The Foundling

A Novel

Ann Leary

• Publisher: S&S/ Marysue Rucci Books
• Year: 2022
• Print ISBN: 9781982120399
• eBook ISBN: 9781982120405
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: Literature General
• Index: Literature

From the New York Times bestselling author of The Good House, the "harrowing, gripping, and beautiful" (Laura Dave, New York Times bestselling author) story of two friends, raised in the same orphanage, whose loyalty is put to the ultimate test when they meet years later at an institution—based on a shocking and little-known piece of American history. It's 1927 and eighteen-year-old Mary Engle is hired to work as a secretary at a remote but scenic institution for mentally disabled women called the Nettleton State Village for Feebleminded Women of Childbearing Age. She's immediately in awe of her employer—brilliant, genteel Dr. Agnes Vogel.Dr. Vogel had been the only woman in her class in medical school. As a young psychiatrist she was an outspoken crusader for women's suffrage. Now, at age forty, Dr. Vogel runs one of the largest and most self-sufficient public asylums for women in the country. Mary deeply admires how dedicated the doctor is to the poor and vulnerable women under her care.Soon after she's hired, Mary learns that a girl from her childhood orphanage is one of the inmates. Mary remembers Lillian as a beautiful free spirit with a sometimes-tempestuous side. Could she be mentally disabled? When Lillian begs Mary to help her escape, alleging the asylum is not what it seems, Mary is faced with a terrible choice. Should she trust her troubled friend with whom she shares a dark childhood secret? Mary's decision triggers a hair-raising sequence of events with life-altering consequences for all.Inspired by a true story about the author's grandmother, The Foundling is compelling, unsettling, and "a stunning reminder that not much time has passed since everyone claimed to know what was best for a woman—everyone except the woman herself" (Jodi Picoult, New York Times bestselling author).

Part One

One

I’VE been told that my mother had a wonderful sense of humor. Also that she was pretty. But most people recall her wit first, and her easy laughter, and because of this I’ve always had a better sense of how she felt than how she looked. She must have been happy most of the time if she found so many funny things to say and to laugh about. She died when I was an infant, so I have no memory of her. After I moved to my aunt Kate’s house, I’d hear her talking with friends about my mother and me, usually in hushed tones after I’d just left the room.

“She’s a somber little thing,” somebody would say. Or “She’s so shy; she certainly hasn’t Louisa’s high spirits.”

That was my mother—Louisa. Apparently, there was a sparkle in her eye. My uncle Teddy said this about her once, and when I asked him where the sparkle was—what part of the eye, he laughed and gave me a wink. When I asked him again, he told me to shut my trap.

I didn’t inherit my mother’s high spirits or her sparkly eye, but she did leave me a very nice lady’s suitcase. It had been a wedding gift from a wealthy distant cousin. I never saw it until the day Father came for me at St. Catherine’s Orphan Asylum. He gave Mother Beatrice no notice, just showed up one afternoon in the summer of 1922, when I was twelve. He arrived in a borrowed black Packard, and when he strode out to the courtyard, where my friends and I were playing, he called out, “Which one of you is Mary?”

At least five of us raised our hands—it was a Catholic orphanage, after all. But I felt, as he smiled vaguely at each of us in turn, like he’d reached inside me and crushed my heart with his hand. I hadn’t seen him in almost a year, but I recognized him instantly. I’d grown a bit; I think that’s why he didn’t know me at first.

“What about Edel… or Trudy?” he said. “We called our girl Trudy when she was a baby. Trudy Engle.”

I was too thrilled to remain hurt. As soon as I stepped forward, he said, “Well, there you are,” and pulled me close. I felt the strange smoothness of his freshly shaved jaw during that brief moment when he pressed his face against my forehead. He used to have rough whiskers when Uncle Teddy took me to visit him up at the lumber mill.

He told me to pack my clothes—he was moving me in with Aunt Kate. The laughter and taunts from some of the older girls when he reminded them of my original name were like blanks fired from a pistol. They were like the loud pop-pop-pop from a clown’s dummy pistol in the circus that came to Scranton every summer. The circus had a free night for “Foundlings and Other Unfortunates.” We all screamed and clung to one another when we were little and heard that clown’s gun the first time, but the next year and the years after, we didn’t even flinch. We fought over peanuts and candy in the stands while the clown did those same old tired gags. The elephant never left its tent on foundling night—sometimes the acrobats took the night off too. We were left with that dumb clown and a dog act, and who cared about them? We got free bags of goodies. Similarly, who cared about those girls calling me that stupid nickname? I had a father; they didn’t. He was taking me away. They were staying there at the home.

“Well c’mon, let’s get your things,” Father said. He was carrying the lovely white suitcase that had once belonged to my very own mother.

“She hasn’t many things,” Mother Beatrice scolded when we were in the long, low-ceilinged dormitory hall. “Certainly not enough to fill a large suitcase like that, Mr. Engle. I don’t know what a girl would do with such an expensive-looking piece of luggage. If you’d given us more notice, we’d have gladly packed her essentials in a parcel as we do for our half-orphans who are lucky enough to have family to go to.”

A few of my friends—Dorothy, Marge, Mary Hempel, Little Mary—they’d all followed us inside, and now they gaped at Father like he was a film star—it wasn’t every day a real father showed up at St. Cat’s. I realized that I was gazing up at him the way they were, more like an awestruck fan than a daughter. I moved closer to him, and I even thought for a moment that I should hold his hand—the way daughters did with their fathers in the movies. But he accidently jabbed me in the shoulder when he tossed the suitcase on the bed, then he pulled a handkerchief from his vest to wipe his forehead. It was so hot up there in the ward on summer days you could barely breathe sometimes.

Mother Beatrice was busy examining my mother’s suitcase, and that really bugged me. It was my mother’s, why did she have to touch every inch of it? Finally, she turned the two brass clasps in front, flipped up the top and whispered, “Oh my.”

The other girls and I crowded around to see the inside, which was lined entirely with pink satin. Mother Beatrice tentatively lifted a thin panel, revealing a lower compartment. This was also lined in pink. It was padded, like a pillow, and decorated with little hand-stitched ovals.

“Oh, this is very nice,” Mother Beatrice said, her bony fingers flitting, spiderlike, across the pink lining and in and out of the pockets. “A place for everything and everything in its place, very nice, though hardly useful for a little girl—now what’s this?”

She yanked at a thin strap that was dangling from one of the pockets. Out sprang a lady’s garter. It was attached to a sheer silk stocking that swept across Mother Bea’s throat, and had it been a snake the nun couldn’t have screamed louder nor tossed it farther from her. I thought I’d suffocate it was so hard not to laugh. Father was unable to restrain himself. He chuckled and winked at us girls as we giggled into our hands.

“Goodness me,” Mother Beatrice whispered, staring at the items on the floor. She was blushing to the very edges of her habit. Father leaned over to pick up the stocking and the garter. He wasn’t laughing anymore. He carefully folded the stocking and tucked it and the garter into a pocket in his jacket.

“This was my wife’s suitcase,” he said quietly. “I didn’t know there was anything left in it. She only used it once. On our honeymoon.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” said the nun, clearly flustered, her face still beet red. She crossed herself. Then she closed her eyes, resting one of her hands on the suitcase. The girls and I bowed our heads and lowered our eyelids slightly, but we watched her the way we watched all nuns who prayed—as keen and alert as hunting dogs. We were looking for our mothers’ angels (I never saw mine, but I always looked because there were older girls who said they saw their mothers floating above the nuns whenever they prayed). When Sister crossed herself again, I packed up my flannel drawers, woolen leggings, and other items with the help of Dorothy and the others.

---

My departure from Scranton and my aunt Kate’s house, five years later, was almost as abrupt and unexpected as my departure from St. Catherine’s had been. One hot spring morning, I was standing in a stinking, crowded trolley, silently cursing the broken-down truck that was blocking its tracks. The next day, I was being chauffeured through town in a gleaming limousine, resisting the impulse to wave imperiously at all the common folk stepping over littered gutters and gawking at us as we rolled past.

The day of the stalled trolley, I was late, so I decided to leap from its platform, and at that exact moment it finally lurched forward. I stumbled to the filthy curb, tearing one of my new stockings. I was supposed to meet my teacher, Mrs. Pierson, at a lecture downtown. She wanted to introduce me to her friend—a visiting doctor, who might have a job opportunity for me. I sprinted the five remaining blocks to the YWCA, only to find that the heavy doors to the main hall were closed; the program had already begun.

“My dear, what happened?” Mrs. Pierson whispered, as I sidled into the seat that she’d saved next to her. I began whispering explanations, but she interrupted me with a gentle squeeze of her gloved hand and a smile of pardon. She jutted her chin toward the speaker at the front of the auditorium to indicate that I should direct my attention there.

“Is that Dr. Vogel?” I whispered.

I’d never met a female doctor before, but the stout, dour matron at the podium was exactly what I’d expected one to look like. As I’d tiptoed down the center aisle just moments before, she’d paused dramatically to shoot me a disapproving glare before continuing her speech.

“Oh, dear me, no,” Mrs. Pierson responded. “That’s Mrs. Danforth—Judge Danforth’s wife.” She squeezed my hand again, which allowed me to relax a little.

Mrs. Danforth announced, “Finally, I’d like to thank all the ladies from the Woman’s Christian Temperance Union for organizing today’s lecture and luncheon. Now then—a few words about our distinguished guest—Dr. Agnes Vogel. As many of you know, Dr. Vogel was an outspoken advocate for women’s suffrage and served as one of the leaders of the Pennsylvania Red Cross during the war. One of the first women in this country to earn a medical degree in psychiatry, Dr. Vogel is the founder and superintendent of Nettleton State Village for Feebleminded Women of Childbearing Age. We are honored to have her here today to tell us all about Nettleton Village, whose mission is to protect our commonwealth’s most vulnerable young women. So, please, do let’s give a warm welcome to Dr. Vogel.”

I joined in the applause and craned my neck to see over the hats in front of me. I knew Mrs. Pierson was at least forty and that she and Dr. Vogel had attended college together, but the woman approaching the stage looked younger. Unlike the ladies in the audience, who wore linen day dresses or tailored suits—tall, slender Dr. Vogel wore a silk dress with a smartly muted floral print and a chic dropped waist. When she reached the podium, she touched the cheek of her hostess with her own, then turned to face us. No, this elegant woman with the sleek blond bob and fine, aristocratic features wasn’t what I’d imagined a female doctor to look like at all.

“Good morning,” Dr. Vogel said, smiling out at us. “I recognize many faces here from the Red Cross and our other war efforts, and it’s wonderful to be among such fine friends again.”

I settled back into my seat and examined the ladderlike run in my stocking. I wasn’t really interested in the lecture. It was 1927. Why carry on about women’s suffrage now that women had the right to vote? Why maintain temperance clubs, years after liquor had been prohibited and everybody drank anyway? I came to meet Dr. Vogel because I needed a job. Mrs. Pierson taught shorthand, typing, and stenography at the business school I’d attended for the past year, and she told me I was her youngest and most promising student. When she learned that her friend Dr. Agnes Vogel needed a new secretary, she recommended me; the timing was perfect, as Dr. Vogel was engaged to speak in Scranton that week. Mrs. Pierson had insisted that I come and hear the speech, so, after straightening out the stocking, I gazed back up at the stage with what I hoped was an interested expression.

Dr. Vogel was explaining that army examiners during the war had been surprised that so many American men were unfit to serve because they suffered from mental defects. “My research as a psychiatrist, and the research of my colleagues, have revealed that the incidence of feeble-mindedness is equal, if not greater, among girls and women, and it is this population—that of the female unfortunate—who poses the greatest threat to our society.”

Dr. Vogel paused, peered over her spectacles, and scanned the rows.

“I just want to make sure there are no gentlemen present.” Seemingly satisfied, she said, “I prefer ladies-only groups like this because I can discuss delicate social issues that might cause embarrassment in an audience of mixed company.”

I wasn’t the only one in my row who leaned forward to better hear this too-embarrassing-for-mixed-company business.

“We’re all adults here, so I’m able to say something we all know to be true and that is this: No normal woman will choose to have intimate relations with a man who has the mind of a small child. But it is a sad fact—and ladies, we know it’s a fact—that there are many otherwise honorable men who will have illicit relations with a certain type of young woman, regardless of her mental limitations or suitability as a potential mother. I trust you’re familiar with the type of girl I’m referring to. You’ve seen her slinking in and out of bawdy houses and illegal drinking establishments, right here, in your fine city of Scranton. At first glance, she may seem normal enough—in fact, she’s often quite pretty. Until you see her again, a few years later, ruined and destitute, begging for handouts, surrounded by her own diseased and illegitimate children. This poor, mentally deficient girl, often unwittingly lured into a criminal lifestyle by the most evil of men, is the type we make every effort to segregate and care for, before she has children, not just for her safekeeping, but, most important, for the safekeeping of our communities.”

Dr. Vogel went on to describe all the modern facilities at the Village, as she called it, and the progressive programs she had instituted. The girls at the Village—they sang, they cooked, they planted, they learned. I tried to hide my yawns. Finally, the doctor’s voice changed to that promising bright tone people often use just before the end of a speech, and I perked up again.

“Yes, we’ve made great progress at the Village, but we need your help,” she said. “We have more than six hundred residents and almost as many on our waiting list. In order to accommodate them all, we require at least three additional buildings. Therefore, I’ve requested government aid to assist with construction costs. If you have concerns about such an allocation of your family’s hard-earned tax dollars, I urge you to consider a case recently publicized by the Public Charities Association of Pennsylvania; a case that concerns two feebleminded women—sisters actually—from a large family of Lithuanian immigrants. These two women have passed their inherited mental defects on to their twenty-seven feebleminded, illegitimate, and delinquent children. Yes, we now have twenty-seven additional mental defectives who are being looked after by the commonwealth, and who, in turn, are beginning to produce a third generation of future paupers and criminals. Imagine if we had, instead, provided a safe haven for the two vulnerable sisters during their childbearing years. We’d have prevente...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Title Page
• Dedication
• Author’s Note
• Part One
• Part Two
• Part Three
• Part Four
• Acknowledgments
• About the Author
• Copyright