Chapter Fifty-One

DR. VISHNEVSKY CONFIRMED Ruby Lynne’s pregnancy and predicted the baby due in early spring. I nearly cried to realize she’d been raped even before she came to us that first time. Evidently Ruby Lynne had already done the calculation, for while his confirmation seemed to carry the weight of a death sentence, she didn’t seem surprised, only resigned.

Ruby Lynne refused to give the doctor the name of the father, which convinced me all the more that it was Rhoan Wishon. I wanted to call the sheriff.

“No!” Ruby Lynne cried. “Daddy’ll kill me! He’ll kill me! You don’t understand. Promise me you won’t tell him!”

“No one is calling the sheriff without your say-so, Ruby Lynne,” Dr. Vishnevsky soothed. “But you must realize that you can’t keep a pregnancy hidden. You’re already beginning to show.”

Ruby Lynne didn’t answer. Dr. Vishnevsky continued, “Besides that, you need extra care, good food and rest, and to be excused from some of your heavier chores. You’re young to be having a baby. Some precautions are needed.”

But she couldn’t seem to hear him. She was terrified, and in order to calm her, to help her sleep, he finally gave her a mild sedative. Gladys and I stepped out into the hallway but kept the door open. We heard him talking softly, reassuring her as best he could that he would be available anytime she needed help or to talk, and that if she wanted, he would deliver her baby or arrange for her to go away to a hospital in Winston-Salem or Asheville—both far from No Creek. He didn’t speak of her father but said she wouldn’t be alone. Finally she fell asleep.

Dr. Vishnevsky packed his medical bag and we all tiptoed downstairs into the parlor.

“I still think we should alert the sheriff. Ruby Lynne cannot go back into that situation.” My head pounded. I felt like tearing my hair out.

“I agree that it’s not safe.” The doctor nodded. “I found signs of further abuse—tears, cuts, bruising—that were not there when I examined her before.”

“Who knows how many times she’s been through this?” My stomach roiled.

His eyebrows rose and he passed a weary hand across his furrowed forehead.

“We must call the sheriff!” Why couldn’t they understand?

“If you do that, you’re as good as signing Ruby Lynne’s death warrant.” Gladys was firm. “And the sheriff and Rhoan are drinking buddies—good ole boys in a holler of no account. You can’t depend on justice for Ruby Lynne, any more than we could with the Klan attack.”

“Rape is a grave accusation. Unless you have witnesses or proof, or unless Ruby Lynne admits it . . .” Dr. Vishnevsky shook his head, agreeing with Gladys. “Is her father actually the perpetrator? I don’t know. If so, why is she so afraid of telling him?”

“Because that would expose him to others. He may well have threatened her if she tells.” I should know. I knew about men who beat, then threatened a woman into silence. I pushed my shaking hands behind me. Still, I had no proof, and Ruby Lynne refused to name the father. But it was clear that the abuser wasn’t going to stop. “We can’t do nothing! We can’t possibly send her back there!”

“We can keep her here.” Gladys spoke quietly. “Until Rhoan comes for her.”

I closed my eyes, and memories of Gerald coming after me and dragging me from my father’s house rose before me. I couldn’t let that happen to Ruby Lynne.

“Call me if there are any changes. Otherwise, I expect her body will heal in time. She needs rest and nourishment. She’s not been eating enough or properly.” Dr. Vishnevsky turned to Gladys. “A balanced diet, greens, if you can get them, and red meat. I suspect some anemia.”

“Yes, Doctor.”

“Thank you for coming, Dr. Vishnevsky. I’m sorry we called you out on Thanksgiving. I didn’t know what else to do.”

Dr. Vishnevsky smiled and placed his hand on my arm. “Never hesitate to call me. I wasn’t feasting anyway.”

While he put his coat on, Gladys ran to the kitchen and wrapped a large slice of pecan pie. He was nearly out the door when she slipped it in his hand. “For later, with something hot to drink.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Percy. Thank you.” He tipped his hat in his old-world way and was gone.

The clock in the parlor ticked so loud my head hurt. What more can we do?

“Lilliana, there’s something you should consider.”

I pulled my hand away from my brow. “What?”

“What if it isn’t Rhoan’s?”

“What do you mean?” I wasn’t in the mood for riddles, from Gladys or anyone else.

“What if she wasn’t raped? What if she let . . . let somebody get to her and things got rough? What if she’s sorry now but wasn’t sorry to start?”

I thought I might throw up. “How can you say that? You saw what she looked like when she came here, what she’d been through—apparently not for the first time! And it’s happened again. Again!” I struggled to keep my voice down.

Gladys sighed heavily and sat down on the settee, her head in her hands.

I was sorry in an instant that I’d yelled at her. I wasn’t angry at Gladys. She was my ally. I was yelling for Ruby Lynne, for me, and for all the women who’d ever said no to a man who didn’t stop, who insisted on having his own way, “rightfully by marriage” or not.

Gladys looked up, moistened her lips, and whispered, “What if it’s Marshall’s?”