Unbroken Bonds Read online

  “Unbroken Bonds vividly captures the terrible vulnerability of young white women in the United States in the decades before ‘reproductive rights’ became available to any but the wealthiest of us. Dawn Hogan richly portrays the dozens of ways that sexuality and its consequences endangered the safety and dignity of girls and women when their only source of strength was each other. This novel is a great read. It is also a cautionary tale. If we fail to recognize the truths of Hogan’s novel, then girls and women may, quite possibly, be forced to face similar dangers in the future.”

  —Rickie Solinger, Author of Wake Up Little Susie:

  Single Pregnancy and Race before Roe v. Wade

  “As an adoptee, coming to a place of acceptance I’ve had to put myself in the shoes of my first mother at the time of my conception to gain a better understanding of what life was like back then. Unbroken Bonds takes its readers on a journey of the essential facts of what many first mothers experience. It shares how extraordinarily difficult our times can be when it comes to unwed and unplanned pregnancy. Dawn shares several sides of the coin, all real and raw glimpses of what first mothers go through. This is a side that needs to be considered among society today. Although times have changed in some regard, we must be awakened in the truths that separation trauma for the adoptee and first mother lasts a lifetime.”

  —Pamela Karanova, Adoptees Connect, Inc.

  “While Unbroken Bonds is a novel, the characters might have been your mothers, grandmothers, aunts, sisters, or the girls with whom you went to school. Each of the young women’s narratives are carefully crafted, and realistic. Finding it difficult to put the book down, we watch each teenager develop into a unique woman who processes the changes wrought in the decades as they go by and finds strength in her own history and from those who love her. As a birth mother myself, I know the pain and confusion surrounding the relinquishment of one’s child. Dawn Hogan has done meticulous research into the feelings, psychology and aftermath of this experience. I believe this book goes a long way to help the public understand the need for unsealing records and helping first mothers heal the wounds created by the loss of their children.”

  —Fran Gruss Levin, Author of The Story of Molly

  and Me, and CUB Board Member

  Woodhall Press, 81 Old Saugatuck Road, Norwalk, CT 06855

  WoodhallPress.com

  Copyright © 2021 D.W. Hogan

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote passages for review.

  Cover design: Asha Hossain

  Layout artist: Amie McCracken

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data available

  ISBN 978-1-949116-53-3 (paper: alk paper)

  ISBN 978-1-949116-54-0 (electronic)

  First Edition

  Distributed by Independent Publishers Group

  (800) 888-4741

  Printed in the United States of America

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  This book is dedicated to Supreme Court Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg, a small woman with a huge legacy in the fight for equal rights for women. She attended Cornell University during the early years of the Baby Scoop Era. By 1955 she was a young married mother. She understood the need for women to have the power to make personal decisions regarding their reproductive health. Always with wisdom, consistency and dignity, her life’s work changed the world, giving a voice to women’s issues and opening the door for future generations to become all they aspire to be.

  March 15, 1933 – September 18, 2020

  Chapter 1

  The look on her father’s face was one she’d seen far too often. Without warning, he lunged across the kitchen, crashing into the light bulb that hung from the ceiling by a cord and now swung wildly. He pounded his fist on the table. She hated that light. She hated that kitchen, but most of all, she hated her father.

  “So you got yourself knocked up, aye, Joanna!” Harris Wilson’s words spat anger.

  Joanna’s brown eyes blinked back the tears she wouldn’t allow. She set her jaw to subdue her anger. A wave of nausea swept over her, caused by the bitter aroma of the coffee.

  “Who’s the father?” Harris’s booming voice carried through the two-bedroom apartment and assured he’d wake the adjacent neighbors.

  “I’m not gonna tell you,” she said through gritted teeth.

  “You little tramp!”

  “Shhh, Harris, please, you’ll wake the babies,” her mother started with a fearful visage.

  “Don’t shhh me, woman!” Harris raged at his wife.

  Irene kept her voice low. “It’s time for decisions. What’re we gonna do?”

  “She can’t stay here!”

  “Maybe she could go to Aunt Vanda’s, in Murfreesboro,” Irene suggested. Sitting at the far end of the table, Irene frowned. Taking a sip of coffee, she smoothed her gray-brown hair.

  “No, that’s no good. How’s it acceptable for you to bring a bastard into this world?”

  “I don’t know. How many bastards of yours are out there?” Joanna’s words no more than left her mouth when her father’s forceful fist struck her. Joanna glared at him. Salty blood warmed her tongue as she licked her broken lip. He tightened his fist as if he might hit her again; instead, he turned and stared out the window at the converging pink hues of the early morning.

  Irene ran a rag under the cold-water tap. Hesitant, Joanna accepted the cloth along with the sting it inflicted as she held it to her mouth. Irene returned to her chair and shot Joanna a look begging her not to antagonize Harris. Joanna’s last comment alluded to her father’s constant philandering. Aside from his drinking, it was the primary source of disharmony within the family.

  “I know of a place, the Frances Weston Home, in Knoxville,” Harris announced.

  “No! Don’t send me away!” Joanna begged. Her father was referring to one of those horrible places families hid their pregnant daughters and took away their babies. Joanna intended to keep her baby and raise it with Jack. As soon as Catherine was well, Jack promised he’d leave his wife and marry Joanna.

  “We can’t afford it!” Irene panicked.

  “We ain’t payin’ for it. I hope the father of your illegitimate brat isn’t a deadbeat.” Harris drank his paycheck more often than he brought it home. Joanna found his hypocrisy laughable. “He’ll be payin’ the tab.”

  His icy tone sent a queasy wave through her stomach and Joanna bolted to the bathroom. Her parents’ angry words resonated louder as the argument escalated. At last, she recovered from dry heaves. She rinsed her mouth under the cold running faucet of the porcelain sink, then watched the diluted red swirl vanish down the blackness of the drain.

  “This is all your fault!” Her father’s hateful words echoed in the hallway. The green flickering of the fluorescent lights on either side of the mirrored medicine cabinet gave a strobe light effect as Joanna examined her swelling split lip. Her jaw ached. Suddenly a crash came from the kitchen. The back door slammed and her mother’s footfalls approached.

  The woman handed her daughter a piece of ice. Tucking the girl’s brown hair behind her ear, she examined the injury.

  “You’re lucky ya don’t have a black eye to go with it. Honestly, Joanna, ya don’t wanna provoke him right now.”

  “I’m not givin’ my baby away. You can’t make me.” With Harris gone, Joanna let the tears come. The girl winced as she put the ice on her lip.

  “Ya ain’t thinkin’ clearly. Ya ca
n’t keep it. Ya’d better talk with the man responsible. If he’ll give ya the money for a stay in Knoxville, this whole thing’ll blow over,” Irene bargained. She placed her hand softly on Joanna’s shoulder. “Aren’t you curious how Daddy knows about a place like that?”

  Irene diverted her eyes and withdrew her touch. Joanna caught sight of red marks on her mother’s wrist; taking hold, she inspected the ripening bruises left by Harris.

  “One of these days he’ll kill you. This family makes me sick!” she cried with disgust.

  Dew glistened on the October grass as Joanna jogged down the deserted street. Lights were coming on in the homes she passed; the clomping of her saddle shoes kept time with her stride. Too soon, she moderated to a walk, due to the stitch in her side and her ever-present nausea.

  She hoped he’d be at his filling station when she arrived. By habit, Jack opened at 6:00 a.m. He was passionate about cars. He loved to work on them, and he loved to race them. Joanna caught racing fever the first time she watched Jack compete at the local amateur track.

  She turned the corner onto Delmar; the lights in Jack’s Service Station were off. Disappointed, Joanna walked behind the garage with its huge bay doors and sat on the wooden crate where Jack smoked his Camel cigarettes, far away from the gas tanks. The minutes dragged as she wondered what he’d say concerning her parents’ decision. Then she felt silly for worrying; he’d fix her dilemma. Next she became uneasy, speculating why Jack was late.

  Around six fifteen, Joanna startled at the roar of a car coming around to park at the rear of the station. Jack eased out of his ’54 Ford Fairlane, scowling as he approached her.

  “You’re late, I was worried.” Joanna smiled, but was grimacing at the throbbing in her lip.

  “Catherine had another episode this morning. I needed to wait for her mother to arrive before I could leave her.” The strain on Jack’s face made him look older than his twenty-nine years. “What happened to your mouth?”

  “My mama told my father about our baby.” With the added drama of being a pregnant teenager, Joanna proceeded to describe the earlier confrontation. She trailed behind him as he turned on the lights in the three-bay shop of the garage. The smell of motor oil didn’t bother her as much as coffee. By the time she finished her story, she was sobbing. “Jackie, please take me away. Let’s go somewhere no one knows us.”

  “Joanna,” Jack Wyatt said with a sigh. “Catherine’s in a deep depression right now; I can’t leave her. If she learns about you and the baby, she’ll kill herself.”

  Joanna heated with outrage. “Let her! It’d solve a lot of problems.”

  “I don’t want that on my conscience.” A vein throbbed at his temple.

  “How does your conscience feel about bein’ a father?” Joanna crossed her arms. Jack brushed past her to his office and flipped through a 1957 calendar, noting the upcoming race data he’d penciled in. Joanna followed. “You said we’d be together.” Joanna pushed aside Jack’s grease-stained rolling chair and sat on top of his cluttered desk.

  “This is the worst possible timing. What’s the place in Knoxville cost?”

  “No! You’re not considerin’ sendin’ me away. You sound like you’re on their side.”

  “This isn’t a matter of sides; this is a matter of being practical. If things work out, I’ll get the details arranged before the baby’s born in March and I’ll come get you.”

  Joanna’s heart pounded at the thought of living in a home for wayward girls. She took a deep breath. His reassurance and calmness quieted her fears. He’d pay for her disappearance. They’d get married. It’d all work out.

  Chapter 2

  Jack Wyatt sat behind the worn desk in his gas station. Spread before him were his bankbooks and a scratch pad with columns of numbers. He’d made an anonymous phone call and hyperventilated when he learned they charged $500 for an enrollment at the home beginning in the fourth month of pregnancy. Considering his annual income was $3,000, the cost was a small fortune. The administrator went into detail to justify the fees. She’d used the word incarceration, labeling residents felons. Joanna wasn’t a criminal; he was the guilty party.

  Jack let out a groan. He hated the idea of sending Joanna away, but his first instinct was to protect Catherine. Jack underlined the $500 with enough force that he snapped the pencil lead. Opening the drawer to retrieve another, his eyes locked on a picture of him and Cat, knotted in a hug. It was taken the day she’d learned she was pregnant. They looked outrageously happy.

  “Oh, Cat. If only I hadn’t accepted Alex’s challenge for a drag race,” he whispered. He closed his eyes tight. The image of Cat’s car wrapped around the tree burned in his memory like a scar. He’d walked away with a few bruises. The case for Cat was far more tragic. When the doctor told him his son was stillborn, Jack wished the accident had taken his own life. When he signed the forms for Catherine’s hysterectomy, his hand shook so violently he could barely scrawl his name. According to the doctor, she’d bleed to death without the emergency surgery.

  Their baby died, with no future hope for another. The doctors kept Cat heavily sedated after the accident. She never saw her lifeless son. Jack had spent fifteen minutes in a dimly lit private room with the infant he’d all but murdered, but he couldn’t bring himself to hold the child. Daniel Aaron Wyatt’s interment in the Langley family plot took place with only his grandparents and father attending, while Cat lay unconscious in a hospital bed.

  Three years had passed and she was no better emotionally than when she first regained the lucidity to understand what happened. As a couple, their lives changed dramatically. His beautiful wife had died along with their child, leaving a sad shell of a woman unable to connect with him on any level.

  Jack leaned back in his chair and raked his grease-stained fingers through his blond hair. After Catherine’s two failed suicide attempts, the doctor put her on antidepressant drugs, which diminished her desire to die but left her zoned out.

  This morning, when he found her at the kitchen counter, staring at the scars on her wrists, holding a butcher knife, he panicked. He rushed across the room and grabbed the knife from her, yelling, “Dear God, Cat! What’re you doing?”

  She’d burst into tears. He gave her a pill and called her mother. Flora Jefferson, their housekeeper, would need help with her today. The doctor agreed to come by to talk to Cat this afternoon. He’d have a better idea what he might be facing then.

  Jack grabbed the phone receiver to call Flora and check on Cat. She’d be straight with him, as always. Cat was never without supervision. Flora kept an eye on her while Jack worked. The thin, middle-aged black woman’s employment with the Wyatts began one month after the accident. Jack hung up the phone. Flora would call him if Cat was in a bad way. He jumped when the phone immediately rang loudly.

  “Jack’s Service Station,” he answered.

  “What the hell’s going on?” the caller barked. Jack recognized the voice of his father-in-law, Wendell Langley. He was a powerful man who came from old Nashville money and tolerated little when it came to Jack.

  “I sent you a check last week. You should’ve gotten it by now.” Jack thought he was referring to his loan payment. Wendell had insisted on financing Jack’s service station; at least he could say his son-in-law was in oil.

  “I’m not calling about your loan payment. Why’d you call my wife before sunup and worry her sick over Cat? I’ve talked to my daughter; she assures me everything’s fine!” Wendell grew more agitated with each word. Fiercely protective of Catherine, he’d endowed her with every advantage reserved for the cream of society. She’d attended the best schools. Her friends were the daughters of the affluent men in the southern upper class.

  “If you’ve talked to her, why’re you calling me?” Jack shot back, defensively. The mutual distain between the two men had begun with Jack’s courtship of Cat and worsened over the last ten years. Her father didn’t understand what had drawn her to fall in love with a race-car-driv
ing mechanic, nor did he approve.

  “You’d better not’ve done something to set her off again…” Wendell threatened.

  “I haven’t done anything. If there’s nothing else, I’ve got work to do.”

  His father-in-law slammed his hang-up.

  “Always a pleasure,” Jack muttered to the dead air. He checked the balance of his emergency account. He had the money, but if he used it for Joanna and then needed to institutionalize Cat, his savings couldn’t cover both. He shuddered at the thought of the cold tile walls and echoing screams from distant wards at the Havenwood Asylum, where she’d been committed following each attempt on her life.

  At least with Joanna in Knoxville she’d be away from her abusive father. Anger welled inside him regarding Joanna’s latest injury. He shook his head; he wasn’t in a position to confront Harris Wilson, but the notion of beating him to a pulp, in a dark alley, appealed to him.

  Jack put away his bankbooks and forced himself to the service area where old Mrs. Mallory’s Buick waited. Even work didn’t distract his troubled mind.

  Joanna strolled past the Rich, Schwartz & Joseph store windows, clutching the $5 that Jack had given her. The dress on the mannequin was pretty, but she preferred to sit in a dark movie theater where no one would stare at her swollen lip.

  Joanna arrived at the Crescent Cinema as it opened and purchased a matinee ticket. She sat in the back row, alone, in the darkness and waited for the movie to start.

  She closed her eyes and laid her head on the back of the auditorium chair. She thought of Jack: his smile; the way he looked the first day they met, when he’d driven up in a blue tow truck, with JACK’S SERVICE STATION painted on the side doors.

  He’d looked so handsome as he’d climbed out and asked her, “What’s the trouble, miss?”

  “It overheated,” Joanna explained, watching his every move as he examined the engine.

  “It’s a leaking water pump.” he informed her. “I’ll have to tow it to the garage to fix it.”