Tears of the Outcast

Tears of the Outcast
by
Heidi Chiavaroli

“For I will restore health unto thee, and I will heal thee of thy wounds,
saith the Lord; because they called thee an Outcast.”
Jeremiah 30:17

Prologue

Penikese Island, Massachusetts, 1913

The steady tap of the bittern’s beak on the patient’s window competed with the wind’s howl over the barren wasteland of the island. Cold and lonely, the gust cried out to the setting sun, begging it to stay a little longer, pleading with it to shine its light upon the hopeless souls who called this treeless patch of land “home.”

Marion Parker rapped her knuckles on the patient’s cottage door. Again, this time louder, to be sure her efforts heard above the tempestuous waves. Iwa wouldn’t answer, of course. He never did. If left to him, her fate would be the same as the bittern’s. She turned the knob and the door whined. The smell of burning incense assailed her nostrils.

“Iwa? It’s Mrs. Parker.”

No answer, but a dusky outline took form on the bed. The man’s back was to her, his face angled up at his Buddha shrine.

Tap, tap, tap.

“Dr. Parker said it was a long trip from Boston. Would you like anything? Some tea, maybe?”

Silence again.

Although the Japanese man did not speak English well, Marion surmised he comprehended more than he admitted. She’d watched him carefully since he’d first been exiled to the island two years earlier. Iwa spent much of his time staring sadly toward the mainland, as though hoping against hope that some miracle would restore him to health…to freedom.

No miracle had come. In fact, the disease that held him captive had steadily progressed, making greater advances than in any other patient on the island.

Tap, tap, tap.

“Prince wants to come in, Iwa. He’s missed you.”

The patient released a shaky sigh, his attention focused on the dark ebony of his naked Buddha. Phlox—which the little Japanese had so lovingly coaxed to life amidst the harsh climate of Penikese—surrounded the shrine.

“I’ll be back with some tea.”

Marion turned to go, but not before a strangled sob escaped the patient’s lips.

“I sorry, Mrs. Parker. You…Dr. Parker…good to Iwa and Prince.” His voice was but a hoarse whisper, the disease ravaging not only the outside of his body, but also the inside. “I gone soon. Sickness eats Iwa’s skin. Wish return…land give Iwa birth. See face of kin.”

Marion closed her eyes, her heart wrung dry for the man before her. If only Iwa had taken a train to New York after rowing the fourteen miles to shore. In New York, where men like Iwa roamed free, health authorities would have surely granted his request to be sent back to his native land.

Tap, tap, tap.

She walked slowly to Iwa’s bed and laid a gentle hand on his bony shoulder. He winced at the slight pressure and she withdrew her fingers. Words caught like a fisherman’s hook in the back of her throat. There was no comfort on this island. And while she and her husband went to great lengths to make the patients’ lives more meaningful, it seemed the heart of the outcast would always shed tears.

“I’ll be back with some tea.”

She opened the door to the harsh wind whipping off the waves, but not before the bittern played out his persistent melody once again on the salt-crusted glass.

Tap, tap, tap.

“Prince needs you, Iwa.” A bird was a small measure for a meaningful existence, but it was all she could offer.

Marion stepped out of the cottage and closed the door, the wind tugging her hair from its chignon. Fresh, salty air swept in to replace the incense still burning in her lungs.

The rough scraping of wood on wood sounded from the side of the cottage and she peered around the corner. The last of the sun’s rays exposed a swollen, disfigured stump of a hand reaching toward the brown bittern. With doglike devotion, Prince jumped on it. The bird didn’t care that the fingers were all but gone, that large patches of white invaded Iwa’s dark skin.

Leper or not, his master was bringing him home.

Marion sighed, and picked her way over the rough terrain toward the eerie shadow of the hospital building, her hobble skirt restricting her steps.

How many more will you send to us, Lord? How many more tears has this island to bear?

Chapter One

Taunton, Massachusetts, 1916

Atta Schaeffer’s fingers gripped the edges of the metal exam table, her senses magnified a hundredfold by the cuff of a crisp white lab coat brushing her skin, the harsh scent of iodine and carbolic acid stinging her nostrils…the menacing point of a scalpel.

As Dr. Browne descended upon her with the dreaded instrument in hand, Atta squeezed her eyes shut and burrowed her head into the wide, pleated collar of her shirtwaist. A maelstrom of memories sucked upon her thoughts, threatening to drag her under, drown her—obliterate her nineteen years of existence into a dark hole of nothingness.

“Miss Atta, please relax.” Dr. Browne pinched one of the rose-colored spots on her leg between two fingers. “The incision will be quite small, you’ll hardly feel it.”

Atta opened one eye, just as it began a steady, rhythmic twitch. She refused to trust him, yet shouldn’t she know what deeds he performed on her own body? She watched as Dr. Browne made a small cut with his scalpel, scraped the spot, and rubbed a thin smear on a glass slide. Her corset pressed against the top of her ribcage and her breaths dragged in shallow.

“There you are, Miss Atta. All done.” He wrapped a piece of cotton gauze around her leg and secured it with a safety pin.

She pulled her petticoats over her knees, but still, the muscles in her thighs failed to loosen. She clutched the excess fabric of her skirt.

“Looks like an allergy. Have you eaten anything unusual lately?” Atta shook her head.

“Well then, I’ll send the smear out for a few tests just to be sure.” He dropped his scalpel into a clear solution. “I hear congratulations are in order. When’s the big day?”

John…that’s right. This visit had a purpose. She’d need a blood test for the marriage license, and Dr. Browne had refused such a test without a recent physical—something she had avoided for five years.

She rose on wobbly legs. “In August, we’re hoping.” As soon as the house was built.
As soon as Papi agreed to let Gertie live beneath the roof of that house.

Atta made an effort to look into the doctor’s coffee eyes. To her surprise, his gaze darted to the glass slide on the table. Protected now with another piece of glass, Atta wondered what secrets such a small piece of skin tissue could hold. She slid toward the door.

“Tell John if he needs any help with the house, Thomas would jump at the chance, what with school almost out and all.”

Atta mumbled a “thank you” and dashed out of the room, down the hall, and outside. She gulped in cleansing breaths of the warm June air. The earthy scent of horses mixed with the smell of exhaust from a black Model T chugging past.

What a horrid place. As feeling returned to her shaky legs, she veered left into a path in the woods. Towering pines embraced the needled trail, blanketing her in their protection.

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.” She whispered the words into the pine-scented air, sure that the forest could be trusted with her secrets. Her eye stopped twitching as the prayer quelled the demons nipping at her heels. She breathed easier and reached out to caress the soft needles of a fir.

She’d take a bath when she got home. Gertie would still be in school for another two hours, and if Papi stopped at the tavern—which surely he would—Atta would have plenty of time to heat up some water and take a long soak in the tub, to wash away any telltale sign of that doctor’s hands upon her. Then she’d make some Berliners for Papi. He wouldn’t raise a hand to Gertie if he was busy raising it to his mouth.

Again she laced her fingers through the green needles as she passed, gleaning solace from—

Strong hands grabbed her waist. Atta shrieked. They dragged her beneath the boughs of a tremendous pine, enveloping her in a cave of darkness. She clenched her eyes shut. The rough bark of the tree scraped against her back as the hands pressed her there.

Familiar laughter sounded in her ear, and she opened her eyes.

“John David! You’ve just taken a week off my life, you have.” Her heart pounded against her chest and she settled her fingers at the top of her collar.

“I couldn’t resist, dear Atta. You’ll forgive me, won’t you?”

Her fiancé’s playful sky-blue eyes danced before her and she took in his dimpled chin, his blonde hair streaked with sunshine. Her John. Her savior. By the end of summer, they’d be married and in their own home. Gertie would be safe beneath their roof.

“You know I will. I suppose I don’t know any better.” She reached for the coverall strap on his shoulder and fiddled with the rough fabric. “Did Peter like the quilt?”

“Did he? He vowed to never let it leave his sight. Some of the older boys at the Club teased him, but he’d have none of it.” John angled his broad shoulders so his face was at her level. “You, my Atta, have the sweetest heart I know.”

Atta smiled at the thought of little Peter in his leaky tenement house, savoring a present just for him. Her handiwork showed a tangible love—one that would be remembered every night and naptime.

“Mrs. Bassett stopped by today. She’s looking to start a Girl’s Club.” The corner of John’s mouth crept upward.

“Oh, how wonderful. I’ll pay her a visit tomorrow to see how I can help.” The Woman’s Christian Temperance Union had rejected her because she was Catholic. Well, she’d find other ways to better humanity. Impulsively, she ran her hand over John’s forehead, sticky from sweat. “We have so much to look forward to. A home of our own, a lifetime of serving others and St. Mary’s church. I dare say we’ll be content forever.”

Even as the words left her mouth, one doubt licked them all away. She bit her lip and gazed up into her fiancé’s grinning features. “Will you speak to him soon, John? Please.”

His half-grin turned downward. He straightened. “I suppose I’ve been avoiding it too long, haven’t I? It’s just…it’s a miracle your father’s even agreed to our engagement, what with his feelings for my father. He still treats me like I’m some kind of a leper. What’ll we do if he says no?”

“I refuse to leave Gertie alone in that house. If it means we have to wait longer…”

John hung his head. “Gertie’s only seven. Would you have us wait until she’s married off?”

“Of course I wouldn’t expect you to—”

He placed a calloused finger over her lips. “I would, of course.” A lock of hair fell over his forehead and she smoothed it back. Silence blanketed the woods. Her breathing quickened. She truly was blessed. No matter that she was small and plain, the daughter of German immigrants—this man loved her heart.

“I’ll talk to him this very day, Atta. I promise.”

She placed her hands on his bare forearms and stood on tiptoe to plant a kiss on his cheek. He smelled of sweat and wood and hard work. When his mouth caught her own, she didn’t resist, but melted into the warmth of his kiss. Only with their recent engagement had they earned the privilege to be without a chaperone. The newfound freedom was…thrilling. As always, though, responsibility begged for attention.

She pulled back. “I should get home.”

He led her from beneath the pine tree and onto the path, but kept her small hand clasped in his larger one. “First, I have something to show you.”

“Pray tell, Mr. Bailey.”

“Oh, no, it’s a surprise.”

“But Gertie. And Papi will—”

“—stop at the tavern when he gets out of work, which isn’t for”—he dug out his pocket watch from his coveralls—“another three hours. Can’t I have you all to myself for just a bit?”

Didn’t she deserve as much? Didn’t he? Besides, Gertie was still in school. “Okay, but we’ll have to hurry.”

Up the trail he led her until they came to Summer Street. They bore right and turned down a dusty road—their road. Atta’s finger curled around John’s pinky. Their patch of earth, their little slice of heaven, their freedom lay just beyond that big oak.

“Oh, John.” Her fingers fluttered to the buttons at her throat. Walls. And a honest-to-goodness roof. “It’s—it’s more than grand. How in the world did—”

“I bribed the boys. They helped me the last three days in exchange for a boxing match at the Club this Friday. They’ll do anything to prove themselves the next Jess Willard.” He leaned against a maple tree and shoved his hands in his pockets, a smug grin painted on his face.

“Well show it to me, you goose.” She nearly jumped up and down as she dragged one arm out of his pocket.

He laughed—a deep, melodious, wonderful sound—and offered her his arm in a formal fashion. “It will be my pleasure to give you a complete tour, Miss.”

She circled his arm with her own and allowed him to escort her up the temporary steps and through the front door. Wooden partitions separated the first floor of the small farmhouse into sections. Open holes in the walls denoted windows, while another larger one in back, a door.

He showed her the now-hollow kitchen and parlor, then led her to a smaller section in the middle of the house. “And this will be your very modern water closet and bathroom, soon to be fully installed with indoor plumbing so you can take those long baths you love so much.”

A pleasant dizziness brushed over her. Had she divulged such personal information?

John tapped her nose. “Gertie let it slip one day.”

Dear Gertie. Joy bubbled up in her throat as her fiancé led her up the wooden staircase to the second floor. John swept his arm toward the room on the right. “Our bedroom.”

Awkward silence drove a wedge between them and Atta cleared her throat. “And this one?”

“Gertie’s room, of course. She’ll have to share once the little ones come along, though.”

Heat crept up Atta’s neck and settled upon her cheeks.

John ran a finger under her chin. “You’re adorable when you blush.”

“And you enjoy making me do so all too much, John David.”

His baritone laugh echoed through the hollow rooms and he led her down the stairs, careful to hold her hand as there were no railings on either side. “That I do—but come outside, I have one more place to show you.”

There were no steps out the back door, so he jumped down first before placing his hands on her waist. She sank into the soft ground.

“The tree.” He gestured up at the tall, stately pine—the very reason Atta had been set on this patch of land. “I built the house so it gives plenty of shade in the summer and much less in the winter.”

Atta clasped her hands against her chest and looked up at the tree, four trunks thick, vibrant and green. “It’s all perfect, John. I couldn’t have imagined anything better.”

He pulled her hands around his taut back until she laid her head beneath his neck. “I can’t wait to share it all with you, Atta.”

After a moment he drew back and guided her beneath the tree, where he sat on abundant brown needles. He patted the spot next to him and for a half second she resented her younger sister—the reason she always needed to hurry home. She resented Mami for leaving them five years ago…for God allowing it to happen.
Just as quickly, guilt washed the thoughts away. Unlike her, Gertie was innocent. She deserved protecting—she needed protecting.

“I can’t John. Gertie will be home in a couple hours. I planned on making Berliners for—”

“Just for a moment, Atta. Then I’ll come home with you. I’ll continue Gertie’s fox-trot lessons while you make your precious Berliners, and when your father comes home, he and I will have that talk.”

If he’s sober enough… Yet maybe, for once, the rum that Papi’s blood thirsted for would prove advantageous. Beneath the foggy haze of the alcohol, chance stood that Papi would agree to their arrangement.

Atta lowered herself on the soft needles and snuggled into the crook of John’s arm. It was cool and comfortable beneath the tree, the back of their little house sitting directly in front of them. Quiet. Solitude. Here, she could almost forget Papi, forget “the Great War” raging in faraway lands—forget the fear that it could one day grasp John from her life. At this moment, nothing mattered but the dear house and the love that would soon surround it. She’d sew at that darling window…she’d hang their laundry over in the sun. Gertie could help her start a garden over there.

For the first time in many nights, peace lapped at her soul like waves along a sandy beach. Soothing, smooth. Her eyelids grew heavy.

She and John would spend their nights cuddled just like this in that room…the moon would shine in that window….they’d all sleep safe and sound…John would protect them….

###

Atta woke with a start. Her blood flowed cold, throat constricted. Long shadows advanced across their house. The last of the sun shone through the trees.

She clutched at John’s pants’ leg. Scrambling to her feet, she took in her fiancé’s pained reaction as he too, realized they’d fallen asleep.

He cursed, then took her hand and began long, jogging strides past their dark house and down the lane. He stopped at the house at the end of the road, dashed through the yard, and knocked on the door.

Atta clutched her hand against her heart and gazed longingly at the mare in the barn. Forgive me Father, for I have sinned…

How could she have fallen asleep? She watched John knock again, and then explain with frantic gestures to a silver-haired man they were only vaguely acquainted with. Her blood continued to surge like ice water.

In a moment, John and Mr. Ferguson—if she remembered correctly—walked to the barn. The older man cinched up the saddle while John looped the bridle over the mare’s head. With John atop the horse, he waved to Mr. Ferguson before stopping to help Atta up onto the warm horse flesh behind the saddle. “Hold on tight.”

She clutched her hands together in front of him and felt John press his legs into the mare’s sides. The horse tore fast down the road. Atta crushed her face against John’s shirt, damp from sweat. The mare’s steady lope beneath their bodies didn’t soothe.
Would Papi be home yet? Gertie would be frightened. Had she hid in their room, Atta’s hope chest thrust against the door? Had Gertie been able to move the chest without Atta’s help?

Forgive me Father, for I have sinned. Forgive me Father, for I have sinned. She imagined herself in the small confines of St. Mary’s confessional, rosary beads tight in her hand, Father Sherman’s muddled face through the latticed screen between them. Father would probably tell her to pay penance by praying the rosary two times.
Even now, she longed for the comfort of the smooth beads and the cool metal of the crucifix, Jesus’ bent knees pressed into her palm as she began the first prayer.
I believe in God, the Father almighty, the creator of heaven and earth…

She was on her second Hail Mary when she felt John tug the reins. Atta peered from behind his shirt, her legs growing numb at the sight of Papi’s Tin Lizzie in the drive.
John helped her down. They ran to the front door, toward the sound of Papi’s loud, slurred words.

Flour coated the kitchen counter. An overturned bowl. The jar of jam Atta used to make Berliners open and tipped, a gelatinous blob smearing the counter. Their shoes crunched on granules of sugar as she and John hurried to the stairs. Papi’s voice boomed above them.

“You’re worthless, girl. Killed my Katharina…worthless…now you gunna pay.”

Had Gertie made it to her room? She must have. “Papi! We’re home.” Atta attempted comforting tones to calm the beast inebriated by demon rum.

Gertie was in her room. She had to be in her room. Atta already smelled the stench of cigarettes and whisky. Even on wobbly legs, she reached the top of the stairs before John. Around the corner and—

Papi’s heavyset form stood in front of their room, a large rolling pin raised in his right hand. Gertie crumpled on the painted floorboards. A large red welt melded with the tears on her face. Her tiny fingers clutched the handle of Atta’s hope chest.

She hadn’t made it.

“Worthless piece of—” Papi brought the rolling pin back.

“No!” Atta’s guttural scream surprised Papi long enough for Atta to lunge across the hall and throw herself on top of her sister.

###

The blow never came. John had seen to that. They were both gone now. John probably finding a way to sober up her father. Maybe have that talk.

For a long time, Atta sat on the floor with her sister, smoothing her blonde tresses.

“I’m so sorry, Gertie. I should have been here. It’s all right now. John will take care of us. And as soon as we’re married, you’re going to live with us. How would you like that?”

Gertie’s soft whimpers sounded from within the folds of Atta’s skirt. Forgive me, Father…

Atta stood and lifted Gertie in her arms, careful to avoid any tender spots. She carried her downstairs and sat her on a chair. She dipped a washcloth in a basin of water and began to tend first to her wounds, and then to the flour and jam smeared on her hands and beneath her fingernails.

“Gertie…you know that if I’m not home you shouldn’t be down here cooking. You know you should’ve been up in our room. You know it.” Atta tried to keep the frustration from her voice, but she found herself digging harder than necessary to loosen the sticky jam beneath Gertie’s tiny thumb.

Her sister winced. Atta placed the cloth down.

“I’m sorry, Atta. You, you didn’t come.” Gertie’s innocent blue eyes implored her. “I knew Papi would want his Berliners. I thought I could”—she hiccupped back a sob—“make him like me.”

All the Berliners in Germany couldn’t accomplish that feat. Atta sighed and clutched Gertie’s hands. A sticky spot on her sister’s dress stuck to Atta’s pinky. “You have nothing to be sorry for. I should have been home. But I give you my word, Gertie. It will never, never happen again.” She stood. “Now dry those tears. We have plenty of cleaning to do.”

Gertie stood and took the kitchen broom from the small closet. “How come you never cry, Atta?”

“Well…I suppose all my tears dried up after Mami died.” Sometimes, when her burden felt too heavy, she longed to cry—begged her eyes to shed a tiny bit of wetness. But the tears never came. It did indeed seem they had all dried up.

“Tell me about her again. Please.”

“Mami was lovely. Prettier than Mary Pickford, even.” Atta rung out a dishcloth in the steel sink and ran it over the counter. “You look just like her. Same blue eyes, the color of the sea. You have her smile too, you know. She loved you so much. She loved God. She used to sing to you.”

“Schlaf, Kindlein schlaf?”

Atta smiled. Sleep, child sleep. “Yes.”

“I didn’t mean to make her die, Atta. I didn’t.”

Atta flung the dishcloth down and took Gertie by the shoulders. The child’s eyes widened. “You forget that nonsense, Gertie Schaeffer, you hear? You did not make Mami die.”

“But Papi says she got real sick after I was born.”

“You don’t listen to Papi for one second. He’s a foolish, selfish…oh, never mind all that. You just put such nonsense from your head.”

Atta stood and continued tending the counters. Her bottom lip trembled. How did she even live with herself? With her guilt? No, Gertie hadn’t killed Mami.

The stain of that sin lay on Atta’s soul.