Hall of Secrets (A Benedict Hall Novel) (29 page)

C
HAPTER
27

Western State Hospital was a forbidding place. It was huge, made of brick, with sprawling wings that looked almost unintentional, as if they were added as an afterthought. Margot and her father approached the entrance with dogged steps, passing a set of soaring sandstone pillars, making their way through heavy double doors, not pausing until they were inside the cavernous, echoing lobby.

Even Margot, veteran of hospital lobbies, found this one oppressive. After the gaiety and color of the Christmas celebration at Benedict Hall, the grimness of this place was particularly hard to bear. A pervasive smell of cleaning products hung in the air. Straight vertical bars topped every window, and though the lower parts of the windows bore a curlicue pattern, they were still iron bars, merely bent into shapes meant to be easier on the eye. There were locks on every door, and in the distance, half-heard cries and screams sounded from the wings, making goose bumps rise on her neck.

Dickson tensed, the muscles of his arm shivering beneath her fingers. He muttered, “Better than the city jail, at least.”

“We’re not abandoning him, Father. We’ll do our best to see he’s well treated.” She hoped that was possible. There had been horrific stories, when she was a medical student, of abuses of mental patients. It had been a running joke among the interns that if they turned out to be really bad doctors, they could always get work at Western State Hospital.

Her father’s cheeks were drawn into deep, unhappy furrows that made him look older than his years. Margot stayed close beside him, her gloved hand under his arm. She had left her medical bag with Blake, in the Essex, and she felt exposed without it. In her free hand she carried a small valise, lovingly packed by Hattie with fresh underwear, sweaters, a wrapped box of Christmas cookies and gingerbread. No few of Hattie’s tears had fallen on these things, though Margot doubted Preston would ever know.

The police had moved Preston the day after Christmas. Technically, commitment to Western State Hospital was involuntary. Preston, true to his side of the bargain, did nothing to resist it. Dickson’s friends in the courts had done their work with efficiency and without attracting notice from the newspapers. Only one official had pressed Dickson for details on the son everyone believed deceased, and that one, an associate of decades, expressed more sympathy than surprise. The whole thing had been handled with her father’s usual deftness, and Margot suspected she was the only person in the city who knew what it had cost him in heartbreak and shame.

They found the administrator’s office without difficulty, but they had to press a bell before someone came to the door and admitted them. They had to wait even longer while the managing physician, Dr. Keller, read them a long list of rules and restrictions. He said, “As you’re a medical professional, Dr. Benedict, we’ll allow you and Mr. Benedict to go up to the ward. As a general rule, we restrict visiting, but we’ll make an exception in this case. This once, you understand.”

“We understand,” Dickson said. His voice was harsh with tension.

Margot said nothing. She was sure Preston would not want to see her, but she had come in support of her father. Neither Blake nor Frank had been in favor of it, though she had assured them there was nothing to worry about. Most of the inmates were deemed criminally insane and treated accordingly. Preston would be no exception.

Dr. Keller called for an orderly and gave instructions. The orderly, a thickset giant of a man with the unlikely name of Small, led Margot and her father to an elevator that carried them up two floors. Mr. Small pushed the elevator doors open, and ushered them out into a long ward with a gray linoleum floor and dull green walls. A tiny nurse’s office, with another locking door, faced a common room where books lined one wall and a cabinet radio dominated the other. Beyond the office the corridor stretched the entire length of the wing. Rooms—no, cells, Margot thought, there was really no other word—lined the corridor, each with a tiny window and a handwritten nameplate beside the locked door. Voices came from behind the doors, calling, muttering, weeping. The whole thing felt Gothic to Margot, and she could only imagine how appalling it must seem to her father.

The orderly spoke to the nurse on duty, a woman wearing a long brown sweater over a white uniform. She set off briskly down the corridor, a huge ring of keys clanking at her waist, and Mr. Small followed her.

The nurse unlocked a door, and she and Mr. Small stepped inside. Margot said, “Let’s sit down, Father. Preston may need to get dressed or something.”

Her father, looking numb, settled onto a straight chair. Margot almost sat on the sofa, but its array of stains discouraged her. She took another straight chair, resting the valise on the floor beside her. She was scanning the bookshelf, wondering who had chosen these nineteenth-century titles, when the nurse and Mr. Small reappeared. They had Preston between them, supported by their hands as he made a slow, shuffling progress down the long corridor.

Dickson said, “My God, Margot, what’s wrong with him?”

Margot murmured, “I don’t know, Father. Let’s wait and see.” They both rose and watched Preston’s approach. His head drooped, and his eyelids were heavy, as if he had been sleeping. The nurse and Mr. Small bore a good deal of his weight, Margot could see, as if his muscles were too slack to bear it himself.

When the trio reached the common room, the nurse and Mr. Small helped Preston into a chair. Mr. Small stayed behind Preston, his eyes never leaving him. The nurse went into her office, but returned a moment later with a blanket. She spread this over Preston’s lap. “If you need anything,” the nurse said, “I’ll be right over there.” She pointed to her office. “But Mr. Small will see that everything is all right.”

Mr. Small folded his arms and dropped his chin to his chest. His presence was a security measure, obviously, but Margot could see it wasn’t necessary. Preston was incapable of threatening anyone at the moment. She leaned over him, causing Mr. Small to stiffen. Margot shook her head. “It’s all right,” she said. “We’re fine.” Mr. Small didn’t move.

Margot touched Preston’s wrist with her fingers and lifted his eyelids. Delicately, she touched the conjunctiva of his left eye. He didn’t flinch or blink. She said, “Preston? Can you hear me? It’s Margot. And Father.”

Preston struggled to lift his head, and his scarred lips twisted as he tried to speak. It took a few seconds for him to slur, “Doc. H-hiya, doc. Come to f-finish me off?” His eyelids drooped, and he gave a short, strangled laugh. “N-not much left of me.”

Margot straightened, and glared at Mr. Small. “Who’s been medicating him? And what is it? Potassium bromide, I would guess. The dose is far too high.”

The orderly said, “I don’t know, miss. I don’t do medicines.”

“Doctor. I’m Dr. Benedict. Get the nurse, please.”

“Yes, miss.” He backed toward the office door, not taking his eyes from Preston.

Dickson, stiffly, crouched in front of his son to take one scarred hand in his. “Preston,” he said. “We’ve brought some things from—some things for you. Clothes. Some of Hattie’s gingerbread. She knows you love that.”

Preston’s eyelids lifted, but awkwardly, first one and then the other. A silvery thread of saliva slid from his lips and down his scarred chin. Margot stripped off her gloves and reached into her pocket for a handkerchief. As she wiped his chin clean, he said, “Wh-what’s this, doc? D-diamonds?”

“Yes,” she said. “Frank Parrish and I are going to be married.”

“G-God. P-poor Cowboy.”

The nurse, with Mr. Small close behind her, came hurrying across to the common room. She stood beside Preston’s chair, frowning at Margot. “You’re a doctor?” she demanded. “Someone should have told me.”

“It didn’t seem important,” Margot said. “But now I want to see my brother’s records. Who prescribed for him? And why is he sedated so heavily?”

“The admitting physician prescribes potassium bromide for all incoming patients. It eases the transition. Helps them settle in.”

“How? At this level of medication, I doubt the patient remembers a single thing about the transition.”

“Doctor, I’m not the one to ask. It’s hospital procedure. I’m sorry.”

Margot drew a noisy breath and released it. It wasn’t the nurse’s fault, and it wouldn’t help to alienate her. Her father was still kneeling by Preston, holding his hand. His lips were clamped tight, and his thick eyebrows drawn fiercely together.

She bent over the two of them, aware that this motion brought Mr. Small to attention again. She said, “Preston, they’ve given you too much medicine. I’ll speak to the doctor in charge, I promise.”

Her father pushed himself to his feet. The nurse pushed a chair forward, and he accepted it with a nod. “Now, son,” he said gruffly. “Let’s go through these things we brought, shall we? Just a few little—” His voice caught, and he coughed. “Just a few things to—to make you feel better.”

Margot’s own throat ached, watching her father’s attempt to converse with Preston. She couldn’t avoid the bleak thought that it would have been better—better for everyone—if Preston had died in the fire. Her brother was accustomed to a life of style and comfort and sophistication. Being in this place, for Preston, must feel like a living death.

They spent a few more minutes with him. Dickson took each item out of the valise, described it to Preston, and laid it back inside. Preston said, “P-p-pater. Tell Hattie I l-love her gingerbread.”

“I will, son. I’ll tell her.”

“N-not Mother.”

“No. As we promised.”

There was more saliva whenever Preston spoke. The nurse moved to help, but Margot was already there, wiping the spittle from his scarred chin with her handkerchief. She said, “These scars should be treated, Nurse. First, sweet almond oil as a demulcent, then an emollient. Petroleum jelly will be fine. Do you have those things here? If not, I’ll send them from my office.”

“I can get them.”

“Please do. I’ll leave you my telephone number in case there’s a problem.”

“Yes, Doctor.”

Preston said, “Even h-here, d-doc?”

Margot answered quietly, “Yes, Preston. Even here. For your own good.”

His eyes opened, and he looked into her face. He said, very clearly, “Hell.”

Dickson said, “What?”

Margot said, “I know, Preston. I understand.” His eyelids drooped again.

The nurse signaled to Mr. Small, and the two of them helped Preston to his feet. The nurse said, “Say good-bye to your family, Mr. Benedict.”

Abruptly, Preston threw up his head to fix the nurse with a glance of such hatred that Mr. Small uttered a warning sound. The three of them turned toward the corridor and managed a few slow steps before Preston shuffled to a halt. He mumbled, “W-wait. Th-there’s something . . .” This time the look he bent on the nurse was reminiscent of the old Preston, limpid eyes, persuasive angle of his head. Even as disfigured as he was, there was something there, some remnant of his personality.

Dickson hurried to Preston, and Margot followed.

The nurse said, “Sir, be careful—” but Dickson was already there, stepping past the orderly to stand in front of his son.

“What is it, Preston? What can we do?”

Margot watched her brother narrow his eyes, struggling against the drug-induced fog that slowed his mind and dragged at his speech. He looked at his father, then past him to Margot. There was life in his eyes at that moment, a flash of clarity, and with it the familiar look of malice.

Preston leaned toward Dickson, as close as the orderly’s firm grip would allow him to. “It’s a child,” he said, enunciating with effort.

Dickson said, “What? What child?”

“My child,” Preston said. The life began to fade again from his eyes, and his head sagged to one side. He drew a noisy breath through his scarred throat. “I th-thought you should know.”

Margot said, “Preston, this is cruel to Father. On top of everything else—”

“ ’S true,” Preston said. “S-Seattle. S-somewhere.”

The nurse said, “Dr. Benedict, our patients often make odd statements. They usually don’t mean anything.”

“B-bitch,” Preston mumbled. “D-don’t s-speak for me, b-bitch, you—”

Mr. Small gave Preston’s arm a jerk, forcing him forward. Preston gagged, as if the action caught him by surprise. Dickson and Margot had to move out of the way and watch as Preston was guided ungently back into his room and locked inside.

They left the valise with the nurse, and Mr. Small escorted them back to the elevator and pushed the call button. The doors had just opened when they heard Preston’s hoarse voice from his cell. “It’s a bastard!” he cried. He must have been standing right beside the door, shouting through the screened window. “A Benedict bastard!” He fell into a spate of croaking laughter that ended in a fit of coughing.

As the elevator doors closed, Dickson said, “My God. What does that mean, Margot?” He was white to the lips, and he trembled like a sapling in the wind. “Does it mean anything?”

She held his arm in her two hands, steadying him as best she could. “I don’t know, Father,” she said, choking with misery and horror and sadness. “I just don’t know.”

C
HAPTER
28

On her wedding day, Margot crept down the stairs before sunrise. She was still in her dressing gown, with thick socks on her feet against the February chill. She had been awake for hours, and when the clock at her bedside ticked over to six o’clock, she gave up on sleep, and went in search of coffee.

The kitchen was dim, illuminated only by the faint gleam of Hattie’s polished appliances. Margot found the small cupboard light, and used that to spoon coffee grounds into the percolator, to fetch the bottle of cream from the icebox, and to get a mug from the cupboard. She leaned her hip against the counter as the percolator bubbled, and pondered the new direction of her life from this day forward. The diamonds of her engagement ring twinkled with promise in the low light. They should have reassured her, she thought. Bolstered her confidence. Instead, her mind whirled with questions.

She was pouring out her first cup of coffee when the back door opened with a tiny click. Margot smiled, and as she reached into the cupboard for another mug, she heard Blake chuckle, and one of the aluminum chairs creaked as he sat down.

She set his coffee in front of him and put her own on the table, with spoons from the drawer of silverware. As she settled into a chair, she said, “It’s like old times, Blake. Just you and me in the wee hours.”

He lifted his mug to her. “Old times and new times, sweetheart. I’m very happy about today.”

“Are you?” She cradled the warm mug between her palms. “That’s good. I am, too.”

“No second thoughts?”

She laughed. “Oh, yes. Many second thoughts. But I always come back to the main one.”

“I hope your main thought is for Major Parrish.”

“It is.” She gazed into the swirl of cream in her mug. “It’s going to be an interesting life for him, I’m afraid.”

“He loves you,” Blake said.

“I hope he loves me enough!” she said with another laugh.

“On matters of marriage, I am of no use to you, Dr. Margot.”

She looked up at him, and her heart stirred with affection. “You have already been of use to me, Blake. To us both.”

He gave a little shrug, but his lips curved and his eyes shone with contentment. “I’m so happy to see you settled.”

“Settled? It sounds good, doesn’t it? But I’m not sure I’ll ever be
settled
.”

Blake picked up his cup and leaned back in his chair. In the dim light he looked almost as young as he had the day she first took her courage in her two hands and went off to medical school. He looked as young as when she had sat here, quaking with nerves on the morning she was to begin her internship. Of course, when he rose from the table he would be leaning on his cane, and when the light was better she would see how white his hair had grown, how lined his face. But just at this moment, he sat across from her as he always had, wise, dependable, strong. Her touchstone. Tears sprang up at the thought, and she touched the heels of her hands to her eyes to press them away.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

She sniffled and laughed at the same time. “Oh, yes, fine. I was just thinking of how many times you and I have sat together in this kitchen. How many times you gave me courage when I was afraid. Now you’re doing it again. You’re giving me courage.”

“I don’t give you courage,” Blake said. “You have plenty of that on your own.”

“Confidence, then.”

“Yes, I suppose you could say that. I’ve always had confidence in you.”

“Even now, Blake? Do you have confidence in this, too?” Her voice was a little unsteady, and more tears threatened.

He put out his hand to briefly touch hers. “I do, sweetheart. I have all the confidence in the world.”

 

Ramona was in her element. Now six months pregnant, dressed in flowing lavender satin, she gave orders like a queen—or perhaps like a general. Florists, caterers, the string quartet she had hired, two waiters in formal wear who would assist Thelma and Leona and Loena, all marched here and there at her commands. Benedict Hall was transformed. Branches of viburnum with delicate pink flowers bloomed in tall vases on the stairs, bowls of winter roses filled the dining room, and evergreen garlands festooned the hall. A spectacular arrangement of forsythia and winter jasmine, lovingly created by the Chinese florist from the Public Market, waited in the large parlor to be the backdrop for the ceremony.

Allison, pink-cheeked with excitement, dashed up and down the main staircase with updates for the bride while Margot hid in her bedroom, away from the fuss. While she and Frank were on their honeymoon journey, taking the train south to California so he could show her March Field, Leona and Loena would move all her things, and his, waiting in modest cartons beside her wardrobe, to the far end of the hall, the large bedroom at the back of the house. It had its own bath and a small balcony facing south over the garden. They would use the back staircase most of the time, for convenience, but Blake had assured Margot the servants wouldn’t find that a problem.

Father had moved Margot’s telephone to their new bedroom, but he apologized to Frank for it. “Rings at all hours,” he warned his son-in-law to be. “You’ll see being married to a doctor has its drawbacks.”

Frank had said, “Yes, sir,” and Margot flashed him a look that made him smile.

Her gown—her wedding gown, the very idea of which still amazed her—hung now in front of her wardrobe, the tissue stripped away, the folds carefully draped to avoid wrinkling. It seemed to her a wonder of stitches and beads and buttons. There was no veil, because the idea of it made Margot shudder. “It’s so medieval,” she had complained. “Pretending the bridegroom has never seen the bride.”

Ramona sniffed. “Mine was beautiful,” she said. “With a coronet of pearls to hold it.”

“Ramona,
you
were beautiful,” Margot said with sincerity. “The veil suited you perfectly. But can you see me in a coronet of pearls?”

They had been in the fitting room of the bridal department of Frederick & Nelson. The saleswoman looked disapproving, but both Ramona and Allison had dissolved in giggles. Allison said, “You have to admit it, Cousin Ramona. Let’s just keep her from wearing a stethoscope.” At that they all laughed, while the saleswoman, a tape measure in her hands and lengths of white satin hanging everywhere, waited for the Benedict women to return to the serious matter at hand.

They had, of course, eventually, but there had been much more laughter and a great deal of arguing, mostly between Ramona and Allison. Margot had cleared the whole day for the exercise, so she stood as patiently as she could while the saleswoman measured her, Ramona fingered fabrics and frowned over beads and laces, and Allison brought an assortment of
prêt-à-porter
gowns for Margot to consider.

As it was winter, and an afternoon wedding, they settled on a gown with long net sleeves, a dropped waist, and an exquisitely hand-beaded bodice. Margot pleaded with Ramona and Allison to spare her the train, and they had agreed on an ankle-length hem, with white silk stockings and white
peau de soie
shoes with a modest heel. There was no coronet, but there were tiny pearls on the headband that Margot would wear over her freshly shingled hair.

It was Allison’s task, on the day, to help Margot into her dress and make sure everything was in place. When it was time, she came dashing up the stairs for the dozenth time. “He’s here!” she gushed. “Major Parrish is here, and he looks
divine!
”

“Did you think he wouldn’t come?” Margot asked, laughing.

Allison laughed, too. It was a day for laughing. For happiness.

Margot could hardly recognize Allison as the same wan, gaunt creature who had arrived at Benedict Hall in the autumn. She had gained some weight, though no one could call her plump. Her skin had regained the dewiness appropriate to her youth, and her hair looked full and healthy. She dutifully presented herself every week at the clinic so Margot could check her blood pressure and her temperature and listen to her heart, but her real healing, Margot was convinced, had been effected by Hattie. It wasn’t just food. It was Hattie’s affection, freely offered without criticism or demands, that had made the difference for a lonely, unloved girl.

The only blemish on this day had been the argument about the guest list. Edith Benedict had roused herself just enough to oversee this element of a Benedict wedding, and she had objected with surprising energy to the inclusion of Sarah Church.

“She’s my colleague, Mother,” Margot had said. “We’ve been working together since Blake’s accident.”

“You can’t put a Negro on your invitation list, Margot. You just can’t. It would make everyone uncomfortable.”

“Then
everyone
can just stay away,” Margot had said irritably. Of all the things to catch her mother’s attention! It was enough to make her want to elope.

It was Blake who solved the problem. He came to Margot at breakfast the next day, bowed, and asked to speak with her. When she followed him out into the hall, he said, “I hope you’ll forgive me, Dr. Margot, but I heard your argument with Mrs. Edith yesterday. I took the liberty of telephoning Nurse Church.”

“You did? Why?”

“Because I felt certain she would be just as uncomfortable at receiving your wedding invitation as Mrs. Edith believes the other guests would be. I was correct, as it happens.”

“She won’t come?”

“She would prefer not to have to refuse.”

“But, Blake—she’s my friend! I don’t have many women friends.”

“She is both your friend and your admirer. I know that.” He gave her a gentle smile, and nodded his head toward the dining room, where the family was gathered. “She will be happier—and Mrs. Edith will—if you can manage to let this one go, Dr. Margot. If you could see your way to letting this issue pass, I think it would be the wise thing to do.”

Margot had pressed her lips together in exasperation, but she knew Blake had everyone’s best interests at heart. In the end, though it galled her, she did as he suggested. Sarah Church didn’t receive an invitation to the wedding. In fact, as Margot perused the list later, she saw that most of the people who would attend were ones she barely knew, friends of her parents, business associates of her father’s. There were a few people from the hospital. Angela Rossi would come, and Matron Cardwell.

And of course, there were Frank’s parents. Margot had met them briefly the day before, work-worn, cheerful people. Frank’s father shook her hand, and called her Doctor. Frank’s mother embraced her, though shyly, as if uncertain whether such a demonstration would be welcome. They were a bit awed by the magnificence of Benedict Hall and the number of servants who kept popping in and out of the dining room and the small parlor, but Ramona, as hostess, was gracious and unpretentious. They seemed to relax after a time.

When she and Frank had said good night, and Blake had driven the Parrishes off to the Alexis Hotel, she said, “I’m going to love them, Frank. I’m sure of it.”

“And they will love you.” He kissed her greedily, and said in a husky voice, “Tomorrow, Margot. Finally.”

She kissed him back. “Tomorrow!”

 

And now, at last, the day had arrived. Allison helped her into her gown, and combed her hair before slipping on the pearl-encrusted headband. Margot submitted to her young cousin’s deft fingers as she applied a bit of powder, a touch of lipstick, a dab of perfume. She put on the
peau de soie
shoes, smoothed the skirt of her dress, and turned to the mirror to face her reflection.

She said, “Good God, Allison, who
is
that woman?”

“Why, I believe that’s Mrs. Frank Parrish,” Allison said with a giggle, and Margot giggled with her.