by Anne Groß
When she swung her legs over the side of the bed, Richard bolted towards the door. It was not the reaction Elise had expected.
“Right. Yes.” He sucked in a breath and clasped his hands in front of him. “Well, the chamber pot is under the bed, as you know. You do know, don’t you? I’m not sure if Mary’s emptied it yet. But as I’ve mentioned, Mother should be here presently. I’ll just step outside then, for the moment.”
“No, wait. I don’t want to use the pot,” Elise called, but Richard had already left. She stared at the shut door and felt her chest tighten and her skin tingle. She’d been kidnapped, that much seemed obvious. She pressed her fingers against her eyes and thought of the scrapes and bruises on her body. What the hell happened? There was something hopelessly final about being alone again. With only the single candle lighting the austere room, Elise was surprised and angry with herself for missing the man’s company, despite his awkwardness. Stockholm syndrome, she muttered to herself as she kicked the chamber pot out from under the bed. It tipped dangerously and then settled in front of her with a contained slosh. There was no sense in trying to make a run for it with a full bladder.
The distant voices swelled into a dull roar again as if applauding her effort as Elise squatted over her business and tried to work out the details of her situation. It had been Sunday afternoon when she’d gone for a run. Was it the weekend again? With so many people cheering, it had to be a weekend. Her stomach clenched when she realized she might have been languishing in the strangely crunchy bed for a full week. If that were the case, there would be a lot of people missing her; police would have been notified. Anita would be busting down her apartment door, she was sure of it. Elise rubbed her temples again, but her head still felt fogged. The only thing clear to her was that she had to gather her strength and get out. Even injured, no one could make her pee in a pan for long, she thought.
Just as she started lifting herself back to the bed, the door cracked open and a woman poked her head in. “All done? We’ve a visitor,” the woman chirped cheerfully. She opened the door wider. Elise barely missed knocking the pot over as she grabbed her gown and quickly pulled it down over her knees. Then she raised her arm to the blinding light of two more candles carried into the room. “Oh good, you’re sitting up. That will make this so much easier this time,” the woman said stepping aside for Richard and another man to enter.
“I present to you Mrs. Ferrington, my mother, and Mr. Theodore, the barber,” Richard said with a dramatic swoosh of his arm. Then swinging his arm in Elise’s direction he said, “and this is...”
“Elise,” said Elise. She deliberately didn’t offer her last name. You never knew what people would do with that kind of information.
“We’ve already met, Miss Elise, but I doubt you’ll recall that,” Mr. Theodore said politely. He looked more like a butler than a barber. The tails of his short-waisted coat were just barely shorter than his pants, which ended at his knees.
“We have?” Elise felt confused and put a hand to her hair. “I don’t need a haircut.”
The barber turned to Mrs. Ferrington. “Is she simple?” he asked.
“I must say I have no idea. This is the first time I’ve heard her speak. Richard’s spoken with her.” She turned to her son, “Is she simple?”
Richard waved away the question with an irritated flap of his hand that caused Elise to notice the lace at his wrists. He addressed her in a slow and steady voice. “No one is cutting your hair. The barber is here for your bloodletting.”
“My what?” The young man’s strange ensemble of buff leather pants paired with a tightly buttoned double-breasted suit vest didn’t seem quite so important anymore, faced with the prospect of having her blood drained.
“You’ve had a fever, dear,” Mrs. Ferrington said by way of explanation. “So Mr. Theodore has been kind enough to make house calls. If our books are correct, this is the third time my dear son has called the barber to open your vein.”
“Madam, I am certain my own skills have had only a small bearing on this young woman’s health. Your gentle ministrations have obviously done her a world of good.” Richard scowled as Mr. Theodore bowed self-depreciatingly over his mother’s hand. “Would that all my patients have such a nurse as you.”
“You are too kind,” Mrs. Ferrington responded with a flutter of her lashes and a youthful blush on her cheeks. Her eyes were just as large as her son’s, but hazel. The long braid that she wore twisted into a knot at the back of her neck was still more blonde than grey. “Then perhaps we shan’t need your services today after all?”
“Of course we do, Mother. We can’t let the poor woman fall back into a fever.”
“Mr. Ferrington’s quite right, I’m afraid. We really can’t risk our patient’s health. However, after today I will have no further reason to return, except for maintenance purposes, of course.”
“Do you really think maintenance will be necessary?” Richard asked in a concerned tone.
“Surely not,” said Mrs. Ferrington, quickly withdrawing her hand from Mr. Theodore’s tight grip. “I’m positive she’ll remain the very picture of health.”
“One can never be too careful,” Mr. Theodore cautioned. “I recommend maintenance bloodletting for everyone. As long as I’m here, I can draw a half pint from each of you as well.” He scraped the table across the room to the side of Elise’s bed and placed his briefcase on it. “Draw your sleeve up, my dear,” he said as he rummaged through his case and pulled out a cloth bundle, which he untied and rolled open on the table to reveal a collection of lancets, each tucked neatly in individual pockets.
“Oh look how big her eyes just got,” cried Richard with a laugh as Elise scrambled backwards on the bed and pressed herself up against the wall. “Don’t fret, it will only sting for a moment. Come back here so we can reach you.” He patted the edge of the mattress. “Shall I hold the bowl for you Mr. Theodore? How much will you be taking this time?”
“Honestly, Richard, you really should be downstairs. I can hold the bowl just fine,” Mrs. Ferrington snapped. “I can’t believe you’re still here fussing with this woman when you promised you’d help Thomas.” She twitched the shawl that was wrapped around her shoulders.
“Tom can manage. He’s always at hand.”
“Are you daft? Have you not been hearing the crowd down there?” As if to punctuate her words, the sounds of cheering swelled loudly again. Richard’s eye twitched.
While mother and son argued, the barber occupied himself with tying a long black apron around his waist. Seeing that no one was paying attention to her, Elise quietly pulled herself onto her feet by gripping the windowsill behind her. Her ribs screamed at the effort, but she ignored the pain. She held onto the curtain rail for stability and edged her way around the bed, never taking her eyes off the trio. “Stay away from me,” she warned as one by one they turned back to her in surprise. “I’m leaving.”
“Nonsense,” Richard said with a concerned laugh. “In that?” He pointed up and down at the thin gown she wore. “Have you any idea the hour? I cannot let you leave. Wandering about in the night is exactly how you came to be in this trouble. Absolutely not.” He shook his head and walked to the door to stand in front of it with his arms crossed, emphasizing his determination in keeping her inside. “In your state, the night vapors alone would kill you.”
“Give me my clothes.”
Richard looked helplessly at his mother who shook her head. “I’m sorry,” she said. “When Richard brought you to us, you were wearing nothing but mud and rags. Your clothes, such as they were, were not salvageable.” She smiled thinly at her son. “You were so charitable to bring her to us, Richard dear; always extending the comfort of your mother’s arms.”
“Look here, I don’t have all night,” Mr. Theodore piped up. “Be a good girl and get down off that bed.” He reached out and caught Elise’s ankle to pull her towards him. “Some help if you please, Mr. Ferrington?” he called out over Elise’s
screams. “We’ll have to tie her down.”
“Tie her? For god’s sakes, man, let her go,” yelled Richard. He stepped from the door to grab Mr. Theodore’s shoulders and pull him away. “You’re frightening her.”
Just then Elise kicked off Mr. Theodore’s bruising grip. Her second kick caught him full in the face and he staggered backwards from the blow. With the help of a surge of adrenaline, she leaped off the bed and ran for the exit. Sensing that Richard was close on her heels, she yanked the heavy cross off the wall and swung it with both hands in a low arc. It struck him behind his knees. Richard roared a curse and buckled to the floor. Another loud argument between mother and son began as Elise darted out of the bedroom.
The blackness of the hallway startled her when she slammed the door shut, but she didn’t wait for her eyes to adjust. Get out, move fast, stay small, she thought as she stumbled blindly away. She pushed one hand along the wall in front of her to stay balanced and nearly missed a long fall when the hall ended abruptly at a stairwell. Elise hesitated nervously, not knowing what kind of situation she would encounter if she ran downstairs. The sound of the crowd came more loudly from below. The view over the edge of the banister was a dizzying swirl down three-stories of spiral staircase to a dimly lit black and white tiled floor. Shaking off a weird sense of déjà-vu, she descended the stairs as fast as she dared, clutching the railing with one hand and the heavy wooden cross in the other.
The bottom step splayed wide into what seemed to be to be a narrow entrance hall lit by one lantern resting on a round central table. She turned to look behind her and into the blackness above. There were no sounds of pursuit. The only thing she heard was the hum of a crowd coming through a door on her left. Directly in front of her was a second door, which, due to the proximity of a coat tree and umbrella stand, Elise determined was the exit. Triumphantly, she raced to it and threw the door wide.
The cold and damp hit her face like a slap. The smell of wood smoke, manure, and rot punctured her brain. When Elise stepped outside, she staggered as her bare feet slid on wet cobblestones. She reached out behind her to hug the brick wall of the building she had just left. Where was the black asphalt warming the night like a battery cell of stored sunshine? Where were the stars, brilliant even against the streetlights? For that matter, where were the streetlights?
Elise didn’t notice when she began shivering as the cold cut through the thin muslin of her gown and crept up through the soles of her feet. She was too busy trying to shake her confusion. As her mind rolled with a jumble of unconvincing explanations, a strange echoing sound caught her attention. She whipped her head to the right and crouched like a cat let out of a cage in a new house. A black buggy drawn by an enormous black horse turned the corner at the end of the block. The horse snorted and shook its mane and the tall decorative plume that stood between its ears waved like a red warning flag. It approached at a terrifying pace, as though the walls of the surrounding buildings were greased for the horse to more easily glide through the alley. Elise shrunk against the mossy building behind her. There was no room, she thought in desperation as she watched the mass of muscle roll towards her. The horse nodded his heavy head against the reins as though agreeing with Elise’s assessment and jangled the bit in his mouth, honing his sharp teeth against steel as his eyes flashed red on either side of its head.
Pressing herself further against the wall, Elise tried not to scream as the massive animal passed. The smell of leather and horse sweat filled her nostrils. The horse saluted her by lifting his tail to drop steaming manure onto the cobbles. The driver touched his top hat. Through the window of the buggy, Elise caught a glimpse of a second man and briefly smelled pipe smoke. Then the entire ensemble passed, continued into the dark night, and was gone, while the sound of the hooves and the creaking of the wheels echoed back to her.
As the sound of the carriage faded away to the left, Elise heard the same sound coming again from the right. She whipped her head back around and saw, to her horror, another horse approaching. Wiping tears from her eyes, she turned to run but stopped when she noticed a second door adjacent to the one she’d left. A large wooden sign above the door creaked in the breeze. On the sign was a prominent carving of a buxom woman in a green dress. The woman was holding her bloody head in one hand, tucked in her elbow like a football, while cheerfully lifting a mug of beer in the other, as though toasting her executioner. Painted in black above the figure were the words, “The Quiet Woman.”
A beer, Elise thought with relief. A beer would be nice. In her confusion, the idea of sipping a foamy pint was the most stabilizing force she could imagine.
Suddenly the door opened and Elise stepped back with a little scream as a strange man hung on the doorknob and swung out into the lane. Letting go of the door, he faced the wall, staggered to his left, then staggered to his right, and finally steadied himself enough to unfasten his pants. As a yellow stream arced against the wall, he tipped his hat. “Evening, Miss,” he said with a smile.
“Close the bloody door,” someone bellowed over the noise of a crowd inside. Elise hastily ducked through the doorway and the man flattened himself against the urine soaked wall to let the second carriage pass.
THE QUIET WOMAN
The smell of stale beer, tobacco, and wood smoke in the Quiet Woman drew Elise over the threshold like a powerful pheromone. She breathed a sigh of relief and hugged herself as the warmth of the room began to bathe her skin. A poorly drawing fireplace on her right was hot with sputtering damp logs. In an overstuffed armchair drawn near the fire, an elderly man sat sucking on a long-stemmed pipe. He glared at Elise and adjusted his coat as though drawing a blanket up to his chin. “Are you the angel of death come to freeze me?” he pointed at the cross Elise held tightly under her arm. Surprised, Elise stared at the cross, marveling that she was still carrying it. “I said,” the old man said more loudly, “close the damned bloody door.” Elise jumped and pulled it shut. It latched with a heavy, satisfying click of its iron knob. The old man turned away and began smacking the head of his pipe against the heel of his shoe to dislodge the ash, satisfied that his life had been spared.
Three other old men were huddled around the hearth with pewter mugs clutched tightly in their fists. They didn’t seem very happy either. Their attention was centered at the front of the room near the bar where a noisy crowd of men were grouped around something that was happening in their midst. Elise watched the men’s backs as they jostled each other and cheered. Shoulder to shoulder, their bodies formed a single gland whose sole purpose was to pump virility. Elise sighed with relief. Boys and beer—finally something familiar, she thought.
She found a small table in the shadows, sat down, and looked around for a waitress. She didn’t have any money, but she wasn’t too worried. With so many men around she’d have her drink. As she scanned the room she noticed a door was ajar against the far wall. Through it she could just barely glimpse hexagonal black and white tiles on the other side. Elise realized with a jolt that the bar was attached to the entrance hall where she had stood at the bottom of the stairs only minutes earlier. She stared at the door. Part of her wanted to run back up to the room and demand an explanation. Would they still be there? Maybe Richard was already in the bar, Elise thought. The idea made her stomach leap in fear and she peered into the gloom towards the front of the room for a tall blond, but recognized no one.
Elise refocused her wheeling mind back to her quest for wait staff, but it was hard for her to concentrate on a single task through the surreal haze—even her own hand, as she pressed fingers to her temple, seemed out of place. Everything about the room felt heavy: the wooden bar that spanned the front, the smoke that hung from the ceiling, the wet fire, and the piles of tables and chairs that had been pushed against the walls towards the front of the room. It was as though the Quiet Woman had been designed to hug its patrons with weight.
A woman, looking as heavy as the rest of the pub, held a pitcher in one hand over her head and
three pewter mugs in her other hand. Elise watched her slide between the men in the outermost circle of the crowd to disappear within the pulsating mob. Elise’s ribs ached when she stood to look for another server. It was hard to believe there was only one. She caught sight of the same waitress as she slipped through the crowd again with empty hands then lost her in the shadows behind the bar. Thirty seconds later, the same server headed back into the crowd with a pitcher in each hand. Elise realized that if she wanted a beer, she would have to go and get one.
She took two steps towards the bar and then had to clutch the back of a chair as everything began to pitch and whirl. She wondered how much blood she’d lost to the vampire barber. A half-pint? Three pints? She would need to rehydrate while her body worked to build more red blood cells. Elise shook her head to try and clear the fog. To her addled mind, a pint of blood could easily be replenished with a pint of beer, and the fact that both beer and blood were measured in the same units had a certain poetic beauty. There’s water in beer, she reasoned. With determination, Elise hitched up her skirt and began to move towards the bar.
She aimed for the last place she had seen the waitress and stopped when she reached her goal. It was the overwhelming smell of wet wool and perspiration that made her hesitate just outside the crowd, not the potential risks involved with pressing between inebriated men in her nightgown. She lifted the heavy cross she still carried to test its weight, shifting it from one hand to the other as she calculated her chances. Finally, Elise took the cross in both hands and used the top of it like a crowbar, prying it between the shoulders of the first two men she encountered in the outermost ring. After she slipped between them, the opening closed behind her, sealing her exit.