A White Room

by Stephanie Carroll

  I lay in bed that night with tingles all over. The house was alive with noise and movement, but it didn’t trouble me. I planned for the following day. I predicted the problems I might encounter. I considered what to say if I saw anyone I knew. So much thrill and thought occupied my mind, but I slipped into slumber without effort.

  Seventeen

  May 1901

  I cinched and tugged into my dark-violet walking skirt with decorative machine stitching. It had a matching jacket that narrowed at the waist where the skirt and jacket met and widened at the top, revealing my white-lace shirtwaist underneath. I pulled on my gloves and pinned in my violet hat with bunched netting along the brim. Along the hall, the stairwell, and the main hall, the house sat silent, suspicious. I turned the corner and discovered why.

  John situated himself as Mr. Buck carried in his suitcase and set it next to the coat rack. John hung up his morning jacket and saw me. “Emeline? What are you…”

  I stood frozen at the end of the hall. “Um—I’m fine.”

  “Pardon?”

  “I mean—Dr. Bradbridge said I’m fine.”

  “Oh.”

  “I’m back to my regular routine.” I tried to smile reassuringly.

  He stared for a moment. His overall appearance seemed somewhat more cheerful than usual, down to his brown and white checked vest and trousers. “I didn’t expect such a swift recovery.” His eyes dropped and then rose again to scrutinize my appearance. He brought his fingertips to his lips and gestured a little with the same hand as he said, “You do look…well.” He grinned.

  “Um, thank you.” He actually seemed happy to see me, but I couldn’t believe it after reading that letter.

  He took a step toward me. “Are you leaving?”

  “I’m to call on Mrs. Grace and Mrs. Williams…to thank them for sitting with me.”

  He ran his fingers through his hair. “And Margaret?”

  “Of…course.”

  “Good.” He licked his lips, shoved his hands in his pockets, and an odd grin stretched across his face.

  Neither of us moved for a moment. I heard a bird chirping outside. Why was he just standing there smiling at me?

  “Um, I should be going.” I hesitated on my first step but then took long strides until I reached him. The sound of my boots clacking sounded awkwardly loud. He didn’t move, so I maneuvered around him. “Pardon me.”

  His expression dropped as I squeezed by.

  I reached the door.

  “I think the rest did you good,” he said. “You seem…different.”

  I stopped and looked back with my eyebrows raised. He was the one acting different.

  “Hope you won’t be long. I’d like to hear about your week,” he called as I walked out.

  I didn’t look back. “It was fairly dull, thank you.”

  I instructed Mr. Buck to take me to the general store and told him to wait. I entered the store, where I usually ordered bulk items for delivery. I roamed for a few minutes, trying to overlook the owner’s wife, Mrs. Landry, who eyed me while sucking her bottom lip. If I waited long enough, Mr. Buck would step off the surrey and find a diversion. Moments passed, I went to the entrance and peeked out. Mr. Buck had crouched down and was trying to lure some pigeons to his outstretched hand. I glanced back at Mrs. Landry, who watched me without modesty, her chin sticking out like a little fist.

  “Good day.” I quickly stepped out.

  I coursed by the succession of square buildings, avoiding the looks of passersby. Recalling the instructions Mrs. Schwab had given me, I counted to the fifth break between the buildings and slowed, scanned for curious eyes, and made my descent into the alley. It was narrow and dirtier than the regular street but nothing like the alleyways I had glimpsed in St. Louis.

  Several colored women and a few men loitering outside shot me suspicious glares. I approached the third wooden staircase on the left. I gripped the rail but then removed my hand, fearful that the chipped alabaster might flake onto my glove. I held up my skirt and scaled the staircase. I knocked.

  No answer.

  “Is anyone there?”

  No answer.

  “I—I am here to help.”

  Nothing.

  I sighed and ambled down the steps and stood at the bottom for a moment. I reached into my bag and pulled out the instructions. I started counting the tenements to make sure I was at the right one.

  “Ay!”

  I turned to see a dark woman holding a baby.

  “You lost?”

  “Uh…Um, yes. Could you help me?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Well, I’m looking for the Whitmays’ place.”

  “Who’s you?” She gave me a once-over.

  “Um, I—I am a friend.” I struggled. “A friend of mine told me—um, I know medicine and things of that sort.”

  “You sure ’bout dat?” She eyed me one more time, long and hard. “They aint’s got no money.”

  “I’m not charging.”

  The next thing I knew she was banging on the door of the upstairs apartment. “Ay! You chillin get yo’ butts on out here for this lady!” she hollered. “She done come on all the way out here from who knows how far! Get on out here!”

  I looked around, awkwardly.

  “Dat’ll do it.” She hobbled back down the stairs, her baby undisturbed on her hip.

  I heard something while I waited. I stepped closer to the door and distinguished the sound of footsteps and then the jiggle of the knob. I stepped back and the door opened just enough to reveal a small colored boy staring out with one pallid eye.

  “Good morning. My name is Mrs.…uh…” Oh, no. I couldn’t tell him my real name. Staring blankly at this little boy, I quickly thought of how the colored folks had chosen new names after the war, like Freeman, to declare themselves free men. I needed something like that. I needed to quickly formulate a new name and identity just as they had. “Freeman.” I couldn’t think of anything else. “Mrs. Freeman.”

  The boy cocked his head, eyes squinting.

  “Um, Mrs. Schwab sent me because I know a little medicine.”

  He blinked.

  “May I come in?”

  He shuffled away from the open door. I pushed it open, entered, and shut it behind me. The little boy, maybe only seven years of age, joined four children who were sleeping in a pile of blankets. The group of children ranged in ages from around five to ten or eleven. Droplets of sweat covered their skin, but they appeared to be shivering. One girl, older than the boy, opened her eyes and watched me. The boy couldn’t have been any older than nine or ten. The whites of his eyes burned against his dark skin, moist like soil.

  “Is your father at home?”

  The boy shook his head.

  “I’m going to take a look at you now.”

  He didn’t object.

  “Does your tummy hurt?”

  He shook his head.

  I put a thermometer in his mouth. “Does your head hurt?”

  He nodded. His sister sat up, and her frazzled hair held in a lifted position. Another child woke and watched as I examined the other two.

  “Does it hurt anywhere else?”

  The boy pointed to his throat. His sister nodded in agreement. I took out the thermometer. He had a fever. They were obviously ill but it wasn’t dyspepsia. I looked around the small tenement. I knew of several things I could do for them, but I hadn’t brought the right supplies. I decided to open the windows to air out the room with the mild spring breeze, scented with white prairie clovers. It smelt like new beginnings. Then I placed wet rags on their heads.

  “Stay this way until I return. I’m going to come right back.”

  They stared blank faced at me, and I hoped I hadn’t made a liar out of myself.

  Mr. Buck held my hand as I stepped up into the surrey. “I thought you needed to go to market, ma’am.”

  “I had other errands as well. I don’t need you to accompany me at all times, Mr. Buck.”

/>   “Forgive me, miss.” He circled around to the other side, stepped up, and positioned himself in the driver’s seat.

  “Take me back to the house. I need to fetch something and then we must return.”

  He turned around and put his arm on the back of the seat. He cocked his head, clearly wondering whether I was serious. I thought of telling him I had forgotten funds to pay the market account, but instead I glared. He sheepishly turned back around and did as was told.

  During the ride back to the house, I tried to think of what I might say to John. He would consider it foolish for me to visit town twice in one day. He would disregard any excuse and insist I wait. I couldn’t let those children wait. By the time the house had come into view, I still hadn’t thought of a legitimate excuse. Perhaps I could get in and out without his noticing that I’d returned at all. I stepped off. “I’ll be right back. Stay here. I don’t want to disturb Mr. Dorr.”

  I quietly crept to the front door, holding my skirt to hush the swishing. I twisted the knob as gently as possible. The door slipped from its place, and the house grew giddy at the opportunity to sabotage me. I slowed my breathing, stepped inside, and moved the door silently back into place. I faced a dark hallway, every door shut, just the way he liked it. I could see a dim illumination at the end of the hall. I’d never closed the doors after Ella had opened them, so John had actually gone from room to room closing them after I left. There was a small glow coming from around the corner. I knew it originated from the library—what other room would he be in?

  I did not dare light a lamp or a candle but tried to feel my way by gently sliding my fingertips along the right wall. I felt the rippled texture of the wallpaper. Then I smelled the pungent scent of cigarette smoke, the cigarette probably sitting forgotten, burning away in the ashtray. I attempted to will the house not to make a sound.

  I curved left with the hallway and spotted the library, the last door on the right. Sunlight escaped the room and spilled onto the first step of the stairs. I held my skirt high and clutched it tight with my left hand. I stepped lightly to prevent my boots from making a clacking sound. I couldn’t make a mistake. There was nowhere to hide and no excuse at hand. If I made the slightest noise, he could poke his head out and see me creeping.

  When I approached the library, I flattened myself against the wall. I leaned my head closer, carefully, without allowing the brim or feather of my hat to show. I listened, hoping he was engrossed in his work, perhaps with his back to the door, but I heard nothing, not a scribble or a shuffle. Usually I would have to battle for his attention, but I knew on this one occasion that he would be glad to raise his eyes just in time to catch my attempt to dash. Then I realized I couldn’t dash—the sounds of my shoes and my skirt would alert him. Yet if I moved slowly, he would surely see me. I had no alternative, and I couldn’t remain there any longer with my heart racing.

  I moved, and against my better judgment, I dashed. I cringed at the quick click-clack of my heels, followed by the whoosh of my petticoats. It was far louder than I had predicted. I pulled my skirt high in front of me to prevent it from swaying back into the doorway. I stood like stone after my leap, my eyes closed. I hoped I wouldn’t open them and see him, hands on hips, about to ask what in tarnation I was doing. I slowly opened my eyes, the corners of my lips still curled in suspense. He wasn’t there. I exhaled, slowly and quietly. Sin to Moses! He must have assumed it was just the house, breathing the way it did. I could see him in my mind sitting at his desk and being too wrapped up in whatever he was doing to actually check.

  I continued my pursuit, stepping gingerly. I knew the house would attempt to inform John of my scheme. I’d evaded his eyes, but I didn’t know if I could evade his ears. The sound of creaking floorboards on the steps above might be more obvious than the sliver of color he’d thought he saw pass his door. I stepped slowly and carefully, wincing with every creak and groan. I made it to the stair’s first right turn without hearing any noise from below. Then I slipped into the narrow space between the two turns where you couldn’t see the top or bottom of the stairs. Darkness filled the space. I couldn’t see the step in front of me.

  The stairwell had not attempted to assault me since my experience with Mrs. Schwab, but now it knew I was vulnerable. The darkness prevented me from seeing it, but I could feel the pallid walls narrowing. My stomach wrenched. I couldn’t keep away the thoughts of being stuck in the walls, eternally bound within the darkened white—buried, unable to move. I quickened my step, risking a ruckus.

  A part of me wanted to fall to my knees and give up, beg the walls to spare me, but the thought of the children broke through my fears. The memory of the depression and horror I’d experienced while trapped in my white room followed, and a fury burned inside my chest. I stopped fumbling for steps and stood still as the walls inched closer. I clenched my hands and opened my eyes. In the darkness, without speaking, without making a sound, I stretched my arms out, felt the solid mass beneath my palms and pushed. In my mind, I screamed with all the strength of my entire being without making one real sound.

  The walls gave way and my arms stretched as far as they could. All was calm. I took in a long deep breath and exhaled. I smiled with satisfaction and continued my trek up the staircase. I reached the landing and dropped my head in relief. Suddenly, my eyes refocused, confused by the light, and standing before me was John. I froze. My lips parted, eyes unblinking. John had been upstairs the entire time, not in the library.

  “Emeline?”

  “Yes?”

  “What are you doing?”

  I had no idea.

  “Are you all right?” He held up the light to see my face.

  “Yes.” I shrank away from the brightness.

  “Where’s your lamp?”

  “Um.” My eyes bounced back and forth.

  “You’re back then?”

  “Yes. What?” I could only react. “No.”

  “No?”

  “No—I mean I’m back now, but I’m leaving.”

  “Pardon?”

  “I forgot something.”

  “What?”

  “I forgot something for Mrs. Grace.”

  “What did you forget?”

  “Um, a donation for the church committee.”

  “I thought dues were collected at the beginning of the month?”

  “They are.” My arms and shoulders relaxed out of their caught stance. “This is a different donation, for a special case.”

  “What case?”

  “Uh—children.”

  “Children?”

  “Needy children.”

  He squinted. “Do you have enough left in your allowance?”

  “Of course.”

  He looked me over. “Why are you fumbling around without a lamp?”

  “Uh, I must have forgotten.” My smile felt taut. “In a rush.”

  “Hmm. Well, you’d better be off if you’re going to be back in time to make supper.”

  “Of course,” I said, giddy and compliant, shocked by his consent. I hopped out of his way as he passed me.

  “Wait.” He halted and my heart fell. “Here.” He handed me the snake-handle lamp and started down the stairs. “I couldn’t stand the thought of you slipping.”

  “Thank you.” Why was he being so nice, so trusting? He left and I felt a little dizzy but pushed the feeling aside because I still had things to do. I went to the linen chest and packed several items into a bag. Afterward, I rushed down the stairs, no longer terrified to make a sound, and barreled down to the basement for a thin cut of beef, some barley, and a few dried vegetables. I moved too quickly for the dungeon’s sadness to settle. I went back up and passed the library without acknowledging John.

  Mr. Buck, now surely suspicious because of the amount of time I’d spent in the house, took me back to town. He returned me to the general store, and once again I entered and waited for his subsequent distraction. I paid no attention to Mrs. Landry and quickly left, feeling absolu
tely rushed and concerned that my running about town again, this time carrying two stuffed bags, would certainly end in someone spotting me. I quickly made my way down the alley and knocked on the door of the little tenement. The small dark boy opened the door again, just a little, saw that it was me, and allowed me to enter.

  I set my bags down and opened the larger one, pulling out fresh linens to give to the children. They took the sheets, and two older children got to work laying them out. The younger ones pulled the material to their faces, inspecting the superior fabric. I asked the boy to gather water in a bowl and gave him a rag. The children took turns cleaning themselves and one another. Slowly, their skin transformed from the appearance of fresh soil to that of wet ebony rocks. After they were clean, I slathered a mixture of turpentine on the outside of their throats and chests to ease the congestion.

  I was in a terrible rush, given that I had to clean a little apartment in the same time that a brief social call takes. I started to sweat as I swept, dusted, wiped down surfaces with a damp cloth and organized what little clutter existed in the tiny space. Meanwhile, I boiled the meat in some water to create a beef tea and added the barley and dried vegetables. They sipped the warm brew, and I instructed them to inhale the steam deeply.

  “I must go now, but you need to do your best to keep yourselves clean, and once you are better, help your father keep this house in order just as I have done today.”

  Their white eyes darted toward the door and I spun around. A burly colored man stood in the doorway, his eyes tight with anger. Moist dirt covered his leathery skin and collected in little beads. He dropped a heavy bag that clunked when it hit the ground. “Who are you?”

  Blood rushed to my cheeks and my heart raced. I stood. “I—I—”

  “What are you doing with my children?”

  I put my hands out. “Mr. Whitmay, I—I’m trying to help.”

  “We don’t need no help.”

  “No—your children—” I motioned toward them.

  “We don’t need any help. Get out!”

  He stepped close to me, and I stepped back closer to the children. “Who are you? Why did you come here? Why did you come into my home—why? Did you come to steal my babies?”