Fire Walk

by Melissa Bowersock

  “An example?” Lacey echoed. “How?”

  Winona toyed with her teacup. “Back then,” she said, “things were different for women. For girls. We were expected to obey our fathers, then our husbands. We weren’t expected to have strong opinions or different views. I remember one time when I was seventeen or eighteen, and I liked a boy that had drifted into town and was driving the delivery truck for the grocer. He was older, had a way about him. And he smoked. My father forbid me to see him. When I protested, he told me I’d better watch myself or I’d end up in an institution like Harmony Stowe.”

  “Wow,” Lacey said softly. “That’s quite a threat.”

  “It was,” Winona said with a nod, “but not unusual. You have to remember, this was before World War II, before Rosie the Riveter or any of that. Women were expected to marry, bear children and keep the house, and to do it all without complaint. And to leave everything else to the men.”

  “You never told me that,” Hazel said. The shock in her voice sounded almost accusatory.

  Winona shrugged. “Why would I? It was a long time ago.”

  “But Grampa…”

  “He was different by the time you came along. He’d mellowed a lot by then.”

  Hazel searched her mother’s face, still not quite ready to believe. Lacey guessed there’d be some intent family discussion after she and Sam left.

  “So where was Harmony sent?” she asked, guiding them all back to the subject at hand. “This place in Westbrook?”

  “Hillhaven,” Winona said. “It’s a place up on a hill above town. The little bit of elevation was supposed to provide a healthier climate. People with TB would go there, or women who were depressed or… unruly. After the war, it became more of a nursing facility for men with shellshock. I think it’s a retreat now?” She looked to her daughter for confirmation.

  “It’s a spa,” Hazel said. “An expensive one, too.”

  “Quite an evolution,” Lacey said. She wondered how many of the old records would still be around. “So I’m guessing that the Calders would have been the ones who committed her. It sounds like they became her legal guardians after her parents died.”

  “I expect so,” Winona said. “I never really thought about it.”

  “So after the church burned down, they tried to rebuild it but it burned down again, and that’s when they decided to build up on Second Avenue instead, correct?”

  Winona nodded.

  “And Reverend Calder moved to the new location as well?”

  “Yes. He was there until the early forties, I think. Reverend Parcells came in when I was about fifteen or so.”

  Lacey jotted notes. “Do you know where the Calders went?”

  Winona pursed her lips, pondering. “Up north somewhere, I think. Vermont? New Hampshire? I don’t know.”

  “All right. Probably not important.” She looked over her notes. She couldn’t think of anything else, and she raised her eyebrows to Sam.

  “What would people say about Harmony’s actions?” he asked Winona. “Why she burned the church down?”

  The old woman shrugged. “She was crazy. Ungodly. Why would anyone burn a church down?”

  “Of course,” Sam said. “Well, I think you’ve given us enough to move forward. We’ll visit Hillhaven and see what we can find there. Thank you all for talking to us.”

  Lacey clicked off her recorder and stuffed that and her notebook in her pack. She slid a business card to Winona.

  “Just in case anything else comes to mind.”

  Winona picked up the card and peered at it. As Sam and Lacey stood to go, she put out a thin hand and clasped Lacey’s arm.

  “You help that girl,” she said in a surprisingly strong voice.

  Lacey nodded solemnly. “We will.”

  ~~~

  NINE

  Lacey drove the road to Westbrook while Sam held the map and navigated. The two-lane highway snaked through forest and fields, darting in and out of small towns almost before they could read the names. Lacey made sure to obey any posted speed limits, though, just in case the small town police were having a slow day.

  “It’s amazing how different this is,” Lacey said. “In California—and especially in Arizona—we can see for miles in any direction. Here, all we can see is to the trees beside the road. The only place it opens up is when there are fields and farms.”

  “I don’t think I’d like to live here,” Sam said. “I’d feel claustrophobic if I couldn’t see the horizon.”

  “Me, too. Yet for the people who have lived here all their lives, this is normal.”

  “I wonder if Winona’s ever been anywhere else?”

  “No telling,” Lacey said. “She’s a tough old bird, I think, even though she looks frail. It makes me wonder how it was for her, all those years buckling under to the men in her life. Ugh.” She shuddered with the thought.

  “It was a different time, for sure,” Sam agreed. He angled his head her way and arched a dark eyebrow at her. “Although maybe it would be a good idea. I make all the decisions and you do whatever I say? That would work, right?”

  “Not,” Lacey said firmly. She rolled her eyes. “How was that even possible in the twentieth century? The eighteenth, yeah, but the twentieth?”

  “I dunno.” He glanced at the map. “Westbrook is the next town. Turn right on Hillhaven Drive.”

  The road to the facility cut off just before town and wound a circuitous way up the slope. The sun winked in and out as Lacey drove the tree-canopied lane. Occasionally she could see the large two-story edifice above them.

  “This is some place,” she said as she gained the summit and pulled into a large parking lot. From the top of the hill, they could see in all directions, the forest rolling down and away, revealing only a tiny bit of town between the trees below.

  The building was an imposing brick rectangle with two rows of windows across the front. An effort had been made to gentrify the utilitarian construction; the exterior was painted a soft beige with burgundy trim. The double doors sported a burgundy canopy over the front walk, and lush flowerbeds added color to the base of the building. A wooden sign was carved with ornate script letters.

  Hillhaven Spa and Resort

  “I’ve been thinking about how to handle this,” Lacey said as she parked the car. “Since this was a medical facility at the time we’re concerned with, they might not be open to sharing their records—if they even have them that far back. I’ve been thinking of doing an end-around.”

  “I’m listening,” Sam said.

  “Genealogy. I know it’s possible to get old records online—birth certificates, for example—without proving a family connection. The supplier just says the certificate is not official, and it has no crimp or seal from the place of register. I think if we go at it from that angle, they might be more likely to accommodate us.”

  Sam nodded. “Sounds good to me. You lead and I’ll follow.”

  “What?” Lacey asked with a saucy smile. “You’ll do what I say?”

  “This time,” he warned. His eyes danced. “Come on.”

  They strolled up the canopied walkway and Sam pulled open the front door to allow Lacey in first. The entry was dim compared to the bright sunlight outside, but glowed with the muted light from tiffany-style lamps on the tables in the waiting area. A deep burgundy carpet muffled their footfalls as they approached the front counter where a model-thin woman awaited them. She wore black slacks, a stark white blouse with a black shoestring tie.

  “Welcome to Hillhaven,” she said. Her dark eye shadow and scarlet lipstick reminded Lacey of a Robert Palmer music video. “How may I help you?”

  “Hi,” Lacey said, leaning on the counter. “I’ve got a rather unusual request. I’m doing some genealogy research and I found that a relative of mine was institutionalized here in the late 1920s. I’m trying to find out what her condition was, why she was here. I’m concerned with medical conditions that could be hereditary.”

  “Oh
.” The woman blinked at her, clearly surprised. “Uh, I’m not sure…”

  “I understand this was a sort of sanitarium back then, treating all kinds of medical issues. Is there anyone here who could help me with this?” She smiled hopefully.

  “Uh, well, let me see. Just a moment.”

  “Thanks,” Lacey said.

  The woman disappeared through a door behind the counter.

  “Some digs, huh?” Lacey asked in a low voice. “Did you see the chandelier?”

  Above the entry was a multiple-armed chandelier, layered in hanging crystals that refracted the light from eight flame-shaped bulbs. The slight movement of the air from the air conditioning kept the crystals shimmering.

  The back door opened and the Palmer woman returned, followed by an older woman in a gray suit. She stepped up to the counter.

  “Hello. I’m Suzanne Whitman, the associate director. I understand you’re looking for information?” She extended her hand.

  “Yes,” Lacey said, shaking her hand. “Family medical information. I hope you can help me with that. I’m Lacey Fitzpatrick, and this is my husband, Sam Firecloud.”

  “Won’t you come into my office?” Suzanne lifted the countertop where it bridged a gap so Lacey and Sam could pass through. She led them into her office and motioned toward padded chairs in front of her desk.

  “I’m not sure that I can,” she said, “but we’ll see what we can do.” She pulled up a keyboard and poised her fingers over it. “Who are we looking for?”

  “Her name is Harmony Stowe. She was sent here from Meadeview between July of 1927 and June of 1928. She was seventeen years old, and by all accounts was deemed emotionally unstable.”

  Suzanne typed in the name, but frowned as she did so. “Late twenties? I’m not sure we’ll be able to find anything that old.” She hit the enter button and perused the screen as the computer responded. “How are you related?”

  “Oh, she’s a cousin, third or fourth or something—I can never keep it straight. My great-grandmother was her mother’s sister.” Lacey hoped her fib sounded convincing. She hadn’t taken the time to figure out an exact relationship.

  Suzanne’s eyes darted back and forth across the screen, and she scrolled with the mouse. “No, I’m sorry. We don’t have anyone by that name in our database.” She turned back toward Lacey and folded her arms on the desk.

  “I was worried about that,” Lacey said. “I was told Hillhaven had several types of patients over the years: TB patients, disturbed women, shellshocked soldiers from World War II. When these transitions occurred, were the old records stored anywhere? I can’t imagine they’d be thrown out.”

  “Oh, my, no,” Suzanne said forcefully. “Absolutely not.” She tapped one manicured finger on the desktop and studied Lacey’s hopeful face. “There’s only one place I can think of.” She took a pen and a square of note paper from her lap drawer. “Are you local? I can see if we can find something and get back to you in a few days.”

  “Oh,” Lacey breathed, clearly crestfallen. “No. We live in Los Angeles, and our time here is limited. I had so hoped we could find something while we’re here. It’s been quite a journey just coming this far.” She pled with her eyes.

  Suzanne hesitated, pen poised. Finally she pushed the pen and paper aside and got a set of keys from her drawer. “Come with me,” she said, pushing to her feet. “But if we don’t find it where I think we will, I’m afraid any other search would take a considerably longer time.”

  Lacey and Sam followed her out through the entry and into a large sitting area that fronted the dining room. On the opposite side, a hallway led down the length of the building.

  “We keep talking about digitizing these old records,” she said as she strode down the hall, “but there never seems to be a call for them, so we just don’t do it.” She went clear to the end of the hall, to the last door, and unlocked it with her key. The heavy door opened only with effort, but she pushed it back to allow them in. Once inside, she let the door close behind them.

  “Oh,” Lacey sighed. The room’s walls were covered on three sides by standing five-drawer filing cabinets. Above them were layers of banker’s boxes, and several crowded a table behind the door as well.

  “You can see why we choose not to address this,” Suzanne said. “It’s rather daunting.”

  “Yes, I see that,” Lacey said. “Is there an order to them? Alphabetical or chronological?”

  “Actually, yes. They are organized by date.” She moved to the left wall and pulled the top drawer of the first cabinet. “See this has records for 1943. I believe that’s when the facility was converted for war vets.” The small labels on the front of the drawers confirmed that. “Here’s 1944, ’45…” She moved down the row of cabinets.

  “What about the boxes?” Lacey asked. She stepped up to the first cabinet and stood on tiptoes to read the faded writing on the boxes. “Does this say 1929?”

  Suzanne joined her and peered at the spidery handwriting. “I believe it does. Here’s 1924, ’26, ’23.”

  “And 1927,” Lacey said. She began to pull the heavy box forward. It weighed a ton.

  “Let me get that,” Sam said. He stepped forward and wrestled the heavy box down. Suzanne cleared a spot on the table and Sam set the box there.

  “Oh, my,” Suzanne said. She blew years’ worth of dust from the top of the box, then pulled off the lid.

  The box was jammed with manila envelopes, none with tabs to make identification easy, and most overflowing with papers not neatly organized, the ragged, stained corners jutting out in odd directions.

  “Hmm,” Suzanne said. She pulled a file from the center and had to open up the folder to see an intake sheet stapled to the inside. “This is an M. These should be alphabetized.” She shoved the file back in where she got it from and pulled one closer to the back. “That’s a T,” she said. Again she traded the unwanted file for a new one. She flipped open the folder. “Harmony Stowe.”

  “Oh, great,” Lacey said. She huddled up over Suzanne’s shoulder to read the intake sheet.

  “Admitted August 5, 1927,” Suzanne read. “Referred by Emmitt Calder.”

  “Referred,” Lacey snorted. “That’s a new way of saying committed. Does it say what her diagnosis was?”

  Suzanne read down the sheet. “Reason for admittance: lying in.”

  “Lying in?” Lacey’s shock was evident in her voice.

  “What’s that?” Sam asked. He, too, crowded behind Suzanne to peer at the record.

  “That’s an archaic way of saying she was expecting.” Lacey met Sam’s eyes. “Harmony was pregnant.”

  “Yes, I believe you’re right,” Suzanne said. “There’s no other notation about any other condition, mental, emotional or otherwise.” She smiled at Lacey. “So it looks like there’s no history of instability in your family, at least not in this line.”

  “What? Oh, yes, that’s good to know.” Lacey remembered her little white lie and quickly switched gears. “But now it seems I have a new relative. Does it say when the baby was born?”

  “Let’s see.” Suzanne riffled through the pages of the file. “Yes, here it is. Born January 29, 1928, a baby girl. Claire Gabrielle Stowe.”

  Lacey set her pack down and got out her phone. “Can I take a picture of that? And the intake sheet?”

  “Yes, of course.” Suzanne checked the last few sheets. “Harmony was discharged in early April. Hmm, I wonder why so late…?” She flipped back to an earlier page. “Oh. How sad.”

  “Sad?” Lacey repeated. “What is it?”

  Suzanne read out loud. “‘At four days old, the infant developed a fever. Despite efforts to lower the temperature, the infant succumbed during the night.’” Suzanne looked up with sympathy. “I’m sorry.”

  Lacey leaned against the table, the weight of Harmony’s loss settling over her. That poor woman—girl. Banished from home to have her child among strangers, losing that child. Having no one.

  “She w
as kept on for a few months afterward for depression, it says. I’m not surprised. It could have been postpartum, or the grief at losing the child, or both.”

  “Does it say anywhere who the father was?”

  “I rather doubt it,” Suzanne said. “Let me see.” Again she shuffled pages. “No. I don’t see anything like that. I’m sorry.”

  Lacey nodded, still assimilating it all. Righteous anger at the injustice bubbled up inside. She could only imagine how she would have felt at the crass treatment, at the total loss of control over her own life. Pissed? That would have been an understatement. She raised her eyes to Sam’s. Yes, now she understood.

  “What happened to the baby?” Sam asked Suzanne. “Was there a graveyard here, or…?”

  “No, not here at Hillhaven.” She found another entry. “Down in Westbrook there’s a county cemetery. Yes, here it is.” She tapped the page. “Paupers’ Field.”

  “Paupers’ Field,” Sam repeated in a low voice. “For those with no money? No family?”

  “I’m afraid so,” Suzanne said. “And, in this kind of situation, unconsecrated ground.”

  “Condemned,” Lacey bit off. “Condemning the innocent through no fault of their own. Denying them any comfort, even in death.”

  Suzanne sighed. “Yes. I’m sorry. It was a different time.”

  “That’s for sure.” Lacey fumed, but caught herself. She moved up and touched Suzanne’s shoulder. “I apologize. It’s not your fault. It’s just that the injustice, the lack of compassion… it all makes my blood boil.”

  “I understand,” Suzanne said with a sad smile. “If it were my relative, it would anger me, too. I’m just sorry to be the bearer of bad news.”