The Closure of St. Jerome's Home for Foundlings

1955

The whispers of gossip flowing from the other six girls in my work group (we're "learning to sew" by darning clothes) swirl around me, an eddy isolating me from the others as I pick out their individual words and voices from one another. Margaret and Bernadette are discussing the positive qualities of Marlon Brando. Elizabeth, who’d snuck into a showing of East of Eden, is going on (and on, and on) about James Dean. Veronica and Helen, though younger than I, keep commenting on the debate like dashes of seasoning, hoping that they are adding paprika, not cumin. My best friend, Agnes, doesn’t have any opinions, but she’s giggling along with the rest of them.

Personally, I don’t care for either of them, so I have nothing to add at the time. Maybe if they were talking about Sinatra, or Crosby, or even Autry? They all have their qualities. Frank is a decent baritone, who almost sounds like he’s having a conversation via his music. Bing’s crooning bass can just melt my heart and spine, to tell the truth (even though Mrs. Murphy believes I’m too young to be thinking of such things). Gene has a good tenor twang, but I don’t particularly fancy his guitar-work. I hear them and the others frequently enough on the radio that I can recognize them in a single note. For my birthday in a few weeks, I hope one of the staff might get me an album, though I will have to borrow Mr. Murphy’s phonograph in order to play it.

I hear steps coming across the common room. They’re wearing shoes, so definitely an adult. Light and quick: must be the new teacher, Miss Wagner. Mrs. Murphy has a much heavier tread, and Minnie walks much slower. Minnie wouldn’t be outside of the kitchen, anyway, not at this point of the day. The other girls are still talking; based on the direction, I believe that she’s coming from the classroom, which is probably behind the others. It’s behind me, too, but I’m not limited to only noticing the things in front of my face.

“Yes, Miss Wagner?” I speak up, while she’s still approaching. The other girls immediately hush, unwilling to share their points of view in front of any of the staff. (Except Minnie and Luther, but they’re different for some reason.) There's enough silence I can hear needles being pushed through material.

“Miss Victoria,” she says in a way I am still working on interpreting. I have been told that the sighted use body language to know what people are thinking; I have vocal cues. She continues to approach, to the point where I can catch the scent of her jasmine perfume. She doesn’t use much of it, so it’s a soft touch to the room. (Mrs. Murphy uses far too much lavender.) “May we speak in private?” Agnes gasps, but otherwise the others don’t react.

“Of course, Miss Wagner.” She doesn’t handle the disciplining of the wards—the Murphys dole the punishments out unsparingly—so I know I am not likely in trouble. I stick out my left arm, and feel her grip it between the elbow and shoulder. I can get around with my cane—and have been at the Home long enough to know most of it just by touch—but in order to move quickly, it’s easier to let others guide my way. She has a gentle touch, soft but firm, her fingers barely pressing into my muscles as she leads me to the classroom.

We sit somewhere—I’m not sure where, but she’s just in front, facing me. “I’m sorry,” she begins, “but I just wanted to confirm. You haven’t been participating in the morning classes?”

I respond, “No, Miss. At least, not as you would think of it. I listen. There are kids who read the books to me, as needed. But I can’t do the reading myself, nor any of the writing. And I only do some math in my head. It’s… difficult to explain.” I turn my head to the side, so my right ear is toward her. I can hear as well with either, but it’s easier for me to focus when everything comes in one side.

I can hear her shifting, and another question. “Your previous teachers didn’t try anything different?”

“Miss Duffy was most recent before you, Miss, until you started last week. She just did as the others before her. Last one to try anything was… Miss Flannery? Yes, when I was 4. About six years ago, I think. She tried to have me draw letters and numbers with my fingers and then crayons. I have been told that it was considered a complete failure.” I smile. I liked Miss Flannery. She smelled of roses or lilies of the valley. The others were mostly vanilla.

“Hold out your hands.” I do so, and feel two different things being placed in them. In my left hand is a flat metal object, with a seam along the side. There are holes all across the face of it, little divots within. In my right is a thick wooden ball, the size of my palm, a thin metal rod sticking out the opposite end. I touch a finger to the tip, but it is blunt.

“What are these?”

“They are called a slate, in your left hand, and a stylus in your right. Let me have them a moment.” I return the items to her, and I can hear her fiddling with them, along with the whisper of a piece of paper. She hands me the paper, and I feel along it, a series of bumps across the page. “Can you feel those? Can you tell the difference?”

“Yes… and I don’t know. Maybe?” There’s something changing between them, though it’s not easy to be certain on first pass.

“It’s called Braille. It’s a writing system that the blind use. Have you heard of it?”

I think. “Nobody mentioned it to me before.”

I hear something in her voice. Still difficult to read her. “Well, you and I will be learning Braille together, instead of your afternoon lessons. Would you like that?”

It almost seems like the scent of jasmine has increased. “Yes, Miss Wagner. If you want, I’m willing to learn.”

***

The week before had been when Miss Wagner took over as the teacher for the residents of St. Jerome’s Home for Foundlings. We are a home for orphans, foundlings, and otherwise abandoned children who are now wards of the state of Maryland. Some still have living families—prisoners, mental patients, the like. Some, like me, will never know one way or the other. I was found in one of the confessionals of the Baltimore Basilica on May 8th, 1945. My sin, apparently, was being born without eyes. That date is better known as the day Germany surrendered. That’s how they chose my name: Lucy for the patron saint of the blind; Victoria for, well, victory. Even the abandoned ones get new names for inside the Home; they believe in a “fresh start,” unburdened by the past.

Except all of that is changing. The same day that Mr. Walsh (pleasant tenor voice; a bit heavy with his step, though he has a large stride; frequently smells earthy—I asked him one time, he called it “musk”) introduced Miss Wagner, he also tried to explain to us what is happening over the next few years. “The orphanages are being replaced with a better concept, group homes. Since there needs to be time to set them up, we will be transitioning out of St. Jerome’s. No more new wards will be coming in; you will be the last fifty to be housed here. As each new group home opens, they will be taking a select few. Eventually, you will all either be adopted, age out, or re-homed.”

I raised my hand. “What about me?”

Mr. Walsh was confused. “What about you, Miss Victoria?”

“I’ll only be 10 next month. Nobody’s going to adopt me. I’m not going to be any good at a group home. Then what?”

He made the noise he always makes when he is annoyed with one of the wards showing him up. “Miss Victoria, trust me. You will be well taken care of. I promise.”

***

Six months later, right after The Lone Ranger broadcast on WFBR, the Murphys let us know who the first 6 are going to be. The Murphys are the live-in caretakers for us. Mrs. Murphy is loud, with a raspy voice, who uses all that lavender to cover up the stench from her cigarettes. Mr. Murphy most often smells like Mrs. Murphy, but with a subtle scent that I’ve decided is musk. He doesn’t smoke, but he does drink, so his breath smells like a combination of peppermint and whiskey. They are a nice enough couple, don’t punish more than is deserved, and don’t diddle any of the wards. (Some of us are happy our parents are locked up.)

Mrs. Murphy says that it wasn’t her choice to wait until then. There’s some off-duty officers there—volunteers from the diocese, they’re called, but I hear one of them address another as “Sarge”—along with Miss Shea, the social worker who visits once a week (she smells of lemons). The volunteers apparently packed stuff while we were distracted by Kemosabe and Tonto. Mr. Murphy reads off the list: George Lewis, Gregory Kelly, Lawrence O’Connor, Margaret Fisher, Bernadette Moore, and Barbara Burke. I will admit, Miss Shea chose well. All are friendly with each other, with Margaret and Bernadette being best friends. And no couples were included; the Murphys do a good job of preventing anything serious from happening between the wards, but I am unfortunately aware of how often George and Elizabeth sneak off together to canoodle.

Goodbyes are brief. Elizabeth’s crying and I hear Mrs. Murphy lead her away early on. Mr. Walsh has a few words with George, in order to discourage him from doing anything stupid. Even Miss Wagner is there, as are Minnie and Luther (surprising as they almost never come up front). Miss Shea leads everyone in a rendition of “Auld Lang Syne.” Only a few of us sing along. And I hear the doors shut behind them. Mr. Murphy orders the rest of us to get ready for bed, 8:30 lights out still applies. And, with that, St. Jerome’s is reduced to 44 wards.

1956

There’s only been one adoption since the announcement: Rita Faith (the youngest at the time, no surprise). A couple of us have aged out, namely Stephen Romano and Clare Charity. Both of them have arranged for jobs and apartments before they leave. They aren’t the first to age out; just the first to not be selected by Miss Shea.

I also know a secret. I haven’t asked Miss Wagner or Mr. Walsh, but recently their scents are beginning to smell like each other. They also have another scent that I associate with Minnie and Luther, the cook and janitor. Those two don’t smell like any of the other adults, nor do they ask us to use their last names. Minnie smells like cocoa butter. Both smell like blood, sweat, and something else tangy. Now Miss Wagner and Mr. Walsh have started to smell the same way sometimes (the odd aroma, not the other stuff). Not often, just… I notice these things. Especially when she is helping me with my Braille in the afternoons. There’s also a tone in her voice when they talk together; he’s been visiting us frequently in the afternoons, while we’re working together. And they arrive at the same time in the morning, regularly. I’ve sat through enough of Father Giuseppe’s litanies to know better to mention it to anyone else. I pray to St. Raphael for them.

Twelve more wards leave the Home. Six in the spring, six in the fall. September stands out because we listen to the baseball game that night instead of “The Lone Ranger.” Apparently one of the players died in a plane crash the day before, so Mr. Murphy wanted to listen to the game.

Nobody bothered to ask me, but I had started noticing the noises from upstairs. I could hear people in the dorms, and the sound of our chests being opened, and other things being shut. So I am not surprised when everyone else arrives, while Mr. Walsh calls out six names, including my friend Agnes Weber. She’s always willing to guide me, and promises to write, though I remind her to not bother. Miss Shea leads a handful of us in singing “Auld Lang Syne.”

And we’re reduced to 29.

1957

The fifth group of wards to leave is thrown off by the Russians. Up until now, it’s been about every six months, six more wards would be re-homed. Elizabeth is the most recent to age out. She’s been exchanging letters with George, and she told me that they were going to elope. We never hear what happens on the outside, if it’s not worth broadcasting on the news, so we don’t know if they succeeded or not. I say a prayer for them every night to both Saints Agnes and Valentine, just in case.

Miss Wagner and I continue to work on my Braille. And Mr. Walsh is talking to me personally, asking my opinions on music and radio shows; I tell him my opinions of Elvis Presley and Johnny Mathis. I haven’t heard him talking to any of the other wards in such a way, but he rarely deals directly with us anyway, so perhaps he does so in private, similar to how he talks to me.

At any rate, on October 4th, Paul Harvey interrupts “The Lone Ranger” to announce that the Russians just sent Sputnik up into space. The older kids wonder if this means a war. The younger kids are just upset that they won’t know what happens to Tonto this week. Me, I am by the stairs eavesdropping on the “volunteers” packing up the latest group, to see who it includes (Bernard Harmony and Helen Quinn, for certain). Mr. Murphy comes down to see what the commotion is. Which leads to the volunteers coming down, and all the menfolk argue about Kruschev and Eisenhower and Hammarskjöld. By the time Bernard, Helen, and their new fellow housemates were escorted out by Miss Shea’s solo rendition of “Auld Lang Syne,” it was past 10. Officially the latest I have ever been out of bed.

And now we’re down to 15.

1958

There’s only one farewell this time. It happens to be the day after my 13th birthday. Miss Wagner and Mr. Walsh are even there to help me eat the cake, and they never attended for any other wards. I even got birthday presents from them, the latest Ricky Nelson and Perry Como. And they were very emotional throughout. So I am not surprised that the following day, at lunch, Mr. Walsh announces that the final two group-homes are being settled that afternoon.

“Thomas Richter, Jerome Bliss, Louis Mercy, Veronica Hope, Joan Conti, and Julia Joy.” I don’t hear any volunteers this time; there really isn’t any need. It’s a done deal. There are a couple of new adults—a couple introduced as the Grants, who are in charge of this group home. Thankfully, Miss Shea doesn’t work with the orphanage anymore, so we just say our goodbyes like normal people.

Once those have left, one of the other wards, Charles Russo, speaks up. “What about the rest of us?”

Mr. Murphy answers. “The Mrs. and I are moving to a group home ourselves. We’ve agreed to take the rest of you, and we’ll move into our new home this weekend.” There is much rejoicing, as there’s no more goodbyes, and the wards scamper off to go have a free day, since it’s their last.

I stay in the cafeteria, not really sharing their mood. I don’t mind the Murphys, don’t get me wrong, but I am not surprised to be in the last group.

I smell jasmine and musk nearby, as two people sit down. “Miss Wagner? Mr. Walsh?”

“It’s actually Mr. and Mrs. Walsh,” he says. “We’ve been married for a couple of years now. But it was easier to just maintain her maiden name among you kids.”

I giggle, “Yeah, I knew.” She laughs, he chuckles.

“Clara tells me that you’re very good at reading and writing in Braille, now?”

I am surprised. “I guess. She’s never told me one way or the other. Just gives me more work.”

She laughs again, and he sounds… proud? “That’s great. I have something here that I had put into Braille for you. Would you like to read it to me?”

I don’t usually read aloud. I’ve only been doing it for three years now, and it’s usually just me and Miss—Mrs. Walsh. So I run my fingers over the bumps, scanning it for the first time before I’m going to make any such attempt.

But it reads weird, not like the usual stuff she gives me to read, so I start saying some of it. “State of Maryland? Baltimore Circuit Court?” Each set of bumps communicates with me, and I’m suddenly convinced it’s telling me a lie. “‘We the undersigned, David and Clara Walsh, respectfully request the court to grant the adoption of said minor child, Lucy Victoria, assuming all parental rights…?’”

“If you’d rather live with the Murphys…,” she begins, but my hug squeezes the breath out of her. He hugs us both, and we’re all laughing and crying.

So, Rita Faith will not be the last child adopted out of St. Jerome’s Home for Foundlings in Baltimore, Maryland. Lucy Victoria Walsh will be.