The House of Closed Doors

by Jane Steen

  “How long?” he had asked Bet.

  “Not long, sir. But she’ll have an easy time of it, if I’m any judge. There’s been no pain as you could call it, just the usual discomforts‌—‌a little while longer and she’ll pass in her sleep, I’ll be bound.”

  Martin had dropped a brotherly kiss on my forehead and walked away, glancing back at the upper story of our house as he opened the gate. I watched him go and walked slowly back upstairs to measure out my adored mother’s last moments on this earth.

  The clock ticked as we all held our breath in the silence, waiting to know if Mama had finally passed into eternity. Hiram felt her hands and her neck, running his hands over them with an intent look of concentration. Then he looked up at Bet and nodded curtly. I sat paralyzed as the two of them swiftly removed all but one pillow from under Mama and gently lowered her into a reclining position. With the lightest of touches, surprising in so big a man, Hiram slid her eyelids over her half-closed eyes.

  I started as Bet produced a strip of cloth from one of her pockets and motioned to Hiram to help her close Mama’s mouth, which had fallen slightly open with her last breath, and bind her jaw. “Bet‌—‌“ I did not want to see my mother lying there with a bound face, as if she had the toothache.

  “It’s only for a short while, Miss. If you don’t do it straightaway, it becomes difficult later, you see? By the time we have laid her out, we’ll be able to take it off and make her beautiful.”

  “Laid her out.” I looked with trepidation at the still form on the bed.

  “Well, you’ll want to do it with me, won’t you, Miss? I’d hardly want to have that weak-hearted Marie helping me and crying all over poor Mrs. Jackson.” She turned to Hiram. “If you could go for the doctor and the undertaker, sir, Miss Nell and I will manage just fine.”

  FORTY-THREE

  Bet kindly left me alone with Mama for a few minutes, but I had little to say to the quiet face in its binding whose expression somehow settled into a deeper stillness as I watched. When Bet returned, I was ready to find relief in action.

  For the next two hours Bet had me working alongside her in a purposeful hush of whispered voices. Moving mechanically under her direction, I felt calm and almost peaceful; yet I could scarcely believe that my mother had come to the end of her life at not even forty years of age. Still, I recalled, she had lived longer than my father.

  Bet labored steadily and efficiently, showing me what to do and explaining every step in detail. I felt terribly shy about seeing my mother’s nakedness, but the way Bet arranged things there was no undignified exposure, nothing but gentle respect and love. Indeed, I had never loved this stout, hot-tempered woman so well as when I saw her lovingly wash my mother’s still-warm skin with a glow of tenderness in her brown eyes.

  “Have you done this many times?” I ventured to ask.

  “A few, Miss. First time was helping Ma with my little sister when I was twelve. The diphtheria took her. Ah, and a bonny mite she was, just a little over two years old. I pretended to myself for a while that I was playing with a big, curly-haired doll. It helped me bear it.”

  How little I knew her, I thought.

  And how well she knew me. As horrified as I would have been at the thought of laying out my own mother’s body had I been given time to think about it, there was something peaceable about this form of leave-taking. I had always found hard work easier to bear than idleness, and although I had been unable to shed a tear so far, my hot eyes and aching head felt much better by the time we had Mama attired in her best nightgown and resting in a clean bed. We braided her hair, pale gold in the lamplight, and tied it with a plain, dark-blue ribbon. With the binding cloth removed, her face looked so young, so pretty, that you could imagine her as a young bride waiting for her bridegroom.

  The doctor came and went, and the undertaker; given the hot weather we agreed that there would be only the briefest of visitations and that Mama would be buried the next day. So till late in the night Hiram and I held court in our parlor, receiving a steady stream of visitors while Bet and Marie were kept busy dispensing the refreshments that seemed to appear from nowhere, brought by the women of Victory I supposed.

  Hiram’s face was drawn but expressionless; whatever was going on in his mind was shuttered off as he responded with careful correctness to the speeches of condolence, his handsome visage composed into an expression of reverent sorrow. I was too busy to pay much attention to him, and by the time the last of the visitors left, I had fallen, exhausted, into my own bed. I barely had time to whisper “goodnight” into the darkness, in the direction of Mama’s resting place, before sleep took me.

  FORTY-FOUR

  We buried Mama on a hot, windy day in late September 1871. What little grass grew in Victory’s graveyard was parched and yellow from weeks of drought, and the wind whipped dust from the mounded clumps of soil heaped up in preparation for the burial. From where I stood next to Hiram, my tears hidden under my heavy veil, I could see the simple, dignified double grave of my father and little brother. That was where Mama should lie, I thought. But Hiram‌—‌who assumed the role of grieving widower with aplomb‌—‌had purchased a more prestigious spot for them both and had given instructions for an elaborate grave marker in the shape of an angel.

  Two days after the funeral, Hiram left for North Carolina again.

  I was glad of it. I had been avoiding him assiduously whenever he was in the house and had invited Martin to dine with us twice in a row so that I would not be alone with my stepfather. So I kept my eyes on my plate as Martin occupied Hiram with political small talk and made sure I escaped to bed before Martin was out of the house. And then, even with my door locked, I slept badly.

  To make things worse, now that Mama was gone, I was nominally in charge of the running of the household and responsible for my stepfather’s comfort. That was intolerable.

  “I will have to leave.” I paced the floor of the parlor just as if I had been Hiram, the black silk of my dress swishing gently around my feet. Martin was seated in Hiram’s chair, having just partaken of afternoon tea with me. The room was lamplit, as the drapes remained half-closed‌—‌Bet would not have it otherwise. At least she had taken the covers off the mirrors.

  “And go where?” Martin leaned forward and counted off the possibilities on his fingers. “If you stay in Victory, Hiram will simply demand that you come home and resume your responsibilities as the lady of the house. Unless you marry?” He smiled at me sideways, his eyes twinkling with amusement as I shook my head vigorously. “You cannot go to Mrs. Lombardi, as Hiram will hear of it. You could go to your relatives in the East, I suppose.”

  I suppressed a mild epithet as my foot caught in a loose fold of carpet, and I only saved myself from falling flat on my face by an undignified hop. Recovering myself, I tried to keep my voice steady and neutral as I replied. “That course of action is not to my taste, Martin. I am not particularly fond of my cousins.”

  “Do you intend to run away to Chicago, then? And live on what? Although,” he leaned back as an idea struck him, “it would not be entirely impractical. If we could find you a respectable woman to stay with, I could give you enough money to live on until you find employment of some kind. It will not be easy, of course, not with a baby.”

  I laughed. “I have a little money to start with.” I withdrew my bunch of keys‌—‌Mama’s keys, passed to me upon her death as a token of my new responsibilities‌—‌and opened the heavy glass-fronted cabinet where Mama had kept a miscellaneous assortment of porcelain figurines. Lifting a lady in a voluminous pink dress, I withdrew the heavy purse hidden under her hollow skirts and gave it to Martin.

  “I always wondered why only Bet was allowed to dust this cabinet. Almost as soon as Hiram was out of the house after the funeral, she showed me its secret.”

  Martin grinned as he peered into the purse. “Nell, that is a respectable sum of money.” He tipped some of the silver dollars into his hand, scrutinizing them.
“Dated before the War… How did your mother come by them?”

  “My father gave them to her when I was very small. He had a theory that a woman should never depend entirely on her husband, it seems. So he began putting aside a dollar from time to time as soon as they were married.” I smiled. The link to my father was even more precious to me than the coins. “He told her to keep them close always, but Bet says he never asked where they were. He wanted the money to be entirely Mama’s.”

  Martin gave a shout of laughter. “I always did like Red Jack. And Aunt Amelia and Bet had this hidden in plain sight for all these years.” He retied the purse strings and handed it back to me.

  “I have already written to Mrs. Lombardi asking for her advice. She has many acquaintances within the institutions in Chicago. One of them may well need a seamstress… and they may accept Tess. Martin, if I can find a way to bring Tess along with me, I intend to. Like me, she needs broader horizons, and I‌—‌and I want my friend back.” I swallowed hard; I was not given to crying, but the last few days had weakened me.

  “One thing at a time, Nell.” Martin laid his large hand lightly on my shoulder. “Let’s think about finding you a place to live first. You have enough to tide you over while you seek employment, but you cannot make grand plans.” He squeezed my shoulder, shaking it gently. “Not if you are determined to remain independent.”

  FORTY-FIVE

  “I have heard from Mrs. Lombardi,” I hissed at Martin from beneath my heavy veil.

  “And good morning to you, Mrs. Govender.” Martin’s tall frame was set off well by the heavy mahogany counter in his store, and his hair glowed against the dark wood of the cubbies ranged behind him. He chucked Sarah under the chin; she blinked sleepily at him, as I had only just lifted her out of her new baby carriage.

  “Er‌—‌yes. Good morning.” I rolled my eyes heavenward. I certainly could not remain in Victory if I could not even remember my own married name. “I will need fifteen minutes of your time, Mr. Rutherford. We should discuss your crapes and bombazines.” I motioned a wave to Augusta Rudd and nodded politely as she sailed past me to the door with a hard stare at Sarah.

  “And a very good day to you, Miss Rudd,” Martin said dryly as the doorbell clanged against the rapidly closing door. “Now, Nell, speak fast before I am interrupted again. Or‌—‌“ he stuck his head through the door that led to the storeroom. “Hallo there! Bob! Come and mind the counter for a few minutes.”

  A youth of about fifteen popped out of the door like a rabbit from a hat and regarded me with insolent brown eyes.

  “I’ll thank you not to stare, Bobby Staley.” I hitched Sarah up in my arms and followed Martin into the large, neatly ranged back room. Bob pushed his tongue into the side of his mouth and was about to insert a grubby finger into one ear when he saw Martin’s glare and thought better of it.

  “Make yourself useful and roll the ribbons,” Martin called to Bob through the half-shut door. He waited to be sure that the boy complied with his instruction and then turned back to me.

  “Martin.” I threw up my veil, breathing in the mingled smells of linens, cottons, wools, and dye. “I have heard from Mrs. Lombardi. She is going to Chicago.”

  Martin raised his eyebrows, and I continued before he could speak. “She and her husband are going to talk with some minister or other about going out West. She says she is weary of fighting the governors’ plans for the Poor Farm, and in any case, her husband has been longing for the challenge of the frontier territories.”

  Martin shrugged. “Great opportunities out there, they say. So when will she arrive in Chicago?”

  “The third of October. They will stay for two weeks or so‌—‌the men will visit several of the local missionary organizations, and Mrs. Lombardi intends to shop and amuse herself with the children. But don’t you see, Martin? I can get away before Hiram comes home and wait for the Lombardis to arrive. They will stay at the Sherman House Hotel; I can afford to stay there for a short time, I am sure. And you will help me find something more permanent, will you not? I would feel so much better if the Lombardis are with me while I am finding my feet.”

  Martin closed his eyes and crossed his arms, evidently thinking through my plan. When he opened his eyes his expression was serious. “And what will you tell Bet and Marie?”

  I sighed. “Marie gave notice this morning, Martin. She wants to go home to help her mother with the new baby, and I said she could go at the end of the week. And Bet‌—‌well, I think that she would not stay on if I left. She could have retired years ago; she has money that her husband put in railroad stocks and has never spent much of her wages.” I smiled, feeling rueful. “It’s strange, Martin. I cannot afford to keep servants, but Bet could. She loved Mama too much to leave.”

  “And I will make a point of seeing Bet as soon as I return‌—‌as soon as I can do it without Hiram knowing.” Martin grinned. “Isn’t life complicated when we engage in deception, Nell?”

  I ducked my head in a nod. That was a lesson I had learned all too well in the last eighteen months.

  “You should not be seen leaving Victory with me,” Martin continued. We were speaking in hushed tones, but now he raised his voice. “Bob! Have I not told you enough times that when you have nothing else to do, the stairs and sidewalk should be swept? Get to it.” The jingle of the bell told me that Bob had complied.

  “I will have to come back here,” Martin continued, “and if I am seen with you, I will get trouble from Hiram. Listen. Take the river road as far as the portage landing. I’ll go round by the main road; there’s that stretch that branches off to the portage. How will you travel? By hired cart, I suppose. So it will take you four hours… I will be there before you. And carry a pistol. I will give you one.”

  I smiled, shaking my head. “I don’t know how to fire a gun, Martin. But I will take my father’s big horsewhip. Would Tuesday be too late, do you think? I dread Hiram coming home before I can leave.”

  “But if you leave on Saturday or Sunday, there will be more people on the road. Tuesday will be quiet. And Hiram has been gone less than a week. Unless it is an extremely brief visit, he will not return.”

  I nodded, but a small knot of worry curled itself into the bottom of my stomach. I had no idea what Hiram would do now.

  FORTY-SIX

  The smooth track ahead of me was scattered with leaves that had begun falling early, exhausted by the drought and already brown and crisp. The motion of the cart whipped them into rustling acrobatics, and the sound as they were crushed beneath the wheels provided a counterpoint to the steady rumbling of the cart and the regular thud of the horse’s feet on the cracked, parched mud. Overhead the sky was an even, rich blue without a trace of cloud; to my left the river, sluggish at its banks but fast and sparkling in the middle of its broad, brown expanse, added the occasional gurgle to the sounds all around me.

  I was not accustomed to handling a horse and cart, and it had taken some time for the tension in my shoulders to relax. I was driving a kind of small, lightweight dray, which I had chosen for the extra room‌—‌Sarah was asleep in a traveling basket wedged tightly between my two carpetbags‌—‌and because it had four wheels. I did not want to try rehitching the horse, should the occasion arise, into the shafts of a two-wheeler.

  I risked a quick glance behind me; Sarah was sleeping peacefully. I quickly returned my gaze to the road ahead. I had already learned that I was not a good enough horsewoman to keep the carthorse‌—‌even though he was a steady, sweet-tempered animal‌—‌fully under control while I shifted my weight round to look at the cart or the road behind me. If my father had lived, he would have made sure I could ride a horse and drive like an expert. But Mama had never thought of such a thing.

  Not being able to see behind me made me nervous, and I made sure Papa’s whip was by my side. I had twice been scared nearly out of my wits by a rider suddenly whisking past me, his approach masked by the noises of my surroundings. And now a hot breeze
rustled the tops of the trees, and the dust from the road was blowing in my face. And I wanted to look behind me, every minute.

  What was I afraid of? Robbers? I had little enough of value with me, just Mama’s purse of silver dollars that I had sewn into my skirts just under the waistband. It made a heavy lump that I could certainly feel, but it could not be seen by casual eyes.

  I scrubbed my hand impatiently over my face, cursing the dust. This was much harder than I had imagined. I thought longingly of our parlor, which suddenly seemed a haven of peace and comfort. I felt a pang in my breast as I thought of my parting from Bet; I wished I had been able to explain my plans, but if there was even the slightest chance of Hiram bullying them out of her, I did not want to risk it. Her face had looked drawn and lined as she assured me that she trusted me to do the right thing and hugged me as tightly as if I had been her own daughter.

  The horse stumbled slightly, and I felt my heart give an answering jolt. How long had I been on the road? My arms were sore from the unaccustomed position holding the reins, and my derrière was suffering from bouncing on the hard wooden bench. I realized I was not nearly such a country girl as I imagined myself.

  We jogged along for another interminable stretch, and I gradually reconciled myself to the fact that I would have to stop. I had no idea how far I had to go before we reached the portage landing. I thought I knew the road, but now every tree and bush seemed to resemble the next. We had passed the prettiest spot on the river a long while back, and I had grimaced at the sight of the clump of young willows that marked the end of my childhood and yet had given me the greatest gift I had ever known.

  Now the road was endless, and I was becoming increasingly uncomfortable. I was parched‌—‌why on earth had I stowed my water-flask in the bed of the cart instead of hanging it somewhere within reach?‌—‌and I needed to avail myself of the bushes. My mouth felt gritty, I had to keep blinking to clear the dust from my eyes, and my bladder was very aware of the bouncing motion beneath me. What’s more, Sarah was making the little noises that would eventually become a full-fledged roar of hunger.