The Locked Garden

by Gloria Whelan

  “I know the maples and the birches and the pines,” I said, “but there are trees I’ve never seen before.”

  “Whenever I take a trip, I send a tree back. Two years ago Mrs. Thurston and I traveled to Japan and China. This mulberry tree is grown in Japan, where its bark is used to make paper, and that mulberry tree over there is grown in China and its leaves are fed to the silkworms. Look here.” He led us to a strange willow tree whose branches were twisted into corkscrew shapes. “This tree grew from a twig I brought all the way from Nanking, keeping it watered while we traveled thousands of miles by cart and ship.”

  “But how did you get it up through the hole?” Carlie asked. Someone had once told her that China was at the bottom of the world and you had to dig right through the earth to the other side to get there.

  Dr. Thurston smiled. “Well, it wasn’t easy.” He gave the willow a friendly pat. “I have never seen such natural beauty as I saw in China. Willows are planted along the rivers so that their tresses lean over the water like women washing their hair.” His face reddened. “You have caught me in a poetic mood, children. I must beg you not to tell on me. Your father will think I am too much a romantic to be a scientist, but it gave me great pleasure to think of bringing back to my patients some of the beauty I had experienced.”

  We came upon the little garden with the iron fence and the fountain.

  Carlie, who had not heard Dr. Thurston’s explanation at the supper table, asked, “Why is the garden locked?”

  “Sadly, my dear, there are patients who are not well enough to roam freely. Yet it is important that they have the advantage of nature’s beauty. Nature, Carlie, is the mother that heals. Your father, fine scientist that he is, may look for a medicine to cure the terrible ills of the mind, but I say that we must surround our patients with beauty, and nature will do the rest.”

  Carlie was not to be put off by fine talk. “Is the hole you made to get to China still there?”

  “Ah, no. I’m afraid we had to fill it up so that no one would accidentally fall in.”

  After he left us, I thought over Dr. Thurston’s ideas. It was all very well for the gardeners who worked outside and for the patients who strolled along the paths of the asylum, but what of patients in the back wards and even those like Eleanor who were confined to long hours cooking and cleaning and didn’t have much chance to be cured by nature?

  I knew how much Eleanor missed being outside. She often spoke longingly of her family’s farm. The doctors had finally given her permission to make a visit to her parents, who lived close by, but Aunt Maude could not find a time when Eleanor was not badly needed, which was strange to me, for when speaking of Eleanor, Aunt Maude referred to her as “useless.” I did not see how she could be both necessary and useless.

  At the end of July Eleanor finally got to see her family, for Aunt Maude received a letter calling her away. The family that rented her house while she stayed with us was moving. She needed to return home for a week or two to see about preparing the house for new renters.

  “I don’t see how I can leave you,” she told Papa. “Eleanor will be no good at all without my supervision. You must not let her get into sloppy ways.”

  Papa assured her that we could manage. I said nothing at all, for I knew my pleasure at her leaving would show and Papa would not like that. Carlie said, “What if you get lost, Auntie Maude, and can’t find your way back?” Aunt Maude could not mistake the hope in Carlie’s voice. Carlie’s happy expression as she watched Aunt Maude pack and my eager offers of assistance must have told Aunt Maude that Carlie and I were looking forward to her leaving.

  Aunt Maude looked up from her packing and startled us by saying, “I’m afraid, girls, that I have not earned your affections.”

  I was embarrassed to see two tears start down her cheeks. I hurried to say, “Aunt Maude, I am sure we appreciate all you have done for us.”

  “It’s not appreciation I want, Verna.”

  Aunt Maude was asking for our love. Sometimes you are asked for something you might be able to give, but you will not give it. I have had two cookies in my hand while Carlie has gobbled down hers. When she pleaded for one of mine, I could have given it to her, but I told myself she didn’t deserve it. I said to myself now that Aunt Maude had not deserved my love, and when she asked for it, I was silent.

  Carlie, who was so greedy and must have everything she saw, stored it all up and gave it back without a thought. Now she thrust her stuffed rabbit at Aunt Maude, the rabbit that Carlie would not let out of her sight. “You can take Promise to keep you company,” she said.

  Aunt Maude smiled, the first real smile I remembered seeing on her face. “Thank you, Carlie. I won’t need the rabbit, for I will have the memory of your kindness.”

  Eleanor made herself very small and quiet, and we held our breaths until the day the carriage drove up and Aunt Maude, after many cautions to Eleanor and to me and Carlie, and after many false starts, reluctantly climbed in and was carried away.

  SIX

  Without Aunt Maude the house felt light, as if it might float away. Eleanor sang as she worked. Papa dared to smoke his pipe in the front parlor. I wore my hair loose around my shoulders instead of in the tight braids Aunt Maude insisted on, which pinched and made my head ache. Carlie stopped wearing shoes altogether. Eleanor baked our favorite chocolate cake with fudge frosting so thick, I could stick my finger into it all the way up to my second knuckle. Since there were only three of us at the dining room table, Papa told Eleanor to join us. She hesitated, but the second time Papa asked, she slipped shyly onto a chair.

  One evening after the supper dishes were done, I asked Eleanor if she would stay and sing while I played piano. At first she shook her head and only stood there, listening to me. The music must have been too much for her, for she kept time with her toe, and when I coaxed, she began to sing, quietly at first and then with all her heart. Carlie danced. Papa left his study and after a moment joined in the singing. For the first time since Mama had died, it felt like we were a family again.

  After that Eleanor stayed each evening and Papa stopped spending so much of his time on The Closed Door. At first we all sang Stephen Foster melodies and other familiar tunes, but Papa, who loved lieder, which was what he called German songs, taught Eleanor his favorites. Since she knew German to begin with, she caught on quickly. When it was time for Eleanor to go home, Carlie and I walked back to the asylum with her, singing all the way there and back. With Aunt Maude gone, our whole life had turned into music.

  Aunt Maude wrote every day, so we were always opening a letter from her to find a long list of what must be dusted and cooked and turned out and scrubbed. Papa and I dutifully read the letters and then folded them up and put them back into their envelopes, the way you might put your hand over the mouth of someone whose words you did not want to hear.

  Aunt Maude had been gone a week when Papa gave Eleanor permission to take a day off to visit her parents. The Miller farm was an hour’s buggy drive away. Her brother would pick her up in the morning and return with her after supper. I had heard so many stories from Eleanor of the farm, I longed to see it. When Eleanor suggested that Carlie and I accompany her, I begged Papa to let us go. I knew that after Aunt Maude returned, there would be no going off with Eleanor. Papa, who was never one to hurry into a decision, took a whole day to think about it and then said we might go if we promised to do just as Eleanor said and not be a trouble to anyone.

  The following morning Eleanor and I were sitting on the porch a whole hour before her brother, Tom, was expected. We were listening to the cicadas. For days the air had quivered with the insects’ whining song, but when I looked for them, I could never find them. They were all song and no body. Carlie was nearby, chasing a rabbit that had been nibbling on the clover that grew in thick patches on the lawn. Papa had told Carlie that if she caught the rabbit, she might keep it, but the rabbit would not be caught.

  It was the first day of August. The dais
ies had disappeared, and goldenrod grew along the roadside. The leaves on Dr. Thurston’s trees had a dusty look, and in the asylum fields the potatoes had begun to blossom, and the corn to tassel.

  Just when I thought it would never appear, the Millers’ buggy with two shaggy, tired-looking horses pulled up, driven by Eleanor’s brother. Tom was eighteen, slim like Eleanor, but tall, and brown as any hardworking farmer would be. He gave Carlie and me and our house and everything else a close, serious look, as if he were a little wary of it all. I could see he wanted to give Eleanor a hug but was shy in front of me. Eleanor ignored his shyness and threw her arms around him. Though they weren’t her brothers, she threw her arms around the horses as well and fed them sugar cubes.

  Papa, who had stayed at home to see us off, came out of the house and shook hands with Tom. “Don’t let the horses run away with you,” Papa said. His face was perfectly serious, but I could see he was teasing.

  Tom, not sure of how to take Papa, said, “Those horses are steady, sir.”

  “Horses are only as steady as the man with the reins,” Papa said.

  I laughed. “Papa, don’t be a goose. I’m sure Tom will take good care of us.”

  When we were a distance from our house, Tom said, “If I called our dad a goose, he’d knock me down.”

  “You mean he would hit you?” I asked, amazed.

  “Sure, he would, and it wouldn’t be the first time.”

  The four of us were crowded together on the wagon seat, Carlie on Eleanor’s lap. Eleanor asked, “Tom, is Dad still angry with me?”

  “Yes, but he doesn’t talk about it much anymore.”

  Eleanor breathed a sigh of relief. “That’s something.”

  “Why should he be angry with you?” Carlie asked.

  “He can’t forgive me for being sick.” She hastily changed the subject and began to point out to Tom the fields of corn that stretched as far as we could see. “That all belongs to the asylum, Tom. They have three silos. They get hundreds of bushels of corn, and they have an orchard with cherry trees and apple and pear and plum trees.”

  Tom, who had seemed nervous at first as we drove by the asylum, now took an interest. “How many cows have they got?” he asked.

  I knew the answer to that from my visits to the barns. “Four hundred head of Holsteins,” I said.

  Tom whistled. “I wouldn’t mind being a little crazy myself if I could work here.”

  Carlie said, “Papa says we shouldn’t say the word crazy.”

  “Sorry,” he said, and put his arm around Eleanor for a moment. “I’m glad you’re coming home, Elly, even if it’s just for a day.”

  When we reached the farm, Eleanor hopped out of the buggy before it came to a stop. Her mother was standing at the back door, watching for us, her hand above her eyes to shield them from the sun. In a minute she had her arms around Eleanor and hung on to her for dear life. At last Carlie and I were introduced, and we shook hands with Mrs. Miller.

  She looked closely at us, as if she had never seen children before, which was strange because she had two of her own. “I’m sure you are very welcome,” she said. She had a German accent, and I remembered that Eleanor had said her mother had come to this country as a girl from Germany. “Your daddy is a doctor, I know, and your poor mama died,” she went on. I guessed that Eleanor had written home about us.

  “Where is Dad?” Eleanor asked.

  “He’s out in the potato field. We’ve got some kind of blight this year. I don’t know if we’ll harvest half the crop. After we put what we need aside, I doubt there will be much left over to sell.”

  Eleanor seemed relieved that her father wasn’t there. She dragged Carlie and me along to see the cows, rubbing her face against the muzzle of a new calf. The next minute she was off to the pigpen, where she had a name and a story for every pig. Her mother had to call her twice before she would go in to dinner. As we followed her about, we saw that she was a different person on the farm. Carlie whispered, “It’s like the story where the prince kisses Snow White and she comes alive.”

  Dinner was at the kitchen table. Mr. Miller had come in from the potato field. He was a square and sturdy man, with Eleanor’s silver blond hair, but not Eleanor’s big eyes. His were small and darted about all the time as if some biting insect were trying to get at him. He pumped water into the sink and, taking up a little piece of brown soap, scrubbed at his hands as if he were angry with them. When Mrs. Miller introduced us, he only nodded his head, not even bothering to look up. While he dried his hands on the roller towel, he glanced over his shoulder at Eleanor.

  “You look about the same,” he said. “How come they let you out? ”

  Mrs. Miller quickly said, “You know the doctor told us Eleanor was better.”

  “Those aren’t real doctors there,” Mr. Miller said.

  Carlie spoke up. “My papa is a real doctor.”

  “Does your father let you contradict your betters?” Mr. Miller’s cold look silenced Carlie.

  When we sat around the table with Papa, he always questioned us about what we had been doing, and we gave answers. The Millers mostly ate. Eleanor and her mother were up and down, serving the food: roast pork, mashed potatoes, peas, pickles, and for dessert, rhubarb pie and vinegar pie.

  Tom glanced at his dad, who looked grouchy. “We’ll be lucky if we get thirty-eight cents a bushel for oats this year,” Tom said. His dad only shrugged.

  When Mr. Miller finally did talk, he said something that upset Eleanor. “You better let me have your wages for the month—not that they give you a decent wage. I got a veterinary bill for one of the heifers and nothing to pay it with.”

  Eleanor blinked her eyes a couple of times to keep back tears. “I was saving to pay for a coat for the winter.” There wasn’t an ounce of hope in her voice.

  “The vet won’t come back unless I pay his bill. You want I should let the horses and cows die so you can buy a coat they’ll probably never let you out long enough to wear?”

  “Papa, I go out to Verna and Carlie’s house every day to work.”

  “If you can work there, why can’t you come home and give your mother a hand here?”

  Eleanor said in a voice I could barely hear, “The doctor thinks I should stay a little longer.”

  “Sure he does. The asylum gets help for almost nothing. Why wouldn’t they make you stay? ”

  Mrs. Miller cleared her throat as if she were going to say something, but in the end she didn’t, and Eleanor said she’d send the money the next day. After the dishes were done, the table was wiped, and the dish towels were rinsed, Mrs. Miller said, “You wrote how nicely Verna plays piano, Elly. Let’s have some music.”

  We all went into the parlor, where the Millers had an ancient upright piano. I played “Old Folks at Home,” and Eleanor sang. Tom asked for “Camptown Races,” and Mrs. Miller for “Beautiful Isle of Somewhere,” whose sadness she enjoyed so much that it made her cry.

  Mr. Miller sat through the performance restless as a chipmunk, crossing and recrossing his legs and cleaning out his pipe. He looked as though sitting still were a punishment. At last, with a thankful sigh, he said, “That’ll do. Tom and me have to clean out the cream separator.”

  Eleanor led Carlie and me to the back of the farm, where woods sloped gently down a hill to the trickle of a creek. The creek was so narrow that Carlie could jump over it. Water striders skated over the top of the water. “What are the orange flowers?” I asked.

  “Touch-me-not,” Eleanor said. “In the fall, if you touch the seedpods, the seeds explode into the air.” She had brought an old chipped bowl with her, and now she began digging up some of the moss that grew along the edges of the creek. “I’m going to take it back with me. Feel how soft it is, Carlie.” Carlie petted the green softness as if it were a kitten.

  We sat on the bank of the stream in the afternoon sunshine. A robin darted down for a drink, stayed for a quick bath, and disappeared. “Do you mind giving your money to yo
ur dad?” I asked.

  “What difference does it make if I mind? ”

  “What if you just didn’t give it to him?” Carlie asked.

  Eleanor shook her head. I could see that such a thing had never occurred to her. “I’m lucky he lets me come home at all.”

  I tried to think what it would be like to have Papa standing by the door, refusing to let us in. I saw myself turning away and creeping off. I wasn’t really frightened, for I knew Papa would never behave like that, but it wasn’t hard to imagine Mr. Miller sending Eleanor away.

  When we returned to the farmhouse, Mrs. Miller sent Eleanor off to pick some blackberries for our supper. Carlie ran after her, and I started to follow, but Mrs. Miller stopped me. “Stay and help me set the table, Verna,” she said.

  I wanted to go with Eleanor, but I thought it would be impolite not to do what I was asked. When we were alone in the kitchen, Mrs. Miller said in a soft voice, “I wanted to keep you here to find out how my Eleanor is. I mean how she really is. Is the asylum a bad place? Are they good to her? ”

  I told her at once how pleasant the asylum was, describing the gardens and the wards with their pots of hanging ivy and vases of flowers. “Eleanor is with us all day. My aunt Maude is a little strict, but Papa and I are so pleased to have her, and I think she is happy with us.”

  “It hurt me so to see Eleanor go,” Mrs. Miller said. “She was always the cheerful one around here. Of course she was young. I don’t know too many women who have lived on a farm for fifty years and still find a lot to laugh about. When I was young like Eleanor, I took pleasure in the new leaves on the trees, the apple blossoms, the crops greening. Now I’ve seen spring over and over, and even if it’s the good Lord who has the doing of it, the effort of it tires me out. I think of Him up there with all the thousands and thousands of leaves to unfold and all the trees impatient, waiting their turn.”