Secrets of the Asylum

by Linda Hughes

  Elizabeth sat his drink on his desk, found one of the Motion Picture magazines he kept hidden in his desk drawer just for her, and sat in what was his chair when he did therapy with patients. She sipped her drink and looked at the photo of a pert actress on the cover. She didn’t know who the actress was, not surprising seeing that she hadn’t been to a picture show in fifteen years. They were still called flickers last time she’d seen one at a nickelodeon store. They had movie night here once a month, but she didn’t much care for mingling with the whole crowd of residents and never went.

  She flipped through the magazine, finding that for $1 down she could get a set of aluminum pots and pans on thirty-day free trial. Also for $1 down she could get a wolf lynx fur scarf or a richly embroidered wool serge dress. None of which she needed. She scanned more pages until coming to “The Answer Man.” She adored the advice the “answer man” gave to people who sent forlorn letters, many about their love lives. Elizabeth figured the answer man had to be a woman, the advice generally being so witty and wise.

  The doctor woke up with a jerk and a snort. “Oh my! Did I fall asleep again?” He fumbled to pull up his trousers.

  “Yes, Charlie. But I don’t mind.” She put the magazine back in the drawer and stood. “Here’s your drink.” She took it to him.

  “How wicked of us to drink so early in the day,” he said as he stood and walked to his desk. He swallowed the contents of his glass in one swift gulp.

  “Well, we have to pass the time somehow,” she said, “seeing that we have — let’s see,” she looked at the clock on the wall, “twenty minutes left of our appointment time.”

  “Ah,” Charles said, leering at her chest, “time for another go at it, if you know what I mean.”

  “Oh, Charlie, you never give up, do you? You know the rule. Once is all you get. That’ll make you want me all the more next month.”

  Resigned, he nodded. Placing the empty glass on his desk, he pulled up his suspenders and put on his suit jacket. He pulled out the neatly folded white handkerchief in his jacket breast pocket and dabbed at beads of sweat on his face.

  Sitting down at his desk, he shuffled papers while Elizabeth walked about the room, looking out one window and then another at the lush green yard. They chatted blandly until the official time for their appointment was up, and she stored the bottle and glasses back in the cabinet where she found them. He got up and unlocked his office door, opened it widely, and loudly declared, “That was a most productive therapy session, Mrs. Sullivan. We’ll accomplish even more next month, I’m sure.”

  “See you then, Dr. Whitmore,” she said. “‘Bye, Neddie.” This time the secretary didn’t acknowledge her.

  Elizabeth swayed her hips as she left the office, knowing the doctor’s eyes would be glued to her rear end until she was out of sight.

  Once outside, she felt free. Little did the psychiatrist know she needed that drink each time to erase the taste of him from her mouth. Still, as much as she abhorred doing that to him, it was better than being forced to sit there with him asking her questions about her sexual desires, and then listening to him explain her id and her ego.

  Id and ego my ass! Who in the hell does that Sigmund Freud think he is, telling women about their sexual desires? He doesn’t know squat about my sexual desires. Probably doesn’t know anything about his wife’s sexual desires, either. He is one serious nut case who belongs in this nut house more than any of us nutheads.

  Until he’d shown up at the asylum a few years ago residents hadn’t been insulted with any of that psychobabble mumbo-jumbo. They’d been free to be crazy in peace.

  Oh well, she didn’t have to worry about any of that again until next month. Walking out of the enormous, three-story building that sprawled out forever, the one they’d started calling Building 50, she wandered around the vast green yard with its patches of fragrant flower beds and majestic tall trees, taking in the scent of the lilacs bushes as she went. She didn’t want to go back to her room yet; she didn’t even want to paint right now. She liked having the first appointment with the doctor at 8:00 a.m. so she could get that over with and go on with her day. But today she felt restless. She knew, of course, what niggled at her. Her daughter Meg, now twenty-one years old, would soon be home, if she wasn’t already.

  On his last visit a week earlier, Herbert had told her all about it: Meg’s break-up with her fiancé, the ensuing heartbreak, and her father’s invitation to come home, at least for the summer.

  Now that she was of age, would her daughter want to see her? Did she want to see her daughter?

  Elizabeth knew that curiosity would get the best of her and that she would allow Meg to visit, if the girl wished. The real question was whether or not Herbert would allow it. Seeing that Elizabeth was considered by law to be incapacitated, Herbert was her guardian, regardless of new laws giving women more freedoms. Because she was deemed insane, he decided who did and who did not get in to see his wife, except for her friend Abby, who found her own way onto the property.

  If a meeting with her daughter did happen, though, she hoped it held some hope of being fun. She welcomed a little excitement in her life.

  11

  “Good morning, Father,” Meg greeted Herbert Sullivan as he read the paper and drank coffee while sitting at the head of the lengthy table in the formal dining room. “I’m surprised you’re still here. I was so tired from my trip I’m afraid I overslept.”

  “Oh, hello, dear. Sit here beside me.” He folded his newspaper and set it aside, and patted the empty spot at the table to his left. She sat as instructed. “No worries. I’m glad you got a good rest. I’m not going to the office today; I took the day off to help you get settled back in. I already ate and I must say that Cook’s flapjacks today are excellent! Well, they’re excellent every time she makes them. I hope you’ll have some.”

  On cue, a servant came in with a glass of orange juice and a plate of said excellent fare. “Thank you!” Meg said. “They look delicious!” While she slathered the flapjacks with butter and flooded them with maple syrup, and dug in, her father looked at her thoughtfully.

  “Meg, I must say, you’re as beautiful as ever.”

  Her mouth full, she swallowed hard in order to respond. “You’re my father,” she said. “It’s your job to think your daughter is beautiful.” With that she shoveled in another mouthful.

  He chuckled. “Be that as it may, any person in their right mind could see that you are a beautiful young woman. I bring that up as a way of saying you’re still the same person, Meg.” Struck by the use of her nickname, twice now, rather than his usual use of her full first name, Margaret, she wondered what had caused the sudden change. She’d noticed an unfolded napkin to his right. Had someone else had breakfast with him? Did that person caution him to relax around his daughter? “I’m so sorry about what happened to you with that horrible lout in Chicago,” her father continued, “but we’ll just put that behind us and carry on.

  “If there is anything you need, like time alone to think or to walk the gardens or to read, whatever you need, just let me know. On the other hand, I know of a number of young women’s organizations in town, should you care to hear about them. Some do charitable work; some merely drink tea and gossip and call it something else; but they all seem to gather nice women together to socialize. Our parish has one such group,” he added, alluding to the St. Francis of Assisi Catholic Church within which Meg had been raised.

  The servant, a pleasant looking middle-aged woman in a stiffly starched blue uniform, brought in a plate of bacon. Meg thanked her again and stabbed a fat slab onto her plate.

  “Father, I just don’t know yet what I intend to do.” She cut up the bacon and took a bite. “This is delicious, too!”

  He smiled. “Comes from our own little farm here.”

  “Maybe I’ll take up cooking.” Meg polished off her flapjacks and proceeded to attack the rest of the bacon.

  “And maybe I’ll slop the pigs myself.”


  His sudden jovial, teasing manner shocked Meg. She’d never heard her father sound, well, fun before. What on earth had changed the man? She liked it.

  The door to the kitchen swung open and the head housekeeper, Hannah, entered with a silver pot of steaming coffee. “Hello, Meg! We’re all so glad you’re home!” Hannah went to Meg’s father and refilled his cup without asking, obviously knowing his preference. “Would you like some coffee, dear?” She held up the pot.

  Meg. Dear. A warm welcome. Is this what changed my father? Meg wondered.

  “Thank you, Hannah,” she said instead of asking out loud the snoopy question that pressed on her mind. Hannah was a handsome middle-aged woman whose neat chignon of brown hair revealed streaks of blondish-gray. She wore one of the crisp, blue servant’s uniforms. “I’m glad to be home,” Meg told her, “embarrassing as it is that my fiancé dumped me.”

  “Oh, Margaret!” Meg’s father said, forgetting her nickname in his haste. “Let’s not think of it that way.”

  Hannah, on the other hand, set down the coffee pot on a hot pad, put her hands on her hips, and laughed. “I think that’s rather healthy,” she said. “Get it out. The man is a lousy cad. Good riddance, I say. You, young lady,” she said, wagging a friendly finger at Meg, “have much better things in store for you. That’s plain as the pretty nose on your face.

  “Now, would you perhaps prefer a cup of tea?”

  Meg had known this head housekeeper since her first became employed here seven years ago, having seen her when she came home on holidays. She’d never given the woman a second thought. Now she thought she liked her — a lot.

  “No, thank you. I’ll take tea this afternoon, please.”

  Hannah nodded and went back through the kitchen door, giving Meg a chance to take a long look at her father. Her statement about being dumped had unnerved him. He’d always been protective of her, yet this time seemed more obvious than usual. Still, as soon as Hannah spoke up he relaxed. In fact, everything about him seemed more relaxed. The whole house seemed more informal, some of the stiff upper crust principles of etiquette having fallen away, such as the head housekeeper speaking up without being spoken to. The only thing indicative of the formality of the past were the servants’ starched blue uniforms.

  Her father filled the silence. “Would you like to go riding today, my dear? The weather is grand. We could ride up the peninsula and take in the scenery. We’ll take a picnic lunch.”

  “Oh, father, I’d love that!”

  “Good! I’ll go have the horses saddled. I’ll meet you in the stables in, say, twenty minutes?”

  “Perfect,” she said as they both arose from the table. On a whim, Meg stood on her tippy-toes and kissed her father’s cheek. The man actually blushed.

  “Why, thank you, my dear. That was very sweet.” Appearing not to know what to do next, he started for the vestibule. “See you soon!” he hollered as the front door shut behind him.

  Meg went out of the dining room, walked into the grand vestibule, and looked around this mansion that had always been her home. The Victorian style of the house retained its beauty, even though the style had fallen out of favor for new homes. This, however, was a classic. The oak staircase with its intricately carved banister rose to a spacious landing with a glorious stained glass window then turned to reach the second story of the house.

  In the window scene on the landing an angel in a flowing white robe held a fluffy white sheep as she walked barefoot in a green pasture. Her ethereal angel wings fanned out behind her against a vivid blue sky. When Meg was little she named the angel Angela and had always considered the holy apparition to be one of her best friends. It heartened her that the window drew the eye the moment one entered the front door, as if Angela the angel blessed everyone who entered here.

  She’d imagined one like it in her own home one day, the home she thought she’d have after she got married. Well, that dream was dead, at least for now.

  Meg walked up the stairs and stopped on the landing, taking a moment to sit down on the cushioned window seat below Angela. From here the view of the vestibule calmed her. She’d noticed when they came in from the train late last night that the Persian rugs were new, replacing darker ones of deep reds and navies. These in light shades of aqua, green, and beige added a sense of airiness to the space. Flipping off a shoe, she ran her bare toes over the sumptuous pile beneath her feet. The chubby cushions on the window seat were new, too, a light-colored fabric that complimented the carpets. She wondered if all of this was also the work of Hannah, the head housekeeper.

  Even the immense gaslight chandelier that hung from the center of the second-floor ceiling to the top of the open first floor had been switched, too, with the new one being soft shades of stained glass rather than the old one of multifaceted crystals. She’d become used to the brighter electric lights in the city, even in her own townhouse, but it didn’t appear that electricity had yet found its way to Traverse City, Michigan. She liked the soft glow of the gaslight.

  Yes, her home felt even more comfortable than ever before. It made her feel girlish and she got up to sprint the rest of the way up the stairs. Abruptly, however, Meg turned a corner and bumped into an upstairs maid, one she’d never met.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry,” Meg said, stooping down to help the girl pick up the clean towels that Meg had knocked out of the girl’s hands.

  “That’s alright, Miss Sullivan. I didna hear ya comin’. ‘Tis as much me fault as yers,” she said in a cheerful Irish brogue.

  They gathered all the towels off the floor and stood up, and the maid took towels out of Meg’s hands to collect them all into her own arms. The freckle-faced, red-haired girl looked to be about twelve years old.

  “Well,” Meg said, smiling at her, “you know me, but I don’t know your name.”

  “Why, I’m Peggy. Peggy McVeigh. Been workin’ here fer a year, ever since me family came here from Ireland. We traveled all the way ‘cross the ocean ‘cuz my older brother got into trouble with the law when he came to work in the lumberyards. But me ma is soberin’ him up. Yer pa gave me pa a job on his shipping docks. We’re so grateful. Glad tah meetcha.” She clumped the towels into the crook of one arm and held out a hand.

  Surprised, Meg shook her hand. “Peggy, how old are you? If you don’t mind my asking.”

  “Fifteen in a month, I swear!” She jostled the heap of towels back into both arms.

  “Do you like it here?”

  “Oh, yes, Miss Sullivan! I like it very much, even though Miss Hannah said we’d better wear these silly starched uniforms when ya come home.” She looked down disgustedly at her prim blue get-up. “At least fer a little while, so things won’t be too different fer ya at first. She says once ya get used to the changes around here we can be ourselves again.”

  “I see. I’m sorry you have to be uncomfortable for me. I’ll try to get used to things as quickly as possible.”

  “Ah, I can’t thank ya enough for that, Miss Sullivan. ‘Cuz Cook’s ‘bout to die in this thing. Ya know, she’s got a lot more skin to cover with this scratchy cloth than the rest of us.” She raised her rust-colored eyebrows in earnest.

  “I tell you what, Peggy, I’ve known Cook all my life. I’d planned on going down this afternoon to see her anyway. I’ll tell her that tomorrow she can wear whatever she wants. She’s such a fabulous cook she deserves to be comfortable. How’s that?”

  “Oh, that’s wonderful! Then will ya tell Miss Hannah the rest of us are dyin’, too?”

  “That I will.”

  “Thank ya, Miss Sullivan. I gotta go now. These towels will be needin’ washin’ again seein’ they’ve been on the floor. But we can chat more later.” Peggy headed for the servants’ stairs at the end of the wide hallway, the ones that led straight down to the kitchen.

  So, things are different now. Interesting. I can’t wait to get to the bottom of this.

  Meg went to her room to change for riding with her father, all the w
hile thinking of how she’d genuinely liked Peggy. However, she had an ulterior motive for befriending her. Clearly, Peggy liked to chit-chat. She had no boundaries for family secrets. Either being too young to know that wasn’t customary for servants and their employers, or being a foreigner not knowing proper etiquette in this culture, or things having loosened up so much in this house it didn’t matter to anyone anymore, there was some reason Peggy behaved as she did. Whatever the reason, if Meg wanted to find out what went on in this house, Peggy would be a good source of information.

  She couldn’t wait to have another little chat with the girl.

  12

  Abby felt antsy, finding it hard to concentrate on the reading she was doing for the mayor. Of course, that was because the girl was home.

  Yet the messages coming through so strongly for the mayor of Traverse City couldn’t be ignored. She closed her eyes, placed her hands on the crystal ball, forced herself to focus, and took in the missives from beyond. When she opened her eyes and told him that, yes, the “blessing of the blossoms” could be expanded to become a large event, the mayor was ecstatic over the support of his idea. Abby told him the religious ceremony conducted each year by a priest at the behest of local farmers to bless their cherry crops could attract visitors from far and wide. Local merchants could be involved; there could be a parade of floats made from motorcars and trucks; they could elect a queen; the high school band could march; war veterans could be honored; food could be sold; and there could even be a cherry pie contest.

  The mayor left her cabin as giddy as a boy who just got his first feel of a loose girl. Abby felt happy for him. She’d been reading for him ever since he came home from college and went into business twenty years ago.

  Most people would be surprised to discover how many businessmen came to her, most in secrecy at her cabin. For the two mornings a week she also did readings in the backroom of a garage in town, most of the folks weren’t locals so they didn’t care about privacy.