Down the Rabbit Hole

by Susan Campbell Bartoletti

  Mother asked about my studies. She hoped I was meeting the right people. She reminded me that whom one meets is important in shaping a girl’s future. Mother often included her favorite Bible quotes and wrote little instructions in her letters, asking if I was reading my Bible and reminding me to pray.

  The answer was yes and yes. I was reading my Bible and I was praying. That night, while my classmates slumbered around me, I lifted the door latch and escaped into the hallway. As the moonlight spilled through the window, I knelt and clasped my hands together and closed my eyes and prayed as Jabez had prayed in 1 Chronicles 4:10: I prayed for God to bless me and to enlarge my coast and to guide me with His hand and to keep evil from me.

  There was so much I wanted. I wanted a larger life. I wanted to travel and to study and to do all sorts of things. Was it wrong? Was it selfish and greedy for a girl to want more than she has?

  When I opened my eyes, the hallway brightened for a second. In that glowing second I believed that my prayer was answered, too. Then a cloud passed over the moon, darkening the window.

  The next morning, Miss Westcott came to the doorway of our German class. “Come,” she said, beckoning me with her finger.

  Merricat reached across the aisle, her eyes wide and worrying. She squeezed my trembling hand and mouthed, “What did you do?”

  I mouthed back, “I don’t know.”

  I followed Miss Westcott’s swishing crinoline skirts. Oh, the thoughts that tumbled through my head! The last girl summoned to Miss Westcott’s office was dismissed for breaking the school’s honor code.

  Did Miss Westcott know I had climbed the bluff overlooking the chapel?

  That Merricat and I had hung unladylike from the tree outside the dormitory? Our skirts parasol-like over our faces? Our pantaloons showing?

  That we stayed up past curfew, gossiping about our classmates and poring over Godey’s Lady’s Book by the light of a candle stub?

  That we had perfected the art of walking soundlessly through the dormitory corridors?

  Alas, how I wish it were one — or all! — of these things, for there, standing in Miss Westcott’s office, was my father’s only brother, Edward. The two rarely spoke and never agreed on anything.

  I didn’t need to read my uncle’s face with my eyes. I read his face with my insides. Something was terribly, dreadfully wrong.

  The Things I Remember

  I remember the rain pelted Miss Westcott’s window.

  I remember the rivulets of water streamed down the glass, making the trees, the outbuildings, the grass appear wavy.

  I remember Uncle Edward’s wet shoes squeaked against the wooden floor as he shifted his weight.

  I remember his trousers were soaked from the knees down.

  I remember he reeked of Hoyt’s Cologne, a scent that Mother described as an attempt at a garden or a harvest or pickling. (A gentleman should be seen and not smelled.)

  I remember his voice crackled like static air before a storm. “Pringle, I have terrible news.”

  Yet I plunged ahead, unafraid. I was Alice, chasing the White Rabbit. “It’s Gideon,” I said.

  I have been prepared to lose my brother ever since he was a baby. Doctors say children like Gideon don’t live to adulthood.

  That’s why my first thought was Gideon.

  That’s why my second thought was, Please, let it be Gideon.

  Uncle Edward’s words crashed like thunder. “It’s not Gideon. I’m so sorry, Pringle. It’s your parents.”

  My heart! I gripped the back of an upholstered chair to steady myself. “Are they sick?”

  I knew the answer from his stricken look.

  He circled my shoulders clumsily with his arm and steered me toward the divan. “There’s no delicate way to put this. Come. Sit.”

  I rooted my feet to the carpet. “Then don’t put it delicately.”

  “My dear niece,” said Uncle Edward, taking my hand. “There’s been a terrible accident. A carriage accident. Your mother and father are dead.”

  Dead! The word surged through me like lightning. I yanked my hand from my uncle’s lest his hand singe mine.

  “When?”

  “Yesterday. I came as quickly as I could.”

  “Impossible!” I laughed as I reached in my uniform pocket for my parents’ letters. The joke was on my uncle. “How can they be dead? See? Here are their letters. They arrived yesterday.” I knew the illogic even as I said it. My laugh sounded somewhere outside myself.

  “I’m so sorry for your loss, my dear child,” said Miss Westcott, drawing near.

  How can I explain the feeling? Imagine your mind closing. The blood draining from your head and neck. Your mouth opens, but your throat closes around your words. Your arms, your legs, they go numb.

  I was Alice, tumbling headlong down a deep, dark rabbit hole. The walls in Miss Westcott’s office with their portraits of dour-faced headmistresses, the leather-bound books with gilt lettering, the tall pendulum clock, the gold-rimmed teacup and saucer, all these things spiraled so slowly it felt as though I could have reached out and sipped a cup of tea, just as Alice did.

  Words wound about me, too. Words like home and funeral and arrangements sounded near and then from someplace deep and far away.

  “Gideon?” I managed to squeak out.

  “A few scrapes and bruises.”

  And this was my third thought, which I said out loud: “Why isn’t it Gideon? God took the wrong ones!”

  “Priscilla Rose! You don’t mean that,” said Miss Westcott.

  Why do adults tell you what you mean and don’t mean? I did mean every word, and I would have said so, except the floor rushed at me with a roar and swallowed me. The next thing I knew, my nostrils felt as though they had exploded. I was lying on the divan, sputtering and snorting and gasping for air.

  Miss Westcott capped the smelling salts. “Priscilla, God has a plan. You must believe that.”

  I struggled to sit up, and when I did, I looked at my uncle, heaved, and threw up in Miss Westcott’s lap.

  Binghamton, New York

  Noon

  Not long after the train crossed the wide Susquehanna River, a blue-uniformed conductor moved through our car, shouting, “Bing-ham-ton!” Gideon loves uniforms and anybody who wears a uniform. He followed the conductor with admiring eyes.

  We gathered our belongings and piled off the train and found our way to the Erie station next door. Behind us, the Lackawanna train pulled away with a great snort and hiss and cloud of black smoke. We hadn’t a very long wait, just enough time to gobble our lunch and stretch our legs. The Erie train was scheduled for 1:20.

  I opened the carpetbag, and Mozie leaped out, a tumble of legs and swishing tail and elongated meow. He stretched, groomed himself, and then slinked off to do his business. Mozie is a tame and proper cat.

  Near us, Adam’s mother has her hands full. The bigger little girl is named Lucy, and she is four years old. She is kicking up pebbles and dirt with her shoes, and whatever she does, her baby sister, Sallie, does, too. Her mother has scolded Lucy and told her “no” three times, which is two more chances than my mother would have given me.

  1:10 P.M.

  Guess who helped that mother? I did. With a sharp rock, I scratched out a hopscotch court in the dirt, and soon Lucy, Adam, and Gideon were taking turns. Gideon is good at sharing and taking turns, but not hopping. He hops with both feet, barely clearing the ground. In his mind’s eye, he hops like a frog.

  The hopscotch game gave me time to get acquainted with the children’s mother. Her name is Gwyneth Pritchard. She has a becoming face and gray eyes and wears her hair curled and pulled back from her face. It’s puffed at her crown but knotted full and loose and three short ringlets fall at the nape of her neck. When I called her “Mrs. Pritchard,” s
he said, “Please, my friends call me Gwen.”

  “My friends call me Pringle,” I told her. “Pringle Duncan.” (It’s not a lie. My full name is Priscilla Duncan Rose, after my mother’s side of the family.)

  “Pringle Duncan it is,” said Gwen.

  Oh! The Erie train whistle! Must catch Gideon and Mozie.

  On Board the Erie Train

  1:45 P.M.

  Gwen and I are sitting together in the ladies’ compartment. Mozie is safely tucked inside the carpetbag, purring contentedly. Lucy is petting Mozie.

  Two more women boarded at Binghamton. They began to sit across from us, then looked at Gideon and moved two rows back. The older woman has white, white hair pulled elegantly into a low knot at the nape of her neck. She is draped in a solid black dress made of fine silk. Her younger companion is wearing a rose-colored dress with a ruffled skirt headed with two bands of black velvet and trimmed with black Spanish lace. She has great twists of dark hair that circle her head, top and back.

  Two Days Slow

  On the train home from Merrywood, Uncle Edward sat next to me. How I wished I could shut up like a telescope! My uncle pretended to read, but in the window glass, I could see him studying me. His mouth twitched, as if he were practicing the words to console me.

  In Scranton, the train wheels screamed to a stop, metal on metal. The conductor rushed to set the steps in place. I scanned the crowd for Father, who always greeted me when I returned home. I caught myself and felt a fresh stab of pain. Why does grief trick the heart so?

  Uncle Edward brushed off the sleeves of his black waistcoat. “The coming days will not be easy, Pringle. We’ll do the best we can.” He took my hand and helped me step down to the platform. His hand felt fat and fleshy and did not convey the strength and assuredness that Father’s always did.

  A scrawny boy offered to drag my trunk to a cab, but my uncle waved him off, not even offering a single copper penny, and dragged the trunk himself. Hire someone who can do a job as well as you can. That’s what Father always said.

  Somehow I forced my legs to work, to set one numb foot in front of the other. Each step felt like a dream. Why did Scranton look the same? My whole world had turned upside down. Shouldn’t the city have changed? Draped itself in black?

  As I reached the cab, someone called, “Miss! Miss!”

  A young man was calling to me. He was wearing a plug hat and yellow duster. His dark hair was parted in the middle and combed smoothly away from his face. He had a long, bright red cut on his cheek and eyes the color of a storm.

  Why did I notice these things? I don’t know.

  “You dropped this,” he said, handing me a red bound book with gilt lettering.

  My heart swelled with gratitude. It was Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland.

  I clutched the book to my heart. I could barely speak. How close I had come to losing Mother’s gift, which she had inscribed, “To my darling Pringle, everything’s got a moral, if only you can find it.”

  “Thank you,” I murmured.

  Alice’s rescuer lifted his hat, and walking backward, said, “Pardon me, miss. I’m in a hurry and my watch is two days slow.”

  He spun on his heel and took off, coattails flying.

  Two days slow. What a curious thing to say! Uncle Edward helped me into the hired carriage and rapped on the hood, signaling the livery driver. It wasn’t until the carriage lurched forward that I looked at the book in my lap and remembered the White Rabbit had said the very same thing to Alice.

  Martial Law

  The closer the horse trotted toward home, the bigger and darker the hollow feeling grew inside me. I wanted the carriage ride to stretch an eternity. The longer the ride, the more possible that Mother and Father were still alive and I’d never land at the bottom of that deep well.

  On street corners, soldiers milled about. “The city’s under martial law,” said my uncle.

  I knew. Father had written about the strike in his letters. One week ago, Good Friday, the striking miners had rioted, setting fire to a breaker. As if they had the right to destroy personal property!

  And that wasn’t all. The miners attacked and terrorized scab workers who quit the strike and returned to work. They shot off their guns at all hours. Our governor sent soldiers to protect the city and its citizens and their personal property.

  The carriage halted in front of my house, where a large black wreath draped the front door. As I climbed the stone steps, our manservant waited in the open door. Jenkins has worked for our family as long as I can remember. Swallowing hard, he said, “I’m sorry for your loss, Miss Pringle.”

  Our housekeeper stood behind him. Mrs. Goodwin is a mighty barrel of a woman. I threw my arms around her and sobbed. She wrapped her meaty arms around me and said, “There, there.”

  “That will be all, Mrs. Goodwin,” said a voice so crisp the edges crumbled off the words. “Priscilla needs her family now.”

  It was Aunt Adeline. She looked like a famished blackbird in her mourning garb. She held out her arms to me. “My dear niece,” she said, “life has dealt you a terrible blow.”

  Standing next to her was my cousin Ellen, who is nine and despicable. Her pale eyes roved over my face, as if plumbing the depth of my sorrow. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  I ignored my aunt’s open arms. “Where’s Gideon?” I said.

  “Upstairs,” said Ellen.

  Ellen skipped after me, but I spun around, saying, “I wish to be alone with my brother.”

  “Mama?” said Ellen.

  “Let Pringle be,” said Uncle Edward.

  “Honestly, Edward,” my aunt said, “there’s no harm if Ellen wants to —”

  “Let her be,” repeated my uncle, which was unusual because Aunt Adeline is not a woman to oppose.

  I gulped back a sob as I gripped the banister. The last time I’d seen Mother on those stairs, she was dressed for a holiday party. Her black hair was piled on her head. Soft ringlets framed her face. Her green crinoline gown made her eyes shine like green glass. Father had stood at the bottom of the staircase, looking up at her with keen admiration.

  When I reached the carpeted hall, I whistled for Gideon, two high notes and one low. It’s a game we invented when we played hide-and-seek in our garden.

  I listened for his whistle — two low and one high — and the flat-footed way he slaps his feet when he runs.

  Silence.

  I started down the hall and paused outside Mother’s bedroom. I whistled again. This time I heard a soft sound, as if someone were blowing through a straw.

  I opened the bedroom door. Mother’s room was dark, its long damask curtains drawn. My mouth went dry at the lingering scent of her jasmine and violet perfume. I wet my lips and whistled again.

  From inside her dressing room came Gideon’s almost whistle. I pulled open the double doors, and there sat Gideon, cross-legged. Mother’s gowns were whorled like a nest around him. He clutched Mozie and wouldn’t look at me.

  “I’m here.” I cupped his chin in my hand, forcing him to look at me. “Did you hear me?”

  He pressed his lips together tightly.

  “Gideon, say something, please.”

  “That’s the way he’s been.” It was Mrs. Goodwin. “Master Gideon hasn’t spoken one word since the accident. Something’s wrong, terribly wrong.”

  “What is that creature doing in there?” It was Aunt Adeline.

  I popped to my feet, ready to light into my aunt, who often referred to my brother by horrible names as if he weren’t even a person with feelings. Then I realized she was talking about Mozie.

  “Gideon was hiding the cat in Aunt Eliza’s closet,” said Ellen.

  “You lie,” I said.

  Ellen’s lower lip trembled. Anger flashed over Aunt Adeline, but she sm
oothed her features. “I know you’re grieving, Pringle, but sorrow is no excuse for incivility.”

  I scooped up the cat. From the way he furled and unfurled his claws, I could tell Mozie was thinking terrible things about my aunt.

  This is what you need to know about Mozie. He never forgets a slight, no matter how small.

  The Etiquette of Grief

  I led Gideon to his room and told him to get washed and dressed for bed. No sooner had I finished dressing for bed, than Aunt Adeline came to my room. “You might find this helpful,” she said, setting a book on my dresser. “Now get your dresses ready for the dye pot.”

  Once her footsteps tapped down the hall and her bedroom door clicked shut, I snatched up the book. It was an etiquette book. A black ribbon marked the chapter on mourning. With shaking hands, I opened to the marked page.

  The mourning period for a mother or father lasts one year, it said. Six months of first or deep mourning, and six months of second mourning.

  My thoughts became stinging arrows.

  How long for a mother and a father? Two years? Should I mourn two parents concurrently or each in tandem, and if so, whom do I mourn first?

  Or perhaps I should alternate the days, one day for Mother and the next for Father, or divide the days, the morning for Mother and the evening for Father.

  I flipped through the pages. For the first six months, I was restricted to the simplest dress of solid black wool trimmed with crepe, a black crepe bonnet with black crepe facings and black strings — absolutely no hat — and a black crepe veil. No kid leather gloves, only those cut from black cloth, silk, or thread. No embroidery, jet trimmings, puffs, plaits, or trimming of any kind, and for the first month, no jewelry.

  The next three months, I could wear black silk with crepe trimming, white or black lace collar and cuffs, a tulle veil and white bonnet-facings. The last three months, I may wear gray, purple, and violet.