The House of Closed Doors (23 page)

He saw me at last. His arms extended, and for a heart-stopping moment I thought he would rush forward and grab me. But his arms fell back to his sides.

“You are not she,” he whispered. “You are… Nell. His stepdaughter. You had a baby as well. Is she dead too?”

My blood ran cold, but I spoke as calmly as I could. “She is quite well. Mr. Ostrander, are you looking for someone?”

“That little girl… the whore… She is up there. He shut her in,” he hissed, a stage whisper, as if he were telling me a secret.

I felt sick and at the same time breathless to hear him speak. He knew.

“Who shut Jo in, Mr. Ostrander?”

“Hiley.”

Hiley. Ly-lee.

“Hiley who?”

Mr. Ostrander gazed up at the windows and smiled.

“My old friend, Hiley Jackson. We were in the Militia together, you know.”

Oh, God. Of course. Had I ever heard my stepfather called by that nickname? It was a common enough variation of Hiram, after all. Every bone in my legs seemed to weaken.

“He won’t let me open the door.” Mr. Ostrander was crying again. “Patrick… he’ll tell about us, Patrick. He’s a devil.” His voice dropped to a hoarse murmur, barely comprehensible through the tears and snot that ran down his face. “The only perfect thing in my life… Patrick… You were the only perfect thing in my life, and he ruined it.”

A wavering laugh drifted from the upstairs window, a silvery thread of sound. Mr. Ostrander took a couple of steps back and filled his lungs with air.

“WHY ARE YOU LAUGHING?” he screamed. “YOU’RE DEAD! YOU’RE DEAD! YOU’RE DEAD!”

Doors banged and footsteps scraped the gravel path. Mr. Ostrander kept on screaming; the sounds of people running and shouting reached me in waves whenever he took a breath.

Mrs. Lombardi reached us first, followed by some of the female orderlies. Behind them, I could see dark figures silhouetted against the open door of the Men’s House, rushing out of the light toward us, one by one.

I
lay on my back, staring into the warm darkness. I had opened the window, and the sounds of the night drowned out those of my sleeping companions.

It had taken an hour to calm everyone down after Mr. Ostrander began screaming. A chaotic hour of everyone milling around and commenting, in whatever manner befitted each person’s level of understanding, on the insanity of our erstwhile superintendent.

I had been surprised to see Mrs. Lombardi still at the Farm, and in evening dress, but it was fortunate that she was present. She had taken control of the situation with admirable calm, while Mr. Schoeffel blustered and shouted and tried to ask questions of Mr. Ostrander. It was a pointless exercise; the former superintendent was obviously lost inside some maze of insanity, his eyes wandering and terrified in turns. The words he had spoken to me had been his last clear ones, and after that he had no longer made any sense.

Mrs. Lombardi’s quiet demeanor and gentle words had calmed Mr. Ostrander down, and we had taken him inside. He whimpered with fear every time a door closed, and we soon learned that he needed to see a way out of any room they placed him in.

“The terrible thing is,” Mrs. Lombardi said to me when she was finally able to leave Mr. Ostrander in the care of four male orderlies, “the recommended procedure in such cases is a straitjacket and a padded cell, but the poor man cannot bear to be shut in.” She still appeared calm, but her face was completely white, and I could see that she was trembling.

I felt ice spread through my veins. “You won’t do that‌—‌please, you won’t. He has harmed no one except himself.”

“No.” Mrs. Lombardi seemed to melt into the wall on which she was leaning. “We won’t.” She folded her arms and gazed at me.

“Nell, why were you outside talking to the superintendent?”

I shook my head vigorously. “I didn’t know he was there. I swear, Mrs. Lombardi, I had no idea. I was just getting some air.”

Would she believe me? I felt my arms and legs stiffen in an effort to convey my innocence to her.

“You should not have been outside.”

“I know. I’m sorry. It was so hot.”

Mrs. Lombardi glanced at her window, firmly shut against the hordes of insects that would have been drawn to the glow of the lamp. Her office was stifling, and we were both drenched in perspiration‌—‌she must have been suffering from the heat even more than I, since she wore stays and her dress was of a fine silk.

“What was he saying to you?”

“Nothing. Just nonsense.” I was sure Mrs. Lombardi knew I was lying, but I looked her boldly in the face, and the suspicion in her large hazel eyes gave way to weariness. She pushed away from the wall and came to lay her hand on my arm.

“I am sorry, Nell. I have no reason to suspect you of any sort of complicity.”

I could smell her freesia scent and see the fine sheen of perspiration on her olive skin. Her hair was carefully arranged, and a necklace of amethysts and fine pearls shone in the lamplight.

“Mrs. Lombardi, may I ask‌—‌” I hesitated, not knowing whether my question was impertinent, “‌—‌why are you here?” It was strange to see her so finely dressed amid the plain surroundings of her office. I never really thought about her other life‌—‌that of a lady, the wife of a most respectable minister‌—‌and indeed, I had never met a lady who had a profession. Except for myself, and I had not chosen mine.

Mrs. Lombardi dabbed at her neck with a tiny cambric handkerchief. “While we were at dinner, I received a telegraph message. It was from Mr. Ostrander’s sister to tell me he had gone missing yesterday. As no trace of him could be found in Evanston, they became convinced that he might be heading back to the Farm. So naturally I returned here to find that Mr. Schoeffel had received the same message.”

“And they were right.”

“Can you think why he may have come here, Nell?”

I shook my head, not daring to speak and give away my lie by any tremor of my voice. It was fortunate for me that Mrs. Lombardi’s sharp, perceptive mind was dimmed by exhaustion and strain. She accepted my silent answer with a nod and sank wearily into the armchair by the cold hearth.

I waited with Mrs. Lombardi until her husband arrived. I thought her iron self-control would break when she saw the pastor, but he, obviously realizing that she was on the brink of collapse, struck just the right tone of brisk concern and the moment appeared to pass. Feeling that my presence was no longer necessary, I returned at last to my bedroom.

Now, lying sheetless on my narrow bed with my nightdress sticking uncomfortably to my sweating body, I thought of the implications of Mr. Ostrander’s words.

He had known that Jo was shut up in the padded cell, that much was certain. Had he pleaded with my stepfather to release her? It seemed likely. And Hiram‌—‌Hiley‌—‌had threatened to expose some shameful secret involving a man called Patrick. So Mr. Ostrander had remained silent, and the two innocents imprisoned in the insane wing had remained locked in his mind, destroying it from the inside, a cancer eating away at his precious sense of order.

I felt my nails dig into my damp palms. It was unbearable, all of it. I believed‌—‌and yet could not believe‌—‌that my mother’s husband was a murderer. Suddenly everything I thought I knew wore a different face, as different from my former conception of reality as Mr. Ostrander’s insane countenance was from his former self. I had to know for sure about Hiram, and while I was not completely certain, I dared not denounce him to Mrs. Lombardi or anyone else.

If I accused Hiram of murder and I was wrong‌—‌or if he succeeded in convincing everyone that I was wrong‌—‌would I not appear to be an unbalanced hysteric? That would hardly help me in my quest to keep Sarah with me. I had only the word of a lunatic to go by, and nobody else had heard him. I would merely succeed in upsetting my mother and branding myself as deranged and vengeful, as well as morally lax.

I lay for hours, tense and wakeful on my bed, as the singing of the night insects gradually gave way to the dawn calls of the birds. The only path that seemed open to me was to hold fast to my plan to escape the Farm without saying a word to anyone about my suspicions. With Sarah safe and with‌—‌oh, I hoped‌—‌Martin’s protection, I might be able to face Hiram with my suspicions. And perhaps‌—‌the thought had flashed upon me like the dawn’s rays‌—‌even use them to ensure that he did not try to take my baby from me.

TWENTY-NINE

W
hat I had learned weighed heavily on my heart. I got through the next three days in a trance, doing my work mechanically and barely able to hold a coherent conversation. I felt light-headed and detached from everyday life, living inside the room full of secrets and lies that was my own mind.

Fortunately, most of my work at that time was the routine provision of work shirts for the men and underwear and petticoats for the women. And the never-ending requests that a tear be patched, a torn seam resewn, or a worn spot reinforced. But Edie liked to make repairs and glared at me when I offered help. So I had plenty of time to stare out of the window, vaguely conscious of my baby’s soft crowing as she amused herself with the little toys I had made for her, and think.

Only a few more days until I leave. Will I be able to get away without being caught? Maybe I should stay… Maybe I should denounce Hiram and let the law take its course and stay safely here with Sarah. But Mama… If I can prove nothing, they will all think me mad… And if they believe me?… They will come to the house and arrest Hiram… It would kill Mama… Hiram should be behind bars now; I am letting a murderer run loose… but supposing it’s not true? But I’m sure it is true… and if I stay here, he will take my baby from me… and everyone here will obey him… If I go home, I will have Mama… She will believe me, surely she will. Or will she? He is her husband, and she loves him… And I will have to leave Tess… I cannot risk trying to include her in my escape… but I don’t want to leave her, or Mrs. Lombardi either… They are family now… and this place feels like home. How strange that is. And I might get caught trying to escape…

Round and round went my thoughts, like the rats the orderlies would trick into falling into a vast galvanized vat that stood just outside the kitchens. Lured by the food floating on the water, they would fall in and swim in circles for hours before succumbing to exhaustion. Then they would drown.

I felt near exhaustion myself and had to keep reminding myself to rest and eat so that I would be in a fit state to make my escape.

On the third day, I decided on one important alteration to my plan.

T
he air was completely still, laden with the sullen heat that precedes an afternoon storm. A few yards from my hiding place an assortment of linens‌—‌underdrawers, sheets, pillowcases, and nightgowns, many of which I had sewn‌—‌hung like limp banners from the washing lines. The sunken windows of the laundry were wide open, and I could hear the occasional remark and snort of laughter. But most of the workers were silent; they were probably avoiding exertion in the leaden heat and damp, soapy air.

I kept a close watch on the short flight of concrete steps that led up to ground level. I had been there for an hour, and the tight feeling in my breasts warned me that I would soon have to leave to nurse Sarah. I pressed closer to the short brick wall that acted as a windbreak for the drying yard, feeling beads of sweat slide down my back. In front of me, the dusty shrub that hid me from view hummed with the activity of the long-legged wasps that sought for some kind of prey amid its dry shade.