by Linda Hughes
Worst of all, there was no studio so that she could paint. How did they expect her to live without being able to paint?
Deciding to bellow until someone called Herbert, she started screaming again. “Call my husband! He’s Herbert Sullivan and he’ll have you sacked the minute he discovers how you’re treating me, unless you call to get him over here right now! Get me out of here!” She pounded on the door.
Twenty minutes later, her voice hoarse and fists raw, she plunked down on the mattress to think about what to do next. If only she could paint! That always cleared her mind.
Without paint she had nothing to do but think about her past. Her childhood with boring parents. Going to boring schools. Constantly getting into trouble. Being kicked out of school once and for all at age fourteen when the headmaster caught her having intimate relations with a teacher, a woman. The teacher got fired and refused to see Elizabeth, no matter how many times the teenager sent love letters and pleas for a clandestine rendezvous.
Elizabeth remembered a number of liaisons with other women until marriage to Herbert Sullivan. Their wedding night had been her first time having intercourse with a man. She hated it. For one thing, she knew it would lead to having children, something she’d never desired.
Pictures ran through her head at how gentle he’d been, naively assuming her to be a virgin. She’d thought him a total dupe. From then on, making excuses to avoid being intimate with him became a challenge. At first, he truly believed she often had a headache, stomach ache, or toothache. Eventually, however, he realized she simply hated being naked with him and overrode her excuses to insist on intercourse. What did that get her? It got her pregnant, that’s what.
Even though every moment of pregnancy disgusted her, at least her husband didn’t insist on sharing a connubial bed during that time. But giving birth had been the worst, especially when she’d had to endure it twice. Why on earth any woman would ever actually want to do that she couldn’t imagine. It had put ugly stretch marks on her belly, which thankfully faded over time. Her body, she knew, was otherwise flawless and she hated marring it.
Considering the existence she’d led, being at the Northern Michigan Asylum for the Insane had been a good life for her, as long as she had her room and studio, and privileges to roam around. She could secretly meet Abby in the woods for carefree fun. Yes, her time here had been good until being imprisoned in this disgusting cell. When would they let her out? She panicked at the thought they might leave her here.
“Get me out of here,” she tried to yell again as she got up and went to the door, but her voice failed her, cracking until broken into silence.
Throwing herself across the bed, fury welled inside of her. How dare they do this to her! So, what if she’d killed a no-good psychiatrist? The asylum should give her a medal for getting rid of the bastard. The place prided itself in being holier than thou. Dr. Charles Whitmore had been the only truly unethical person she’d ever met here. So why would they be angry at her for doing away with him? It made no sense.
Thinking of murder, she found it curious that Herbert asked her if she killed Harry. She’d assumed he knew. Why she’d done it was so obvious. Perhaps she should have told her husband that she did it kindly, merely pressing a pillow to the little boy’s face as he slept. The child never felt a thing. So, Herbert had nothing to worry about.
“Why in hell is everyone trying to punish me when I haven’t done anything wrong?” she moaned. “And how in hell am I going to get out of this hellhole?”
Her ruminations meandered back to her attraction to women. Sapphism it was called. She remembered her teacher from so long ago telling her that they were Sapphists, called after Sappho, an ancient Greek woman who wrote love poetry to other women. Elizabeth didn’t know for sure, but she imagined that back then having erotic desires for a person of the same gender was not a shameful thing like it was now.
Sappho had lived on a beautiful island called Lesbos in the Aegean Sea. Elizabeth had always fantasized about that island. She imagined that artistic talent would have been cherished rather than thought mad. Her need to paint would have been revered. How she wished she could be living then and there rather than here and now.
Lying on the bed staring at the small slice of sky she could see through the asylum’s cell window, an idea started to form in her mind. Obviously, she needed to figure a way out of this cell by herself. The window must be the answer. She stood to inspect the bars. Reaching up above her head, the tips of her fingers touched the crossbar that went from side to side. Vertical bars extended up and down from the center crossbar to cover the whole window. Digging with her fingernails into the plaster along the windowsill, she could see that the bars extended deep into the structure, having been build right into the wall.
She sat down on her bed and stared at the window. Yes, that was it. That would be her way out. Never would she let those stupid people cage her in a cell without being able to paint. Come hell or high water she would escape. She had to be free!
35
The Grand Traverse Herald’s lead story would no doubt become the talk of the entire region with its bold headline that declared: Harry’s Skeleton Found; Distraught Mother Kills Intruder! The way the story read was that after fifteen years of no solution to the mystery of what happened to two-year-old Harry Sullivan, his remains had been found in a remote part of the family property. The Sheriff reported that it had obviously been a kidnapping gone wrong, with the child being killed in the struggle to abduct him, the body most likely being left at the point of death. The kidnappers must have abandoned their plan and left the bay area.
The sheriff added that even though fifteen years ago the entire community had scoured the area for days and weeks after the child’s disappearance, the point at which the skeleton was found was so obstructed it was a miracle it had ever been uncovered at all. He relayed Mr. Sullivan’s gratitude for all the support from the community over all these years regarding this very difficult event in the Sullivan family life.
The newspaper story went on to add that more misfortune had sadly befallen the Sullivans. Mrs. Sullivan, weakened by the disappearance of her son and residing at the Northern Michigan Asylum with consumption ever since, had been deeply distraught upon learning of the discovery of her son’s skeleton. Depressed, she became startled in the night when someone she thought to be an intruder entered her dark room. Without being able to see anything other than the form of a man, she stabbed him to death in defense against impending personal attack. It turned out the man was asylum psychiatrist Dr. Charles Whitmore, who knew of the continued tragedy for the resident and who had gone to her quarters to check on her well-being. Mrs. Sullivan was now sequestered whilst regaining her presence of mind.
Funeral services were listed in the case of each death.
Meg put the newspaper down and wondered how many people in town would believe that intricate fable. She didn’t know if her father had wielded influence over his friends, the sheriff and the editor of the paper, or if they’d protected their friend on their own, but in either case it seemed a lot to swallow.
Beyond caring what other people did or did not believe, the facts remained the same for Meg. Her brother was dead. Her mother had murdered him. Her mother was insane. And her father was a good man whose life had been destroyed.
She sat at the dining room table pushing a fried egg, sausage, and toast around on her plate. Not wanting to hurt Cook’s feelings, who used food to try to help everyone feel better, Meg had pretended to want breakfast. All she could manage were a few sips of her tea.
Alone at the table, her thoughts naturally turned to Jed, who would be here shortly. She couldn’t wait to put her arms around him on this difficult and momentous day.
It was the day of Harry’s funeral.
Dressed in a black suit, with a black cloche hat and black gloves at the ready, Meg looked every bit like the mourner she was. The only saving grace was that her father finally knew the whereabouts of his
son.
She heard him coming down the stairs. Waiting expectantly, afraid a ruined man would enter the room, Meg was relieved when her father came in looking stalwart but resolved. Wearing a black suit, white shirt, and dark blue tie, he kissed his daughter on the cheek before taking his seat. It struck her that the color of his tie and pocket handkerchief matched the color of the child’s suit Harry had worn when he disappeared. It was the color that had faded on the swatches of cloth found with the child’s remains.
“Hello, dear. How are you holding up?” her father asked.
“I’m doing as well as can be expected, I guess,” she said honestly.
He took her hand and said, “Good. That’s all we can do now. Carry on with our lives. You have a good life ahead of you, Meg. It’s obvious you and Jed are in love. Don’t let this ruin your future.”
His words surprised and soothed her. “Thank you, Father. I hope it doesn’t ruin your future, either.”
He said, “My past has been my torture. I don’t intend to spend the rest of my life in misery. We’ve all known enough of that. It’s time that it end. Having you here has given me hope. It’s renewed my faith in family. I love you more than I’ve ever let you know. I hope you know it now.”
Meg burst into tears, leapt out of her chair, and threw herself across his lap. “Oh, Father! I love you, too!”
Patting her back, he said, “That’s the greatest gift I’ve ever been given in my life.”
When she pulled herself away, she looked up to see tears streaming down her father’s face. It made her smile up at him. “Aren’t we a mess?” she asked.
He laughed. “Yes, we are. A good mess.”
Meg rose and went back to her seat. They both dried their tears with their napkins.
One of the downstairs maids came in with a plate for her father, greeting him kindly. Without asking any questions, she took the crumpled napkins and brought back fresh ones.
“Thank you,” he said to the maid. “I do believe I’m hungry this morning.” The maid brought him coffee and went back to the kitchen. He dug into his breakfast.
Suddenly Meg felt like she could eat a little, too, and nibbled at her toast.
“Where’s Hannah this morning?” she asked.
“The truth is,” he said, finishing a bite of sausage, “she wanted to give us some time alone. And she’s had a very difficult time with all of this. Oh, she acts brave for my sake, but I know this whole thing has broken her heart, even though she never knew Harry. She loves you, too, you know.”
“Yes, I’ve felt it. She’s a wonderful woman, isn’t she?”
“Yes. Wonderful.”
“Oh, Father, I wish you could marry her.”
“So do I. But don’t ever think I’m sorry for marrying your mother. Without her I wouldn’t have you. So, no matter what, it’s all been worth it.”
Hannah came in, dressed in black like they were, looking tired yet becoming. She ran a hand across her lover’s shoulders and bent to kiss Meg on the cheek. “Hello, dear,” she said.
“Hello, Hannah,” Meg greeted her. “I’m glad you could join us. Cook wants us to eat, of course.”
Hannah headed for the kitchen. “That’s our Cook. But I’m not hungry. I’ll go grab a cup of coffee.”
Thus, the day began at the Sullivan family home on the day of the son’s funeral. Meg and her father had barely finished eating breakfast when the commotion began. Extra motorcars and drivers arrived to take the house staff and all the outdoor workers to the service. Flower deliveries poured in. The priest called to ask if there were any last-minute requests. Neighbors stopped by with gifts of food. Jed and Judge came in and offered help in any way possible.
Jed’s hug and kiss were the best help Meg could ask for.
They all went outside and loaded into the cars. Meg, her father, Hannah, Jed, and Judge rode their limousine with Sam driving. It took ten other cars, called in from other towns, to carry the staff and workers. Her father had insisted on providing transportation for them. As they pulled out of the Sullivan property onto the main road, instead of turning left toward town, however, Sam turned their limo right, going north. Meg instantly knew where they were going.
In half a mile, they saw Abby beside Mr. Hollis in the milk cart, headed for town. Sam stopped the limo and Mr. Hollis pulled up on his horse. Meg’s father got out and Meg rolled down the window to hear this exchange.
“Hello, Mr. Hollis,” he said. “Abby.” He tipped his hat. “I’d like you to come with us, if you would. It would please us to have you join the family.”
Abby stared at him for a moment. Dressed in a pretty, straight burgundy skirt and black jacket, and a wide-brimmed black hat with a burgundy ribbon, she looked even prettier than usual.
“Yes,” she said. “I’d like that.”
“Good.” Her father took Abby’s hand and helped her down. “Mr. Hollis,” he said. “Will you be joining us at the church?”
“Of course, Mr. Sullivan. I wouldn’t miss the chance to pay my respects after all this time.”
“Thank you, Mr. Hollis.”
Sam already held the backdoor of the limo open and Abby cautiously stepped inside. She sat beside Meg, who took her hand.
The ride to St. Francis of Assisi Catholic Church in town was a quiet one. When they turned onto South Union Street, they were stunned by the crush of horses and carriages, and motorcars. But the moment anyone set sight on the Sullivan limousine, they somehow managed to move aside enough to let the large motorcar pass until it could park near the church.
As they exited the car, half a dozen lights flashed as photographs were taken. Her father had warned them of this. Harry’s disappearance had been such a big story fifteen years ago that the unsolved mystery had drawn interest ever since. Newspapers from around Michigan sent people to cover this final chapter of the story.
Solemnly, the family group filed inside.
Just inside the door, a woman Meg recognized as Jed’s sister stood waiting with her husband and two boys. Meg recognized Jed’s sister and nephews from the night just a couple of weeks ago when she’d seen them at the train station with Jed and assumed they were his wife and sons. Now Jed offered a quick introduction to his sister Colleen, her husband, and their two boys. Impulsively, Meg hugged Colleen. The woman seemed delightful, and up close Meg could see that Colleen looked like Jed’s female twin, even though she knew Jed to be a year older.
“I’m so very glad to meet you,” she said quickly as an usher shuffled her along down the aisle of the church with the rest of her entourage.
The Sullivan staff and workers were already there, seated in the third and fourth rows as requested by her father. Walking down the aisle to the first row, Meg recognized many men who worked in her father’s businesses, as well as seemingly everyone she’d ever known in Traverse City. Young Louie Sleder, the boy who’d escorted her to the women’s room at his parents’ tavern, looked miserable in a tight-necked dress shirt and bow tie. But he brightened when he saw Meg, and waved. She offered a little wave back. Passing Patrick McVeigh, Meg nodded. He did likewise in response. The good-looking middle-aged couple next to him must be, she realized, his and Peggy’s parents. Their mother dabbed at her tearful eyes with a hanky.
Reaching the first row, Meg curtsied and made the sign of the cross before entering the pew, a practice of all good Catholics. This time, however, instead of looking at the life-size crucifix above the altar, her eyes fell on the small dark blue casket that sat in the center of the front of the aisle. For a moment, she lost her balance at the sight, but Jed offered his arm for her to lean on. Once settled in the pew, she reached down to lower the long, narrow prayer bench and everyone in their row, even Abby who she knew was not Catholic, got down on their knees to silently pray until the funeral mass started.
Seated between her father and Jed throughout the service, she had a chance to observe both men during this heartbreaking ceremony. Her father remained focused, seeming to listen to
every word out of the priest’s mouth. He nodded from time to time when the father spoke of ascending into heaven and sitting at the hand of God. He knew all the prayers and hymns by heart. Hannah sat on his other side and he held her hand some of the time, when his hands weren’t poised for prayer.
Interestingly, Jed did the same. He remained calm. He knew the prayers and hymns by heart. And he held her hand when not in prayer.
The service inspired Meg. She knew for certain that life would go on, as her father had said at breakfast.
When it was over and they filed out of the church, the town mortician had the hearse, an elaborate, black, horse-drawn carriage, at the ready. They didn’t have far to transport the casket, as the church cemetery was right next door. Mourners could simply walk to the gravesite in the family section of the graveyard.
Most surprising as they stepped out of the church, however, was that townswomen of all faiths had arranged a huge picnic reception on the church lawn with enough food for an army. The very sight of their generosity warmed Meg’s heart.
Walking over to the cemetery, they were constantly stopped by people offering their condolences. The gathering around the gravesite looked as though everyone in the church had come straight here.
The hearse pulled up and Jed, Judge, Patrick McVeigh, and Patrick’s father served as pall bearers. Only four were needed with the casket being so small and light. They carried it on their shoulders and gently placed it on the thick straps stretched across the open grave. The straps were secured to hold the casket above ground while final prayers were said.