I took a deep breath and said, “Mrs. Miller, it doesn’t seem like Mr. Miller is so happy to have Eleanor home.”
“You have to excuse my John. He’s had a hard time of it. He’s got too much land to handle, even with Tom to help, and no money for a hired hand or a machine that could take over some of the work. Every time I spend a penny, John sees a bit of land getting away from him and resents it something terrible, as if it was an arm or leg he was losing. Then, when Eleanor got so sick, he just thought she wanted to get out of doing her share. If it was her father paying for Eleanor’s care instead of the state, Eleanor would never get the help she needs.” Mrs. Miller sighed. “Now I’m worried that Tom might go off. His dad is a hard man to work for.”
Eleanor returned with a bowl of fat blackberries, and we all sat down to a supper of sliced cold pork roast, fried potatoes, watermelon pickles, blackberries, and sponge cake. I was not allowed to help with the dishes but was sent off with Tom to gather eggs that Mrs. Miller insisted we were to take back with us, though Mr. Miller looked unhappy about that.
When we entered the henhouse, the chickens flew off their nests, their flapping wings creating little whirlwinds of dust and straw. Tom said, “This always used to be Eleanor’s job. She loved the chickens. She knew each one by name. She even won some ribbons at the state fair for her pullets.” He carefully laid two brown eggs into the basket I was holding.
“Tom,” I asked, “when did Eleanor become sick? ”
“It was around the time of the deer. Pa never stopped letting Eleanor know things would have been better for the farm if she had been a boy, so she tried hard to help with the work. Eleanor could pitch hay and spread manure and even handle a gun when the rats got too many in the corncrib, but Pa didn’t like it. Kirche, Küche, Kinder. That’s German for ‘church, kitchen, children.’ Pa says that’s all women should tend to. It didn’t matter how hard Eleanor tried, she couldn’t get a kind word out of Pa.
“Eleanor liked to go off into the woods. She knew all the animals. She’d take a handful of lettuce for the woodchucks and apples for the porcupines, and they’d take them right from her hand. She had a deer she’d leave corn for, and after a while she got that deer tamed. She could get him to come to her by calling in a certain way. I could always tell when she’d seen that deer, because she’d come hurrying back from the woods all excited. When hunting season came and Dad and I went off with our guns, she didn’t say anything. She knew we needed the venison. We counted on it to help get us through the winter.
“A couple of days went by, and Dad got glummer and angrier about not getting his deer, and Eleanor watched him. He would help me do the milking; then he’d go off and hunt for an hour or two. By midmorning he’d be back at work empty-handed and mean. The third day Eleanor slipped away in the afternoon and was back at suppertime just as we were sitting down. She walked into the kitchen, carrying the deer rifle, her face all red from crying. ‘I got a deer, Papa,’ she said. ‘You and Tom need to come and dress it out.’
“Dad didn’t believe her. ‘What kind of joke is that?’ he asked, angry at her.
“‘It’s true,’ she said. ‘Come and see for yourself.’
“It was true enough, and I knew how she got it. Nothing but wanting to look good in Pa’s eyes would have brought her to kill that deer she tamed, but all she got from Pa was ‘Not much meat on it.’
“Eleanor just kind of crumbled. She went upstairs into her room and wouldn’t come down; she wouldn’t say a word to anyone. When a week went by and she still wouldn’t talk, Ma and Pa had an argument. Pa said she would get over it, but Ma insisted on calling the doctor. The doctor said she needed help real badly, and so she ended up in the asylum. At first I was worried, but then I figured anyplace was better than here. Now I know it was the right thing to do. She looks happier than I’ve seen her in a long time. It must not be just the asylum that’s doing it. Your people must be good to her.”
I told Tom we loved Eleanor. I didn’t say anything about Aunt Maude. Hearing the story Tom had told made me feel terrible. I didn’t want to believe that someone could be as cruel as Eleanor’s father. I was lucky. I missed Mama a lot, and I wasn’t happy with Aunt Maude, but I knew Papa loved me
It was the night after our visit to the farm when Mrs. Larter came by. Supper was over, and we all were in the parlor. I was playing piano, and Papa and Eleanor were beside me, singing. Carlie was on the floor, tying her hair ribbon on Promise. She was closest to the door, and when we heard a knock, Carlie ran to see who was there. As Mrs. Larter came into the parlor, I took my hands from the piano keys. Papa and Eleanor, standing side by side, closed their mouths. For just a second no one moved; then everyone got very busy. Carlie showed Mrs. Larter the fine effect of the bow on Promise. I jumped up from the piano bench. Eleanor hurried into the kitchen. Mrs. Larter said, “What a cozy scene that was, Edward,” and Papa turned red.
I didn’t understand why Eleanor hurried off and why Papa looked so embarrassed. After all, it was only Mrs. Larter, who often used to call on Aunt Maude.
Mrs. Larter said, “I didn’t know patients were allowed to be away from the asylum in the evening.”
Papa said, “Eleanor has made a great improvement and is hardly considered a patient at this point. However, she has special permission to stay later to keep an eye on the girls while Maude is away.”
“I’m sure Maude would appreciate that.” Although Mrs. Larter was smiling, there was no smile in her words. “I thought you might be missing Maude’s cooking, so I brought some homemade oatmeal cookies for the girls.”
“That was very thoughtful of you,” Papa said.
“Aunt Maude never baked cookies,” Carlie said. “Eleanor always bakes them.”
Quickly Papa said, “Carlie, it’s past your bedtime. Verna, take your sister upstairs.”
From our bedroom window I saw Eleanor slip out the back door and hurry down the path to the asylum. When I got downstairs, Papa was just saying good-bye to Mrs. Larter. He didn’t see me, and as the door closed behind Mrs. Larter, I heard him mumble, “Meddling mischief-maker.”
SEVEN
Sooner than we expected, Aunt Maude returned. Papa, Eleanor, Carlie, and I were finishing dessert—raspberry ice cream made from wild raspberries Eleanor, Carlie, and I had picked that afternoon. Carlie was telling Papa how we saw polliwogs in the lake.
“They’ve all got their back legs,” she said.
A little shower of road dust flew in the open windows, and we heard the carriage come to a stop at the door. The next thing we knew, Aunt Maude was hurrying into the house, the driver following with her suitcases and boxes. Aunt Maude threw her arms around Carlie and me, smothering us with her familiar smell, part lavender talcum powder and part camphor salve. I suffered the hug, but Carlie wriggled out of it like a cat that won’t be held. It was then that Aunt Maude noticed there were four places set for supper.
Eleanor had sprung away from the table, so at first I believe Aunt Maude thought that somehow we knew she was coming and had prepared a place for her, but it was only a moment before she took in the remains of the melting ice cream and the half-empty coffee cup. She turned to Eleanor and, pointing to the dishes, said in a tight voice, “Take those away, and bring me some cold salad and bread and butter and a cup of tea.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Eleanor made a grab for the dishes like they were trying to get away and fled into the kitchen.
Papa frowned, but he made his voice pleasant. “Welcome home, Maude. I hope everything went well with the house and the new tenants.”
“I have decided not to rent again for the time being. The last tenants left the windows open in a rainstorm, and my curtains are ruined. You can’t trust strangers.”
As we all settled around the table, Aunt Maude said in a sharp voice, “I had a very nice letter from Mrs. Larter, who mentioned that she had stopped by to visit you.” With a glance toward the kitchen, Aunt Maude said, “Edward, I can’t believe you allowed a
servant to sit at the table as though she were a member of the family.”
Carlie said, “Eleanor taught us how to make bread and how to whistle with a piece of grass. She caught polliwogs for me at Green Lake. They’re going to start their front legs. Eleanor put some in a jar for me, and I can watch them be frogs.”
“I can see I was foolish to leave you, but I had not thought that you would have allowed the children to be so much with someone who was not in her right mind.”
Papa took off his glasses and began to clean them with his handkerchief, just as he always did when he was angry. I think he did it to give himself time to calm down. Finally he said, “You are not a physician, Maude, and therefore in no position to pronounce whether a person’s mind is right or not. In this case you could not be more uninformed.”
Eleanor came in with a plate of salad just in time to see Aunt Maude burst into tears. “I don’t know why I even bothered to come back,” she said. “I see that I am not wanted here.”
Papa was on his feet at once, comforting Aunt Maude. “Nonsense, Maude, you know how grateful to you I am. I don’t know what we should have done without you. You are tired and hungry from the journey. Eat something, and you will feel much better.”
Eleanor quickly set the plate of salad down and hurried into the kitchen. Father had been so busy consoling Aunt Maude that he had not seen the tears in Eleanor’s eyes, but Carlie and I had, and now Carlie began to cry.
“You see how that woman upsets the children,” Aunt Maude said.
For an answer, Papa closed his mouth into a tight line, and I was sure he was holding in words he knew he ought not to say to Aunt Maude.
After that evening Aunt Maude had two purposes: to show that she could teach us things as well as Eleanor, and to prove that Eleanor was not in her right mind and ought to spend her days in the asylum rather than with us.
The next morning, before Carlie and I could get out the door, Aunt Maude ordered us into the parlor, where we were initiated into the mysteries of the ladylike art of crocheting. The crochet hook was awkward in my hand, and the little loop that it invaded was always too small for the hook or so large that the hook would have nothing to do with it. I gritted my teeth and kept trying, but Carlie grew impatient and began to cry. Aunt Maude quickly excused her, sending her out to play, but I was kept indoors until I had completed a bumpy spiderweb.
I remembered how Mama had taught me to knit doll clothes, laughing over my mistakes, telling me she had made many more when she learned how to knit. With Mama the knitting had been for the pleasure of being together. With Aunt Maude, teaching was to show who was in charge.
A few days later I was introduced to tatting, which was truly punishment. It was accomplished by the use of numerous small bobbins of thread that were like a dozen untamed puppies that rolled about and tangled their leashes. Carlie hid under her bed with her jar of polliwogs for company or escaped into the yard, but I had to sit still for an hour and watch summer slip away.
Aunt Maude saw that Papa had grown fond of Eleanor, so there was no meanness when he was about, but Papa was gone all day. Aunt Maude didn’t pull Eleanor’s hair or beat her, though that might have been kinder, for hair would grow back, and bruises heal. This meanness lurked under the cover of kindness like a serpent got up in ruffles and a bonnet.
On an afternoon, soon after Aunt Maude returned, Carlie and I set off for the dairy with the gallon jug on our usual errand to get milk. “Eleanor,” Aunt Maude said, “it’s such a pleasant afternoon; take your hour off and go along with the girls.”
Eleanor was as taken aback as I was, for she had given up her time off, afraid of Aunt Maude’s anger. At first she hesitated. “You said I was to make a peach pie for supper, ma’am.”
“You’ll have plenty of time to do that when you return.”
Happily Eleanor set off with us, pausing just outside the door to look about, as if the whole world had been created right then and there just for us. She had something to say about everything she set eyes on. She stopped to show us how each blossom of Queen Anne’s lace had a tiny purple flower in the middle of its bloom. A row of milkweed plants grew at the field’s edge. The fragrance from their blossoms smelled like the little sachets Mama had made up to put among her handkerchiefs. Eleanor was more practical. “Milkweed makes good eating,” she said. “You boil up the young seedpods or give them a fry. Delicious with a big lump of butter.” Orange butterflies were hanging on the milkweed blossoms. “Monarchs,” Eleanor explained. Carlie was going to catch one, but Eleanor held her back. “If you disturb the dust on their wings, they won’t be able to fly.”
Not far from us a goldfinch settled on the top of a mullein plant, its feathers gold in the sun. In the midst of the brightness I had a dark thought. Like Mama, Eleanor might soon leave us. Only that morning Eleanor had whispered to us that her doctor said she was well enough to return home at the end of summer.
“Will you be happy to leave the asylum?” I had asked.
“I’ll miss you and Carlie a lot, and I have many good friends—not only other patients but some of the attendants. I help the attendants and sometimes even the doctors to talk to the German patients. There are a lot of patients who have come over from the old country and know hardly a word of English. It’s a terrible thing when you can’t explain yourself. It makes you ängstlich; that’s German for ‘anxious.’” I made Eleanor repeat the word for the penny it would get me.
“If I leave the asylum, I’ll have to go home,” she said. She sighed. She didn’t mention her father, but I was sure she was thinking of him.
After filling the jug and stopping at the barn to admire a calf so new that it could barely stand, we headed home. On the way Eleanor pointed to a large gray bird with black wings and tail. The bird was sitting in a tree, watching some little chickadees that were nervously flitting from branch to branch. “A shrike,” she said. “Cruel birds. I saw one catch a little song sparrow and kill it by sticking it on a barbed-wire fence.”
Carlie asked, “Did you kill the shrike?”
“Oh, no,” Eleanor said. “It is only doing what such birds are supposed to do.”
We returned just as Aunt Maude was leaving to join a group of doctors’ wives who met each Thursday afternoon. “Don’t forget the pie,” she told Eleanor.
Eleanor made the peach pie and, as a special treat, sprinkled the crust trimmings with sugar and baked them for Carlie and me to eat. When they came out of the oven, Carlie took the first bite and spit it out. “It’s all salty.”
I didn’t believe her and bit into my own piece. It tasted terrible, as if a whole shaker full of salt had been sprinkled onto it. Eleanor nibbled a bit of the pie and made a face. She reached for the sugar canister and, licking a finger, stuck it into the white powder and tasted it. Her eyes were huge. “It’s salt!”
“Why is salt in the sugar canister?” Carlie asked.
Eleanor and I looked at each other. I was sure Aunt Maude had done it on purpose. Eleanor didn’t know what to think. She wanted to throw the pie away, but I made her save one piece. Hastily she baked a second pie, this time with the sugar that had been put into the salt canister. When Aunt Maude came home, she sent Eleanor and Carlie and me out to pick some tomatoes from our garden. I pretended to go, but I looked into the kitchen window in time to see Aunt Maude switch the salt and sugar back where they belonged. When I told Eleanor what I had seen, she looked as if I had struck her. “You must have made a mistake,” she insisted. “She wouldn’t do such a thing.” After that she said not another word but moved about silent and thoughtful, speaking only when she learned what I planned to do. “You’d be as bad as she is, Verna.” But I didn’t care, and Carlie couldn’t wait for me to do it.
When it was time for dessert, I handed around the plates, giving Aunt Maude the piece I had saved from the salty pie. Aunt Maude took a forkful and spit it out. “It tastes of salt. It’s inedible. Eleanor must have reached into the wrong canister. She is getting m
ore and more absentminded.”
Papa took a bite of the second pie. “Why, it’s excellent. Whatever can you mean, Maude?”
Carlie and I each took big mouthfuls. “My favorite,” Carlie said.
“The best ever.” I licked my lips.
Aunt Maude insisted, “Edward, try a piece of my pie.”
Papa looked up. “Thank you just the same, Maude. I’ve had more than I should.”
Desperate, she turned to me. “Verna, taste this.”
I gritted my teeth and swallowed a small piece. “Delicious,” I said with a big grin. Hurriedly I ate a bite of my pie to get rid of the salty taste.
Aunt Maude, looking uncertain, took another small bite and made a face. She reached over and took a piece of my pie and then a piece of Carlie’s. Her face became very red, but there was nothing she could say.
After that Carlie and I had only to say “peach pie” when Aunt Maude was out of hearing, and we ended up in fits of giggles, but Eleanor could not see the humor in what had happened. She would not confront Aunt Maude but only asked over and over, “Why would she do such a thing?”
A few days after the peach pie we began making plans for the asylum picnic. Every summer Dr. and Mrs. Thurston held an outdoor gathering for the patients and for all those who worked in the asylum. Entertainment was provided by the patients and staff, and the Thurstons, who often commented on Papa and Eleanor’s fine solos in the choir, now asked them to sing a duet.
Mrs. Thurston offered to play the piano while they rehearsed their song, so each evening after the supper dishes were done, Eleanor combed her hair and changed into her one good dress, which she brought to work with her. Before the first visit to the Thurstons’ home, Eleanor confided to me that she was nervous. “Even a little frightened, Verna. It’s not like I am just going home to the asylum, but right into the home of the superintendent.” I noticed as she started off, she lagged a bit behind Papa, like Carlie on her first day of school. Papa strolled along, his hat tipped in a way that showed he was feeling cheerful. You could always tell the way Papa felt by how his hat sat on his head. The Thurstons must have made Eleanor welcome, for on the second night she marched along right beside Papa.
The Locked Garden Page 5