A White Room

by Stephanie Carroll

  Marcellus slammed his pointy elbow down on the dining room table, slanted his shoulders, and lurched forward. “Dr. Bradbridge informs me”—he rolled his jaw around—“you’re a bit mad.”

  I imagined the house smirking at me.

  He stood up from his chair and pushed closer to me. He towered over me, his gray hair squiggling out of his scalp. “The term is hysteria, I believe.”

  “I am not crazy.”

  “Hmm. After everything you’ve done, you don’t think something is wrong with you?”

  I hesitated. “I am not crazy.”

  “Hysteria is an interesting disease.”

  I held my breath and shut my eyes.

  “Do you know why it only afflicts women?”

  I opened my eyes.

  He turned his back to me. “How has your husband performed in your marriage?”

  “Pardon me?”

  “Your husband?” He spun back around. “How has he”—he leaned forward, breathing heavily—“performed?”

  I avoided looking directly at him as he hovered inches from my face. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  He straightened and started pacing. “Hysteria is linked to the female organs. The usual culprit is organ dysfunction…or dissatisfaction.”

  “What?”

  “So, how has your husband performed?”

  I realized what he was asking. I didn’t respond.

  He paced. “Another cause: The uterus detaches and wanders the body, tampers with the brain.”

  My lungs constricted and forced me to work to breathe. I sat up straighter and leaned back. Next to me—through the wall—I heard a muffled voice. The parlor was next to us. It was Lottie.

  “Do you know how they treat hysteria?”

  “The rest cure.”

  “Perhaps, when you were first diagnosed, you experienced such mild treatments.” He fiddled with his fingers behind his back. “But for extreme cases like yours, they’ll treat you manually.” He peered down at me with hollow eyes. “Can you guess where they’ll touch you?”

  I cringed and recoiled. A sense of violation and disgust crept inside me.

  He stood next to me, too close. “There’s this device they connect to an electrical current. That’s what they’ll use to draw out your nervous tension. Or they remove the defective organs all together—a hysterectomy.”

  The pleading from the parlor sounded louder now, and I could tell it was Lottie moaning and cursing, fighting someone. I turned my head toward the wall, listening.

  “But you’re not just hysterical,” Marcellus continued. “You’re a criminal. Insane criminals don’t have the same rights as others.” His nostrils flared and his upper lip curled. “Do you know what they do with insane criminals?”

  I wondered what they were doing to Lottie and whispered, “No.”

  He slammed his hand on the table, forcing my attention from the wall. “You won’t get a trial. Your madness is the only evidence I need. They will stick you in a back ward where you’ll be restrained and forgotten. If you fight, you’ll be disabled.”

  I realized I was shaking.

  “They drill into your skull.” He stood over me and mimicked cranking something over my head.

  I didn’t move. The sound of my heart thudded in my ears.

  “They take a knife and slice out a chunk of your brain.” He drove an imaginary scalpel toward my head, gritted his teeth, and ripped the nonexistent blade back up. He held up his hand as if putting the conquest on display. I unwillingly imagined the tissue wiggling on the tip of his dagger.

  He darted back around and faced me. “Your husband will cooperate with us. We have our dying confession. If you cooperate, confess, I’ll send you to a women’s prison instead of an asylum.”

  Would they really all give me up? Wouldn’t that be for the best?

  “I—”

  A knock on the door interrupted me. Marcellus stomped over and opened it. I couldn’t make out what the other man said, but Marcellus responded with frustration. “What? How hard—no, I have a better idea. Round them up.”

  The man left, and Marcellus turned back, folded his arms, and inhaled deeply through his nose, his lower jaw jutting out. “Stand up.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m taking you into custody.”

  I stood. “But—”

  “Move.” He grabbed my arm, squeezing his thumb into my bicep, and yanked me into the hallway.

  At the end of the hall, Lewis spoke to John in hushed tones. John rubbed the back of his neck, and his cheeks twitched as he listened intently.

  Marcellus escorted me past John.

  I craned my neck to keep my eyes on him, desperately seeking a glimmer, anything.

  “Move!” Marcellus shouted.

  I walked forward and saw Carmine grasping my brother’s shirt while she wept encircled in his arms. A patrolman stood next to them at the front door. I tried to give James an apologetic look, but he focused on his wife.

  I peered into the parlor at the two patrolmen circling Lottie like vultures. “Get her up!” one shouted.

  Walter held his hands up. “If you move her…”

  Marcellus dragged me out the front doors and down the steps as I scuffled and slipped. James and Carmine were marched out behind me.

  Marcellus led me to a black carriage, pushed me in, and slammed the door shut. I scooted to the window and watched as James and Carmine clung to each other until the patrolman pried them apart. He escorted Carmine in my direction, and then they disappeared as they walked around the carriage. The door opened and Carmine stepped in and fell onto the seat next to me. She slumped over and wept on my shoulder. I wrapped my arms around her. She didn’t deserve this. I turned back to the window, waiting for them to drag the others out. I felt the carriage bounce as one of the patrolman got on to drive. No one brought John or Lottie out. I didn’t see Walter. What would they do to her?

  Forty-Two

  October 1901

  Carmine and I watched from the carriage as Marcellus and the patrolman who’d brought us here talked to the hefty Sheriff Robert Neal. Their faces were hardened, and then the sheriff raised a hand to his double chin. Finally, the men shook hands and the sheriff ordered a short, scruffy-looking deputy toward us. The deputy lumbered to the carriage and opened the door. “Get out.” Puffed up, he looked pleased to talk down to two women of our station.

  We stepped out, and he took us each by the arm. He marched us into the stone jailhouse, which opened into a room with two desks and filing cabinets and then split off into two separate rooms with cells. The deputy took us into the room to the left, which consisted of a hall and two cells. He opened the first cell door with a creak and shoved us from behind. We stumbled in, and he locked the door, doused the lamps, and lumbered out.

  I looked around the cell. An empty bucket sat in the corner for excrement, and there weren’t any chairs or beds, just cold, hard floor. A small table and a single chair sat outside the cell, as if placed there to torment us. I pressed my face against the bars, trying to peer down the hall and into the first room, but couldn’t see anything. I tried to listen for when they brought James in but heard only footsteps and doors opening and closing. They would surely take the men to the separate room on the right of the jailhouse rather than give us the comfort of their company. After a while, I gave up and sat on the floor. Carmine had crumpled against the wall opposite me. Her head rested on her knees, buried under her unraveled tresses. We sat there for a long time, nothing but Carmine’s sobs echoing in the air.

  “Carmine?”

  She moaned a little and sniffled. White moonlight from a tiny window streamed across her, making her dark hair look black as night.

  “Carmine, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry this is happening.”

  She wrapped her arms around her head. “Don’t speak to me,” she said between whimpers.

  “You weren’t involved. You’re not going to be in trouble, I promise.”

  “
Just leave me alone.” She sniffed hard, and her curly unfurled hair bounced around her head.

  “You have every right to hate me.”

  The stillness of the air thickened, and I could hear someone scuffing around in the front entrance. I pictured the deputy falling asleep at one of the desks.

  “I do,” Carmine said and lifted her head, revealing her streaked porcelain face. “I do hate you.”

  My cheeks flushed and I swallowed, surprised—hurt. I suddenly realized how much I didn’t want my brother’s wife to hate me, but I had earned her hatred. My mouth moved, but no words came out.

  She glared a moment longer and dropped her head back down.

  “I just want you to know I’m glad you married my brother. You make him happy.”

  She didn’t respond.

  “He didn’t know about all of this. He never would have put you in such a position. He loves you.”

  Nothing.

  “Hate me, but don’t hate him for this.”

  “Please…don’t speak to me.”

  I woke the next morning to the clank-clank of a wooden baton hitting the metal bars of our cell. The sound prodded at a throbbing headache I had from sleeping all night sitting up with my head hanging to the right. The left side of my neck was so stiff that I had to use my hands to push my head up.

  “Hey, poodle.” The stout deputy leered at Carmine, flashing black and brown teeth. “Let’s go. Get up.”

  Carmine appeared to be as stiff as I was but even more disheveled. She got onto all fours and teetered up, stumbling a little.

  I rubbed my face and felt the dried blood that still covered my hands and arms. I slowly started to stand, rubbing my left temple.

  “Sit down, bitch,” the deputy shouted.

  I jolted, frozen in place.

  “You’re not going anywhere.” His nostrils flared and his nose crinkled.

  Carmine looked back at me, her eyes wide and her lips parted.

  He grinned back at her. “Let’s go, sweetheart.”

  She swallowed and moved toward the cell door. After she stepped out, he quickly relocked it, as if I might try to scramble out like a wild animal.

  Carmine’s breath quickened.

  “Where are you taking her?” I asked.

  “Ay!” He hit the cell bars with his baton.

  I flinched.

  He pointed at me with it and gritted his teeth. “Didn’t I tell you to sit your ass down?”

  I slid down the wall, terrified for Carmine.

  “A pretty little thing like you would never be involved with a witch like that, would ya, honey?” He leaned in close to Carmine’s face, and she squinted with the obvious effort it took to not recoil. “Somebody’s”—he held the “s” too long—“daddy’s here.”

  Carmine closed her eyes and exhaled. He bowed and motioned toward the exit as if for a queen. Carmine scurried out without looking back.

  I sat and wondered if my father would have come for me. Then I realized that Carmine’s father knew. What would he think? What would he think of James? Would he tell the Dorrs? They would tell my mother. My gut twisted into a hard knot. Everyone was going to know everything.

  For a long time, I remained sitting for fear that the deputy would come back and yell at me again, but eventually I stood and paced. As the day went on, the heat and moisture grew in the cell, and flies buzzed in circles, occasionally landing on my bloody garments. I had been thinking all day about the expression that had been on my mother’s face when my father died…the expression she would have when she learned what I was. I prayed that Carmine’s father would help James but feared he would blame my brother. I wondered if John was with the Bradbridges or Lewis. He hadn’t even lifted his eyes when Marcellus dragged me out. I would understand if he turned me in, but what about everyone else? No one deserved punishment other than me. Would John abandon my brother? What about Lottie? What had happened to her? Was she alive?

  The deputy sauntered back in to check on me. He crossed his arms and leaned against the wall with his top lip crinkled as if he were offended by some awful stench.

  “Could I have some water?” I asked.

  “You don’t deserve it.” He stood there scowling at me for a minute. “You think you can get whatever you want ’cuz you a lady? You ain’t no lady anymore. You ain’t no better than a whore.” He pushed off the wall with his foot and walked out.

  I collapsed to the floor, overwhelmed with the heat and buzzing flies around my head. My mouth felt dry and my stomach ached for nourishment. Sweat dripped down my brow and moistened my back and under my arms. The blood had gone from a dry, crusty state to a deep brownish orange and I swore I could smell it, or was that my body’s own stench? Eventually, I removed my boots, pulled off my stockings, and hiked up my dress to cool myself. I leaned against the wall and pressed my cheek against the rough but cool stone.

  And that was how Ida and Margaret found me.

  “Well, well.” Margaret’s raspy voice ripped me from an unsteady sleep.

  I instantly coaxed my petticoats and dress down and jumped up. Ida peered in at me as if I were a rat.

  “What’s happened to Lottie? My brother?”

  Margaret cocked her head at Ida. “She doesn’t even ask about her husband.”

  “Please. Please just tell me. Are they all right?”

  “No,” Ida said. “They’re not all right, thanks to you.” She folded her arms. “Nevertheless, we’ve come to help you.”

  “Is that so?”

  “I am a powerful woman and so is Margaret. I know we’ve had our squabbles, but I didn’t realize the seriousness of your condition. Margaret witnessed it herself. We cannot assist you unless you admit you are not well. If you do, we will see to it you are treated and not punished for your actions.”

  “I am perfectly fine, thank you.”

  “Ha!” Ida snorted.

  “There’s no need to deny it,” Margaret said, fluttering a lace fan. “We can help you. You won’t go to prison if you’re ill, but you have to admit it.”

  Why were they trying to get me into an asylum? Marcellus had told me what they would do to me there. “I will not claim madness when I am not at all mad.”

  Margaret shook her head. “I should have known. She’s so out of her wits she can’t even recall her hysterics. What I witnessed should be proof enough. She obviously manipulated Walter. She tried to lure him into sin.” She fanned faster. “If my son is ruined because of your madness, I’ll—”

  What was she fretting about, I wondered. His reputation? She would have me locked up in an asylum to prevent rumors? I pursed my lips and stepped closer to the bars. “Your son doesn’t need me to ruin the Bradbridge name.”

  “Don’t bother me with your ravings.” She waved her fan at me as if shooing a beggar.

  “Don’t you know?”

  She simpered at me, unimpressed.

  “Oh.” I looked at Ida. “She doesn’t know.”

  Ida narrowed her eyes and shifted her weight.

  “Well, Ida, you should know.”

  She stared at me with her face pinched tight.

  “What?” Margaret shot her eyes at Ida and back at me.

  “Well, if you know everything about your son…” I cocked my head with a little shrug.

  “Tell me.”

  “She doesn’t know anything, Margaret,” Ida snipped.

  “I know plenty. I know who he is courting in secret.”

  Margaret’s eyes widened.

  “You know her.” I raised an eyebrow.

  “Who?” Margaret stepped forward and snapped her fan shut.

  “You won’t like it.”

  She hit the bars with the fan. “Damn it, who?”

  I spoke slowly so she wouldn’t miss a single syllable. “Miss Olivia…Urswick.”

  Margaret’s left eye twitched. “You’re lying. He wouldn’t.”

  “Oh yes he would. Why else would he have recommended her to sit with me when I was bedrid
den? You remember that.”

  She shook her head without blinking. “I don’t believe you.”

  “Who was with him last night? He failed to elaborate, didn’t he? Who was the woman whom he asked to inform Ida’s husband about me? Well, Ida? Surely, you know.”

  Ida glared at me without denying it.

  Margaret clutched her stomach and shot Ida a wide-eyed look.

  Ida snarled. “I’m going to see to it that you are thrown into a hole.” She took Margaret’s arm and pulled her a few inches away before Margaret stamped her heel and halted them.

  Margaret wrangled her arm away and stepped up to the bars. Her face had turned purple and her eyes were blazing and watering at the same time. “You’ve ruined my son,” she said in a deep seething whisper. “You ruined your own husband…and you killed that woman. You’re a murderer, and you deserve to go to hell.”

  I couldn’t blink, and my bottom lip trembled.

  Finally, she whirled around and the two women marched out.

  My hands fell from the bars. I swallowed and imagined Lottie’s corpse, her belly swollen and her blood on the floor—just like my father’s. I killed her. I had ruined everything and everyone I cared about. I thought of the white room. This was the part where the room collapses, just before the woman is smothered by her own desires. I deserved it, too. I deserved to be punished. I’d known for a long time. The house knew, the wolf and the beast were there to carry it out—they all knew it. I deserved hell.

  Forty-Three

  1900

  The Evans’ Residence

  St. Louis, Missouri

  “Mother?”

  “Hmm?” She glanced up with sleepy eyes cradled by dark circles.

  “Why don’t you go to my room and get some sleep?”

  She shook her head. “No. I want to stay with him.” She gazed at my father, who snored lightly.