There is something extremely painful about continuing to live a life you’ve secretly given up on. Every smile was a lie. Every moment alone in my mind was a moment spent waiting to escape. I had to keep my plans to abandon John a secret until James arrived, so I had to continue being the honorable wife. I had to continue cleaning, cooking, socializing, and attending church. Church was especially unpleasant.
I planned to tell John I wasn’t feeling well after the service, and I knew he would believe me because keeping up my façade did seem to take a toll. My color had slowly grown pallid, dark circles formed under my eyes, and my entire face seemed to sag. I didn’t mind. I could use the excuse to avoid Margaret and Ida. The women from the church committee always brought cookies and sweet tea. Everyone mingled after church, even John, but only because his colleagues were there. Church was where I finally met Mr. and Mrs. Lewis Coddington, but I hardly spoke to them otherwise. They didn’t call on us, nor did we call on them. I’d been concerned about this once, but now, knowing I would be rid of this place and these people, I didn’t care.
Pastor Tomas finished the prayer and began a hymn. I scanned the attendees and saw the Coddingtons singing a little louder than everyone else. From the way he peered down at everyone with glassy eyes, I gathered that Lewis Coddington considered himself superior. Martha Coddington was a boisterous, plump woman who didn’t lift her chin to me or anyone the way her husband did.
I moved my eyes to the front, where Margaret and her husband Dr. Benedict Bradbridge sang stoically. The esteemed doctor towered over his wife. His white hair and beard reflected his many years of experience in the medical field. I had finally met the senior physician, but he hadn’t spoken a word to me since John formally introduced us. He didn’t seem to speak to anyone much. I had finally realized why Margaret could get away with anything in Labellum. No one would risk offending the only doctors in town by upsetting her. Their son, Walter, wasn’t in church that day, but on other occasions I’d seen him worship humbly.
I had hoped church would give me the excuse to meet the famous Olivia Urswick, but she obviously didn’t do things like most people and never attended services. She was becoming something of a legend in my mind.
I peeked at John to make sure he hadn’t noticed my lack of attention to the hymnal, and then I glanced at the Ripprings. Marcellus always appeared to be distracted during church. He fidgeted throughout and mumbled the hymns. Ida looked tired, or bored perhaps, and oddly unbothered by her husband’s constant squirming. I wondered why Ida had married Marcellus. He offered her nothing, he had the worst manners, and he was far from genteel. Perhaps love? I scrutinized his greasy hair and square chin. Perhaps he’d looked different when he was younger. The hymn ended, and everyone sat down.
Pastor Tomas delivered a lengthy oration on charity, occasionally pausing to shuffle his notes on the tiny schoolhouse music stand. It was about the importance of selflessness and sacrificing for others. He read from the book of John and described Jesus’ many efforts to help the poor, sinners, and the undeserving. “There are many poor sinners in Labellum,” Pastor Tomas said, “and it is up to those of higher learning and stature to save them.”
I wondered who would actually heed his call.
I hoped these people would think of this sermon when John arrived at church alone, his wife having abandoned him. I hoped they would be sympathetic to his plight. I hoped the women would cook him meals and the men would extend invitations despite the embarrassment. He wouldn’t have to endure much, though, as the failed woman would carry the full weight of dishonor. Perhaps they would glorify John for having married such a wretched person. I hoped the people of St. Louis knew this sermon and would forgive me. I knew very well the extent of the consequences I might endure. I would probably die an ostracized spinster like Miss Urswick. She managed. Why not I?
After the sermon, Mrs. Tomas played an eloquent tune on the piano, and Pastor Tomas called for attendees to come forward if they wished to be forgiven for their sins or recognized as Christians in front of the congregation. Then he bowed his head and everyone sang a hymn as people hesitantly stood and swayed uncomfortably down the aisle. I personally found the altar call unpleasant to behold and experience. Brave souls staggered to the front with eyes on their backs. They knelt and prayed in imaginary privacy. It was impolite to watch, and most people tried to ignore the scene or pretended like me. I tried to focus straight ahead and I sang the words to the hymn, but my eyes frequently darted toward the center-stage worshipers.
I felt a puff of air next to me. I glanced over and saw that John wasn’t there. He was marching to the front. I stared at the back of his head, his slicked-back hair. He reached the altar. I glanced down at my hymnal but lifted my gaze back up without actually having found the words. I realized I had nothing to sing, looked down, and fumbled. By the time my eyes shot up, John had knelt next to another man in a brown suit. John bowed his head. Why was he up there? Was John a pure man—a man of God? Or was he up there because he was wicked—a sinner? He knelt for several minutes, humbled and defenseless in front of the Lord and his church. The song slowed, and John rose quickly and turned back. I was the first thing his dark eyes landed on. I blinked and dropped my eyes to the book. John glided back down the aisle and to his seat next to me. I stiffened, pretending it had never happened, pretending as everyone pretended. He pretended, too.
Nine
April 1901
“Miss, you look awful white,” Mrs. Schwab said. “Pale as this here linen.” She lifted a damp mass from the bucket we used to rinse. She hauled it out and squeezed water from it and fed it into the wringer. Her sleeves were rolled up, and the muscles in her forearms flowed in waves as she cranked. She wore her dirty-blond hair slicked back in a tight knot.
“What is your meaning?” It had been weeks since I’d sent James the letter, and I had yet to receive a response. I was growing more desperate each day, cringing at this veneer life and the approaching anniversary of my father’s death. Not to mention the wolf. I had seen it eyeing me from below my window, waiting to devour me, punish me, give me exactly what I deserved. I feared leaving the house. I feared staying in the house.
“You ain’t ill?”
“No.”
“When was the last time you went out into the sun?”
I snarled at her. “You say that as though the sun here is pleasant. I despise it.”
“Forgive me, miss.” She looked away.
I took the shirt she had just wrung and clipped it up with clothespins. James must have received my letter by now. Why would he not respond to inform me of his plans, to tell me when he would come, to soothe my anxiety? Perhaps he had to make arrangements. Persuading Mother might take time, as would preparations for my return. I had to be patient, but every second was excruciating.
“That why we hangin’ the laundry down here? You scared the sun’ll dirty up that pretty skin?”
I glowered and heaved up a basket of dried shirts and another of wet linens. She followed, seeing we had filled the room and needed to hang the rest upstairs. We maneuvered around shirts and sheets suspended from lines across the kitchen. We scaled the narrow staircase and went into the parlor.
“Ain’t Mr. Dorr gonna be upset we drippin’ water everywhere?” Mrs. Schwab clipped a shirt onto one of the many lines we’d strung up in the parlor earlier.
“No.” He wouldn’t notice. I clipped up a soggy pair of trousers and watched a puddle form on one of the parlor’s heavy rugs. Beads of moisture would continue to drip for the next few hours. If he did notice, he’d probably blame Mrs. Schwab, but what could he do? He didn’t care for her but couldn’t dispose of her for lack of servants. She was more likely to drop dead from working while with child than get fired.
“In the light—I’m sure of it—you look sickly.”
“It’s the basement. I don’t like it down there.”
“Forgive me, miss, you seem prickled. Sure you don’t want to take a rest? I can do t
he work today.”
“No.” I bent down and fumbled in the basket, mumbling. “I don’t even have children. This should be easy.”
She looked around. “I don’t know, miss, it’s a pretty big house, and you ain’t got much help. My condition don’t make me much of a worker. Shouldn’t be long now, though. I’ll be lighter soon.” She squatted, balancing the globe between her legs. She hauled up another damp walking skirt, and I saw that she was near the bottom of her basket.
“It’s the basement.” I picked up the basket of dried linens. “I can’t breathe down there. Continue without me. I’ll be down after I put these away.” As Mrs. Schwab waddled toward the basement stairs, I felt as if I had committed a crime and allowed an innocent to willingly brave my punishment.
I lingered in front of the stairwell, walked up a few steps, and curved right into the narrow space where I couldn’t see the bottom or top floors and always felt encased in alabaster. My shoulders scrunched forward and the basket crowded my front. The walls seemed to press inward. I could see myself like bleached marble in a solid tomb, holding a basket of linens for all time. I refused to think of my father in a coffin. I quickened my step, wrestling with the thought: an eternity in a stairwell. I made it past the second corner, reached the landing, and saw black.
The hallway was dark. Mrs. Schwab was supposed to open the doors every morning when she cleaned our chamber, but they were closed. She wasn’t especially skilled at following directions. I clenched my teeth at her carelessness. How could she forget such a thing? How could she walk down a dark hallway and not think of it? I didn’t have a lamp. I couldn’t see anything other than slivers of daylight from beneath each door.
I held the basket with my left hand and felt for the first door with my right hand. I hated that moment just before opening the door. I dreaded it, which is why I’d given Mrs. Schwab the task. When we’d first arrived, I made up little stories about each of the rooms, just something to entertain myself with, but they’d turned against me. With the first door, I always conjured up the image of a woman and a child—he seemed familiar. They were stiff and displeased with each other. The woman wore a plain white frock and appeared to be a caretaker of some sort. Her face glowed and her cheeks were flush. She combed the child’s hair with force, preparing him for the end. His face remained still and his eyes closed. He had no breath. I rotated the doorknob, and the woman’s eyes jerked toward the door.
I prepared myself to find them inside, staring at me, judging me for my choices. The imagined scenes seemed so real that I almost believed they would be there. I didn’t believe in spirits or ghosts. I didn’t believe the house was haunted. These were creations of my own. I had never actually seen them except for in my mind. Yet for some reason I kept expecting to find them there. I feared I might have brought them into reality, the way I had the wolf. I opened the door but failed to look in before the sharp sunlight blinded me. It stung my eyes and I snapped back, feeling the built-up heat radiate out. I forced myself to look into the room. Empty.
I moved to the next door on the left. This door instilled a completely different feeling in me. I envisioned a young girl, almost a woman. She had plastered pictures and posters on her walls the way young boys do. The room was a happy young room, yet she sat on the end of her mattress gaping at her hands. What had she done with them? She dropped something, and it clanked against the floor. I knew the sound, that of a small empty bottle, but I refused to think of it. I clasped the handle and she jolted. Overwhelming luminescence bleached out the scene. Little multicolored shades and black spots blinked in front of my face as the world re-formed in front of me. I looked in, but no one was there—nothing on the floor.
I stumbled a little as I continued and shifted the basket under my left arm so I could grab the doorknob of the next room across the hall on the right this time. A wall to this room shared a wall with my own. This room didn’t frighten me as much as the others, for a little girl inhabited it. She skipped, giggled, hummed, and amused herself all day. She covered her head in pink and white frills and ribbons. I turned the knob and pushed, letting it slowly swing inward to reveal the room. The light filtered out in a glow rather than a horrendous assault. It saddened me; she was never there. I considered a dark brown stain in the middle of the wood floor. I didn’t know what had caused it. Sometimes I saw her curled up on top of that spot, weeping.
I sighed in anticipation of the next room, my greatest horror. The door to this room was positioned too close to the perpendicular wall, so I’d initially assumed it was a linen closet. It wasn’t until I’d opened it for the first time with the intention of storing some sheets and towels that I found a large room extending narrowly to the right, along the left wall of my room. It almost seemed disguised, hidden.
I stepped forward and clutched the doorknob. I shivered at the thought of what squatted behind that thin wood. I always felt this presence lurking. I knew the room was filled with sunlight, but in my head I saw only darkness. I saw a gangly inhuman creature enveloped in black. Its long limbs formed angles as it scuttled across the bare floor, knowing I was about to enter. It was sin. I wanted to cry, the fear was so immense. I couldn’t banish the thought that it was really there, the thought that it would actually attack me, that it was my fault, that it had come from me—it existed only because of me. I felt the way I had when I’d created the wolf—when my father closed his eyes. I wanted to leave the door closed and ignore it, but I couldn’t let my silly fears influence me so.
I prepared myself for the light. I didn’t know how to prevent the sting other than to close my eyes and open the door quickly. I twisted the doorknob and extended my arms as the door moved inward. I flinched. The light should have been released, but I didn’t see the red glow from behind my shut eyes. I slowly opened them, just a little at first, but saw nothing, absolutely nothing. I opened them completely and saw darkness.
I squealed and fell backward. My back and head slammed against the wall across from the dark room. Shirts and pants flopped out of the basket. How could it be dark?
“Mrs. Dorr? Are you all right?” I heard Mrs. Schwab pound up the basement stairs.
I sat up against the wall with clothing scattered around me. I stared into the dark hole feeling the presence creep out and hover over me, its gangly limbs stretching across my body. If it took me, what would I become?
“Miss?” She was at the bottom of the stairwell.
I had to force my words, and my voice cracked. “I—I’m fine.”
“Do you need me?”
I tried to stand, but my corset straightened me like a board, and I couldn’t wrench myself into a standing position. I reached for my chamber doorknob and pulled myself up. I bent one leg and then the other, my gaze fixed on the dark room, rapidly scanning for a glimmer of the beast. How could it be dark?
“Mrs. Dorr?”
“I…” I paused to gather my voice. “I’m fine!”
Her heavy steps drifted away.
I stood up and looked into the darkness. I had to face this. I hesitated and then slowly inched into the room. I could feel it watching me. I raised my hands in front of me, wondering if I might suddenly feel its ragged flesh. I squeezed my eyes shut and told myself it wasn’t real. My steps were heavy. Darkness pounded in my ears. It felt as if the door had shut behind me. I staggered in an endless darkness that belonged to no place. I took another step and another until, with the tip of my left middle finger, I felt it. It was standing in front of the window. It was standing right in front of me.
I stopped. Oh, Lord. Oh, God. I was touching it. This was it. Now it had me. It had me. My heart pounded. I cringed and I waited. I waited for something, for pain, for an end. Had it happened? Nothing happened. It didn’t move.
I eased my left hand slightly forward and felt the strange texture envelop it, soft—like velvet? I opened my eyes, grabbed it, and yanked. A sliver of light appeared. It took me a moment. Curtains.
Ten
April 19
01
“Emeline, how are you?” Margaret was calling.
“I am well. Please, sit.” We were in the pink sitting room. The parlor rugs were wet from our most recent laundry day. John hadn’t noticed the damp rugs for an entire month, but Margaret would. The sitting room was terribly fuchsia. It made me dizzy as though the room rose and fell in suffocating, pink waves. I gestured Margaret to a safe wooden chair, for there were many dangers in this room. Margaret, however, chose the pink and white striped hugging chair. I called it such because it appeared to be cushioned and welcoming, but the arms curved inward and the tall back rounded around you, creating the sensation of being unwillingly clasped from behind. Margaret removed her gloves and I bit my lip and clasped my hands to my chest, waiting for her reaction to this outlandish piece.
She glanced up as she pulled off the second glove. “Emeline?”
“Um—uh—no.” I paused, lowered my hands. “No—I mean—yes, fine.” I pulled my shoulders back and forced my good posture. Mrs. Schwab didn’t work that day, and I’d failed to lace my corset properly. My spine felt weary while unsupported.
“Is this a bad time?” She looked at me sideways.
“I just—um—” I tried to think. “Sorry. About Mrs. Grace and Mrs. Williams.”
“Hmm? Oh. Yes. Ella showed right as we dispersed. She didn’t make a single stitch.”
“Mrs. Grace stopped by?”
She waved a hand. “It’s all right, dear. Honestly, I would have preferred she not show at all. I just sent you so you could fix things with Ida.”
“Um—thank you.”
“Not that it helped.”
I poured her tea.
She took sugar but no cream. “That committee is full of fools, and it’s only going to get worse if they put that dratted woman at the helm.”
A White Room Page 9