The House of Closed Doors

by Jane Steen

  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

  What 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.

  The 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.

  Just as I decided that I could stay for only five more minutes, my patience was rewarded. Tess’s small, plump form rose from the ground, climbing the steps with an unwieldy basket in one hand and a small crate in the other. She set the basket on the ground next to the nearest clothesline and plunked the crate down on the other side, running her hands over the hanging sheet. She tutted loudly, looked up at the darkening sky and, coming to a decision, stepped briskly up onto the crate and reached for the clothespins.

  Nobody had followed her outdoors. This was my chance.

  “Tess!” I hissed loudly, hoisted myself upright, and stepped to the side so that the bush no longer hid me from view.

  Tess’s head jerked round toward the sound of my voice, and she opened her mouth to speak. I put one finger to my lips, flapping my other hand to warn her not to talk, and then motioned her over to the wall. She cast a quick glance around her, then hopped off the crate and ran to embrace me.

  “Why are we being secret?” she asked. “You can talk to me in the laundry. They don’t mind.” She smelled of soap and sweat, her normally neat hair mussed and falling out of its bun. Her spectacles were dirty, and her dimpled bare arms were reddened up to the elbows.

  “I do not want to get you into more trouble, Tess dear. I must tell you something, but nobody else must know.”

  Tess drew back a pace, her face screwed up in puzzlement. “What has happened?”

  “Nothing has happened yet, but it will. In two days’ time. On the twenty-fourth.”

  “Yes, it will be your birthday.” Tess’s eyes shone at the thought, and my heart sank. I had apparently left my childhood so far behind me that I’d forgotten the date on which I was born.

  “Ye-e-s, of course. And we will have lemonade, I am sure.” This was how summer birthdays were celebrated in the Women’s House. “But that night, something else will happen. When you wake up in the morning, I will be gone, and Sarah with me.”

  Tess let out a wail. “Gone?”

  I shushed her, glancing anxiously over at the laundry door. A faint, hot breeze had arisen, and the clouds over our heads were becoming ever darker and more massive.

  “I must take Sarah away. I told you, my stepfather said I must wean her before August. And I have not done so. I do not want them to take my baby from me.” My voice choked with the tears that gathered at the thought of separation.

  Tess looked down at her feet, and when she spoke her voice was tight and hoarse. “And you will not take me with you. I will be a nuisance. I am too slow, and when you get wherever you are going, people will stare at me and whisper to each other. You can go back to the world outside, and I can’t.”

  I put my arms around my friend, and a tear‌—‌mine‌—‌fell on her wispy hair. She resisted stiffly at first but then yielded to my embrace, her small body convulsed in sobs.

  “Nobody wants me,” I made out from the jumble of incoherent sounds.

  “That’s not true, Tess.” I pushed her back slightly from me and looked at her flushed face, blinking the tears from my eyes. “We all love you.”

  “Here they love me, because they know me,” Tess said with bitterness in her voice. “Out there they say I’m an imbecile. They don’t want me. You don’t want me.”

  “If that were really true, Tess, would I have told you that I was leaving? I need to get Sarah away before they take her from me. I can’t do anything‌—‌anything, you understand?‌—‌to jeopardize her safety. But I have no intention of leaving you here. I will come back for you, I promise.” This was the new decision that had formed amid my swirling thoughts.

  Tess stared at me with a skeptical expression on her face. “Why should I believe you, Nell? My own Ma and Da left me here. The charity lady told them I would be better off here. And they listened to her, and they brought me here, and Da told me to be a good girl. And Ma cried, but she went away with Da, and they never came back.”

  Tess jumped as a huge raindrop landed smack on the top of her head. “The washing!” she cried, and, pushing me away from her, she ran over to her crate. I followed her and helped her to bundle the still-damp linen into the basket. Leaving her crate to the mercy of the weather, Tess heaved the heavy basket up‌—‌the effort bending her backwards‌—‌and looked at me. The sadness on her face broke my self-control.

  “I will come back,” I was barely able to speak the words.

  “We’ll see, Nell.” The weight of the basket caused Tess to waddle as she headed to the top of the concrete steps. “I have to call one of the other imbeciles,” she stressed the word, “to help. I’m too short to carry this down the steps by myself.”

  I took the hint and headed toward the main door of the House, pursued by fat raindrops that cooled my hot, tear-streaked face. I would come back for her, I swore to myself. As long as I could get away in the first place.

  THIRTY

  July the twenty-fourth came. I was eighteen years old. It meant little to me, but I smiled my thanks as a group of my friends gathered to drink a glass of lemonade in my honor. Tess, never one to bear a grudge, was among them, but her eyes were sad. Mrs. Lombardi smiled gaily, but she too had a weariness and sadness in her eyes that had not been there when I arrived at the Farm.

  The day dragged. I tried to finish as much work as I could, attempting not to make it obvious that I was not leaving any garment half-finished for the next day. I took my meals late, pleading forgetfulness, so that I would not have to talk to anyone. I was grateful when the evening meal was finally over and I could escape to my shared room and pretend to be sleeping. I lay with my eyes closed, listening to Sarah’s babbles fade into silence as she drifted into sleep.

  I strained my ears to hear the chimes of the large clock in the hallway far below me. Nine o’clock… ten… The other women drifted in as ten o’clock approached, their candles flickering against my eyelids as they undressed. I w
orried that Tess would try to stay awake, but she fell asleep before she had finished her day’s Bible passage.

  Eleven o’clock rang… now I listened all the more intently for the ding-dong, ding-dong that marked the quarter hours. Ada’s snoring irritated me, as it made the bell harder to hear.

  At the half-hour, I slipped out of bed and dressed, as quietly as I could, in my simplest dress. I pulled the bag with Sarah’s belongings from its hiding place under my mattress, scooped my baby out of her crib and left the room, fearful to look back in case I caught the gleam of wakeful eyes.

  Easy enough to make my way through the moonlit corridors; easy enough to creep down the silent stairs, slide the bolts from the kitchen door, and slip out into the warm, humid night. Sarah, barely wakened by the movement, did not make any noise, and nobody heard us as we moved through the cacophony made by the night insects. We arrived at the main gate a few minutes before midnight.

  The Farm was not a prison and had never been intended as one. Its isolated position relative to the town of Prairie Haven, the fact that most of its inmates were people who had no other option, and the fairness of its supervisors ensured that escapes were rare. Those who breached its boundaries had a three-mile walk over rutted roads to Prairie Haven to the southwest, or they could make for Waukegan, about ten miles in an easterly direction. In between lay farmland, woods, lakes, marshes, and rivers. Mr. Ostrander must have had a hard walk from Evanston.

  I carefully searched the yew hedge that abutted the gate until I found a likely gap and then squeezed through backward, wrapping my arms around Sarah so that the stiff branches would not scratch her. I almost fell into the ditch on the other side of the hedge but caught my balance in time and edged along it until I reached the gate again.

  The night was still, if not silent. There was sufficient light from the stars and a half-moon to see the road, crooked into a right angle at the Farm’s gate. Far off I could see Mr. Ostrander’s former home, dark and silent now. Around me were fields of low-growing crops, stretching away into the darkness and offering no hedgerows in which I could hide if I were followed. If Martin did not come, I doubted that I could get to safety before dawn.