Page 117 of The Reformatory

No, that wasn’t the worst that could happen, not to Robbie. But maybe it would be all right, since Robbie was running away Friday night. The thought was so big that Gloria ached to say it aloud. Miz Lottie had whispered in Gloria’s ear while she was packing her suitcase: She seems all right, but don’t fool yourself into thinking you can tell her. You better not, no matter what. Hear? Uncle June’s cheerless stare had echoed Miz Lottie’s feelings as he helped Gloria hide in Mrs. Hamilton’s back seat, where she had lain flat so no passing deputy or neighbor would see her through the window: Don’t tell about our plan, his eyes had said. And she had nodded.

But as soon as Gloria’s foot touched Mrs. Hamilton’s polished wooden floor, she wanted to tell this woman everything. Gloria scanned the living room’s perfect order—not a flower petal or sofa cushion out of place—and ached to share the plan to see if Mrs. Hamilton would spot any imperfections that might hurt Robbie. She saw a framed photograph on the fireplace mantel—just like the mantel at Miss Anne’s house except smaller—of a uniformed Negro man with an American flag behind him, and another of both of them in uniform smiling at a table in a music club, and thought, She was in the Army too and we could use another helper on the inside and almost had to clamp her hand over her mouth to keep quiet. Mrs. Hamilton seemed so much like a younger version of Mama that Gloria wanted her to know.

Maybe—maybe—she could tell her about the escape plan, but not today. She would obey Uncle June and Miz Lottie tonight, but it might be safe to tell by tomorrow, she told herself—the only way she could push the ready confession out of her throat. Out of her head.

A piano was nestled in the corner beyond a small dining table that looked well-kept but older, perhaps a family heirloom. The piano had a candelabra. On a glossy wooden shelf in the living room was a record player combined with a radio dial, and the biggest speakers Gloria had ever seen, almost a foot high. A bookshelf was crammed with record albums. But what was…?

“You have a television set,” Gloria said, surprised. She had seen one only in a shop window. Even Miss Anne didn’t have a television yet. The picture tube and wooden box stood on four legs across from the living room’s sofa, not much bigger than the radio. Gloria stared at her dim reflection on the darkened screen.

“That was a gift from a friend in California,” Mrs. Hamilton said, chuckling. “Nearest station’s Jacksonville—too far for a signal. So I guess I’m waiting to see what the fuss is about.”

Gloria couldn’t stop staring at her face, elongated and aged.

“Go on,” Mrs. Hamilton said. “You won’t get a station, but you can turn it on.” She pointed to a silver-colored dial. “Turn it to the right.”

Gloria turned the dial, felt it click beneath her hand. The screen flared bright white so suddenly that she took a step back. Then the image settled to wavy gray lines, with a hissing sound from the speaker. She watched the chaotic screen, hoping to see a glimpse of a face. The screen reminded her of how her head felt when she tried to see the future and couldn’t. But wait… Hidden in the waving lines, a solid dark form seemed to be taking shape. Gloria was almost sure she saw a railroad trestle! Blinking turned it to wavy lines again.

“Guess we’ve got to wait for the times to catch up,” Mrs. Hamilton said, and turned the television off. The image vanished to a star burning in the center of the screen before it went dark again. Had Gloria’s vision been a sign? Should she—

“I want… to tell you…” Gloria began, but headlights lit up the front window. Gloria glanced around the sparsely furnished living room for places to hide and saw none, unless she crouched on the other side of the piano.

Mrs. Hamilton leaned over her couch to look outside her window. “That’s just Percy, my brother,” she said. “I’ll put you in your room until I see what he wants.”

Her room. No one had ever called an entire room hers. They hurried to the narrow hall while Gloria clung tightly to her suitcase stuffed with Miz Lottie’s old clothes and the photo of Mama and Papa on their wedding day. Mrs. Hamilton closed the door of the room, which was the same size as Miz Lottie’s sewing room but empty except for a four-poster bed and a new chest of drawers. Mrs. Hamilton’s tiny house was full of empty spaces, with so much room to grow, looking ahead instead of behind.

While Mrs. Hamilton greeted her brother, Gloria glanced through her window and saw the house next door, built close, separated by a picket fence. Her window was locked, but she could climb through if she needed to, even if she left her suitcase behind. But nothing she heard set her on edge. The brother sounded so jovial, laughing over a plate of food she’d saved for him, that Gloria expected Mrs. Hamilton to call her out to introduce her. But she never did.

So Gloria sat on the made-up bed and its taut floral bedspread to wait. Before she knew it, she was lying down fully clothed, her eyes heavy from lost rest. She might have dozed off, but their conversation woke her.

“… all this foolishness with ghosts?” she heard Mrs. Hamilton say. “Why can’t he let the boy serve his time without all those hoops to jump through? Then I suppose he’ll blame the boys if… what? They don’t find ghosts?”

“Boone’s all wrapped up in it too with his hoodoo talk,” the man said, his mouth full. “It’s none of our business. Don’t bring none of it home with you, Marian. Told you that. Might as well quit right now.”

“Was that why you took him to the whipping house? This ghost business?” Gloria smothered a gasp. This was one of the men who had whipped Robbie?

“Had nothing to do with it,” the man said. “He was talking about running. Asking about it, anyway. So that’s that. Never hurts for them to learn early. Good dose of medicine, that’s all.”

“Haddock whipping him until he needs actual medical treatment? That’s medicine?”

“Better than dying! Haddock’s right: a Negro boy without better sense won’t live long. That’s his daddy’s bad influence, not knowing when to keep his mouth shut. If it wasn’t for me speaking up for him, Haddock might have beat him twice as long.”

Mrs. Hamilton was silent for a moment. Maybe she’d been thinking about telling him about Gloria and changed her mind. “Well, one thing you’re right about,” Mrs. Hamilton said. “I will have to leave before long if it means I’ll start sounding like you.”

“Don’t forget, those boys are locked up for a reason,” he said. “Every single one.”

Gloria sat upright again, too angry in her bones to keep lying down. If not for worries that he might turn her in, she would have rushed out to tell him Robbie hadn’t done anything to be locked up, and if he had, then Lyle McCormack should have been locked up too.

Mrs. Hamilton’s voice softened. “Deep inside, you still know better.”

The man exhaled a laugh, dismissing her. “Tell Mabel this potato salad is dry.”

“Tell her yourself,” Mrs. Hamilton said, and their voices grew muffled as they moved closer to the front door and then out of the house. Gloria paced the room, agitated. Imagine a Negro man whose family owed them a debt talking about Robbie and Papa that way! Gloria felt such loathing for the man that she tried to see a glimpse of him through the window, but she couldn’t see anything except a sliver of the empty road and the house next door.

But at least Mrs. Hamilton wasn’t like him, she told herself to slow her breathing.

Robbie had someone at the Reformatory on his side.

A polite knock at her door, and Mrs. Hamilton poked her head in before Gloria could answer. “I thought I might find you at that window,” she said. “Don’t worry, he’s gone. I’m sorry you had to hear all of that. I keep to myself when I’m out there. They all sound the same, like they’re talking about movie gangsters instead of children.”