Women of a Promiscuous Nature

by Donna Everhart

Genres: Feminist; Southern

Synopsis

Girl, Interrupted meets The Handmaid’s Tale in 1940s North Carolina, as a young woman is accused of “promiscuity” and unjustly incarcerated at The State Industrial Farm Colony for Women…

Based on the long-buried history of the American Plan, this powerful and shockingly timely story of resistance and resilience exposes the real government program designed to regulate women’s bodies and sexuality throughout the first half of the 20th century.

*A Publishers Marketplace BUZZ BOOKS Selection*

“Both a cautionary tale and a deeply compassionate rendering of women wrongly imprisoned in a system designed to break them, Everhart’s propulsive story is filled with injustice, intrigue, and the determination to fight back.” —LISA WINGATE, #1 New York Times bestselling author of Shelterwood

On a brisk February morning while walking to the diner where she works, 24 year-old Ruth Foster is stopped by the local sheriff. He insists she accompany him to a health clinic, threatening to arrest her if she doesn’t undergo testing in order to preserve decency and prevent the spread of sexual disease.

Though Ruth has never shared more than a chaste kiss with a man, by day’s end she is one of dozens of women held at the State Industrial Farm Colony for Women. Some are there because they were reported for promiscuity by neighbors, husbands, strangers. Some were accused of prostitution. Others were just pretty and unmarried. Or poor and “suspicious.” One was eating dinner alone in a restaurant. Another spoke to a soldier. 

Josephine’s sin was running a business as a single woman. Maude’s was trying to drown her sorrows. Frances had lost her mind. Opal married a man with a mean streak. Some, like 15-year-old Stella, are brought in because they’re victims of assault. She’s too naive and broken to understand how unjust this imprisonment is.

Superintendent Dorothy Baker, convinced that she’s transforming degenerate souls into upstanding members of society, oversees the women’s medical treatment and “training” until they’re deemed ready for parole. Sooner or later, everyone at the Colony learns to abide by Mrs. Baker’s rule book or face the consequences—solitary confinement, grueling work assignments, and worse.

But some refuse to be cowed. Some find ways to fight back – at any cost…

“A remarkable fusion of research and imagination [with] vivid scenes, compelling characters, perfect pacing—but most impressive of all is Everhart’s creation of Dorothy Baker. She is one of the most memorable characters I’ve read in recent fiction, and further proof of Donna Everhart’s immense talent.” —Ron Rash, award-winning author of Serena

Release date: January 27, 2026

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 368

Sample

Eagle Springs, North Carolina

1931

Dorothy Baker’s reputation is on the line. She knows this as soon as she peers into the depths of a hall closet, hands clenching in tight-fisted rage at the items tucked away. Cleaning supplies, linens, a mop and bucket, organized and ready for working hands sit innocently along with the intoxicating materials. She manages to conceal their effect on her even as a sensation like slipping into a tub of warm water overtakes her at the sight of them. Without question they’re intended for mischief. Matches, wads of old newspapers, and a small tin of lighter fluid are hidden behind the sheets and towels. Her mind takes off on a rampage while her expression is restful, serene even. She’s a striking, elegant woman, with a cool composure that contradicts her mental state at the sight of these attractions. She turns to Mrs. Libby.

“They think they can fool us, do as they please because they don’t want to be here. It’s unbelievable, really. Here is for their own good, they just don’t realize it.”

“Yes, Mrs. Baker. I wholeheartedly agree.”

“This is alarming.”

“Most definitely.”

Reports of disgruntled girls complaining about punishment came by way of teachers and other staff who overheard their discontent at being locked in their rooms, the whippings and the meals withheld. Only days before, disciplinary measures were given to a couple of girls, aged fourteen. Sandra Haynes and Millie Wilson were whipped for running away. Those girls, with oversight by the housemother of Chamberlain Discipline Hall, Mrs. Libby, received what is standard protocol, punishment at the hands of other residents. The two girls had to lie down on their stomachs while six other girls struck them with a switch. This method is viewed as an ideal deterrent, providing a firsthand lesson of what not to do unless one wants a taste of the same.

And now, had it not been for the eagle eyes of Mrs. Libby spotting these items, there’s no telling what might have happened. Baker resists the urge that comes at the sight of the accelerant and matches. The Incident, as she calls it, a terrible time from her childhood, sneaks forward as stealthy as an undiscovered flame. An involuntary shiver runs the length of her spine and she quickly raises her arm. She points into the closet to cover her momentary lapse, and instructs Mrs. Libby on what to do.

“Place those offensive items on the hall table. Have the girls line up.”

“Yes, Mrs. Baker.”

Baker paces while she waits. As superintendent, how far should she take this particular violation? Issues like leaving the hall without permission, rudeness, and uncleanliness are managed by assigning demerits. Ten demerits means a visit to Miss Walker, the Supervisor of Student Government. What about something as serious as possible arson? On the other hand, it didn’t happen—it was only in the planning stage, an idea not yet executed. She is quite skilled at getting pertinent information out of even the most stubborn. Usually, a threat is sufficient, and she can go from there depending on the contriteness or contrariness of the guilty parties.

Baker hears a bell, and Mrs. Libby’s faint commands. She places herself in front of the hall table, her hands folded. Like the rush of a mountain stream, they enter. Her girls, as she thinks of them, cheeks crimson from cold air and the exertion of preparing the fields for the spring planting of vegetables. This is how she wants them, vibrant, wholesome, and healthy. And, of course, obedient and polite. The flow of chatter stops as they conform to the code of silence once inside. They are to speak only if spoken to when called in front of the superintendent, as instructed upon admission to the reform school.

They file by Baker, and she studies each face, checking for guilt. Some are nervous, while those she views as bad girls flaunt their disrespect and boldly meet her gaze. This means nothing. The defiant are known to be shifty, and like to test her. The innocent meet her gaze because they’re curious. She’ll probably have to interrogate each of them, one by one. They line up along the length of the hall ranging in age from ten to sixteen. The older residents, those in their late teens to early twenties who’re sent because of prostitution or other corrupt behaviors, aren’t under her care. They’re housed separately. She prefers training the age range standing before her, those still viable for alteration. She smacks her hands together, and a few of the younger ones jump. Her voice is stern as she addresses them.

“If you know anything about these items, say so now.”

Baker motions toward the items on the table. The girls shift their attention there, then resume staring straight ahead. Shuffling feet, throat clearing, and the occasional huffs of impatience cease. Baker, in black lace-up shoes with two-inch heels, paces before them. Those heels strike the wood floor with a slight uneven bump as she walks down the line of girls, peering into thirty pairs of eyes. She removes her wire-rim glasses and polishes the lenses with a handkerchief she keeps tucked in the sleeve cuff of her blouse. She places them back on her face, tucks the handkerchief away again, and resumes walking. Everything is done with deliberation; she doesn’t rush. She gets to the end of the line, turns, and makes her way back again. Midway, she stops and points at the table behind her.

“This is serious and I plan to get to the bottom of it.”

The girls are frozen in time, the only movement the rise and fall of their chests as they dare to breathe. A few risk looking at her again, but it’s fleeting. The door to the hall is open and a chilly breeze enters, ruffling the hems of their hand-sewn dresses, and the ends of their hair. Baker waits, but nothing is forthcoming from any of them. She’ll have to do it the hard way.

“Mrs. Libby, I’ll speak with them one at a time. For now, this half can resume their work. The rest will remain here. Send me one girl at a time.”

“Understood.”

Baker’s office is in a different building next to Chamberlain Hall, and that’s where she heads. The pines between the buildings are thick and surround the Samarcand Manor facility. There’s a fresh, crisp scent to the air even on such a cool day and the ground is soft with their needles. She enters the administration building, turns left, and goes into her office. It’s sparsely furnished, with only a large oak desk, two wooden chairs, and a lamp on a small table by the window. There are no family photographs. Baker has done nothing to brighten the space except every day she opens the heavy curtains to allow the sun to stream in. It’s March and this helps warm up the room, at least with regard to the temperature. She stands in front of her desk and waits for the first girl. Before long, there’s a knock.

“Come in.”

It’s Millie Wilson. Smart for Mrs. Libby to send the most likely culprit. She comes from a nearby area known as Vass where many of the girls’ families work as farmers or in the Vass Cotton Mill. Millie is classified as a delinquent, the type of girl whose family consists of drunkards, moral degenerates, or the unemployed. Millie’s not the only girl with this background, and a few have it even worse. Some of the girls, surprisingly, come from respectable, decent families, but have been sent because their parents believed they were engaging in immoral behaviors, or, as they put it, were “incorrigible.” Perhaps they were seen as promiscuous, spending too much time running the streets, or contemplating matters of a sexual nature.

Whatever the reason, Baker’s purpose is to restore them to the pristine nature of their Southern womanhood, to rid individuals of impure thoughts, and return them to their communities with a renewed outlook on their future. The government’s initiatives to keep prostitutes from spreading venereal diseases, thereby protecting the military and armed forces, includes preventing juvenile delinquency and the downfall that comes with such behavior. Millie is on her way to a life of sin unless she changes. She sends Baker an insolent glare. The girl is undisciplined and feebleminded and Baker deems her as such, as she does many of her charges. Decent, intelligent girls don’t end up here. Baker sets her shoulders and raises her chin.

“What do you know about the items found in the cleaning closet?”

“Nuthin’.”

“Excuse me?”

“Nuthin’. Ma’am.”

They go back and forth for several minutes. The girl doesn’t back down. Of course, Millie would deny any knowledge. Frustrated, Baker sends her out, and the next girl is sent in, and the next, and the next.

This goes on until Baker, by the end of the day, has all but given up. Each remains silent, plays dumb, is dumb, or innocent. It’s more than disappointing and she feels like she’s lost because she even resorts to threats and those didn’t work. If there’s one thing she can’t stand, it’s losing. She goes to bed that night feeling like a failure and she doesn’t like it. Her mind, gone haywire from the events of the day, eventually slows its frenzied processing, and she drifts off. It seems she’s only entered into a deep sleep when she wakes again, a sharp, acrid smell filling her nose. Half asleep, a bizarre, out of place incessant clanging makes her sit up and look about. Why is the dinner bell ringing? There’s a strange orange glow filtering through the window of her room, creating unusual shadows on the walls. Her legs play an old trick and become uncooperative, like she’s in one those nightmares, unable to move, except this is no dream. They did it. They somehow succeeded, despite themselves. Someone bangs on her door and then Mrs. Libby, as if conjured by the oddness of it all, appears by Baker’s bed.

“Get up, get up! Chamberlain Hall is on fire!”

Baker’s chest tightens. Recollections of limpid orange flames fill her mouth with saliva. Mrs. Libby tugs on her while Baker’s uncanny attraction attempts to control her once she understands what’s beyond her window. Behind Mrs. Libby comes a familiar crackling sound that goes with fire consuming wood. Baker’s vision blurs, realizing that even at thirty years old, it grips her the same as it did when she was seven. Mrs. Libby’s cries finally get to her.

“We need to get to the girls!”

Baker swings her legs over the side of the bed and Mrs. Libby gapes, speechless. Baker yells at her.

“My robe! I need my robe!”

Mrs. Libby recovers from the disturbing sight of thick burn scars going every which way down Baker’s legs. She grabs Baker’s arm.

“We don’t have time!”

There’s a tremendous noise, a pop, like fireworks. They rush out of Baker’s door and outside, where an expanding mass of gray smoke boils upward into the night sky. Once they’re near the dormitories, they’re exposed to a devastating sight. Amber swirls reach for the sky out of every window. It’s an ominous, surreal scene. Chamberlain Discipline Hall isn’t the only burning structure; Bickett Hall is ablaze and girls from both dormitories stand in clusters some distance away. There’s a loosening in Baker’s gut, the sensation not unpleasant, but she has the presence of mind to ignore her impulse to get closer. Mrs. Libby coughs, sputters, and gags and she refocuses herself and slaps the woman’s back. She is uncomfortably aware of her state of undress, the exposure of her legs. No one knows about her old injuries because, as her mama taught her, she keeps her legs covered in black stockings no matter the time of year. Even Ed, her ex-husband, didn’t know until their wedding night. She believes it’s the real reason for his leaving her.

She turns to Mrs. Libby and in a rare moment of weakness, says, “They can’t see me like this.” She gestures at her legs. “They’ll use it against me somehow. You know how cruel they can be.”

Mrs. Libby immediately removes her own robe, which reaches the ground, and gives it to Baker. Grateful, she puts it on, and it’s just in time because Mrs. Howard, the housemother for Bickett Hall, joins them along with a handful of teachers, their distress and fear apparent.

“Can you believe this?”

“It’s utter insanity!”

“They’ve gone and done it now.”

“How will Samarcand ever recover?”

While they wait for the firetrucks, thirty minutes away in Carthage, they watch sparkling embers float and dance around them. Baker tries not to think of the shaky future the school might have because of this. Some of the girls nearby are crying, others gape in silence, while a few cling to one another and whisper. Baker watches them, furious at the knowledge the guilty ones stand among them. She can hardly stomach the thought of the repercussions. The two dormitories are sure to be a complete loss. She wants someone, anyone, to explain. She faces the teachers and housemothers.

“Given what we found earlier, we know this was intentional.”

There’s a general murmur of agreement. Baker keeps an eye on the girls who glance their way every now and then.

“We need to see if anyone’s willing to confess. Let’s see what they say.”

She leads the staff over and speaks in a firm voice.

“If you had nothing to do with this, then you should stay out of it. Those of you involved, step forward.”

She’s stunned when a dozen or more girls boldly step away from the others without hesitation. It’s not only because they do so and quickly, but because there are so many. One of them is Millie Wilson. She smirks at Baker, as if proud of getting something over on her. Baker instructs her staff.

“Keep them separate from the others.”

The group is vocal. They don’t hesitate to boast as to why they did what they did, declaring it as a form of protest.

“Y’all are treatin’ us worser’n dogs.”

“It ain’t right to be whipped or locked up.”

“Look at my hands. I’m sick of workin’ in them fields, day in and out.”

“My own mama works long hours at the cotton mill and fares better’n this.”

From a distance the sound of sirens grows loud and everyone’s attention shifts as firetrucks come quick and fast down sandy paths followed by the sheriff and a deputy. The girls who claim responsibility are arrested and Baker watches as they’re taken away to face unknown consequences. She turns to Mrs. Libby.

“This will be my ruination.”

Mrs. Libby frowns.

“How? You certainly tried to stop it.”

“This is only part of the trouble.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’ll be about the punishment and who knows what else. It won’t matter about the ones who’ve gone back home restored to decent and productive individuals, a help to their families instead of a burden. Nor will it matter we’re not the only school in the country operating likewise. There’s one in Montana that made residents stand with soap in their mouths for an entire day. At least we didn’t do that, but once they know they’ve got the ears of those above me, they will say what they want.”

Mrs. Libby shrugs.

“There will always be those who are irredeemable. Perhaps this lot is just that, and we get our say too, don’t we?”

Despite Mrs. Libby’s rationale, Baker’s mind bleats failure, failure, failure. The smoldering structures take her back to her beginning with this job. Only two years ago she became superintendent, right after she’d caught Ed, her husband of less than a year, spending time with the very type of women she wanted to ensure these girls didn’t become. Because of her personal situation, it became her mission to rid society of delinquent, troubled young girls who could become philandering females. Over her dead body would she allow them to turn into the sort who ruin marriages, like the one who ruined hers.

Samarcand is her dream job, where the troublesome are taught how to run a decent, clean household and receive a bit of education. This is where instilling virtue and goodness takes place. Active work, meaningful work. It’s the chance of a lifetime, and a tremendous reward for her dedicated years within the Federation of Women’s Clubs and other worthwhile organizations. Why, even Ed never recognized it was she who was the one to almost single-handedly gather hundreds of signatures petitioning for the reclamation of young Southern white women. By her measure, it’s been a success and her biennial reports prove it.

The unfortunate fact is, this fiasco will outweigh the good and nothing she’s accomplished will be viewed favorably. The girls will talk. The meaning behind her methods will be lost. Her efforts will be wasted because it’s impossible to think such a catastrophic event under her watch would enable her to remain. This fire is the catalyst and what grips her with fury more than anything is how these girls, those she deemed low-class degenerates, bested her. She must face this truth, and somehow overcome it. Baker shuts her eyes as the roof of Chamberlain Discipline Hall collapses and her dreams of saving the very girls standing nearby collapses with it.

In the following days, she gets wind of letters from some of the parents and a couple of teachers. She turns to Mrs. Libby in distress.

“Have you heard what they’re saying? Have you read these accusations?”

“I have. It’s a disgrace. An out-and-out disgrace.”

Newspapers are filled with claims about the punishments, carrying various details far and wide. The Chapel Hill Weekly, Rocky Mount Telegram, and Greensboro News, to name a few, bang the drum of alarm and shock. They have a field day, criticizing the abysmal treatment and conditions. Everyone screams for an investigation. Girls, but in their tender years, it’s reported, were subjected to the same horrors as the strictest institutions the state has to offer—the prison system. Is this the intent for these young women, asks one journalist? Perhaps there’s justification, some suggest. Nevertheless, Baker’s oversight at the school is highly suspect, and out of the blue, others come forward against her, to include, of all people, Mrs. Libby. Baker is stunned, even as she realizes the woman is only trying to save her own job.

The Board of Directors makes their decision and Baker is out. A mental hygienist with extensive training toward the mentally deficient replaces her. The day she arrives, Baker can barely manage to speak as she’s quizzed by her successor.

“Mrs. Baker, you’re leaving me your files? All of them?”

“Yes, they’re in my … ​your office. I’ve organized them according to name and date.”

“Thanks, but that wasn’t necessary. I have my own system.”

Dismissed, disgraced, Baker leaves Samarcand. She has no prospects, and so she goes home to help her ailing mother, to wait and see what happens. Her father passed years before, so it’s only the two of them. She eventually returns to assisting the Federation of Women’s Clubs in whatever way she can, while her enthusiasm and hope for another position as superintendent dims. News travels fast. She’s cut off from direct, hands-on involvement in reform. She can raise funds, but her chances of working in such a capacity again doesn’t look encouraging. She no longer sees her future as she once did, filled with accolades and appreciation for her efforts and what she accomplished.

Five years go by. She continues raising money on the sidelines for reform and other efforts. After her mother passes, a big piece of how she kept herself preoccupied, what with the daily chores and tasks required of elderly care, ends. Her brother, Tommy, is married, living in Raleigh and doing well. The same goes for her younger sister, Suzanne, who recently sent Baker a picture of her new baby, a boy named Dwight, after her husband.

Baker studies the photo dispassionately. Maybe it’s just as well she and Ed never had children, even though she’d always thought of it as a natural course to any well-mannered, respectable woman’s life. She’d have been a good mother, she’s certain of it. After all, look at how she cared for her charges at Samarcand. Was that not a foundation for what some called a natural instinct to nurture? Even so, two reasons why her solitary outcome turned out for the best, whether a stroke of luck, or God’s divine hand, eliminated any regret.

For one, how horrible it would’ve been if she’d found out about Ed’s sordid pastimes when it was too late, while trying to raise children. Such an environment would’ve required quelling her anger and disgust at his cheating ways, perhaps even allowing it in order to keep the family together. Maybe she would’ve taken it out on the children, or would’ve grown to resent them for keeping her trapped with a cad. Second, her own weakness. It’s possible she’d have borne a child with the same propensities she had, tempted by the same irrational, illogical desires, and perhaps that child would have suffered a similar injury—or worse. No. It had been for the best to be alone, living in her childhood home, with all of its ghosts, memories, and—she could still swear—a distinct odor of smoke from The Incident. Perhaps this served as a just reward for that.

One day her longtime friend Eloise Belle asks her to lunch. They do this on occasion and for Baker, it’s a much-needed outing. Eloise works as the secretary-treasurer at a local church, and is also a member of the North Carolina Equal Suffrage League. They’ve gone to their favorite diner and their talk is the usual, catching up on this and that. In a quiet moment, Eloise takes a sip from her coffee cup, dabs at her lips with a napkin, and regards Baker with a serious look.

“One should always have a plan, Dottie.”

“Hm. Well. At the moment that’s rather like trying to cook a meal when the pantry is empty, you understand.”

Eloise lights a cigarette and sits back, her expression thoughtful.

She says, “Have you by chance heard of the State Industrial Farm Colony for Women? It’s a facility located in Kinston, about three hours east of here.”

Baker shakes her head.

“I don’t think so.”

“They need a superintendent.”

Baker, not wanting to get her hopes up and not wanting to come across as desperate, says nothing. She takes a casual sip of her coffee. Perhaps Eloise is applying for the position, or it could be Winnifred DeLong. Although Winnifred doesn’t live close, the three women have come to know one another through their reform efforts. Eloise continues.

“I contacted the chairman, told him I’d known you for years. As to what happened at Samarcand Manor, I explained you tried to stop it, but those girls were bent on burning the place down. After all, everyone saw the truth of this since they set fire to their jail cells as well. The facility in Kinston is in dire need of someone to oversee it. I didn’t know if you’d want to give it a try? They mostly deal with women, not younger girls. The youngest might be seventeen. I told them I’d ask you about it. Would you be interested?”

Baker clasps her hands together, joyful. At last, after five long years, the second chance she believed would never come is here, as unexpected as Ed Baker’s proposal.

“Yes. Yes, of course!”

Deep Creek, North Carolina

1941

At fifteen years of age, Stella is whisked away by a life event some call bad luck. In the long run, what happens saves her, at least that’s what she believes. Later on, once she finds out what’s been done to her, how she’ll never be the same again, it’s too late. But. Before all this, she’s with her parents, Alice and Cordell, and this is where her trouble begins. Her father works as a foreman at McCall’s Cotton Mill. He’s gone all day and Stella is too, traipsing up and down the harrowing halls of school, a misfit because everyone knows the Temples are a curious lot.

Stella’s a loner, and often pretends she’s chatting with her classmates, answering questions she overhears them ask their friends as if they’re engaging with her. Her lips move in silent conversation until the whispers start about how she’s going crazy like her mother. Mortified, she stops. From an early age she’s taken care of herself, and can only invent in her head the way other children might live. Mothers who cook hot meals, bake cookies for after school, wash clothes, and keep a clean house. Fathers who help with homework, make sure the grass is cut once a week, and take their families to church on Sundays, then ice cream afterward.

When her classmates arrive at school, they’re in clean clothes, cheeks pink with good health, and their solid, robust frames speak of regular meals. Most important, they appear happy. Stella’s reflection in the cracked mirror on the door of the medicine cabinet in the bathroom shows her truth every day. Dull brown hair, sallow cheeks, and brown eyes with an edge.

At home each morning she’s awakened by the smell of coffee brewing and cigarette smoke, indicating Cordell’s up. When the front door slams and he’s left for work, only then does she come out of her room. She rifles through a laundry basket, hunting for something to wear that isn’t dirty, or needs mending. She eats whatever she can find, brushes her teeth, and hollers goodbye to Alice, who will not hear her and who will stay in the bed until she feels like getting up. Stella walks to school, taking her time. The closer she gets, the slower she goes, her insides a mix of anticipation and anxiety. She enters the building and first has to contend with a gauntlet of taunting classmates, but once she’s in class, she’s in her element. She’s curious and entranced, learning all she can.

This is her routine. It never alters. She does the same things, the same way, every day. Routine, or structure, isn’t how she thinks of it. For her, it provides comfort, if only in her mind. When school is out for the day, she dawdles along the dirt road heading back home, feeling a different sort of dread as she approaches what should be, by all rights, her haven. Though she may have taken solace for a few hours outside those walls, once she’s back within them, anything positive she took in, like getting the answer to a question right, thereby earning an approving nod from one of her teachers, disintegrates.

Stella skirts around the house and enters the back door where she finds her mother at the kitchen table, still in her nightgown and housecoat, her hair a chaotic, wild clump on top of her head. Her mother has spent the day chain-smoking, the evidence a mound of cigarette butts in the ashtray close by her elbow. Alice sips hours-old coffee left over from the morning. They regard one another, Stella assessing her mother’s mood, while Alice offers the usual complaint and request.

“Had me a real bad night. Heat my coffee up, will you?”

Stella dumps the ashtray first. Pours more of the black liquid from the pot on the stove into the cup. She takes small peeks at Alice, who’s busy pulling at a thread, unraveling the sleeve of her gown. Stella creeps away to her room where she’ll spend as long as she can before she’s expected to go and fix something for supper. She remembers a different mother and she has proof she once existed. Every now and again she retrieves the Park Lane shoebox sitting at the top shelf of her closet and goes through old photos of her mother maybe looking like other folks. Maybe normal.

The first time she understood her mother wasn’t well, she was ten. Alice started going away for a couple of days, and when she returned, there were curious marks on her wrists and ankles. Sometimes her tongue was bloody. If she and Cordell stayed gone longer, and Stella got hungry, she went across the street to Mrs. Beale’s house. She didn’t like going, especially if Mrs. Beale’s kind but work-worn face appeared extra tired. Mrs. Beale didn’t need another problem. She already had five, but she always answered Stella’s polite little tap, tap, tap.

“What’s up, shug?”

“Alice—rather Mama—she’s sick and Daddy took her somewhere.”

“Oh? How long they been gone?”

“A while.”

“I got a bit of supper. You hungry?”

Stella always is. Very. Mrs. Beale’s five young’uns gawk at her through the screen door, the oldest a seven-year-old boy with a bad haircut, the youngest a baby of about six months.

“We got beans and hot dogs for supper. If your folks ain’t back by the time you finish eating, you can sleep in yonder till they get home.”

Stella never cared what they had. It’s more than she would get and she also didn’t mind sleeping on the dilapidated couch with their stinking basset hound named Humphrey, who she loved despite his odorous self. The Beales taught her she had it worse than most, maybe worse than anybody. It gave her a hollow feeling knowing, yet there she was, begging at their door. There were the times Mrs. Beale couldn’t feed her, and wouldn’t let her stay, even when Stella said she didn’t need to eat. Mrs. Beale would gaze at her sadly, explain the assistance check hadn’t come; she didn’t have enough, not even for themselves. She was real sorry.

Eventually, Stella’s mother stopped going to the place that changes her, so much so that when Stella stares into her eyes, she’s staring into nothingness. Cordell refuses to take her. Sick and confused, Alice stays in the bed and the woman who was once Alice Temple is no more. Stella keeps her distance, listening to Cordell often lecture her “no good” mama as he stands in the doorway of the bedroom.

“Dammitall to hell, Alice! I can’t keep taking off’n work to