The House of Closed Doors

by Jane Steen

  “Come out to the garden, Mr. Rutherford,” I said with my most dignified air and then spoiled the effect by adding, “Oh, that’s no use. We’ll either be in the blazing sun or eaten up by mosquitoes. Come up to the parlor, and I’ll tell you Mrs. Lombardi’s news.” I peered at Sarah, who yawned, showing a tongue smeared with mashed cake.

  “Oh, don’t worry about the little darlin’, Miss.” Bet stifled a belch behind a freckled hand. “I’ll make a little nest of cushions on the blanket, and Marie will watch over us both as I take my nap.” She looked longingly at her large armchair. Marie breathed the faintest of sighs and stuck out her underlip just a little, but not so that Bet could see her. I rose from my chair and headed for the parlor, Martin close behind me.

  FORTY

  When we reached the parlor, I excused myself for a minute and went to peer around Mama’s door. She was asleep in her chaise longue, a faint sheen of perspiration on her face. Her dainty hands and small, narrow feet were carefully bundled up to keep them warm. A faint breeze entered from the window, but it must have been at least eighty degrees in the room. I felt my brow furrow into a frown as I crept as quietly as possible down the stairs.

  Martin was sitting in my mother’s chair, his long legs looking incongruous as they stuck out from its plush depths. He was still in shirtsleeves, his hair tousled where he had been running his fingers through it as he often did when thinking.

  “Hiram poked fun at Mrs. Lombardi,” I said without preamble as soon as I was in the room. “He said she was too lenient with the inmates, that she ought not to be running the Women’s House. Did you know, he and some of the other governors want to move the feeble-minded inmates to another institution? They say that they are too slow to work properly and should be in a place where all of ‘their kind’ can be looked after together. I heard him telling Mama.”

  “I would not think Mrs. Lombardi would ever allow such a thing to happen.” Martin’s eyes were sympathetic.

  “That’s just the thing. I don’t think she would. But I do think Mr. Schoeffel would agree to the scheme‌—‌he is always ready to pander to the governors’ whims. And they have not yet chosen a superintendent. I think Mr. Schoeffel would like that post.”

  “And what else does Mrs. Lombardi have to say?” Martin stretched his legs and yawned behind his hand. “You said that she had news.”

  “Tess misses me dreadfully.” I sat down on the red velvet settee, feeling my shoulders slump in dejection. I also missed Tess. Although no great conversationalist, she had a way of saying droll and direct things that made me smile or gave me cause to reflect.

  And my mood was not improved by the lack of useful employment in our well-run home. In truth, I was bored. I longed for real work. At the Poor Farm there had been a constant list of items of clothing or bed linen to be made or mended, and I had directed Tess and Edie in their work as well. My days had been full and lively, from the communal face-washing and bed-making in the morning to evening prayer. Despite the plain food, the bizarre behavior of some of the inmates and the lack of privacy that I had experienced there, I found that I missed my erstwhile place of confinement.

  I ran my fingers over the very small ruffles on the front of my mourning dress and found myself wishing that I were wearing the cheap calico I had sewn myself for summer at the Farm. What good was my finery? I hardly dared go out in Victory for fear of people asking impertinent questions and staring hard at Sarah, trying to divine the identity of her father. It was fortunate that her baby fat obscured her features and that in most lights her eyes were still more blue than green. I was surprised that Martin had not yet made the connection with Jack; but I supposed that gentlemen did not pay close attention to the eyes of their male acquaintances.

  “I am going to Chicago tomorrow and spending a few days there,” Martin announced, shifting his position so that he could draw his legs up and lean forward. “To look at winter wools, hats, all the furbelows of the season, you know. And I will make a point of calling on one of the police commissioners‌—‌State Street will probably be the closest.”

  I felt a sudden jolt of fear and hope. “Are they likely to believe you? They may not even need to see me.”

  “Perhaps. I really do not know. I have little experience in the realm of murder. Nell, however you may feel, please do not let your mood affect your Mama. Hiram will be off on his travels soon, is that not what Bet said? Even if you are finding life in Victory dull, you are reunited with your mother, and you must make the most of this time together.”

  I nodded without speaking, looking at Martin from under my lashes. His face was grave. I knew what he thought, and I feared it too. Mama was getting worse.

  FORTY-ONE

  My stepfather’s face also held an expression of concern whenever he looked at Mama, but that did not stop him from setting off to North Carolina. He did, though, leave earlier than he had expected and promised to be back soon. For Mama’s sake I imprinted a cold kiss on his cheek as he took his leave of us.

  And then he was gone, and Martin was away, and Mama and I sat and talked all day, mostly about Sarah. As active and wayward as my daughter was becoming, she seemed to behave more calmly when she sat on her grandmother’s lap. She would sit for several minutes at a time gazing solemnly into Mama’s eyes and then favor her with one of her dimpled, carefree smiles. When she was not with my mother, I had learned to read that smile as a forewarning of mischief; it often preceded a sudden lunge or, if she were on the floor, a surprisingly fast roll toward the object of her desires. If she could not get the object into her mouth, she would pull on it, hard. The long, fringed cloths that had previously been draped over all the tables had now been replaced with rectangles of damask, while my mother’s china knickknacks moved from the tables onto the shelves. And I had learned not to turn my back on my baby daughter for a second. She was, as Bet declared, “a rare ’un.”

  And then, one morning, Mama found that she did not care to get out of bed. Bet was pinning her hat onto her bushy hair almost before the word “doctor” came out of my mouth.

  “Shouldn’t you send Marie?” Respectable housekeepers did not run errands if they had a subordinate to do them.

  “I’ll be quicker and a sight more persuasive.” Bet spoke rapidly as she fumbled with the buttons of her gloves. I nodded. As stout as Bet was, she could walk very fast, and no doctor would dare claim to her face that he was too busy to see Mama. “I’ll take the trail through the woods.” I listened to her boots clatter their way down to the gate, thinking only after she had gone that maybe she should have asked Mr. Drehler for a loan of his buggy. She was following the path my father had taken all those years ago.

  “Bet has gone for the doctor,” I said as lightly as I could when, having tended to Sarah, I was able to return to Mama’s side.

  She smiled her usual radiant smile, although her face was pale and her eyes tired. “Nell, you are such a goose. I am merely rather sleepy and stupid this morning. The hot weather does not suit me; I am sure that when the fall arrives I will feel much better.”

  But the doctor shook his head at me when he left Mama’s room and closed the door. And Mama did not leave her bed the next day or the day after that.

  My newfound status as an adult did not prevent me from flying for comfort into Martin’s arms when he came to see us. He held me tight to him for a brief moment and then pushed me gently away, dabbing at my cheeks with his large, clean handkerchief.

  “She wanders in her mind.” My voice was hoarse with suppressed tears. “Sometimes she thinks my father is still alive.”

  “Has anyone sent for Hiram?”

  I shook my head. “We‌—‌we‌—‌he left no forwarding address at the store. Martin, I always thought he was going to North Carolina on store business, but they know nothing of the purpose of his travels. Only that he goes there often, usually when there is a large bill to be paid. What do you think it means?”

  Martin was leading the way up the stairs towa
rd my mother’s bedroom. He stopped at the door, looking down at me.

  “It may mean nothing‌—‌or everything. Nell, he never gave himself away as a killer until you faced him down. Who knows what other secrets he may have?”

  The cheerful expression that Martin had kept on his face faded as soon as he stepped out of my mother’s room and shut the door gently. “She’s settling to sleep.”

  I bounced Sarah on my arm and shushed her. The loud crowing sounds she was making became soft gurgles, and I turned away from the door and led the way downstairs.

  “I spoke to the police commissioner in Chicago,” said Martin as soon as he had shut the parlor door.

  I nodded, but his words barely penetrated my brain. Just a few days ago it had seemed so important to bring Hiram to justice. Now all my energies were concentrated into one thought. Please, Mama, get better. Do not leave me.

  “He was interested in what I had to say and did not disbelieve me.” Martin seemed to be talking just for the sake of it. “He has no jurisdiction up here, you understand, but he says he will send a reliable man‌—‌not a police officer but some kind of private agent‌—‌to look into the matter.”

  I felt a vague sense of relief. If the worst happened… if Mama… then there might be some hope left of staying safe from Hiram. If he thought I was friendless, what might he do? There was Martin, of course, but Hiram misjudged Martin. He held the opinion that most of the town’s menfolk had of my old friend and did not see the strength that hid behind Martin’s impeccable clothing and urbane manners. No, I did not think Hiram would give a thought to Martin if he decided to be rid of me and Sarah.

  “So that is where things stand? We must simply wait?” It seemed that I was waiting all the time now. I spent hours at a stretch at Mama’s side, talking to her when she seemed lucid and listening to her vague mutterings, or her soft breathing, when she sank into torpor. Bet and I shifted her around in her bed, gave her sips of water or broth, and sat her on the chamber pot at regular intervals.

  Bet suggested a nurse, but I refused quite angrily until she finally persuaded me to allow a woman to attend Mama at night. Marie was doing all of the cooking and cleaning now, so I suppose my meals were rather plain, but I did not take heed of them.

  “I will be at your side as you wait, Nell.” Martin clasped my hand and squeezed it hard.

  “Yes.” I tipped my head up to smile at Martin. “I am glad you are my friend, Martin. A better friend than I was to you when your mother… but of course I was indisposed.”

  Despite our sadness, Martin’s face broke into a broad grin, and he reached out to stroke Sarah’s cheek. “Take comfort in your little indisposition,” he said. “She has brought great joy to your mother. It’s strange, isn’t it? The greatest gift you could have given her stemmed from your disgrace. It’s enough to make me start going to church.”

  FORTY-TWO

  The small silver-gilt clock on Mama’s nightstand ticked so softly that I usually never noticed it. Now, after an hour of sitting by my mother’s bedside listening to the faint wheeze of her breath, the tick of that clock became a torment to me. I was just considering whether I should move it outside until it wound down when Mama opened her eyes.

  “Hiram? My dear, it is late. You should be in bed.”

  “It’s me, Mama. Nell. And it’s just two o’clock, you know. See? It’s still light outside.” I shifted the pillows until Mama seemed more comfortable; she almost had to be sitting upright to breathe easily.

  “Nell. Where is my husband?”

  “Still in North Carolina, Mama. Remember? We cannot find an address to let him know‌—‌“ I bit my lip. I had been about to say, “that you are dying.” For there was no doubt in my mind by now. The doctor and Bet had done their best to prepare me. And Martin, who by now was visiting us three times a day, had sat with me for a long hour in the parlor and let me question him about his own mother’s deathbed. Strangely enough, that had relieved my mind. The only deaths I had ever seen till then had taken the shape of two small, wizened bodies and a tarpaulin-covered form. The other deaths‌—‌my father’s, my brother’s‌—‌had happened, as it were, offstage, and I knew so little about them. Mysterious death, sinister death. To hear Martin describe Ruth’s departure in simple, practical words had removed some of the frightening unknownness of what was about to confront me.

  Mama struggled to moisten her lips, and I held the water glass so that she could take a sip. I was glad that the heat had abated a little, although the much-needed rain had not fallen.

  Mama’s gaze had fallen upon my hand, and it took me a moment to understand that she was staring at my ring. “Emmie’s ring,” she whispered. “It never leaves Hiram’s pocket.”

  “He gave it to me, Mama. Remember? Because of Sarah. So that I could tell people I was married.” I hoped that Mama would remember about Sarah and the circumstances of her birth. I did not want to have to explain it. Putting it into words made it sound worse.

  “She had a baby.” Mama had shut her eyes, wandering in the past as she often did now. “Dead, like my little boy. But they said‌—‌“ she took a few deep breaths, struggling like a diver for the little air that could enter her lungs, “things. I remember that your father told me.” She smiled, her eyes still closed, and her voice strengthened so that she sounded almost like herself. “Strange. I had quite forgotten. To think that so long ago we talked about Hiram, never knowing that he and I would be joined as one.”

  I shuddered, thinking of the fate I hoped lay in store for Hiram. At least Mama would not know.

  There was silence for several minutes, and I thought Mama had drifted off to sleep again. I was startled when she spoke, her eyes still closed.

  “They said that Hiram paid the midwife.”

  “What do you mean, Mama?”

  “To destroy the child in the hope that Emmie might live. And she did survive the birth, but the fever took her. My poor Hiram.” Her brow creased into deep furrows. “But perhaps it was wrong… to destroy the child. And it was just a rumor, after all. Just talk, Jack.”

  I jumped but then realized she meant my father. I did not want to correct her‌—‌let her think he was in the room with us. Perhaps he was.

  Mama began talking again, but I could not distinguish the words well. I leaned back in my armchair, listening for the faint sounds in the house, and after a while I half-dozed. I thought I was at the Farm again, looking out of the workroom window at Hiram getting out of the carriage. His large form loomed over the frail old man with him. I saw Hiram’s power, the power to do what he wished with people, because we were all weaker than he‌—‌smaller, older, less capable in mind, less able to summon help. My imagination conjured up a picture of Emmie‌—‌I saw her as small, childlike, and blonde, and maybe I was seeing Jo too‌—‌whimpering in pain as a small, bloody shape was pulled out of her…

  I jerked upright in my chair. Some noise had awoken me‌—‌was it Mama? No, I could hear her breathing, the wet sound that her overtaxed lungs sometimes made. I would have to adjust the way she was laying. Then I realized what I had heard. Voices. Bet’s brogue, rising and falling like the sound of the sea‌—‌and in counterpoint, a bass rumble. Hiram was home.

  Bet must have explained everything, because when Hiram entered the room he did not ask any questions. I nodded a greeting, and he grunted in return, fixing me with a look of distaste in his cold blue eyes. I hastily stood up from the armchair and motioned him to come forward. The smell of cigars wafted over me as he took my place, lifting my mother’s small, cold hand and gazing at her intently.

  I moved around to other side of the bed. “I will move her up a little more,” I said. “Her breathing is rough‌—‌propping her up usually helps.”

  For a moment my stepfather glared at me. And then Mama made a small sound in her sleep, a tiny moan, and his expression changed. Nodding, he lifted Mama gently while I rearranged the pillows so that she would be comfortable. I watched him la
y her back as carefully as if she’d been made of glass and wondered if he could really be the ruthless killer I took him for.

  “Thank you.” Hiram’s tone was even, with little warmth but with no hostility either. “I will sit by her now, if you would please leave us alone.” He sat in the armchair and gathered Mama’s hand into his, running his thumb gently along the back of her hand and leaning forward to kiss her forehead. I backed away from the bed and turned to go downstairs.

  Mama did not wake again. Hiram talked to her, for hours at a stretch, in a low whisper that made it impossible for me to hear him through the closed door. Were they words of love? Simple small talk to comfort her with his presence? Or a confession?

  He allowed me to sit in the room with him for much of the last, peaceful forty-eight hours. I drew one of Mama’s dainty chairs up to the other side of the bed, and we each held one of her hands. Any animosity that existed between us was suspended as we listened to Mama’s breathing grow gradually harsher and more difficult. In the last few hours there were terrifying halts in her breathing; each time I would look mutely at Hiram and he, apparently more accustomed to deathbeds, would shake his head. It was not yet time.

  When the moment came when her breathing stopped and did not return, Bet was sharing our vigil. Marie had been summoned two hours before to say goodbye to her mistress but had dissolved into blubbering tears, and Bet had soon sent her away, with Sarah in her arms, to wait in the kitchen.

  Martin had come too about an hour earlier and had kissed Mama’s cheek and bade her farewell with simple gravity. Hiram was in the room; otherwise, I think I would have hugged Martin to me for comfort. He had been through this just a year before with his own mother, and I had not been there, and now I hated that thought. I followed Martin out of the bedroom, and Bet and I both accompanied him to the door.