the energy to care for her six children. The oldest, a twelve year-old, had stopped attending school, the others never started. Even before Mr. Lipinski’s death, the family did not adhere to strict hygiene practices and the children suffered from lice, scabies, rotten teeth and malnutrition.
“Aren’t some families lost causes?” Mrs. Sebastian said. “Giving money to the theater means it is used constructively right away.” Mrs. Sebastian flicked her cigarette into the hillside off the porch with her thin fingers.
Rose silently admitted she’d often thought the same thing upon entering a rancid home. But her stomach churned hearing Mrs. Sebastian be cavalier about a family whose head died in the very mill that lined her husband’s silk pockets. Rose pushed her shoulders back. She had to be careful not to offend Mrs. Sebastian.
Rose nodded and pushed a smile to her lips. “Pathetic, yes, but lost causes? No. That’s why I’m proud to carry the black bag of public health. There’s always something to teach and someone to learn.” Rose drew back, the corny wording felt phony, as if she were advertising during the Original Amateur Hour.
Mrs. Sebastian took her purse from Rose, stepped up to the pitted wood door and rapped on it. Rose worried the Sebastian women were not ready for this, but it was too late to change her course of action. Rose knocked again, and after no response, pounded on the door.
Rose waited, her ear turned to the door. With no sounds coming from inside she pushed open the door and poked her head inside. A stench of spoiled, cooked onions and greasy meat made Rose’s stomach heave.
Rose heard rustling in the space in front of her. “Mrs. Lipinski?” The rooms were so dark that even coming in from the fog, Rose’s eyes couldn’t make out what was in front of her.
She reached back and waved Mrs. Sebastian in, and heard her sharp intake of air. Rose hoped the woman would maintain an expression of neutrality and not embarrass the family.
“Mrs. Lipinski?” Rose stepped further into the house, turning her ankle on a shoe. Dammit. This may be too good of a “bad” example. She kicked the shoe to the side then felt along the wall to the point where she hit the light switches—one button to push on, the other for off. She pushed one then the other. Neither lit the room.
A gravelly female voice came from inside the room. “Can’t spare no extra to burn lights in daytime. Fog’ll clear soon ‘nough.”
Mrs. Sebastian let out a startled squeal.
Rose shuffled along the wall, remembering a lamp near the unlit fireplace. If she didn’t bring on some light quick, Mrs. Sebastian would leave without the opportunity to see what Rose’s work entailed.
Rose heard the grainy snap of a Zippo. Mrs. Sebastian’s lighter provided just enough light for Rose to reach the fireplace. She twisted the tiny knob on the side of the lamp and weak yellow light lit the room. The light, like a magic wand, revealed five people sitting around their mother, shielding their eyes from the sudden glow. Mrs. Sebastian was backing out toward the door, bumping into a wide-eyed Theresa.
Rose grasped Mrs. Sebastian’s hand and patted it as though she were a child. She wondered if the woman had ever been in a home like this, whether she’d always been wealthy enough that not even the depression had lifted the shade on the ugliness of poverty. Rose coaxed a reluctant Mrs. Sebastian into the room, introducing her to Mrs. Lipinski, and five of her children.
“Marie’s up in ‘er room, n’at,” Mrs. Lipinski said, never lifting her gaze from the floor. “Go on up and check ‘er out. She ain’t been dahn in two days. Not even fer her favorite. Bacon.”
Rose nodded then knelt in front of one of the children and whispered. The child, who Rose quickly realized was a boy dressed in girl’s clothing, nodded and gave Rose his ladder-back chair then nudged his sister and sat with her in the next chair.
Rose
“Aren’t some families lost causes?” Mrs. Sebastian said. “Giving money to the theater means it is used constructively right away.” Mrs. Sebastian flicked her cigarette into the hillside off the porch with her thin fingers.
Rose silently admitted she’d often thought the same thing upon entering a rancid home. But her stomach churned hearing Mrs. Sebastian be cavalier about a family whose head died in the very mill that lined her husband’s silk pockets. Rose pushed her shoulders back. She had to be careful not to offend Mrs. Sebastian.
Rose nodded and pushed a smile to her lips. “Pathetic, yes, but lost causes? No. That’s why I’m proud to carry the black bag of public health. There’s always something to teach and someone to learn.” Rose drew back, the corny wording felt phony, as if she were advertising during the Original Amateur Hour.
Mrs. Sebastian took her purse from Rose, stepped up to the pitted wood door and rapped on it. Rose worried the Sebastian women were not ready for this, but it was too late to change her course of action. Rose knocked again, and after no response, pounded on the door.
Rose waited, her ear turned to the door. With no sounds coming from inside she pushed open the door and poked her head inside. A stench of spoiled, cooked onions and greasy meat made Rose’s stomach heave.
Rose heard rustling in the space in front of her. “Mrs. Lipinski?” The rooms were so dark that even coming in from the fog, Rose’s eyes couldn’t make out what was in front of her.
She reached back and waved Mrs. Sebastian in, and heard her sharp intake of air. Rose hoped the woman would maintain an expression of neutrality and not embarrass the family.
“Mrs. Lipinski?” Rose stepped further into the house, turning her ankle on a shoe. Dammit. This may be too good of a “bad” example. She kicked the shoe to the side then felt along the wall to the point where she hit the light switches—one button to push on, the other for off. She pushed one then the other. Neither lit the room.
A gravelly female voice came from inside the room. “Can’t spare no extra to burn lights in daytime. Fog’ll clear soon ‘nough.”
Mrs. Sebastian let out a startled squeal.
Rose shuffled along the wall, remembering a lamp near the unlit fireplace. If she didn’t bring on some light quick, Mrs. Sebastian would leave without the opportunity to see what Rose’s work entailed.
Rose heard the grainy snap of a Zippo. Mrs. Sebastian’s lighter provided just enough light for Rose to reach the fireplace. She twisted the tiny knob on the side of the lamp and weak yellow light lit the room. The light, like a magic wand, revealed five people sitting around their mother, shielding their eyes from the sudden glow. Mrs. Sebastian was backing out toward the door, bumping into a wide-eyed Theresa.
Rose grasped Mrs. Sebastian’s hand and patted it as though she were a child. She wondered if the woman had ever been in a home like this, whether she’d always been wealthy enough that not even the depression had lifted the shade on the ugliness of poverty. Rose coaxed a reluctant Mrs. Sebastian into the room, introducing her to Mrs. Lipinski, and five of her children.
“Marie’s up in ‘er room, n’at,” Mrs. Lipinski said, never lifting her gaze from the floor. “Go on up and check ‘er out. She ain’t been dahn in two days. Not even fer her favorite. Bacon.”
Rose nodded then knelt in front of one of the children and whispered. The child, who Rose quickly realized was a boy dressed in girl’s clothing, nodded and gave Rose his ladder-back chair then nudged his sister and sat with her in the next chair.
Rose
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