A White Room (28 page)

Twenty-Three

August 1901

M
r. and Mrs. Hughmen lived in a small upstairs tenement located in an alley, like the Whitmays. I ambled, reading the scribbled directions written in my notebook and stopping occasionally to search for the correct address. When I located it, I walked up the white-painted steps and knocked on the door. Before I could rap twice, a petite white woman with frazzled hair opened the door.

Her tired eyes scanned my appearance. My attire didn’t suit my task. I had on a half-mourning toilette of mauve silk with black details on the bodice and a straw hat with an upswept split brim and silk flowers.

She lifted her eyes and aligned them with mine. “You are Mrs. Freeman?”

She had expected someone else—everyone did. “Yes. I am.”

At this, her judgment and alarm vanished. “Please, please come, come in.” She opened the door and without delay pointed to a man face up on a mattress in the front corner of the room. Two more mattresses were rolled up and tied against an adjacent wall. The apartment had a little stove and a kitchen area to the right, with a worn table and two chairs. There were no rooms other than the main one, and all their clothing and other belongings must have been stuffed into two unfinished wooden trunks. The walls melted with water stains.

I walked over to the man but struggled to kneel. My corset and layered petticoats made the task difficult. I nearly collapsed on top of him but managed to lean over instead. From his frame, I could tell that he had once been a strong man but had withered and become frail.

He opened his eyes. “Miss? Are you in the right place?”

“Oh.” I’d thought he was asleep. “Good day Mr. Hughmen. I’m Mrs. Freeman.”

He chuckled. “Is that so?” Droplets of moisture collected in his greasy hair and full beard. His dark complexion and black hair suggested he was Italian, but he lacked the accent. Perhaps his family had immigrated a few generations back. “Call me Larry and my wife there is Ethel. You’ll have to forgive my manners.” He began twitching and rubbing his hands back and forth all over his body. He sweated profusely but also shivered, clutching a blanket. “Haven’t got the stomach for ’em—manners.”

“He hasn’t eaten in days, and he’s grown so weak,” Ethel said, the sound of pleading in her voice. She stood only a foot or so away, hands clenched.

Hadn’t eaten in days—my heart jumped—like Father.

“She exaggerates.” Larry sniggered, wet and raspy. “She’s just frilly.”

I smiled.

“You don’t laugh?” Larry asked.

“I do.”

“Then you can stay.”

He wore only a nightshirt, and I was nervous about examining a man’s exposed body. The men I had examined were always fully clothed and not in such poor condition.

I reached toward his arms but then pulled back. “May I?”

“If you can.” He tried to quell his tremors, without success. “I’m a bit of a fighter.”

I had to pry away his hands to see his chest and belly.

“Don’t forget I’m a married man.” He snickered.

His flesh had torn in places where he had rubbed and clawed too much.

“Forgive me.” I tried not to appear embarrassed. I couldn’t imagine Miss McKenzie embarrassed. I examined his skin closely but found no rash, and I combed through his hair and beard but found no lice. I felt his head, hot and moist. “How long has he had a fever?”

“Not long.” Ethel’s hands were clenched at her bosom.

“Get some cool rags. We’ll try and bring it down.”

“There’s more.” Ethel walked over and flung off the blanket that covered everything below his waist.

“Oh.” I turned my head away. The lower limbs were considered an extremely private area so much so people avoided saying the word “leg” out loud.

“Now, woman, let the girl get to know me first.” Larry chuckled and started to hack.

“Look. Look.” She gestured.

I cautiously peeked back to see Larry’s swollen legs.

Larry tried to sit up to see. “Like hairy white sausages, eh?”

I tried to think. I tried to put together the symptoms, but this was completely unfamiliar.

Ethel placed a moist cloth on her husband’s head. I rose and she followed. I was surprised to spot a small boy in a corner. I hadn’t noticed him before. He was perhaps seven. He stared at me, and I stared back.

Ethel stepped forward. “He’s Jacob.”

I regained my focus. “I’m sorry.”

“Why? What is it?”

“I don’t know.”

“But, you—you know medicine.”

“I know some things, but—”

I stepped away from Larry and lowered my voice. “I don’t know what’s happening to him. And it’s serious. I can’t—he needs a physician.”

“You don’t have to go off and hide just to flatter me,” Larry called out and laughed again.

I looked over my shoulder then looked back. “Did you give him spirits?”

“He doesn’t drink. That’s just Larry.” She made a face. “We can’t pay for a doctor.”

“I know, but you have no choice.”

“No one will come without money.”

“I don’t know what else to do.”

Her eyes darted back and forth.

“A loan perhaps,” I said.

She lowered her chin and brought her fingers to her lips.

“Do you have any means of getting one?” I squeezed the handle of my bag and curled my toes in my shoes.

“Maybe. I’ll try.”

“All right.” I hesitated. “Have you kept the boy away?”

Her eyes shifted to the right. “Mostly.”

“Keep them separated, and keep your distance as much as possible. Keep things clean.”

“Pardon?”

“It will keep you healthy.”

I returned to Larry. “We’re going to get you a physician. Your condition is beyond what I know. I can provide a laudanum tincture but not much else.”

“Don’t be silly, missy. I don’t need no docta. I’ll get along just fine.”

“Larry, shhh,” Ethel said.

“Mr. Hughmen, I think it’s best we just get you a physician.”

“I said call me Larry. No sense in being formal after you’ve seen the harry sausages!” He chuckled.

His wife smiled and shrugged.

I swallowed my laughter, shook my head. “Just contact me when you make the appointment. I want to be here when the physician comes.”

“Can
you
be here?” she asked.

I looked around. “We’ll have to find a way for me to hide.”

Twenty-Four

August 1901

“D
id you have a good day?” John asked.

I focused on my work, stitching my mauve skirt. I suspected I had ripped it when I knelt next to Larry Hughmen. “Productive. Yours?”

We were sitting in the parlor. A Gustav Mahler symphony sounded lightly from the phonograph. John actually sat on the green sofa with me this evening. He had been positioning himself closer to me in the parlor each night since that day outside his office.

“Quite good. Thank you.”

The flickering flames of the lamps cast the furniture’s shadows on the walls. They danced frantically, trying to disturb me. I paid no attention. The furniture lamented its failed attempts to torment me. My power to ignore and overcome it grew stronger every day. The stairwell almost expanded when I passed through now, afraid to challenge my newfound strength. The people in the rooms were drifting into a deep slumber; I saw their penetrating eyes less and less.

The beast was still there. Although I had succeeded on many occasions in ignoring it, too, it did not grow tired of trying to disturb me. It was a repercussion that would never cease to torment. I sensed it sitting in the middle of that dark room next to mine, glaring at the wall between us. Since I had moved the curtains in there, a stream of light would hit the floor just behind where the beast sat. Sunlight and moonlight would drift across the floor, forcing the beast to flee angrily from its spot time and time again.

I saw the wolf’s glowing eyes outside my window at night. I saw bushes rustle during the day. It still paced and patrolled the house. It eyed me every time I left. I sensed no emotion from it, no anger like I did with the house and the beast, just a duty, an obligation to tend to. For some time, I thought I had the upper hand because it didn’t attack when I left the house. Yet it remained, watching, waiting to hold me accountable.

Although I wanted to, I couldn’t be certain that the house was truly buckling under my will. Was it plotting instead, waiting for the right time to strike? Would I fall? Like a dictator in some faraway country, I ruled an unsteady kingdom. A well-timed uprising could bring me down.

As I slid the needle into my hem, I wondered if I should stop wearing my corset on medical visits. It would certainly help with the stairs and bending over and so many movements. I remembered Miss McKenzie saying some nurses she knew went without corsets and petticoats for such reasons.

“… especially after I found out it was Mr. Hawtrey.”

I snapped back to attention, wondering how long John had been talking. Why was he talking? I had stopped trying to make conversation with him a while back, and I had gotten used to not paying him any attention at all, but lately he had this urge to make conversation. I could only guess at how to respond. “Indeed.”

“I’m going to be their guide to Labellum all week. I should be fine after spending so much time with them in St. Louis.”

My complacent response must have sufficed. “Oh?”

“Yes, I told Mrs. Hawtrey all about you. She’s looking forward to making your acquaintance.”

“Me as well.” I hadn’t the slightest idea who he was talking about.

“Since then, Mr. Coddington has really begun to take a liking to me.”

“Splendid.” Why was he still talking?

“I have been so focused on work and pleasing him ever since we arrived here. I’m not sure if you noticed. I should probably apologize for being quite preoccupied.”

Out of spite, I refused to respond. I poked the needle into the skirt again and pulled the long string of thread through.

“I thought we should hold a dinner for them,” he said.

I stopped. “Pardon?”

He slid closer to me on the sofa and closed his book. “A dinner…for the Hawtreys.”

I was surprised. John hadn’t shown any interest in socialization after the mess I made at the Ripprings. “For how many?”

“In addition to the Hawtreys—well, let’s see—Dr. and Mrs. Bradbridge, Walter, of course, Mr. and Mrs. Coddington, the Ripprings. Oh, and Mr. and Mrs. Williams and Mrs. Grace.”

It was like my own personal firing squad. “I’m not sure if they’ll be able to make it.”

“Who?”

“The Williamses and Mrs. Grace.” I had decided to put off making amends permanently, no longer feeling obligated to be friendly.

“Why not?” He had to reach farther for his tea after having scooted closer to me.

“Mrs. Williams has just been busy.”

“We’ll still invite them. The Ripprings probably won’t make it either.”

Thank the Lord.

“Oh, I can’t forget Miss Urswick.” He reached again to put his tea back down.

“Hmm.” I remembered how Miss Urswick angrily abandoned me. Neither of us had attempted to speak afterward, so I suspected she wouldn’t attend either. I lifted my skirt and scrutinized the obviousness of the mend. I thought of Mr. Turner’s dark hand spliced with white thread.

“Will you be able to cook for that many people?”

Oh. I had forgotten all about the cooking. Wait, John wasn’t asking if I would fancy a night of entertainment. He was informing me I would be hosting a dinner party for ten or more guests. I felt irked for a moment but then I realized I could use this. “I’ll have to hire another servant for the evening.”

His eyes were stuck on me as if he hadn’t taken them off the entire time. “It is really important that this goes well. You let me know whatever you need to ensure it does. I know there will be extra expenses. I am finally making a good impression, and I can’t allow anything to spoil that.”

“How would your impression be ruined at a dinner party?”

“If it doesn’t go well, they might make some decisions about me professionally.”