The Kill-Off

5:

DR. JAMES ASHTON

It may ring false when I say SO, but I did love her. Back in the beginning and for several years afterward. It became impossible later on, will it as I would and despite anything I could do. For we could share nothing but a bed, and that less and less frequently. We could not share the most important thing we had. It was impossible-you see that, do you not? So the love went away.

But once long ago…

She was twenty-two or -three when she came to me. She was practically illiterate-a shabby, life- beaten slum dweller. There was a great deal of race prejudice in that state-there is still, unfortunately, so much everywhere- and Negroes got little if any schooling; they had no place to live but slums.

I hired her as my housekeeper. I paid her twice the pittance, the prevailing and starvation wage for Negro houseworkers. I gave her decent quarters, a clean attic room with a lavatory, there in my own house.

She was thin, undernourished. I saw to it that she got plenty of good wholesome food. She needed medical attention. I gave it to her- -taking time from paying patients to do so.

I shall never forget the day I examined her. I had suspected the beauty of her body, even in the shabby ill-fitting clothes I had first seen her in. But the revelation of it was almost more than the eyes could bear. Of all the nude women I had seen-professionally, of course-I had seen none to compare with her. She was like a statue, sculpted of ivory by one of the great masters. Even frail and half-starved, she-

But I digress.

She was very grateful for all I had done for her. Overflowing with gratitude. Her eyes followed me wherever I went, and in them there was that burning worship you see in a dog's eyes. I think that if I had ordered her to take poison she would have done so instantly.

I did not want her to feel that way. At least, I made it very clear to her that she owed me nothing. I had done no more than was decent, I explained. No more than one decent person should do for another- circumstances permitting. All I wanted of her, I said, was that she be happy and well, as such a fine young woman should be.

She would not have it so. I wanted-was more than willing to, at any rate-but not she. There was an immutable quality about her gratitude. Wherever I was, there was it: quietly omnipotent, passively resistant, a constant proffering. Impossible to dispose of; beyond, at least, my powers.

I did not wish to hurt her feelings. I could see no real harm in accepting what she was so anxious to give. It was all she had to give. And the gift of one's all is not lightly rejected.

Finally, around the middle of her second month of service with me, I accepted it.

There was no love in it that first time. None on my side, that is. It was merely a matter of saving her pride, and, of course-to a degree, at least-physical gratification. But after that, very quickly after that, the love came.

And it was only natural, I suppose, that it should.

I came from a very poor family; migrant sharecroppers. My parents had twelve children-three stillborn, five who died in early childhood. The largest house we ever lived in was two rooms. I was six or seven years old before I tasted cow's milk, or knew that there was such a thing as red meat. I was almost a grown man before I owned a complete set of clothes.

If it had not been for a plantation overseer's taking an interest in me, if he had not induced my father to let me remain with his family when my own moved on, I should probably have wound up like the rest of the brood. Like my living brothers and sisters… if they are living. Hoehands. Cotton-pickers. White trash.

Or, no, I do myself an injustice. I could never have been like them. I would have found some way to push myself up, overseer or no (and life with him, believe you me, was no bed of roses).

Through grade school, high school, college and medical school-in all that time, I cannot remember having a complete day of rest.

I worked my way every step of the way. I did nothing but work and study. I had no time for recreation, for girls. When I did have the time, when I was at last practicing and reasonably free from financial worry, I had no, well, knack with them. I was ill at ease around girls. I was incapable of the flippery-dippery and chitchat which they seemed to expect. I learned that one young lady I liked-and who, I thought, reciprocated my feeling-had referred to me as a 'terrible stick.'

So, there you have it. Hattie loved me. A woman more beautiful than any I had ever seen loved me. And I could be with her in the most intimate way-talk to her of the most intimate things (although she could not always answer intelligently)-and feel not a whit of awkwardness.

I fell in love with her deeply. It was inevitable that I should.

I was, of course, quite alarmed when I learned that she was pregnant. Alarmed and not a little angry. For she had failed to take the precautions I had prescribed and entrusted her to take. As I saw it, there was nothing for it but an abortion, even though she was three months along. But much to my chagrin, for she had always done as I wanted before, Hattie refused.

She was virtually tigerish in her refusal, threatening me with what she would do if I attempted to take the foetus from her. Then as I became firm-considerably shocked by her conduct-she turned to pleading. And I could not help feeling touched, nor the feeling that I had been taken sore advantage of.

The boy (she always spoke of him as a boy) would be able to 'pass.' After perhaps two hundred years of outrace-breeding, after eight generations, there would be a child of her blood who could pass for white… Couldn' I understand? Didn' I see why she jus' had to have it?

I relented. I could have insisted on the abortion, and she would have had to submit. But I did not insist. Except for me, the child would not have been born.

When the pregnancy began to show, I moved her out of the house. From that day on, until she gave birth, I called on her at least twice a week.

I could not go through such an experience now. There were times, even then, when I thought I could stand no more. A white man- a white doctor!- visiting in the Negro slums! Treating a Negro woman! It was unheard of, unprecedented-a soul-shaking, pride-trampling experience. White doctors did not treat Negroes. Generally speaking, no one did. They simply did without medical attention, administering to themselves, when it was necessary, with home remedies and patent nostrums; delivering their own babies or depending on midwives.

All in all, they seemed to get by fairly well in that manner-although, Negro vital statistics being what they are, or were, one cannot be sure. And in the good health she was enjoying, I think that Hattie could have gotten by quite well without me. But it apparently didn't occur to her to suggest it. She didn't suggest it, anyway; and I hardly felt able to.

For that matter, I don't know that I would have been willing to leave her untended. In fact, and on reflection, I am quite sure that I would not. I was deeply in love with her, deeply concerned for her and our child. Otherwise, I would not have done what I did when the birth became imminent.

Negroes were not treated by white doctors, as I have said. This meant that they were not admitted to white hospitals-and there were nothing but white hospitals. There was a ramshackle, poorly staffed county institution which admitted Negroes, but not unless it was absolutely impelled to. If a Negro was dying he might get in. If he did, he would probably never live to regret it.

Well. I was on the staff of one of the white hospitals. I had only recently obtained the appointment. I got Hattie admitted to it as a white woman, of Spanish-Indian descent.

I did that, knowing almost certainly that the fraud would be discovered. I loved her that much, thought that much of her-and, needless to say, the child.

They were giving her narrow-eyed looks from the moment she stepped through the door. They suspected her from the beginning; me and her. I could see that they did, see it and feel it. Then, when she was coming out of the anaesthesia, when she began to talk.