by Linda Hughes
Abby grabbed a paring knife that lay on the table and pulled over the basket of mushrooms, slicing each one once lengthwise for better frying.
Seeing that it was ten o’clock in the morning, Abby’s usual time for dropping by on a Sunday as the family would be at mass, she knew that Cook and the other servants had already come back from early service in order to prepare Sunday dinner to be served early in the afternoon. It was the most elaborate meal of the week, pot roast, baked chicken, rack of lamb, venison chops, or steaks with all the trimmings plus dessert. But Cook always had the preparations well in hand so the mood in the kitchen was relaxed and jovial. On other days, when Abby came shortly after dawn, they had a short visit over tea and biscuits until the family arose, but on Sundays they all could afford to take their time and enjoy a big breakfast together.
Monday was the only day they never met, as it was the servants’ day off. Cook, having no family, simply slept in on Monday mornings. Most of the others went home late Sunday afternoon to spend the night and next day with family, returning to the big house either Monday night or early Tuesday morning.
Abby had anticipated that this day promised to be especially gossip-worthy. She felt certain her friends would be all abuzz with news of the young man Meg brought home the day before. And seeing that it was Sunday they’d feel at leisure to talk longer than usual. Peggy’s comment confirmed that a good gossip session boiled over for the telling.
She’d decided not to tell them she already knew a bit about the young couple. She saw them on the beach while she’d been in the woods near the water. Talking about him would seem like a betrayal seeing that Meg had asked her about him during her reading. The spirits had said he was a good man. The girl needed a good man after that scoundrel she’d had in the big city. Abby hoped this young man was it. When she saw them they seemed happy. He was certainly good looking enough.
Cook’s assistant Sarah returned with a basket full of brown eggs. She greeted Abby warmly, and went about cracking and stirring eggs in a big porcelain bowl.
Peggy filled Abby in on Jed O’Neill’s visit while Cook scrambled the eggs and mushrooms, and fried thick slabs of Canadian bacon. Sarah got a block of butter out of the icebox and put it in the center of the table, and then sliced the steaming bread, the smell wafting through the room. Peggy set the table and Abby got up to retrieve a jar of Cook’s homemade apple butter from the pantry. There was no way she’d have fresh bread without that scrumptious apple butter that Cook made each fall, using fresh Spy apples. Then Abby poured tea for everyone.
Peggy opened the swinging kitchen door and hollered, “Come and get it!”
Within moments the other three servants in the house showed up, licking their lips, swiping their hands together, and saying, “Oh, yum!” “This smells fantastic!” “Morels! The first of the year!” Sam appeared out of nowhere. Everyone clamored to sit around the table.
“My mouth is watering!” Cook declared. “Eat up!” She passed the morels, eggs, and bacon. Bread went around next, and everyone dug in with more moans of approval than conversation at the beginning of the meal. Eventually, though, talk wandered back to Meg and the man they called her “beau,” and they all agreed it looked like a good match.
After an hour of good food and good company, and after helping clean up, Abby left. Walking through the woods to her cabin on this pleasant day, she made a spur-of-the-moment decision. She never went into town on Sundays to see Lizzie, as her friend spent the morning at mandatory services in the resplendent asylum chapel and the afternoon enjoying a scrumptious dinner in her cottage dining hall. Lizzie had often told Abby how much the asylum’s careful attention to making Sunday holy meant to her. She described in detail how the guest ministers gave rousing sermons while sunlight streamed into the cavernous, Victorian-styled room through the tall, rounded windows with stained glass at the top. The organist was excellent and residents let loose singing rousing hymns. And the holy day dinner always outdid even the best of the excellent weekday meals.
Of course, Abby had never seen the chapel or the inside of any of the asylum buildings. She would never have been allowed inside, but that was okay because of the secret nature of their friendship, anyway.
Most of all, Lizzie spoke of the images conjured up during Sundays for her paintings: light shining through stained glass, faces exuberant with venerated joy, heads bowed in reverent prayer.
Everything, it seemed, generated pictures in Lizzie’s mind for painting. It had long been clear to Abby that her friend was abnormally obsessed with her art. She’d read that many proliferate artistic geniuses throughout history had been quite mad in one way or another. Vincent VanGogh, Bugatti Rembrandt, and Alexander Henry, just to name a few, died grotesquely at their own hands. Abby speculated that allowing oneself to become obsessed with a solitary talent provided an escape from facing real life.
In spite of her friend’s shortcomings, Abby found it difficult, if not impossible, to fault her. Lizzie’s art was, after all, brilliant. In another day and age when women could be more accepted on an equal footing with men, Elizabeth Sullivan would be an independently wealthy and famous woman, Abby had no doubt.
But today she was labeled as insane.
The notion that kept drilling its way to the surface of Abby’s consciousness, a notion she continuously struggled to suppress, was that perhaps Lizzie was truly insane. Perhaps her art was not a manifestation of the suppression of women in society but a sign of individual innate lunacy.
It was that thought that propelled Abby to turn off the path to her cabin and walk through the woods to the beach, where she could go to search Lizzie’s cottage and its secret cave one more time. She’d been struggling with this idea since discovering the cave, knowing she’d been avoiding reality herself. There was something down there. Maybe just a hiding place for special paintings, maybe just a cool storage space for bottles of wine, or maybe something more sinister. Abby genuinely didn’t know what she expected to find. But she had known she’d need to go during the day in order to get as much light as possible from above. Plus, she admitted to herself, the cave scared her. It was downright spooky and, she feared, haunted. The very thought of nighttime down there gave her the heebie-jeebies.
Casting that silly thought from her mind, because if anybody alive shouldn’t be afraid of ghosts it should be her, seeing that she talked to them all the time, she hurried down the beach, climbed up the path, and went inside Lizzie’s cottage. Now was the perfect time. It was daylight and Meg would be at the reception after mass for another hour, with more time added on to drive home from town.
Standing stone still in the middle of the space, Abby looked around. The room felt warm and inviting. The paintings emanated a soothing aura. Mottled light filtered in through the windows. The cottage seemed to beckon her to stay.
Glad she’d come, she allowed herself the luxury of sitting on the chaise lounge. First, she took the faded afghan and covered the chaise so that she could rest her body on the clean underside of the throw, the side that had been hidden from dust all these years. With a long satisfying sigh, she settled herself onto the chaise and looked out at the sparkling bay. How many hours, days, months, had she spent right here while Lizzie painted? She couldn’t even venture a guess, they’d spent so much time here during the years they knew each other before Lizzie was taken away.
Abby closed her eyes and remembered the good times. Finally, she arose and went to the side of the fireplace where she moved the painting of the cemetery scene, flipped back the rug, and opened the trapdoor. Lighting two lanterns, she took one down and placed it on the floor a few feet into the cave, then went back for the second one to carry with her.
This time the rock cavern didn’t seem so mysterious or frightening. Instead, she saw walls and floor and ceiling constructed of layers of innocent enough limestone. The ceiling rose far enough to allow her to stand up straight as she walked inward to reach the large painting that sat on the floor at the end of this corridor. It tu
rned out to be yet another cemetery scene, a tranquil single cross in springtime with colorful wild flowers sprouting up at its base.
Turning right at the painting, now she could see that the cave took a bend to continue for about thirty feet, the ceiling opening up to allow for more headroom and the floor slowly tilting down. A gentle spring trickled out of a crevice in the wall to slide down to a natural three-by-three-foot cistern carved into the rock, and then out again in a stream that disappeared into cracks along the side of the floor. The cistern held a fresh pool of water that would be perfect for personal use. Abby walked down the slanted floor, following the stream. She continued far enough down the second corridor to see that it culminated in — yes — she could see it clearly enough now to decipher none other than a mass of enormous budding hanging vines.
“Vines! They could never survive inside a cave without light,” she informed herself needlessly. So, the cave had a second outlet into the side of the hill, probably not far above shore level. The greenery hid that entrance from view on the outside and prevented exit from inside at the same time. However, at one time the vines would have been much smaller and that opening must have been accessible. “This is one fascinating cave!”
She thought back to her walks on the shore. A number of spots had wild vines with giant leaves that grew on grassy knolls to hang down over the dunes. In the winter when the leaves fell, the mangle of barren brown veins still prohibited a view of what laid beneath.
Turning back the way she’d come, she lifted the lantern to examine the painting. Why was this one down here, but no others? She looked behind it. Nothing but a pile of stones that looked like they’d been picked up from the floor to clear the path, and stashed there rather than hauled up and outside. The painting would have been no more than Lizzie’s way of hiding the unattractive pile of rock.
Abby took the lanterns up, one by one, and closed the trapdoor. There was nothing down there to worry about. She carefully replaced the rug and the painting that sat at its edge, blew out the flames of the lanterns, put them back where they’d been to cover their same clean circles surrounded by dust, and surveyed the room one last time. Paintings and more paintings. There was absolutely nothing here that would cause distress for Meg.
Relieved, Abby left Lizzie’s cottage and hurried home to enjoy a quiet Sunday afternoon.
19
Elizabeth stuffed the sandwich she’d made herself into a little paper sack and put it in her pocket. Taking the scarf that hung loosely over her chest, she threw each end over a shoulder to wrap it around her neck. Then she retrieved her sketch pad and pencil from their hiding place behind the open dining hall door and snuck out the front door into the balmy spring air. Compelled by the urge to draw the asylum’s prize cow, Traverse Colantha Walker, she scurried away and fled behind a couple of buildings until out of sight of any administrators who might happen upon her playing hooky. She had more freedom than a lot of residents, but all of them were expected to keep Sunday sacred.
Running into half a dozen miscreant elder resident men behind a barn smoking pipes and roll-your-own cigarettes, and chewing tobacco, she smiled and waved as she went by. Today wasn’t one of the smoking days when tobacco and “plug” were given to any residents who wanted to partake. She watched one of the men ignite his pipe with a small match and knew they were supposed to have a ward employee light up for them in a designated smoking room, as they weren’t allowed matches like the people in some of the cottages, like her cottage. She recognized them as former shanty boys, lumberjacks, who in their younger years had been strong and independent, moving from one stand of forest to another as they worked. Like others here, they’d grown too old to wield large tools. It wouldn’t matter anymore if they could as the lumber business had died in the area. These boys had helped deplete the timberland. Seeing that shanty boys had lived such a gypsy lifestyle, in their old age many of them had no roots and no place else to go but the state asylum. She felt sorry for them.
They waved their approval of her escape from indoors.
Elizabeth fleetingly considered asking if she could have a cigarette, as she’d been contemplating trying it out, but decided against joining that pack of grizzled ruffians, and went on her merry way.
Finally, she reached Traverse Colantha Walker, the prize cow.
“Hello, my love,” she cooed. “You just stand nice and still like that, chewing your cud so I can sketch you. Okay? You look a great deal like some men I just saw, chomping on their plug. Did you know that?”
Traverse didn’t respond but did do as she was told.
Elizabeth sat down on the warm grass and drew.
She’d completed a sketch that she found to be particularly delightful and started to eat her sandwich when her peace and quiet were interrupted.
“L-li-lizzieee!” Dr. Charles Whitmore staggered down the path from which she’d come, drunk as a skunk. Quite an image for a supposedly esteemed psychiatrist. “Liz-liz! I needa talk to you!” His feet became tangled on each other and he tripped, almost falling over. He wore a suit but his shirt hung out in front and his tie sat askew. He carried a brown glass whiskey bottle that sparkled in the sunlight as he flailed his arms about like a madman.
Elizabeth looked at Traverse. “What an idiot. He doesn’t know enough to piss downwind.”
The bovine mooed agreement.
“Liz-she my love,” he said, stumbling his way to her side.
Elizabeth methodically rewrapped what was left on her sandwich, put the little package into her pocket, stood up, put her hands on her hips, and faced him down, although his breath almost knocked her over.
“What the hell are you doing here?” she demanded to know.
“I… I need you. Once a month ish… isn’t enough, Izzie, I need you now.”
“What about your wife? Why don’t you go back to your house in town and bother her? And leave me alone.”
“Sh-she’s not like yo-o-ou….” He lunged at her, grabbing at her shoulders as if to take her down, and Elizabeth whacked him up the side of the head. The doctor swayed, looked skyward, and fell flat as an ironing board onto the ground.
Elizabeth doubled over and shook her hand to try to eradicate the sting. When she looked up, three of the old shanty boys stood glaring down at the unconscious psychiatrist. Elizabeth froze, sizing up the situation.
“Mrs. Sullivan, we saw the drunk doctor here coming in your direction so we followed him to make sure you were okay,” one of them said. They all broke out into grins and one scratched his head. “But we see you can take care of yourself.”
Elizabeth straightened her spine, patted dust off her skirt, and offered a big smile. “Thank you, gentlemen. But he was pretty easy to handle, seeing that he could hardly stand up in the first place.”
The men guffawed and one asked, “What should we do with him?” They all looked at her.
Elizabeth looked around and honed in on the pasture full of cows and cow patties. “How about in there? You can just toss him over the fence.”
With little effort, the old boys picked up the much younger man and gently dropped, rather than tossed, him over the fence.
“We’ll walk you back,” one said.
She picked up her sketch pad and pencil, took hold of an end of her scarf that had come loose and cast it over her shoulder, and they all looked back at the hump of human form on the ground. Dr. Whitmore slept soundly, mouth agape, and curled into a fetal ball in the cow pasture, a glop of cow dung two feet from his head.
Elizabeth walked back to Cottage 23 under the protection of the shanty boys.
20
Jed O’Neill arrived ten minutes early, pulling his uncle’s black Model T Ford Coupe into the Sullivan driveway. Meg already sat in a rocking chair on the front porch in anticipation of his arrival. It was a gloomy, gray day, causing her to wrap herself in a warm sweater and making her wonder if the foreboding weather meant this adventure they were about to embark upon might be folly. But the moment tha
t Tin Lizzie chugged up the road, her spirits lifted.
He wore brown trousers with a light wool plaid shirt, in acquiescence to the promise of cool rain. His spectacles peeked out from the breast pocket of the shirt. And his fedora sat proudly as ever on top of his head.
Meg thought he looked swell.
Jed approached the porch, took off his hat and held it over his chest, and smiled up at her. Meg came bounding down the steps and threw her arms around his neck, planting a warm kiss right on his lips. The servants be damned!
He grabbed her around the waist and twirled her around as they laughed. Finally finding her feet, Meg said, “I’m so happy to see you.”
“I couldn’t be happier.” Holding her at arm’s length, the twinkle in his eye said he told the truth.
“Come!” She took his hand in both of hers and pulled him toward the house. “Father wants you to come in and say ‘hello’ before we go down to the cottage.”
“He’s okay with what we want to do?”
“Well, I don’t think he’s thrilled. But he knows it’s inevitable. He’s okay.”
They went into the house and Herbert Sullivan met them in the vestibule as he came out of his study. After a sturdy handshake and an offer of a “pick-me-up,” which Jed deferred to after their return from the cottage, the young couple headed out.
“I’m so glad you agreed to do this with me. I keep thinking it needs to be done but then I lose my nerve,” Meg said as they crossed the gazebo and went down onto the sand dune.
“Why do you lose your nerve?”
“I don’t know. Just afraid of what might be there, I guess. I don’t really know my mother at all.” The thought of sharing her plan to secretly see her mother crossed her mind, but she tossed it away. It was too risky.
Only twenty feet from the cottage it started to sprinkle, so they grabbed hands and ran. Jed pushed the heavy door open and without fanfare they walked into her mother’s cottage.