The House of Closed Doors (10 page)

“Wouldn’t make you no better than me, though. You’re a whore just like me, ain’t you? And I didn’t have no choice. My so-called stepdad was in my bed when I was ten and put me on the street soon as I had tits. I’ve sent two babbies to the orphanage already.” A hint of sadness crept into her gray eyes, but then she straightened up in her chair and sneered. “You’re worse ’an me, ’cause you chose it.”

She grabbed my arm and squeezed it hard. “Stupid‌—‌little‌—‌bitch. Bet you’ve always had everything you wanted, and you chose this. You stay away from us, ’cause we’re better ’an you.”

She sauntered back to her laughing friends, leaving a ring of bruises around my arm and an ache in my heart. Yes, I had chosen this, and she, in some ways, had not. Perhaps she was right that I was no better than she.

T
he only male I saw at the Farm in those winter months was the long, lean man who opened the gate for the brougham when I first arrived. He often worked in the Women’s House, fixing doors, banging on recalcitrant radiators, and filling the oil lamps. He spoke little, often hummed under his breath, and occasionally chuckled quietly over some internal joke. His name, I learned, was Blackie.

He seemed impervious to the women in the House. One day as I cut out a nightshirt in the workroom, I heard Tilly and her friends try to get his attention as he worked on the squeaky hinge on our door. After ten minutes they gave up, threw a few choice insults in his direction, and moved off. Blackie backed into the workroom, his toolbox in his hand, muttered “Little whores,” and then saw me.

“Terrible sorry, Miss,” he said. His voice was low and raspy, with an accent I couldn’t place; not local, certainly. “I wasn’t meaning to cuss in front of you. Forgot you were there, see.”

“I’ll survive, Blackie. I can call you Blackie, can’t I?”

“You certainly can, Miss Nell. I seen you often enough t’know you’re not like them little hussies. You and me is friends.”

“What’s your real name, Blackie?”

He swept off his greasy black hat, revealing bristling iron-gray hair, and ducked his head; I could see his bald spot.

“Oscar Blackthorn at your service, ma’am. Student of human nature.” His eyes roved over the pattern I was cutting. “Begging your pardon, miss, but that’d be for young Donny?”

“Yes, I think that was the name.”

“He growed an inch or two. You’ll want to cut that a bit longer to keep the chill off his ankeels.”

“Really?” I studied the scrap of paper I’d been sent from Mr. Schoeffel. “It says five feet and nine inches here.”

“The orderly who did that’s a lazy b‌—‌critter. He don’t measure; he guesses. Five feet eleven that boy is and growin’ fast. You’ll be doing him a service by giving him some growin’ room.”

“You’re very observant.”

“Like I said, Miss, student of human nature. I sees everything that goes on here. Inside
and
outside.” He seemed to find that funny and wheezed with laughter for a few seconds before resuming work on the hinge.

“You’ve been doing a lot of work in here this week,” I observed.

“Christmas is comin’. Superintendent will be bringing in a few charity visitors, and he don’t like it if it’s not shipshape. ‘Efficient, Blackthorn’ he tells me. ‘Clean, orderly, and efficient, that’s the sort of institution I run.’ Damn shame‌—‌beg pardon, Miss‌—‌he don’t try talkin’ to us ’stead of efficientiating us.”

He began humming loudly again, and I returned to my work. I had not yet seen the superintendent. The only other staff member who lived off the premises was Mrs. Lombardi, whose home was in Prairie Haven; in this bleak, freezing weather, a Negro orderly called Michael drove her to and from the Farm in a small sleigh.

I heard voices approaching. Tilly and her friends were returning. High-pitched laughter echoed along the hallway; it had a cruel note to it.

I was absorbed in my task, lulled by Blackie’s humming and distracted by the gyrations of the baby inside me, when I heard the sound of running feet. Tess pushed past Blackie into the room. Her fine hair, normally so neatly arranged, was escaping from its bun; her face was flushed and tears spattered her glasses.

“Tess?” I put down my scissors and held out my arms to her. “What on earth is the matter?”

Tess flew to me and put her short arms as far round me as she could‌—‌by now my bump made that maneuver difficult, especially as she had her precious Bible in one hand.

“They took my ring!” she wailed, and I felt the baby kick extra hard in protest at the noise. Tess trembled against my protruding belly. It didn’t take much effort to guess who “they” were.

Blackie darted out into the corridor, then stuck his head back around the doorjamb.

“They’ve gone.” He crossed the room to us and laid his hand on Tess’s disarranged hair in a fatherly fashion. “Did them little bitches‌—‌beg pardon‌—‌get you alone again? I tole you, Tessie, you got to be careful around them gals.”

Tess sobbed. “They called me a cretin. I’m not a cretin. I know what that is. Madge is a cretin, and she can’t talk, she just makes noises; she’s dirty, and she wets in her clothes. I’m not like that, I’m not!” Her tears formed a damp patch somewhere in the region of my armpit. I patted her shoulder, then pushed her upright very gently and took off her glasses, using a piece of scrap cloth to dab at the tears running down her rounded cheeks. Blackie carefully pried the Bible out of Tess’s hand and set it down on the cutting table.

“There, Tessie,” he said, his expression tender. “Don’t you listen to them sort. You’re worth ten of ’em, girlie.”

“How did they get your ring?” I stroked Tess’s right hand, checking for bruises.

Tess began to calm down and blew her nose rather ineffectually into the scrap cloth. She took a few deep breaths.

“I gave it to them. They said I had to give them my ring or my Bible.”

I sighed in exasperation, wondering how best to help my friend. The hallway outside echoed with voices, and I recognized that of Miss Dee, an orderly whom Tilly and her friends nicknamed ‘Gree-Dee’ because of her corpulence.

“… not permitted.” She sounded wearily frustrated. “Tell me at once where you are supposed to be this morning instead of wandering about the building.”

“Don’t know, Miss Dee.” The voice was Meg’s, one of Tilly’s friends, in a tone of flat stupidity.

“Forgot, Miss Dee.” That was Bella, the joker of the group. Stifled sniggering from the others accompanied her words.

“Well, you are now assigned to the preparation kitchen. There is a very large pile of root vegetables to be peeled and chopped for soup. Proceed there immediately.”

Whines of protest ensued, and I took the opportunity to slip out into the corridor. Blackie followed me, leaning against the doorjamb and staring hard at the women who turned to look at me.

“Excuse me, Miss Dee,” I said. “I believe that one of the women has a ring in her possession that belongs to Tess O’Dugan.”

Miss Dee’s double chins wobbled in outrage. “Nell, isn’t it? Are you accusing these women of stealing?” She turned to face the group, whose stares had become a shade more poisonous. Tilly shot me a warning glance and fished in her pocket, bringing out Tess’s little silver ring. Stealing was dealt with in the Women’s House by a month spent sluicing chamber pots, and it was well known that Miss Dee would thoroughly search the clothing of an accused woman.

“Found it, Miss Dee. Ain’t that right, Nellie?”

I stared at Tilly, trying to put a wealth of meaning into my face. Blackie was also watching her with narrowed eyes.

“It could be that she found it, Miss Dee. I can’t say for certain that she stole it.” I held out my hand for the ring, and Miss Dee dropped it into my hand. The other women had gone silent.

“Get back to work, Nell. And you others will come with me to the kitchens on the double.” Miss Dee pushed her large form through the small group of mute, sullen women and led the way toward the other end of the building.

As she turned to go, Tilly, the straggler of the group, stepped back in my direction. But whatever she was about to say was cut short by the lean, callused hand that grasped a fold of her skirt.

“Now don’t you go making trouble, Tilly girl.” Blackie’s rasping voice held a hint of menace. “Miss Nell’s my friend, see. And little Tessie. And I look after my friends.” Blackie gave what might have been a grin, a gruesome glimpse of red, puffy gums and three yellowed stumps of teeth.

Tilly pulled away, muttered something vicious under her breath, and hastened to catch up with the group. I gave Blackie a smile indicative of deep gratitude and held out the ring to Tess, who had been listening from her hiding place behind the door. She squealed with delight and slipped the ring onto her little finger, then clapped her hands and bounced up and down on her toes a few times. She looked as if she were about to hug Blackie, but the old man immediately stepped back and picked up his toolbox.

“I’m done here, Miss Nell. You look after little Tessie, now. And remember to make Donny’s clothes nice and long.” He turned on his heel and left, humming loudly.

I sighed, indicating to Tess that she should sweep the floor. The incident, insignificant as it was, had reminded me that I was just one inmate among many in a place where we had no power even to order our days. The baby inside me kicked vigorously, and I put a hand on my belly. I had to avoid trouble for the sake of this child; however relieved I would be to give it up for adoption, it deserved my care and my vigilance for its good health.

TEN

O
n Christmas Eve, we inmates attended a service in the refectory. The women, who loved to sing, bawled and yodeled away, while I, increasingly uncomfortable in a standing position, endured the baby’s pokes and acrobatics and longed to be excused to use the chamber pot and sit in a chair. I almost wished it were an ordinary Sunday service; interminable as Pastor Lombardi’s Sunday sermons were, at least I could sit down.

Later that day, Mrs. Lombardi arrived in the Women’s House with her children: a boy of ten with a round, cheerful face and sandy hair, and two girls aged around eight and six, both dark-haired and olive-skinned like their mother. An old lady, Mr. Lombardi’s mother, was huddled in thick shawls against the cold; I presumed that it was she who looked after the children while Mrs. Lombardi worked. It struck me, not for the first time, how unusual it was that a married woman, with children, of my class‌—‌for Mrs. Lombardi and I were social equals, of that I was sure‌—‌spent her days working out of the home. Mr. Lombardi must indeed be an unusual specimen of husbandhood.

I liked the enlightened Mr. Lombardi, even if I did not appreciate his sermons. He was a broad-shouldered, deep-chested adult version of his son, as muscular as any farm worker. His eyes shone with intelligence and love for his wife as he watched her make the rounds of the inmates, wishing each one a Merry Christmas with a kind word and a smile.

It was a most festive occasion. Mrs. Lombardi arranged for a large quantity of hot cocoa and cookies to be served, and her children had made small gifts of candy, hair ribbons, and little tracts to pass around to each and every one of the two hundred or so women present. More Christmas carols were sung‌—‌I was sitting down by this time and enjoyed them‌—‌and then the Lombardi family left, gifts in hand, to visit those women who were confined to bed by illness. Tilly was one of them: I’d heard that she had given birth to a strapping boy three days earlier.