Didn’t think so,” said Regina, turning back to Ruthie.  “She’s a lifer. Along with all those other pathetic defects that pass themselves off for orphans. Indentured servants is more like it. This place seems to attract all the cast-offs and unfortunates of this world. If I had my druthers, I’d have transferred long ago to a more prestigious orphanage, like Wensleydale or Fernhill.”

“Or Charity Gables,” chimed in Olga.

“Or Charity Gables,” repeated Regina, nodding in approval, “Places where respectable young ladies can expect to receive the treatment and society they deserve as they await their new parents.”

From behind them came the stammering voice of Vera: “D-don’t suppose they’d take you at the G-Gables, Olga, what with that g-gouty leg of yours!”

All three girls turned and stared incredulously at Vera. Vera attempted to stand strong in the wake of her rebuttal but as the collective burning gaze of the girls wore into her, her shoulders began to slump and her knees began to knock together until it was all she could do to remain standing, propped as she was by the mop handle. Olga’s face had turned a deep crimson and her bony brow was creased severely as she stared down the poor, bespectacled Vera with such venom that Ruthie thought her head would explode.  Regina diffused the situation by letting out a spiteful giggle.

“Shush it, four-eyes,” she said, “The only transfer you could make is to the short-list for the glue factory.”  

In earnest, Ruthie began to prepare a defense for the helpless Vera when a thundering noise shook the entire room. All five girls turned to see the ominous shadow of Madame Rigmor appear at the cafeteria doors.

“Number 863? Your fifteen minutes has expired,” said the Madame, advancing into the room. Vera began mopping the floor feverishly, overcompensating in her attempt to appear busy. Regina, Sheryl and Olga each curtsied low and smiled.

“Good morning, Madame Rigmor,” said Regina, batting her eyelashes, “How did you sleep?”

“Fine, thank you, Regina,” said the Madame, “Very well of you to ask. Your interest will not go unrecorded.”

“Oh, thank you ma’am,” said Regina, curtsying even lower.

“I take it the three of you have met our new arrival?” said the Madame, gesturing at Ruthie.

“Yes,” said Regina, “And we think she’s spiffing.” After saying this, Regina turned and winked at Ruthie.

“Good,” said the Madame, “It’s high time we got some decent inventory around here.  What with the war going on, it’s been nothing but amputees and common street urchins.  Damaged goods!” Her jowls shook at this last exclamation and she cast a disapproving eye at the desperately laboring figure of Vera. Calming herself, she glanced down at Olga, who was shifting uncomfortably on her crutch. Her eyes narrowed, sending wrinkles across her temples like cracks in thin ice. “How’s that sprain, Olga?” she said in a low, suspicious tone.

Olga quavered and straightened herself the best she could and replied, “Oh, fine, Madame Rigmor.  Feels better every day!”

“Good. We have a viewing this afternoon with some prospective buyers and I want you all to be looking your best.”

The three girls were a sudden flurry of energy, all palms pressing skirts and straightening hair, each exclaiming excitedly “O, I hope I’m next!  It’s been such a long time since we’ve had some decent parents through here!” Ruthie stared at them with an odd mixture of curiosity and contempt.

“What are they like?” ventured Olga, now holding her crutch at an arm’s length and timidly applying weigh to her bad leg. Through the girl’s stockings, Ruthie could see how terribly swollen was Olga’s calf. Certainly no sprain, Ruthie surmised. At Olga’s question, the trio of girls settled down and waited excitedly for Ms. Rigmor’s answer.

“Well, they did happen to drive up in an automobile. . .” said Ms. Rigmor, and the girls gasped.

“And their driver held the door for them as they stepped down onto the gravel. . .”

The girls gasped louder.

“Both being quite young and attractive, the man mentioned something about owning a horse ranch. . .”

Gasp!

“And if I’m not very much mistaken, I seem to recall seeing the young woman in one of those afternoon moving pictures one sees at the Odeon.”

The girls, unable to contain their excitement at this glittering depiction, began hopping up and down in a delirium. Olga, forgetting her ailment, dropped her crutch and attempted to join her companions and immediately fell to the ground, grasping her calve.

“Oh dear,” said Ms. Rigmor, “Doesn’t seem like that ‘sprain’ seems to be healing.  How long has it been now, five months? I say, with what little I know of the medical arts, I’d say our dear Olga has a bit of the gout!”

Olga, clutching her leg, stared imploringly up at Ms. Rigmor. “No ma’am!  No such thing! Just needs a little more time, that’s all.”

“Yes, we’ll see about that,” said Ms. Rigmor, now glaring intensely down at the huddled figure of Olga, “But I can tell you one thing, Olga, no self respecting young couple is interested in adopting a girl who has a sprained ankle that will not heal. The crutch alone is enough to dissuade a moderately interested buyer. It’s an eyesore. Keep this up, Olga, and you’ll be heading down into the basement with the rest of the Unadoptables! I’ll get my value out of you yet.” She spoke these last sentences with such venom that her eyes became bloodshot and spit sprayed from her mouth. She looked back at the other girls, who were now standing stalk still before their matron, and attempted a yellowed, toothy smile. “The rest of you can buzz off to your quarters to get primped. The couple will be here promptly at two o’clock.” Madame Rigmor looked down at Ruthie and pointed one of her stubby fingers directly at Ruthie’s nose. “And you, my pretty, you’d better not let me down.” With that, she turned on her fat, overstuffed loafers and waddled proudly from the room, her massive form swinging obscenely from hip to hip. Regina and Sheryl waited until she had left and then giggled loudly and ran from the room through the opposite doors. Olga still lay on the floor, massaging her swollen calf. Tears had welled up in her eyes. For a moment, the veil of bewilderment that had clouded Ruthie’s senses since she first had been stirring her oatmeal in solitude lifted and a wave of pity came over her watching Olga lying on the cafeteria floor. Collecting herself, she offered a hand to help the girl. 

“Oh, piss off!” shouted Olga. And with that, she laboriously pulled herself on to her knees, grabbed her crutches, and hobbled out of the room. 

“Welcome to Kingsley Memorial,” said Vera from across the room.  Pushing her glasses up on her nose, she continued mopping.