by Linda Hughes
Abby and the garage owner, who’d once been a farrier full time and still shoed horses on the side, had enjoyed an amicable arrangement for years. He gave her a small space, a table, and two chairs in exchange for free weekly readings of his own. His business had prospered mightily over the years and he credited the fortune teller with guiding him, especially when prohibition struck and she reassured him that every law enforcement officer in town would look the other way when he sold moonshine under the counter, especially if they got a discount. She’d been right.
Abby watched the mayor drive away in his snazzy Model T Ford, took down her “All-Seeing Abby” sign, and closed the door. Quickly, she cleared the room with her sage and feather. Then, needing time to reflect about what to do with her discovery at Lizzie’s cottage, she sat down in her rocker and summoned her ancestor spirit guides.
They remained silent. She’d tried many times to get them to tell her about Lizzie, but they’d always refused. Why, she didn’t know.
“So, I’m on my own,” she sighed. Finding what laid beneath Lizzie’s cottage had been startling, totally shocking. She’d had no idea it had been there all these years, right there almost under her feet every time she visited.
The ladder under the trapdoor in the floor led down to a cave. Rather than a cellar being dug and a cottage being built on top of it, the cottage had been built, long ago by some unknown settler, on top of the entrance to a cave. It was very clever, actually. Abby could imagine the original dwellers, perhaps some of the first white people in the area, using the cave as a root cellar for storing food. She hadn’t had enough light to venture too far but heard spring water trickling somewhere up ahead. That meant fresh water flowed right at hand. The cave could have served as shelter in a storm, too.
Limestone caves dotted these hills, carved out long ago when the Arctic glaciers slowly melted and crept down the landmass, cutting grooves and lakes and caverns into the bedrock as they went, like giant monsters clawing and digging their way south to reshape and mold everything in their path. Petoskey stones, pebble shaped rocks made of fossilized coral, were just one of the unusual materials left behind, still washing ashore on local beaches. Abby had buckets full of them she’d picked up from her very own beach.
She’d seen caves all over these hills but none deeper than about ten feet burrowed into the side of a hill. Just the short distance she’d seen in Lizzie’s cave went about fifteen feet back and then turned a corner, so she was anxious to take a lantern to explore deeper into its mysteries.
But the biggest mystery broke her heart. Perhaps, she thought, she was being petty. However, she and Lizzie were so close, why did her friend keep the cave a secret? Was she hiding something?
There was no doubt Lizzie knew about the cave. Not only was the trapdoor obvious beneath the rug, a painting, too dull in candlelight to discern, sat against one of the stone walls down there. Everyone, she supposed, needed some secrets and privacy, but that seemed extreme. If a cave existed under her cabin, Lizzie would have been the first, and maybe only, person she’d take down there. Clearly, she and Elizabeth “Lizzie” Sullivan had not been as close as she thought.
She wondered if Lizzie was ever truly close to anyone. One part of her exuded warmth and charm and love. Another part of her remained closed to the world. Even to her best friend.
There was a lot Abby didn’t know, but one thing was certain. No matter what secrets Lizzie held in her heart, with all her heart Abby would always love the Lizzie she knew.
13
“Excuse me, Lizzie,” Jenny said apologetically. “Do you think you could spare a few moments to help me with something? I’m so excited I’m not thinking straight and I need your clear head to help me.”
Elizabeth wiped her paintbrush with a rag as she listened to her neighbor’s request. She’d been surprised when she heard a knock at her door as that so seldom happened. And shy, depressed Jenny, of all people, never bothered her. At the moment however, Jenny looked almost radiant. Maybe even happy. She actually had some color in her usually wan cheeks.
“Sure,” Elizabeth said, curious. “What can I do for you?” She gestured for Jenny to come in, but the woman shook her head no.
“I need you to come meet with this lawyer who’s in my room right now! My sister finally found someone to help me get a divorce!”
“Jenny! That’s great! Let’s go.”
Without even bothering to change from her designer silk lounging robe, Elizabeth tossed her towel onto the floor and stuck her paintbrush in her pocket, and followed Jenny next door.
When they entered the room a handsome young man stood staring up at the painting of a barn that Elizabeth had given Jenny. He strode toward them, hand extended. “Hello, I’m Jed O’Neill,” he offered, shaking Elizabeth’s hand. “You must be Lizzie Sullivan.”
“Glad to make your acquaintance,” Elizabeth said.
“Mrs. Pennington has told me what a kind neighbor you are. She tells me she trusts your judgement, which is just fine. And she said you gave her that painting. It’s exquisite! You have amazing talent.”
“Why, thank you,” Elizabeth said.
“Did you also do the one in the hallway of the three Labradors?”
“Yes, so many people here seem to miss their dogs, I thought they’d enjoy that one.”
“Lizzie gives away her paintings all the time,” Jenny interjected. “Half the rooms in our cottage have one and I think just about everybody who works here has one. She’s so generous with her work. I love this one.
“I miss my farm. But not my husband.”
“Why don’t we sit down and talk about that?” the lawyer said, looking at Jenny Pennington for permission to sit at the one table in the room.
The living quarters in Cottage 23 were much more comfortable than those in the central building, the one known as Building 50. Each of the rooms in Cottage 23 was an adequately sized space with large rectangular windows reaching toward the high ceiling, allowing for lots of natural light. Supplied by the asylum were a table and two chairs, a small bed, white linens, a white blanket, a down pillow, a nightstand with a kerosene table lamp, and three candles in candlestick holders. Residents of 23, deemed more stable than many other patients, enjoyed the privilege of possessing matches for lighting the lamp and candles. Whatever type of valise and clothing they arrived with stayed with them, like the wicker case sitting on Jenny’s floor under a window. A side table held a water pitcher and glass, filled twice each day by workers who came by with supplies and a fresh bucket of well water.
All-in-all, it was a better living situation than many residents had ever known in their private homes. But Elizabeth’s room was, of course, much more opulent than Jenny’s and the others, with Herbert having met his wife’s many demands. Jenny’s Cottage 23 room, on the other hand, was paid for by her sister, who’d been appalled upon discovering the conditions under which Jennie lived in the central building. Although clean and well-tended, she’s had a nine-by-six-foot room, a cell really, with one small window. With Jennie’s husband being a mere farmer, and a brute of one at that, he couldn’t nor would have given her anything better. Her sister’s wealth aside, Jenny had told Elizabeth she didn’t want to ask anything more of her sister, she so appreciated this room, so she lived sparsely. Her room held just what it came with, except for the painting.
“Yes,” Jenny responded to the young lawyer’s request that they sit, her voice quavering in barely contained excitement. “We’ll sit here.” She motioned toward the table and then looked confused as there were only two chairs. “Here,” she said, “I’ll sit on the edge of the bed.”
The lawyer and Elizabeth politely sat in the chairs and Jenny perched herself on the end of the bed, facing them.
“Mrs. Pennington, I’m sorry you didn’t get the message that I would be coming here today. Permission from the administrative office came to us just this morning. It took some arm twisting by my uncle, the judge, but he got it done without your hu
sband being contacted. Someone was supposed to tell you I’d be here at this time. I do apologize.”
“Oh, I don’t mind.” Jenny beamed. “I’m just glad you’re here.”
“I do need to tell you up front that your sister expected another lawyer in my uncle’s law office, but that man has a horrible cold and is recuperating. I just arrived in town two days ago. And I passed the bar last month. I hope that’s not a problem.”
“Why no, not at all.”
“I promise to do my best for you. Seeing that this is my first case, you can imagine I want to start off my career with a bang, so you can count on me.”
Elizabeth studied Jed O’Neill’s sharp blue eyes, square jaw, and thick sandy-colored hair. He looked as Irish as they come. Behaving unlike herself, she preferred to remain silent to see what this greenhorn would come up with. She hoped not a bunch of blarney.
“Okay, I need to ask you some questions in order to get started. I understand from your sister that your husband had you placed here and that he refuses to get a divorce. Is that correct?”
Tears sprang to Jenny’s eyes. “Yes, that’s right.”
“Why do you think he wants to stay married to you, if he doesn’t want to live with you?”
“He wants to control me! He’s an animal! He used to beat me. When I wouldn’t stand for that anymore he decided to ruin my life by taking my children away from me.”
Elizabeth had never seen the woman show so much emotion and reached out to pat her hand.
“This question is indelicate, but I must ask it: Do you think you are insane? In other words, is this where you need to be?”
“No!” Elizabeth exclaimed. “Mr. O’Neill, you have no idea how many women are here merely because their husbands wanted to get rid of them. It’s a crime. It’s immoral. It’s ungodly. We keep hearing about suffragettes and women’s rights and new laws for women, but believe you me we don’t see any of that in here.” Now her own emotion had got the best of her.
“Jenny?” the lawyer queried, looking for her answer to his question.
“No,” she whispered. “I might be shy but I’m as sane as a saint. I’m certainly saner than that Satan of a man I married.”
“How long have you been here?”
“Three years. My youngest was only three when they took me away. She’s six years old now and probably doesn’t even remember me.” She started to sob.
Elizabeth looked around the room and found a linen handkerchief on the nightstand. She brought it to Jennie, who dried her eyes.
“Would you like a drink of water?” Elizabeth asked her.
“No, thank you. I’m fine.”
“There are new laws, ladies,” Jed said, “new laws that will help this case. And other cases like it.” He looked pointedly at Elizabeth. “The biggest factor here is to get you declared sane by the officials here; that needs to come first. Then you’ll be free to leave and get a divorce. If you are sane, your husband will no longer be considered your guardian by the state and he can’t stop a divorce. In order for you to get custody of your children in the divorce, we need proof that he’s an unfit father and husband. My uncle is a judge; he says he’s seen this a number of times. If we can prove that your husband has been leaving the children alone, for example, while he goes out to drink or cavort with other women, we can get it done.”
Jenny gave up a small grin. “That should be easy enough. He can’t spend half a day sober and he chases every skirt in town.”
“Oddly enough, in this case, that’s a good thing. It’ll help immensely. Our goal is for you to have grounds for divorce, get back together with your children, and start a new life.”
“Oh, that sounds wonderful! My sister wants me to bring the children and come live with her in Grand Rapids. Do you really think we can do it?”
“We’ll certainly give it our best. If he’s as bad as you say he is, he’ll end up cutting his own throat. I think we have a good chance.
“Well, I’d better get to work! I’ll be back in three days to give you an update.” He stood, donned his hat, and nodded. “It’s been a pleasure, ladies. I’ll see you again soon.” With that he left.
“Oh, Lizzie! What do you think? Is it really possible?”
“Yes, Jenny. I think it really is. There might be justice for women in this world after all. And you’ll be one of the first in line to get it.”
After a congratulatory hug, Elizabeth went back to her studio and continued to paint.
14
Meg entered Sleder’s and looked around. Supposedly a restaurant, everyone in town, including her fourteen-year-old maid Peggy, knew it was a speakeasy tavern. No wonder it was so crowded.
Upon further inspection in the muted light, though, she could see only men; professionals in suits, workmen in shirts and trousers, and farmers in overalls; standing at the long ornate bar with its brass rail, and sitting at oak tables and booths. It was a beautiful room with mahogany and cherry as well as oak wood abounding in the furnishings and accoutrements. She looked up to see a tall ceiling of stamped tin. Stuffed animal heads lined the walls, including a number of deer bucks and a buffalo. A sign on the wall said: “Good will is good business — Case of Beer $1.50 w/ free double shot of whiskey and a beer.” Dotting the floor were numerous spittoons.
Dozens of masculine eyes turned in Meg’s direction, taking her in from head to toe. She straightened her spine and lifted her chin, refusing to be intimidated.
Most surprisingly, all those fellows drank from teacups. Some of their large, work-worn fingers could barely hold the dainty handles. She knew that teetotalers they were not.
Two burly police officers sitting at a front table got up and walked out without paying, staring at her as they parted to pass her on each side. For a moment, she thought they would speak to her so she ignored their impolite inspection. They walked by, and she heard the door open and shut behind her. She took a deep breath.
“Hello, Miss Sullivan. Are you lookin’ for the women’s room?” A young lad she’d never seen before in her life had appeared at her side and asked the question.
Peggy had warned her about that, saying “everyone in town” knew that Herbert Sullivan’s daughter had returned home from the big city because she’d been jilted by her hoity-toity fiancé. They would all know who she was. But this kid knowing her was really too much!
“The what?” she asked.
The answer didn’t come from the boy, however, as her father’s driver suddenly showed up at her elbow. Sam said, “Excuse me, Miss Sullivan. I saw you come in here and want to make sure you find the women’s room. Hi, Louie.”
“Don’t worry, Sammy,” the kid said. “I got ‘er.”
“Thank you, Sam,” Meg said, struck by how her father always seemed to make sure someone kept an eye on her.
She’d told her father she was going to a restaurant to meet an old friend she’d known during summer visits home. When he’d asked the friend’s name and she brilliantly came up with a bogus alias, he’d been confounded because, he noted, he knew just about everyone in town. Her then additional fabrication about the friend only visiting her grandmother during summers, too, until recently when she moved here permanently, seemed most clever. She even added the brilliant touch that the granddaughter and grandmother didn’t have the same last name, but she didn’t remember the grandmother’s last name. Her father had looked at her for a moment with a furrowed brow, but then said he was pleased she was reconnecting with old friends.
No doubt the tale of this little debacle in the tavern would meet her sire’s ears in the morning, if not sooner, thanks to Sam the driver.
“Okay then,” Sam said, holding the door open to make sure she left.
“The women’s room,” the boy smiled up at her. “Com’on, I’ll show you.” He ushered her back out the front door.
Sam headed down Randolph Street toward the limousine, which was parked between a horse and buggy and a horse tethered to a hitching post. As they drov
e into town she’d been struck with how many people here still traveled by horse and carriage, or just horse. Obviously not nearly as large a percent of the population here owned a motorcar as what she’d become accustomed to in Chicago.
As the boy led her around the side of the building she looked back, wondering if Sam would sneak right back into the tavern as soon as she was out of sight.
They walked down a path at the side of the building. “Women aren’t allowed in the tavern,” he explained. “Boy! Did you see those men’s eyes buggin’ out at you? They don’t get to see somebody pretty as you very often.” He chortled.
“Thank you… Louie, it is?”
“Sure. Ever’body knows that. ‘Cept you, I guess.” He threw her a cockeyed grin. “Louie Sleder.”
“Oh. I see. Well, now I know, too.”
She carried on the conversation as amicably as possible, rattled as she was that women weren’t allowed in the tavern. How parochial. She thought that went out in the last century. But it wasn’t the boy’s fault, so she chatted as best she could while they walked the length of the building.
“Aren’t you a little young to be working in a tavern, Louie?”
“Oh, no, Miss Sullivan. I’ve been workin’ here since I could walk and will pro’bly be here ‘til I croak. My parents own the place and their parents owned it before them.
“Hey! Did you mean to go to the courtin’ room? That’s where men and women can be together. If you don’t mind my sayin’ so, I don’t think you want to go in there.”
“No. No, I’m not interested in a courting room. The women’s room is perfect for me.” A ‘courting room’? Really? Could this town possibly get any more backwards? she thought.
“Here we are. This door right here.” He opened the ordinary-looking door for her.