Secrets of the Asylum

by Linda Hughes

“Thank you, Louie. You’re a very gallant young man.”

  The boy beamed. “No problem, Miss Sullivan. You come talk to me anytime you need somethin’. Thing is, though, you just gotta come in this door.”

  Meg stepped into the room and heard the door slap shut behind her.

  She could see that she was overdressed. Her ermine wrap, something she’d wear to the grocer’s in Chicago, proved to be an embarrassment here. Her elbow-length black gloves were really over the top. Her green silk sheath dress seemed more acceptable, as a number of women around the room wore similar, although not tailored or silk, sheaths. After all, the style was all the rage. A few even had long strings of pearls about their necks, albeit it fake, imitating the real ones Meg wore. It was clear there wasn’t as much wealth around here as what she was accustomed to.

  She tugged at one of her dangly diamond and pearl earrings, considering pulling off the pair and stowing them in her bag. Too obvious, she decided, seeing that women’s bobbed-hair heads had already turned and wide kohl-lined eyes from all corners of the room stared at her.

  She’d only come here because Peggy reassured her that here she would find nurses from the asylum. Peggy had left out, or didn’t know, the part about the women’s room being separate from the tavern. Peggy said her brother, the one arrested a number of times for drunk and disorderly, always bragged that he could bag a nurse at Sleder’s any time, night or day. What the girl probably didn’t know was that her brother must spend his time in the nefarious courting room. But then, Peggy insisted her brother was an “eejit.”

  An Irish lad’s eejit status aside, this seemed to be the place to be to meet women in town. Meg had lost her taste for speakeasies but three days earlier when her father had refused her request to see her mother, she’d known she needed to take matters into her own hands. Her plan was to cavort with the locals, find a willing player for cash, and have an asylum nurse sneak her in to see her mother. According to Peggy it had been done before, especially for patients like Mrs. Sullivan in the houses called cottages.

  “May I offer you a table, Miss Sullivan?” A pleasant woman, another stranger who knew her name, posed the question.

  “Why, yes, thank you. For two, please. I’m… I’m waiting for an acquaintance.” Of course, she had no clue yet who that companion might be.

  The woman led her to a small table at the side of the room. “May I bring you one of our special root beers?” she asked.

  Meg looked around. Almost every table held women drinking from tea cups. Most of them had stopped staring at her, although a few leers lingered.

  “Is that what most of your patrons are having?”

  “Oh, yes! Women love our root beer.” The woman winked.

  “Yes, that sounds good.”

  Meg took off her gloves, sluffed her fur stole off her shoulders to let it hang on the back of her chair, and took in the place. This room was much smaller than the men’s, more like sitting in a parlor. Being nighttime, the lights were dim. It was a cozy room.

  Still, she’d rather not have to be here. The chance she could pull this off, she now realized, was slim. Seeing that everyone in this small town knew everything about everybody else, the odds she’d get away with her plan didn’t look so good anymore. It had sounded much more promising when she’d conjured it up with her fellow plotter, Peggy.

  It all started when her father refused her request to visit her mother.

  That evening Peggy had knocked on her bedroom door to thank her for talking to Miss Hannah. The starched blue uniforms gone, Peggy and the other servants wore plain white cotton blouses and straight mid-calf black skirts, with black hose and shoes, the outfits they’d been wearing for some time before Meg came home.

  After a chat about style, Meg asked Peggy outright if there was any gossip about her father having a woman in his life.

  “Oh, yes, Miss,” Peggy said. “Everyone knows that! He and Miss Hannah are in love. They have been for a very long time, before I came here. She was head housekeeper at another business man’s house, someone your da knew, so he met her there, and then she came to work here. But they can’t wed, of course, seein’ that yer father is married to, well, ya know, yer mother in the loon… um, asylum.

  “Cook has worked here since yer father was a wee lad, and she says he used to be more like his mother, God rest her soul, and she was prim and proper as they come. But her husband, God rest his soul — ya know he started out as a shanty boy! A mere woodcutter. Imagine that! And he built all of this.” She spread her arms and looked around, agog. “Anyways, he’s yer grandfather and he was a grand man. Everybody loved him. Yer father, Cook says, has become more and more like him over the years. Miss Hannah has helped him ‘loosen up,’ as Cook puts it.

  “Isn’t that grand?”

  Meg had listened closely, her breath catching in her throat. So, her father was, after all, in love with his head housekeeper. He did not love her mother. Was that why he’d had her mother committed?

  Meg’s reverie of her conversation with Peggy evaporated when a Sleder’s server placed a pretty china tea cup in a matching saucer in front of her. “Here you go, Miss Sullivan, your tea.”

  Yet another person who knew her name.

  Meg lifted her cup to take a sip of “tea.” Placing her cup back on the saucer, she chuckled. She’d like to see the bourbon and rye teabags that made up this brew. It was good, so she sipped away.

  Looking around as she drank, she wondered if there was a “mark” in the room who could help her. She hadn’t thought through how she’d approach someone who looked like they might be willing. If she revealed her plan to the wrong person, she could be had and get into trouble. Then she’d never be able to see her mother.

  A few days earlier, the day after she first arrived home, she and her father had a beautiful afternoon together riding up Leelanau Peninsula. Their home sat up the peninsula five miles from town on the west side of Grand Traverse Bay, and they’d ridden seven miles further up, sometimes on the beach and sometimes on the dirt road that led to the Grand Traverse Lighthouse on the tip of the peninsula. They hadn’t gone all the way, as the peninsula was a thirty-mile stretch, but it’d been an invigorating ride. She’d never seen her father so jovial and, again, the word that came to mind was fun. True to his word, he’d even brought a picnic lunch.

  That evening she’d gone into his study and requested to see her mother. She hoped their new friendly father-daughter relationship had buttered him up enough to grant her request. But he’d turned her down, calmly saying he didn’t think it was a good idea. He gave no further explanation. Seeing that he was her mother’s guardian, Meg needed his permission to enter the asylum. So here she was, eyeing up a roomful of women wondering if a potential co-conspirator sat within sight.

  She didn’t have to wonder for long.

  The young woman had a round face, innocent looking as all get out. She’d attempted to put a wave into her limp blond hair but it had spurned the style. Still, with her soft eyes and gentle manner, she was attractive. She wore a pink shift and little jewelry, adding to her natural, innocent femininity. Uninvited, she sat down at Meg’s table.

  “Hello, Miss Sullivan. Would you like to see your mother?”

  That’s all it took. Within minutes Meg and the asylum nurse named Petunia had planned a clandestine nighttime visit a few days hence, when Cottage 23’s supervisor would be on holiday.

  Their plot complete, nurse Petunia went back to her table of friends. Meg paid her bill and left Sleder’s women’s room walking on air.

  “Meg!”

  Startled at a man’s voice, as little light found its way to the side of the building, she turned but hastened her pace toward the front of the tavern. When the man stepped out from under a tree where she could see his face, she kept going.

  “You! What do you want? Why are you skulking there in the dark?”

  He caught up with her and matched her stride.

  “I’m not skulking. I’m waiti
ng for you.”

  “How did you know I was here?”

  They’d reached the front of Sleder’s and Meg was relieved to be under a gas streetlight. Men inside the tavern could see her through the front windows. Surely some gentleman in there would be chivalrous enough to save her should this thug attack.

  The man grinned and took off his fedora. Thick, sandy-colored hair spilled out around his face. He wasn’t wearing his spectacles, making his eyes more vibrant than ever. “Oh, everybody in there,” he said, jerking a thumb at the tavern, “knows you’re here. I was at the far end of the bar with my uncle and saw you come in.”

  “Do you know what time it is? My father’s driver will be back any moment. That’s our car down there.” She pointed at the limousine, although she could see that Sam was nowhere in sight. Still, she wanted this Jed bozo to know she wouldn’t be alone for long and dawdled over putting on her gloves to avoid looking at him.

  “There’s a bench over there. We could talk until he gets here.”

  “Why on earth would I want to talk to you? Mind your own beeswax, please, and leave me alone!”

  “Meg… Miss Sullivan,” he corrected himself given her hostility. “We’re old friends. Weren’t we great euchre partners on the train?”

  “Yes, and then we got off the train, where your wife and children met you! You slob. Don’t talk to me anymore.”

  “My… wife?” Jed O’Neill slapped his forehead. “You mean my… sister and nephews.”

  Meg turned to face him. “What? Your sister?”

  “Yes, Miss Sullivan, my sister. And her kids. Not mine. My brother-in-law didn’t come because he was sick in bed with a bad cold, although he’s feeling better today, thank you very much.”

  “Oh, well, then, I’m sorry. I misread the situation.” She gnawed at her lower lip.

  “I can promise you I’m not married. Haven’t had time. Went to college out of high school, went to war in France, came home, got my law degree, and moved here to set up practice. See? No time for a wife and kids.”

  “You… you….” She felt like a fool. “You fought in the war?”

  “I did. Spent far too much time huddled down in cold, muddy trenches. Glad it’s over. Glad I survived to be here, in fact. Will being a war veteran entice you to talk to me? Because if it will, I’ll tell you all about it.”

  “I’m sorry,” she relented. “I thought, well, I thought you were a married man trying to flirt with me. It insulted me to think you thought I was that kind of girl.”

  “Oh, no, Miss Sullivan. May I call you Meg again?” She nodded. “Meg, you don’t look anything like that kind of girl.”

  “Did you know my last name on the train or did you hear it for the first time in there?” She tilted her head toward the tavern.

  “In there. Everybody in there seems to know you’re the daughter of Herbert Sullivan, one of the most prominent businessmen in town. On the train, you were just Meg.”

  The door to the tavern opened and Sam came out. “I’ll pull up the car, Miss Sullivan,” he said, hustling down the sidewalk.

  Jed smiled at Meg and she felt her whole body relax. It was a beautiful smile. She smiled back. “I have to get used to being back home in a town of only six thousand people after being in the biggest city in the country for so long. Chicago has over two and a half million people. And I must say that relatively few of them know who I am. But everybody here does. So, you probably already know that my fiancé in Chicago left me and I’ve come home a brokenhearted woman.”

  “Yes, but they didn’t use words that were quite so kind about your fiancé. Don’t worry. Everybody thinks the man must be a bozo and it’s his loss.”

  “Bozo. That’s the very word I used at the time.” She felt it prudent not to reveal that’s precisely how she’d thought of him, as well.

  The black limousine pulled up in front of them.

  “Well, I have to go,” Meg said, as Sam hopped out and came around to open her door.

  “Wait! Can I see you again?” Jed asked. “I could get together an entire team of people to play cards if you don’t want to be alone with me.” Meg couldn’t help but notice that he nervously circled the rim of his hat in his hands.

  Sam’s eyebrows lifted as he continued to hold the door. He looked at Meg, then at Jed, then back at Meg expectantly.

  “Do you ride horses?” she asked Jed.

  “Sure do. My uncle still owns some nice ones.”

  “Can you get to the beach on the west side of the bay in front of our house at two o’clock tomorrow afternoon?”

  “Sure.”

  “I’ll be riding there. Why don’t you join me if you can?”

  “Yessirree. I’ll be there.” He settled his hat back onto his head and smiled again, looking as dapper as one of those Hollywood actors.

  Just as it had when she’d first met the handsome man on the train, Meg’s heart flip-flopped. That, she knew from experience, probably meant trouble. But her heart insisted she find out for sure.

  Meg got into the car and threw Jed a little wave.

  Sam closed the door and tipped his driver’s cap at Jed. “Well done,” he said.

  15

  Abby wasn’t expecting anyone on a Saturday morning, so the knock on her cabin door came as a surprise. She put down the herbs she’d just picked out of her garden and had started to bundle for hanging from the rafters to dry. Wiping her hands on a towel, she quickly threw the purple and yellow primrose flowers she’d cut into a vase of water, not wanting to leave them dry for too long.

  She finally reached the door and opened it.

  “Hello. Abby? I hope you don’t mind my dropping by, but I’ve been told you might be able to help me.”

  Abby froze. Why in tarnation hadn’t her ancestor spirit guides warned her of this? Sometimes she thought they entertained themselves by leaving her high and dry. They’d undoubtedly be laughing their heads off, if they still had heads.

  She smiled. “Hello, Meg. Please come in.”

  The young woman entered her cabin and looked around. “So, you know who I am,” she said.

  “Of course. Everyone in Traverse City knows who you are. But in all fairness, anyone who’s lived here for more than twenty minutes is known by everyone else in town.

  “Please, come, sit.” Abby led Meg to the table. ““Did you ride over?” she asked, noting her riding attire.

  “No, but I’ll be riding this afternoon, so I went ahead and got ready.”

  “Ah, that’s nice.

  “May I get you some herb tea? I just brewed some fresh ginger-mint, from my own garden.”

  “Oh, that would be lovely.”

  Actually, Abby didn’t care about tea as much as she needed a moment to absorb what was happening here. Lizzie’s daughter sat right here in her cabin, looking every bit like Lizzie had looked when Abby first met her. Except for the modern clothes and haircut, it could be the same woman. She busied herself getting her tea kettle off the coals in the fireplace and pouring the aromatic liquid into the two best cups she could find, the only two she owned that weren’t chipped.

  Meg, in the meantime, occupied herself by swiping imaginary lint off her riding breeches and straightening the collar on her checkered blouse, while surreptitiously examining the contents of the cabin. Giving up the pretense, she said, “Abby, your cabin is lovely! So… charming.” She turned all the way around in her chair to take in the entire space. “Your kitchen area is so sweet with those striped curtains.”

  Abby brought the tea and joined her guest. “Why, thank you, Meg. I love it here. I’ve lived here all my life.”

  “And your bed is beautiful.” Meg pointed to Abby’s four-poster bed in the corner, the posts draped with fabric which Abby pulled down when she knew people were coming. Not expecting anyone today, the bed sat in full view. But normally, she didn’t think people needed to be looking at something as private as her bed. “Did you make that quilt and those ruffled pillows yourself?” Meg asked
.

  Abby chuckled. “Yes. It usually surprises people to find out I love to sew. They tend to think Indians only fish and hunt. My mother was a good seamstress. She taught me.”

  Meg continued to look around and Abby knew she might be sizing up the place as many people often did, their false assumptions about the Chippewa shattered by this pleasingly clean and domestic home. Abby didn’t spend money on furnishings or clothes, but she did keep her home and her person spotlessly clean, as had been Chippewa tradition since time immemorial.

  “You have a lot of books. You like to read?” Meg asked.

  “Oh, yes, I love to read.”

  Then Meg saw it, the one thing that Abby knew could open the gate to the girl’s past.

  “That painting above the fireplace! It’s beautiful!” Meg got up and stood in front of the painting of the forest, having no idea she stood so close to her own mother’s work. “Look at that fawn peeking out from behind the tree. It’s so well done it looks like I could reach out and touch the sweet thing. Is this painted by a local artist?”

  “Um, yes. A client. Gave it to me… as payment.” Abby impulsively decided to keep that gate closed, at least for now.

  Meg returned to her chair, looked back at the painting, and then looked at Abby. “I’m sorry if I’m too nosy. I’m a bit nervous. I’ve never done this kind of thing before.”

  “That’s okay, dear. Lots of people feel that way the first time. And I’m proud of my little home here. Did you know your grandfather gave this plot of land and the cabin to my parents? Herbert Ambrose Sullivan, Sr.” She said the name with near reverence. “He was a generous, kind man. Because my father’s family had lived in this area for generations, when your grandfather bought the land he let my parents stay right where they were. They so appreciated that, and so do I, of course.”

  “I’ve always heard that my grandfather was a kind man. And I’ve heard the shanty boy story a hundred times.” Meg sipped her tea and smiled across the table.

  Abby smiled back. “Yes, a self-made man.

  “Meg, do you remember being here once when you were a little girl?” Abby pointed in the direction of her bow and quiver of arrows standing in a corner.