The House of Closed Doors (18 page)

“It’s the only way we’ll find out,” she replied and began tidying the worktable.

TWENTY-ONE

T
he next day Blackie did his work without speaking, humming softly. I surmised that his attempt to extort a drink out of us had been the direct result of the “nip” he had somehow acquired and that, now the effects had worn off, he did not have any desire to pursue the matter. That was fine with me.

I had a brief chance to talk with Mrs. Lombardi that morning and heard that Mr. Ostrander was alive and had been moved to a private nursing home.

“Why‌—‌” I did not quite know how to continue.

“Why did he do it?” Mrs. Lombardi’s eyes were deeply shadowed, and her cheeks looked hollow. I didn’t know what an attempted suicide by hanging looked like, but I guessed it wasn’t pleasant.

“Well, really,” I said, “I was wondering if it had anything to do with finding Jo and her baby.”

Mrs. Lombardi looked surprised. “In what way?”

I didn’t want to be direct. “That… the superintendent felt guilty in some way. Perhaps for not checking that Jo did not arrive at St. Jude’s.” The last words came out in a rush; they were not what I wanted to say.

“We are all guilty of that,” Mrs. Lombardi said with a sigh. “But no. I think that maybe the discovery of the bodies was the tipping point.” She had been sitting at her desk with her head resting on her hands. Now she looked up at me, as if startled by a thought. “Wait. You think Mr. Ostrander was responsible for the
baby
? No… no.” She obviously wanted to say more.

I was silent, watching her face for clues.

“I have known Mr. Ostrander since he took up this post just after the War,” she said. “He was too old to serve, of course, although he would have made a fine general, I think.” Her eyes crinkled at the corners. “He was in the County Militia. A thing to be proud of, but if any attempt is made to speak of the War, he turns the conversation immediately. Still, that is not unusual. Many of our brave men who fought for the Union are silent about their experiences.”

“Has he said anything to you?”

“Just one thing. Before the doctor came. He said, ‘I will never be able to escape.’ I tried to ask him what he meant, but he simply turned his head away. And I may not have heard correctly; the poor man’s vocal cords are much damaged.” She sighed again and rubbed her eyes, blinking up at me. “I do believe, Nell, that the strain of the discovery of two bodies in the institution that was under his care was simply too much for an already fragile mental condition.”

I nodded, but I didn’t really believe that the two events were entirely unconnected. The man had been tightly wound, it was true, but not so close to the breaking point, if I were any judge. There was a link somewhere, and I just had to find it.

Then one of the staff entered Mrs. Lombardi’s office, and I returned to my workroom. It was frustrating‌—‌I desperately wanted to talk with her about me and Sarah and about the key to the insane wing.

Just two weeks before, I had felt secure in the present moment as my hard but not unpleasant life at the Farm proceeded. The future had been something that I could put off indefinitely. But now everything had changed. The discovery of the two forlorn bodies and the realization that Sarah would eventually be weaned and separated from me had made me feel as if I were walking along a cliff edge with one foot at the very brink.

A
fter the excitements of the past few days, the following two weeks proceeded in the most deadly monotony. We sewed sheets and curtains and inspected the new woolen blankets that had arrived from Chicago, woven from the yarn produced at the Farm over the winter. The cows and their calves, the sheep and their lambs were gradually released into the greening fields. The hens clucked in their yard in front of the Women’s House. The flower garden between the two big buildings began to sprout a tender green mixture of new shoots and weeds, and Blackie and two other men spent a week tending to it. Tufts of prairie smoke, violets, Virginia bluebells, and other spring flowers popped up in the most surprising locations, to be beaten down by the April rains and rear up again with mute obstinacy.

Between the rain and the sun, only a few tiny heaps of snow were left in the most shadowed corners near buildings. The paths dried up, and I was able to put on galoshes and take Sarah out for walks to explore the Farm. I encountered various male residents and orderlies who stared at me; to them, of course, I was a newcomer. After a day or two they began greeting me and making enquiries about Sarah: Was she well? How old was she? They admired her copper hair and her eyes, which were beginning to take on more green than blue. She charmed them with dimpled smiles and wildly waving fists, and they smiled back.

Mr. Ostrander had been moved to his sister’s house in Evanston and was making a good recovery. It seemed unlikely that he would return to his post as superintendent. Mrs. Lombardi and Mr. Schoeffel were often to be seen in deep discussion, presumably about what would happen next.

We buried Jo and Benjamin in a single plain pine coffin one sunny, blustery day; Pastor Lombardi’s words were alternately snatched away by the wind and driven toward the group of inmates, including myself, who watched the coffin as it was lowered into its final resting place. I hugged Sarah tight, and my eyes were not dry.

And I learned two things from Mrs. Lombardi, who seemed to trust me more than ever. The key to the main door of the insane wing existed in five copies, held by herself, Mr. Schoeffel, Mr. Ostrander, and two senior orderlies. The door was generally locked after the wing was inspected in the spring and fall. But the last inspection had taken place at the beginning of the epidemic and had been rapid and cursory‌—‌just enough to ascertain that the roof was not leaking and that there were no rats. Nobody could positively remember locking the door; therefore, it was just possible that the door remained unlocked, and that was very unhelpful.

The second thing I learned was more chilling.

M
rs. Lombardi sat with her thumbs supporting her chin as she listened to my halting words about how I did not want to be separated from Sarah, how I hoped that she could help me find another solution.

When I had finished, she regarded me in silence for a minute or two. Her expression was sympathetic, but her hazel eyes were sad.

“Your stepfather has already written to me twice asking if the baby is ready for adoption,” she said. “He has urged me to the utmost diligence in finding parents for the child. He says that your mother is most desirous to have you home.”

I felt cold all over. “But Sarah is not weaned,” I stammered.

“And that is exactly what I have told him, both times. I will not endanger the health of the child by forcing an early weaning.”

She leaned forward and placed her hand on my arm. “But Nell, eventually she will be weaned. It is just a matter of time. And your stepfather is quite adamant that he will not countenance keeping the baby with you. Do not forget, Nell, that while you remain unmarried he has control over you and that, as a governor of this institution, he has control over me. I cannot go against his wishes.”

So that avenue of escape was closed. I would have to rely on my own resources. I realized that by refusing to put myself under the control of a husband, I had effectively prolonged my status as a child.

“I understand,” I said, but I could not keep my voice from shaking.

“You have a chance,” Mrs. Lombardi began, then stopped. She must have seen the hope in my eyes and shook her head slightly. “You may have a chance to talk to your stepfather in two weeks.”

“He is coming to the Farm?”

“All of the governors are. Mr. Schoeffel and I waited to see what would transpire with Mr. Ostrander, but it is now quite clear that he will retire from his profession. A new superintendent must be appointed.”

TWENTY-TWO

M
y preoccupation with the deaths and the governors’ visit made me inattentive to Tess, so when she suggested saving our noon meal to make an afternoon picnic in a sunny spot near one of the barns, I agreed more out of guilt than inclination.

“Why here?” I looked around us. It was not a particularly attractive spot, and I could smell cow manure. There would be flies, I was sure of it.