Harriet Wolf's Seventh Book of Wonders by Julianna Baggott Page A
Authors: Julianna Baggott
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allowed. I thought it might be a trap, and I declined.
I wasn’t nervous about the test. Why would a moron be nervous during an IQ test? I knew that my answers would be wrong. Brumus graded the test while I stood by the window and he started sniffling in the middle of his grading, as if choked up.
When he stood to get water, he said, “By Jesus. Not one error. Not one so far.”
He told the Owl and news traveled. A small crowd gathered in his office and in the hall—the Owl, Mrs. Funk, three guards—for the rest of the grading.
When Brumus finished, he reared from the desk, pulled off his glasses, and rubbed the oily bridge of his nose. “Contact the newspaper,” he said. “I have discovered a genius.”
I didn’t believe him, of course. But I decided that his mistakes in grading my test would convince my parents to retrieve me. I would be the back of a head in a carriage and then gone! Could a genius with God in her also get Eppitt out? Was it possible?
I caught Eppitt’s eye from my row in the lunch line. Did he know? Had word spread? That afternoon the reporter arrived. He took my picture outside the administration building. “So, what are you going to do now?” he asked.
“I’m not a moron anymore,” I said. “So I guess I’ll just have to go home!”
After he left, Brumus pulled me aside. It was October and gusty. “I’ve talked to your father. He wants to visit. But I’m not sure how it will go.”
“My father is coming here?”
“Don’t expect the world to change in a day,” he said.
“But my world did change in a day! I’ve changed.”
“Still,” Brumus said. “I just don’t know.”
“Well, I can’t stay here,” I said.
BLOOD ANGEL
The Owl showed me the article—“Girl Genius Discovered at School for Feeble Minded!” This was where I learned that I had a bleeding condition—not hemophilia exactly, but something related to a nervous condition. The journalist noted my “occasional mutism” and “hysterical outbursts,” which, according to the article, had forced my parents, Dr. and Mrs. Wolf, to send me to the Maryland Asylum and Training School for the Feeble Minded—which at other places in the article was referred to more simply as the Maryland School for Feeble Minded Children or the Asylum—as if the name of the place didn’t actually matter.
Two days later I was sitting in the entryway of the administrative building—the spot where parents came to dispose of children, and sometimes where they came to collect them. I wasn’t being disposed of, so this meant, to me, that I was being collected. There were Oriental rugs, and the wind outside was so strong that it rattled the windows and even made the gauze curtains ripple. I thought of my veil and my young husband, Eppitt Clapp. There was no need to try to spare him the operation by going through Brumus’s files. I would bring him with me—home. That would be our new family.
Dr. Brumus appeared with my father, who was wiry and elegantly dressed. He had a cane but no limp. I hated the cane immediately. I wanted to love my father but something about the useless cane made me want to beat him with it. I didn’t understand my rage. I mistook it for nerves. I was a hysteric, after all.
My father held a box, wrapped in yellow paper, under one arm. He looked sharply around the room. I was sitting right there, but for some reason he didn’t identify me as his child. Was he expecting a baby wheeled out in a pram? Finally, his eyes fell on me. I must have looked small, my shoulders curled inward. What should a genius say? I hoped I wouldn’t suffer mutism. I tried not to bleed.
Dr. Brumus said to my father, “Fit as a fiddle! See?”
This might have been a bit of goading. My father stiffened at Brumus’s effusiveness, then looked at me, maybe searching for glimpses of my mother or himself or his mother. Eventually he seemed content that I was the right kid. He nodded, and we sat down.
“Hello,” I said. I
I wasn’t nervous about the test. Why would a moron be nervous during an IQ test? I knew that my answers would be wrong. Brumus graded the test while I stood by the window and he started sniffling in the middle of his grading, as if choked up.
When he stood to get water, he said, “By Jesus. Not one error. Not one so far.”
He told the Owl and news traveled. A small crowd gathered in his office and in the hall—the Owl, Mrs. Funk, three guards—for the rest of the grading.
When Brumus finished, he reared from the desk, pulled off his glasses, and rubbed the oily bridge of his nose. “Contact the newspaper,” he said. “I have discovered a genius.”
I didn’t believe him, of course. But I decided that his mistakes in grading my test would convince my parents to retrieve me. I would be the back of a head in a carriage and then gone! Could a genius with God in her also get Eppitt out? Was it possible?
I caught Eppitt’s eye from my row in the lunch line. Did he know? Had word spread? That afternoon the reporter arrived. He took my picture outside the administration building. “So, what are you going to do now?” he asked.
“I’m not a moron anymore,” I said. “So I guess I’ll just have to go home!”
After he left, Brumus pulled me aside. It was October and gusty. “I’ve talked to your father. He wants to visit. But I’m not sure how it will go.”
“My father is coming here?”
“Don’t expect the world to change in a day,” he said.
“But my world did change in a day! I’ve changed.”
“Still,” Brumus said. “I just don’t know.”
“Well, I can’t stay here,” I said.
BLOOD ANGEL
The Owl showed me the article—“Girl Genius Discovered at School for Feeble Minded!” This was where I learned that I had a bleeding condition—not hemophilia exactly, but something related to a nervous condition. The journalist noted my “occasional mutism” and “hysterical outbursts,” which, according to the article, had forced my parents, Dr. and Mrs. Wolf, to send me to the Maryland Asylum and Training School for the Feeble Minded—which at other places in the article was referred to more simply as the Maryland School for Feeble Minded Children or the Asylum—as if the name of the place didn’t actually matter.
Two days later I was sitting in the entryway of the administrative building—the spot where parents came to dispose of children, and sometimes where they came to collect them. I wasn’t being disposed of, so this meant, to me, that I was being collected. There were Oriental rugs, and the wind outside was so strong that it rattled the windows and even made the gauze curtains ripple. I thought of my veil and my young husband, Eppitt Clapp. There was no need to try to spare him the operation by going through Brumus’s files. I would bring him with me—home. That would be our new family.
Dr. Brumus appeared with my father, who was wiry and elegantly dressed. He had a cane but no limp. I hated the cane immediately. I wanted to love my father but something about the useless cane made me want to beat him with it. I didn’t understand my rage. I mistook it for nerves. I was a hysteric, after all.
My father held a box, wrapped in yellow paper, under one arm. He looked sharply around the room. I was sitting right there, but for some reason he didn’t identify me as his child. Was he expecting a baby wheeled out in a pram? Finally, his eyes fell on me. I must have looked small, my shoulders curled inward. What should a genius say? I hoped I wouldn’t suffer mutism. I tried not to bleed.
Dr. Brumus said to my father, “Fit as a fiddle! See?”
This might have been a bit of goading. My father stiffened at Brumus’s effusiveness, then looked at me, maybe searching for glimpses of my mother or himself or his mother. Eventually he seemed content that I was the right kid. He nodded, and we sat down.
“Hello,” I said. I
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