The Triumph of Belva Jane

By Del Hood

Tenant farmer Frank Warrens wife dies, leaving him with two small children Belva Jane, 5, and Stanley, 3. He spurns advice to put his children up for adoption. Instead, he hires a widow from a nearby town, Bertha Grossbaum, as a housekeeper. She is physically and psychologically abusive to the children, especially to Belva Jane who has a learning disability that affects her ability to concentrate. When Belva Jane turns 14, the housekeeper (now her stepmother) contrives to commit her to a girls training school for delinquents. A new administrator at the school determines that Belva Jane is not delinquent and should be elsewhere. Belva Jane cannot return to her home because of the objections of her tormentor. Tests are ordered for Belva Jane, one of which labels her as high-grade feebleminded. Based on that finding, she is transferred to what was long known as the states Home for the Feeble-minded and assigned to care for hydrocephalic infants, a task that is emotionally devastating. Belva Jane asks her father to seek a parole for her, which he does successfully with the assistance of relatives, but she can be released only if she is sterilized.
This an inspirational story of the huge price a young woman pays for her freedom, but who marries, cares for several small children until they are teen-agers and makes it her mission to shower her love on them and on lonely and ailing relatives and friends in her part of Nebraska.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Dec 12, 2014
• ISBN: 9781503523074

Del Hood

Del Hood, a graduate of Hastings College and the University of Nebraska School of Journalism, left Nebraska in 1959 to pursue a newspaper career in the Pacific Northwest. He worked for the Baker (OR) Democrat-Herald and the Eugene (OR) Register-Guard before going to Southern California where he spent 30 years as associate editor or executive editor of The Daily Californian in El Cajon near San Diego. His next book, recording the most notable events during a 50-year swath of history of communities served by the newspaper for which he worked, is to be published in 2015. He and his wife of 44 years, who was a newspaper advertising executive, are retired and have two grown daughters, a son-in-law and three grandchildren.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

F RANK WARREN STOOD by the copper-colored casket, looking through watery eyes into the angelic face of his dead wife. In his arms he cradled his three-year-old son, Stanley, who buried his face on the lapel of his father’s musty suit coat to avoid the bright light that bathed the coffin lined in white satin. At his side, struggling to get a better view, was his five-year-old daughter, Belva Jane.

Daddy! shouted Belva Jane, standing on tiptoes. I can’t see.

Warren looked around for someone to take his son. He walked the few steps to where his sister, Birdie, was seated, plopped Stanley onto her ample lap, returned to the casket, and hoisted Belva Jane onto his shoulder.

Daddy, why is Mommy sleeping so long? Belva Jane asked.

Mommy went to sleep because she was sick and hurt too bad, Warren said softly. She’s in heaven now and won’t hurt no more.

His answer seemed to satisfy Belva Jane. Father and daughter stayed by the casket a few moments longer. Then Warren lifted Belva Jane from his shoulder, and hand in hand, they made their way to the green-cushioned seats in the section reserved for family members.

I ain’t gonna give up my children, Warren said to Birdie as he retrieved his son and placed him on his own lap. He said it loud enough for others to hear.

This was his final answer to all the relatives, friends, and acquaintances who had counseled him to consider putting his children up for adoption. No one who spoke to him thought it possible for a farmer to care for two small children when so much work had to be done in the fields, not to mention all the morning and evening chores.

Warren had received no offers from his brothers or sisters to take the children, even briefly. He understood their reluctance. All had families of their own and, in this hard-scrabble time, eight years into the Great Depression, could accept no other burden. He knew he could not expect to receive any help from the family of Claudia, his dead wife and the mother of his children.

Many of her siblings had large families, too, but there was another reason far more significant in shaping their response to his plight. It had to do with an incident which occurred while Claudia was in an Omaha hospital, being treated for the cancer that ultimately took her life.

On the recommendation of Claudia’s doctor in Weston, a general practitioner who didn’t pretend to know much about cancer, Frank had put aside his early spring work in the fields, asked neighbors to care for his children a few days, employed a young man to feed and water the animals and do the milking, loaded his pain-wracked wife into their Model A truck, and took her to Omaha, more than 150 miles away.

He had stayed with Claudia day and night for the first week, hoping the doctors could purge her body of the threatening cancer. When her condition worsened and she drifted into a coma, Frank advised a nurse he intended to get some fresh air and a bite to eat if he could find a restaurant. The nurse gave him directions to a nearby diner. Warren mentioned that he might go to a movie, hoping to ease his mind of worry.

While Frank was absent, four of Claudia’s brothers—all from the general area where the Warrens lived—arrived at the hospital to see their sister. They were appalled that Frank was not there. They inquired of the nurse where he had gone, and when she told them, they angrily accused their brother-in-law of deserting his wife.

But he’s been here every day and every night, the nurse explained. Claudia is in a coma now, and there isn’t much her husband can do for her. Mr. Warren thought a movie might relieve his anxiety for a while.

He should be here, snapped Colby, the oldest of the brothers. It’s his duty to be here. I’ve never heard of a man goin’ off to amuse himself at a movie theater when his wife’s so sick. What if she died before he got back?

The nurse slipped out of the room. The four brothers continued berating the absent Frank Warren for selfishly indulging his own desires rather than staying with his wife.

After a while, Frank returned to the hospital room and was immediately assailed for his afternoon’s diversion.

Frank, we’re mortified that you would leave Claudia to see a movie, Colby said. You belong right here by her side. What possessed you to leave when she’s so damned sick? What would’ve she thought if she came out of the coma and you wasn’t here? A husband’s duty is to be with his wife, ’specially when nobody else was here. I never thought you’d be such a rotten bastard.

Under different circumstances, Frank Warren might have swung at Colby’s jaw. Instead, red-faced and striving to keep his anger in check, he ordered Colby and his brothers into the corridor. He didn’t want to upset Claudia in case she could hear. He shut the door.

Listen, he said with all the rage he could muster in a low voice. I’ve been here for seven days and nights straight. This is the first time I’ve been out of the building. Where in the hell was you guys? Why’d it take you a week to get off your asses and come down here?

None of the brothers offered a response. It was plain that Frank Warren was close to exploding.

Thought so, Warren said. You was sleepin’ in your beds every night, eatin’ your meals at the table, doin’ your chores and farmwork, goin’ to town for beers and groceries. Then ya have the nerve ta criticize me fer takin’ a break ta get my mind off Claudia’s sickness and tryin’ ta decide what ta do if she don’t make it.

Colby halfheartedly apologized and said he and his brothers would return in the morning to see their sister before leaving for home. Claudia died the next evening. A hearse from an Omaha mortuary delivered her body to the Somerville funeral home, and now, here they were, all in the same room, grieving together.

Claudia’s family had been informed by her brothers of the confrontation at the hospital. There was no warmth in their condolences to Frank, and little, even, in their terse greetings to his children.

Warren wished they could know how devastated he was by Claudia’s death. He wondered why they were not more sympathetic since they knew Claudia was the second wife he had buried. His first wife, Sonja, and his infant daughter had died in 1923 in the waning stages of the world’s flu epidemic. Had they no empathy for a bereaved man left with two small children to raise?

It was not Frank Warren’s style to dwell long on his own misfortunes. Defiantly he rejected the advice of his in-laws and his own relatives to put his children up for adoption. Now that he was forty-five years old, he doubted that he would remarry and start a new family. It had been a long time—seven years—between Sonja’s death and his marriage to Claudia. This was, he insisted to himself, his only chance to have a family. Somehow he would manage to keep his children. On that point, he would not budge.

Stanley squirmed on his father’s lap. Warren admonished him to sit still. He tenderly put his arm around Belva Jane and pulled her closer to him, now focusing on the Reverend Malcolm Crowe, who told the assembled mourners that Claudia Warren had been a devoted mother and wife, a generous friend to many, and surely now was with God in heaven, awaiting a promised reunion with her family and friends on a joyous day in the future.

CHAPTER 2

A WEEK AFTER Claudia’s funeral, Frank Warren was alone in the house with Belva Jane and Stanley. Two sisters, Birdie and Bessie, had agreed to stay for a few days to care for the children, to clean the house and organize the cabinets and cupboards so, for a while at least, the wifeless and motherless family could make do. They baked an extra supply of bread and prepared food to last beyond the day of their depar ture.

School was out for the summer. Frank Warren arranged for a neighbor girl to stay with the children during the day while he attended to the routine morning and evening chores and went to the fields.

It was not a situation that could last very long because summer would slip away quickly and the neighbor girl would go to school. But it was time enough to give Frank Warren a chance to think about the future and to work on a more permanent solution to his problem. If he could get through the remainder of spring and the summer with its heavy agenda of plowing, sowing, cultivating, and harvesting the hay and grain crops, he might be able to take some time off during the fall and winter to be with his children.

That was, at least, his hope. Irene Dobbs, the sixteen-year-old girl from the farm across the fields to the west, did not strike him as particularly ambitious or one who could handle difficult situations on her own. He did not know her very well, having seen her only on the few occasions when neighbors gathered for a birthday party or some other social event, or when the men, as was the custom, pooled their labor to stack hay or harvest grain—the jobs that required more hands than one man had. On those occasions, women and their daughters prepared the noon meal for the workers and carried baskets of sandwiches to the fields in the middle of the afternoon so the men could rest and replenish their strength before quitting for the day around dusk, returning to their homes for supper and the nightly round of chores.

To Frank Warren’s observing eye, Irene often seemed distracted, as if she would have preferred to be somewhere else. Some girls he knew threw themselves into their daily chores with great energy, as if they actually enjoyed what they were doing. Irene was not like that. She obeyed the commands of her mother when serving the harvesting crew, but not with any hint that she found pleasure in feeding famished men.

Frank Warren tried as best he could to instruct Irene on the household chores he expected her to do. She was to wash the breakfast dishes, sweep the floors, make the children’s beds, wash and sterilize with hot water the grungy parts of the cream separator so it would be ready for the evening milking. If she had time, she would prepare lunch for him, the hired man, Josiah Spalding, who was strong and eager but somewhat dimwitted, and for the children.

Her principal duty, however, would be to watch the children to make certain they did not get into any mischief or do anything that might cause them harm. Frank Warren was particularly vigilant about keeping matches out of their reach. He also did not want his children playing near the horse tank or going into the barn. A rickety ladder nailed to the wall led to the hayloft above, and he worried that if Belva Jane or Stanley climbed into the loft they might fall.

Irene acknowledged with an assortment of uh-huhs the instructions she had been given. Her responses were unenthusiastic, and Frank Warren wondered if she could assume the responsibility of caring for two small children. He had no choice but to believe she could, for there was no one else to ask.

The first week passed without incident. Dishes were washed; floors, swept; beds, made; and lunch, prepared in an acceptable manner. Belva Jane seemed to like having Irene for a caretaker. In approving tones, she told her father, Irene makes me sugar bread. He took this to mean that Irene had spread a piece of bread with butter and sprinkled sugar on it. Was it good? he asked. Oh yes, Belva Jane replied. I loved it.

Warren noticed during the second week that the dishes had not been washed when he and Josiah went to the house for the midday meal. He did not say anything, thinking perhaps Irene had been too busy playing with the children. He did not want to make a scene, risking the loss of Irene as the caretaker of his children.

One hot and muggy day, though, Frank and Josiah went to the west fields to finish the plowing. It was late in the afternoon when Stanley wandered into the field where Josiah was working, goading his team of blacks into a hurried pace so he could finish the plowing and quit for the day.

Josiah, surprised that a three-year-old had walked half a mile from the house to the field, stopped his team, slowly lifted himself from the iron seat of the riding plow, and walked toward Stanley, barefoot and struggling to stand upright as he stumbled on the clods of dirt lining the furrows.

Hey, kid, what ya doin’ out here? he shouted. This ain’t no place for a young-un. Ya better turn right around and go for home.

Stanley stared at Josiah, whose face and hands were covered with dust.

Too tired, Stanley whined. I wanna ride the horse.

Nope, Josiah said. You stay right by that fence post till I’m done. I only have a couple a turns to do.

Stanley flopped down in the shadow of the tall weeds by the fence and watched as Josiah and his team got smaller and smaller in the distance. He watched the horses make the turn and head back in his direction. Only a small island of straw stubble remained in an ocean of gray-black dirt extending as far as the eye could see.

When Josiah turned the last furrow of dirt, Stanley rose from his place in the shade and begged once again that he be allowed to ride the horse.

OK, Josiah said, I’ll unhitch the team, and you can ride back to the house on Molly. She’s gentle and won’t move fast on a hot day like this. Jed can follow. They know the way home.

Josiah had not thought far enough ahead to realize that Stanley would not be able to dismount by himself once he got home. He boosted Stanley onto Molly’s back and admonished him to hang on tightly to the pommels of the harness.

Slow and easy, he cautioned. Slow and easy.

Stanley laughed as Molly, sweating and still in full harness, began walking toward the house. He loved riding the horses, but he never had ridden alone before. His father sometimes let him ride in circles in the yard, but only if he held the reins.

Between the field and the house, there was a dip in the land. Molly started down the slope at a walk but broke into a gallop as she gained momentum going downhill. Jed was close behind. Both horses were thirsty and weary from their day of pulling the plow. They knew oats and water were waiting for them.

Stanley felt himself slipping as Molly’s harness jiggled to the side. He could not hold on. He slid from Molly’s back into Jed’s path. Jed tried to avoid the tumbling boy, but one of his hooves struck the back of Stanley’s head. The horses galloped toward the yard while Stanley lay stunned in the dirt, his head wound bleeding profusely.

Frank Warren, working in another field, caught sight of Molly and Jed galloping down the hill. He could see Stanley struggling to hold on to the pommels but slipping to the side. He left his team standing in the field, still hitched to his plow, and ran as fast as he could toward his son, whom he had seen tumble to the ground.

It seemed at times as if he were running but not gaining ground. He stumbled on the clods of dirt, and twice he almost fell. He reached the fence line where the ground was not plowed and set a faster pace for himself. By the time he reached the bleeding boy, Josiah was already there, wiping away the blood with a soiled red bandanna.

Frank Warren fell to his knees and briefly examined Stanley’s wound. He pulled his own bandana from his pocket, using it to sop up the blood.

What in the devil was you thinkin’? he roared at Josiah. Ya can’t put a three-year-old kid on a horse alone, ’specially one that’s tied to another one. Josiah hung his head, knowing he had made another dumb mistake because he didn’t use common sense. I dunno, he said. Stanley begged me to let him ride, and I didn’t see no reason not to. I had to tighten one of the plow blades, so I couldn’t take him home.

Frank thought of firing Josiah on the spot but instead directed the hired man to the field to unhitch and drive home the team he had left tethered to the plow. He tied his own bandanna around Stanley’s head tightly to stop the bleeding, picked up the boy, and carried him toward the house, wondering if he would have to go somewhere to call a doctor or if, perhaps, Stanley would need to be admitted to a hospital, an expense he could not afford.

At the house, Irene Dobbs watched through the kitchen window as Warren made his way up the hill with Stanley. She knew Warren would be furious that she had allowed Stanley to wander a half mile away. She paced back and forth, not knowing what to do. She had no idea how to treat an injury, especially one she suspected was quite serious, judging from the fact that Stanley had a bandanna around his head.

Frank Warren talked to his son all the way home, telling him how sorry he was that Jed had stepped on him. He was hoping for a response that would indicate the injury was not as serious as he had thought.

Talk to Daddy, he said. Talk to Daddy.

Many of these pleadings had been uttered before Stanley struggled to shift positions in his father’s arms. He opened his eyes, looked into his father’s worried face, and said, Daddy, it only hurts a little bit.

Frank Warren stopped at the outdoor pump and began drawing water into a washbasin kept nearby so he and the hired man could wash away most of the dust on their faces, arms, and hands when they came in from the fields.

Irene, bring me a washcloth, he shouted toward the kitchen. Quick. And a towel too.

Frank used his hand to transfer the cold water from the basin to the back of Stanley’s head, where the blood already was beginning to congeal. With the blood washed away, Frank could see that the gash was not as deep as he had feared. He suspected that old Jed had tried to avoid stepping on the boy but could not do so and had delivered a glancing blow with his hoof.

A few moments passed before Irene appeared with the washcloth and towel. She expected to be chastised but was unprepared for Frank Warren’s outburst.

You’re fired! he thundered. All you have to do is watch these kids so they don’t get into trouble or hurt themselves. And you can’t even do that. Then he remembered he had not seen his daughter since he had been at the pump.

Where’s Belva Jane? he demanded.

She’s in the house, coloring, Irene stammered through her sobs. I’ll go get her. She retreated into the house and escorted Belva Jane to the pump. What happened to Stanley? Belva Jane asked, pushing her hand through his tousled hair. Why’s he bleeding?

Warren explained what had happened and said Irene had to go home because she hadn’t done what she was supposed to do. Belva Jane began to cry.

I don’t want Irene to go, she said. I know, her father replied, patting her on the head. Now I’m going to need you to be a big girl and help Daddy fix up Stanley.

Belva Jane was noncommittal.

Okay, she said, finally. I’ll make him some sugar bread.

Warren poured iodine on the wound, applied gauze and tape, and decided, based on the medical care he had been required at times to offer his animals and his children, that there was no need to call a doctor. Stanley was alert and talking clearly. Nature, which was the best doctor, would heal the gash. That was what he believed, and there were times when one had no choice but to act on his beliefs.

CHAPTER 3

F RANK WARREN RAPPED vigorously on the door of the small bungalow on a tree-shaded corner in Weston, the closest trading town to his farm. Weston was like hundreds of towns in Nebraska, just large enough to be called home by around five hundred people and with enough stores to meet the needs of townspeople and the farmers who lived within a radius of ten or fifteen miles. Canton actually was closer to his farm. In fact, it was where Belva Jane had started school the year before, but it offered few services to farm families. Fewer than a hundred people lived there, and the liveliest places in town were the tavern and, on Saturday nights, the dance hall across the st reet.

Frank had been directed to this house by an acquaintance he had seen in town and who told him the widow who lived here with her son and daughter-in-law might want a job as a housekeeper. She had worked as a cook and baker in the café downtown, but she had become ill from a recurring rash that prevented her from working with food. The rash discolored the skin on her hands and arms, and she was an awful sight. It had been six months since she left the restaurant, and there were reports she had almost recovered.

It seemed as if minutes had passed since he knocked on the door, and Frank was about to rap on the unlatched screen door again when a heavyset woman with her blue-gray hair in a bun at the back of her head appeared in the doorway.

How’d do, Warren said, with Belva Jane and Stanley by his side, competing for a spot behind their father. Belva Jane wore a faded printed dress; Stanley had on patched overalls and a frayed blue shirt with buttons missing. Frank wore clean overalls and a fresh but wrinkled shirt.

The woman reached to latch the screen door before she responded to Warren’s greeting.

Hullo, she said, passing her hands over her head as if to put into place any strand of hair that might have become displaced.

Warren introduced himself and his children. He wasted no time on pleasantries, stating that his wife had died and he needed a housekeeper to care for his children. He had been told that she might be interested in such a job. He could not pay much until the crops improved, but he would try to scrape together five dollars a week. She would be permitted to keep all the egg money for household expenses. Her only responsibilities would be to care for the children, cook, and clean the house. He would do all the outside work.

The woman unlatched the door and invited Warren and his children into the house. She did not know him, but she had lived at one time near the farm of his dead wife’s parents. In fact, she had once dated Claudia’s brother, Monroe. He had gotten fresh with her, so she never went out with him again.

I used to see Claudia in the store, the woman said, introducing herself as Bertha Grossbaum, the name Warren had heard but couldn’t remember. I worked at the restaurant for years and usually did my shopping on Saturday nights before going home.

Frank was cheered by the fact that Mrs. Grossbaum had at least seen Claudia and knew who she was. He thought it might help in his attempt to persuade her to take the housekeeper’s job.

I’ve been sick for almost a year, Mrs. Grossbaum said, offering Frank and the children a seat on the davenport in the front room. But I’m feelin’ better now. I can’t get my old job back ’cause I sometimes break out with a rash. I live here with my son and daughter-in-law, but I guess one of these days I’ll be tossed out. They want to start a family, and there’s only two bedrooms in this house.

Warren was encouraged by what he had heard so far. She hadn’t said no. She hadn’t laughed at the amount of money he was offering.

How much did you say you’d pay? Mrs. Grossbaum asked.

Five dollars a week, ma’am, Warren said politely. I know it’s not much, but times are hard and I just can’t pay any more right now. As soon as the crops is in, I might be able to go to seven dollars a week. Any of the egg money you don’t need for groceries you can keep for yourself.

Mrs. Grossbaum warmed to Frank Warren’s plight. Her husband had died of pneumonia when he was only forty-two years old, and she was left with two teenagers, a boy and