Down the Rabbit Hole

by Susan Campbell Bartoletti

  I snapped the book shut and heaved open my trunk. I pulled out my dresses and petticoats and stockings for the dye pot. I hid my favorite blue dress in the back of my closet.

  There but for the Grace of God

  Lucy is an ornery child. Each time her mother took a nibble of corn bread or bite of apple or closed her eyes for a moment’s rest, Lucy tormented Adam, poking him or kicking him or making faces.

  Nearby, Mrs. Duggan and her daughter-in-law sniffed and looked down their noses at Gwen. They nodded smugly and looked at one another, telegraphing a secret message between them.

  By the by, the Duggans asked Gwen where she was traveling, and when she said, “Chicago,” they exclaimed and raised their hands to their mouths and twittered like birds, because they lived in Chicago.

  They are the sort of women who pretend to be interested and pepper you with questions so that they have an excuse to talk about themselves.

  The older Mrs. Duggan told about her family and her late husband’s family and her ever-so-intelligent son and how both sides of her family were from a long line of important So-and-Sos and all the fine things they do and all the fine parties they attend and all the fine things they own in their fine houses.

  I pretended to admire all the things they said, but in my head, I rattled off things about my own family that would make them stop winking their eyes and smiling at each other and thinking they are the finest women in the car.

  Then the older Mrs. Duggan said, “My grandson attends Harvard. Top of his class, he is. Do you know what Harvard is, dear?”

  Gwen said, “That’s nice” and “How proud you must be!” Then she began to say something about her own husband, but the older Mrs. Duggan interrupted her, saying, “It was nice talking with you, dear,” which was funny because she and her daughter-in-law had done all the talking. It was clear that the Mrs. Duggans had grown bored with us because they had nothing more to say to impress us.

  The younger Mrs. Duggan wagged her head and clucked sympathetically at Gideon. “There but for the grace of God go I. That’s what it says in the Bible, you know.”

  “The Bible says no such thing,” I retorted.

  “Oh, my,” said Mrs. Duggan. “Is that what they teach in colliery schools?”

  A colliery school! Merrywood is no colliery school, and it’s in Philadelphia, not Scranton. I bit my tongue. The Duggans are the sort of women my mother called foolish.

  Gideon

  This is what I want the Mrs. Duggans and everyone else to know about my brother: Gideon is ten years old and a good boy and doesn’t have a mean bone in his body, but some people are mean to him because he is different.

  Some people are afraid of Gideon, as if he has a contagious disease or might hurt them. Some people feel sorry for Gideon because they think he has had misfortune to be born the way he is. That’s why people like Mrs. Duggan say foolish things like, “There but for the grace of God go I,” as if God has favored her or has been watching over her and taken care of her and not Gideon.

  Well, God watches over Gideon, too.

  It’s true that Gideon isn’t like other children his age. He doesn’t look like other children, either. He is shorter than most boys his age and has a moon face and almond eyes that are slightly crossed and a flat nose and stubby fingers.

  The doctors have theories about children like Gideon. They say children like him cannot live normal lives. That they cannot contribute to society and be responsible. That they will grow up to be criminals. That they should live in special places.

  That’s why you don’t see children like Gideon. Most mothers don’t keep babies like Gideon. The babies are whisked off to orphanages and never spoken about again.

  Mother said those doctors and their theories could go to thunder. She believed the work of God is displayed through children like Gideon and that they have great potential.

  Little by little, Mother taught Gideon his numbers and the alphabet and now he can read simple words and sentences and do simple math. He loves to count! Schoolwise, he is just a few years behind other children his age.

  In most ways, Gideon is just like other children. He is happy-go-lucky. He can be as talkative — and argumentative — as a blue jay. He loves to run and romp and play.

  Gideon has two moods: thunderstorm and sunshine. When he smiles, he smiles with his whole face, and when he laughs, his whole body laughs. He has feelings and they get hurt, just as mine do.

  Gideon has very clean habits. He is obedient and well mannered and has a puffed-up sense of self-importance, which shows when he walks or learns something new, such as telling time or tying his shoes. He is unbearable when he learns something I don’t know. If there’s a bird nest or a litter of kittens or puppies or a nest of baby bunnies, Gideon will find it.

  That brings me to his one bad habit: bringing home stray dogs. The last dog he brought home was a collie. The dog was neatly brushed and knew how to sit and shake hands, and when its master knocked on our door, Father said, “Gideon, this must stop.”

  A Pillar of Salt

  Gideon wanted to walk by himself to the men’s washroom. I forbade it because he must cross to the men’s compartment. Angry! Gideon folded his arms over his chest and tucked his hands in his armpits and glowered at me. He doesn’t like to be treated like a baby.

  I would not give in. I ignored the looks from the men passengers and stood outside the men’s washroom door. Inside I heard splashing and then a man said, “Hey, kid, are you taking a bath?”

  That Gideon! When he washes, he scrubs his hands, front and back, all the way to his elbows, and his neck and ears, with soap and water, just as Mother taught him. When Gideon emerged, he was shiny pink and his hair was slicked to the side and his shirt was soaked.

  We returned to the ladies’ compartment, where I waited my turn. The toilet room is a cramped, airless closet. The toilet is a wooden box with a round hole, nothing more than an outhouse on wheels. It’s frightening to look down the toilet hole and see the iron rails and wooden tracks moving beneath. But the rumbling of the wheels means we’re moving forward.

  Father always said there’s no turning back in life, no matter how hard you wish it. There is only moving forward, and you must not settle for the past or the present but must always look to tomorrow. “Look what happened to Lot’s wife,” Father would say. “Who wants to be a pillar of salt?”

  Why do I look back, then? Our bodies are composed of skin and bones and muscle and sinew, but our minds are composed of pieces of the people we love. That’s why I look back, to put the pieces — the thoughts and feelings and memories — together in order to make sense out of everything.

  For days after the funeral, nothing felt real. Each crack of the floorboard, each creak of the stair tricked my heart into thinking Father or Mother was walking down the hall. Then I’d remember and a dark feeling would spread through me and I’d feel the loss all over again.

  Now I can see that I was still falling and my world was still spinning. I could only think, “Why me?” and “Why did God answer Jabez’s prayer and not mine?” And to tell the truth, I still wonder these things.

  Best-Laid Schemes

  I don’t remember what people said at the funeral. I only remember that they came.

  Over the days that followed the funeral, I couldn’t make the simplest decisions and felt grateful that I didn’t have to choose which dress or shoes to wear. I only had to pull a black dress from my closet.

  Father quoted the Scottish poet Robert Burns when his plans went awry. “ ‘The best-laid schemes o’ Mice an’ Men,’ ” he’d say. “ ‘Gang aft agley, An’ lea’e us nought but grief an’ pain, For promis’d joy!’ ”

  But no matter how many plans went awry, Father was never despondent or sad. Nor did he give up.

  One day, as I passed Father’s library, his chair exhaled a fam
iliar sigh. My heart sang out, for there was Father sitting at his gleaming walnut desk.

  The figure shifted. Father disappeared, and in his place sat Uncle Edward. His hair, the shape of his head, his eyes and nose — they were similar to Father’s.

  My heart had tricked me again. My heart saw what it wanted to see, not what was true and real.

  Know this: Edward Rose is no Franklin Rose. The two men are as different as night and day. Father was strong and a man of conviction and principle who never wavered; he was either hot or cold. Edward was lukewarm and always saw the gray middle of a problem. That’s why they never got along.

  Ellen was perched on her father’s lap, her arms twined around his neck as she chattered about a new doll.

  “Of course, dear,” said Uncle Edward. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  He picked up Father’s brass letter opener and sliced open an envelope. He slid out the letter and his brow furrowed as he looked over its contents.

  “Who’s Dr. van Lavender, Papa?”

  “A family friend of your mother’s.” He folded the letter and dropped it into his satchel.

  Ellen pointed a pudgy finger at me. “Pringle’s spying on us.”

  “What an imagination you have! Pringle’s not spying,” said Uncle Edward. He kissed the top of her head and shooed her off his lap. “Run along, precious, so that I may talk with Pringle.”

  Ellen pouted, sticking out her lower lip, a habit she thinks makes her look adorable. It makes her look like a baboon.

  She tightened her grip around her father’s neck, but he pried her loose and scooted her toward the door.

  “Off with your head,” I whispered.

  She stuck out her tongue.

  Uncle Edward gestured to me, bidding me to enter — as if I needed permission to enter my father’s office!

  “Such a dramatic child,” he said about Ellen. “Her mother worries she’ll want a life in theater.”

  It was maddening the way he excused Ellen’s spoiled behavior.

  The chair squeaked as Uncle Edward leaned back. “These days have been a strain,” he said.

  He gestured to a stack of paperwork. “Nearly every day brings another arson, more rocks hurled at men who quit the strike, and more men attacked on their way home from work.”

  The dark, puffy circles beneath his eyes aged him. He looked ready to give up.

  “Father would never capitulate to the miners,” I said. “If they want higher wages, they should seek work elsewhere.”

  My uncle suppressed a smile. “You have your father’s head for business.”

  He laced his fingers together and studied his folded hands. “Pringle, it’s no secret that your father and I didn’t get along. We disagreed on many things. I always thought we’d have a lifetime to set things right between us, but we didn’t. But there’s one thing we did agree on.” His eyes met mine. “I have some good news that will ease your mind.”

  My heart lifted. Were my uncle and aunt and cousin leaving? Good riddance. I would help them pack myself. I envisioned myself standing on the front porch, waving a handkerchief as their carriage rattled down the street. At last my life could return to normal, whatever normal was.

  “I’ve been appointed guardian,” said Uncle Edward.

  “Whose guardian?” I asked.

  Uncle Edward gave me the most curious look. “Why, your guardian. Yours and Gideon’s.”

  A nail driven through my heart!

  “Your aunt and I have always wanted more children,” he said. “She’s never gotten over losing little Eddie, you know.”

  My hands began to jump involuntarily. I clasped them to keep them still. “I don’t need a guardian. I’m fourteen. I’m at the top of my class. I can manage a household and take care of Gideon.”

  “The law says otherwise.”

  “The law! The property law gives women the right to inherit property. I have the right to inherit my father’s estate.”

  “That’s true,” said my uncle, pressing his fingertips together. “But you cannot manage it until you become of age.”

  A second nail!

  “You needn’t worry,” said my uncle. “Your inheritance is held in a trust, for when you turn twenty-one. In the meantime, you can have faith that I’ll do what’s best for you and your brother.”

  Tears blurred my eyes. Not tears of sadness. Tears of hot anger. How dare Uncle Edward think he knew what was best for Gideon and me. He scarcely knew us.

  I stormed out of Father’s office and whorled around my bedroom like a tornado. I threw open my closet door. Everything was black. Black dresses, black petticoats, black stockings and slippers.

  Nothing was blacker than my thoughts. I wanted someone to blame. I blamed my uncle and aunt and cousin as I tore each black dress from its hanger. I blamed Mother and Father as I bunched the dresses together. I blamed God as I pressed them to my face and screamed into the pile.

  I know Aunt Adeline suffered terribly when little Eddie drowned, only three years old. She has never recovered. None of us have. Little Eddie was a sweet, loving, adorable child. But Gideon and I would never belong to Uncle Edward and Aunt Adeline.

  My bedroom door creaked open. There stood Ellen. “Why are you crying?” Then her eyes widened as she looked at the dresses strewn over the floor. “Mama doesn’t like an untidy house.”

  I knuckled the tears from my eyes. “Get out. It’s my house. Mine and Gideon’s.”

  I leaped at her and pinched her, hard.

  Tears sprang to her eyes. Her mouth puckered. I expected Ellen to bawl to her mother, but she didn’t.

  A Place to Cry

  Our train stopped in Corning at six forty-five. I hungered for a proper meal with cloth-covered tables and a menu at the Dickinson Hotel, just two doors down from the station, but Gideon and I shared our cheese and bread and sausages.

  At Merrywood, whenever I felt overwhelmed with studies and examinations, I sneaked away and hiked to the top of the bluff behind the chapel. The path was windy and steep and narrow. Everyone needs a private place to cry, and the bluff was mine.

  I had no safe place now. Not my house. Not my bedroom. My parents weren’t even buried one month, and each day Aunt Adeline packed up more of Mother’s and Father’s belongings and instructed Jenkins to carry the boxes to the attic.

  Little by little, Aunt Adeline filled our house with her belongings, shipped up from their house in Wilkes Barre. Every table and bureau and windowsill was covered with tasteless knick­knacks and potted plants and framed photographs of people I didn’t know. The walls were covered with even more tasteless ornamental plates.

  Aunt Adeline’s prized possession was a clay-and-plaster sculpture called The Foundling, designed by a man named John Rogers. The statuette depicts a young woman handing over her baby to a man standing behind the door to an orphanage.

  Mother and I had seen the brown or gray plaster statues in every art and bookstore window, whether we visited Scranton, Philadelphia, or New York City. Women seem determined to collect as many as they could. As soon as a new Rogers group becomes available, newspaper reporters herald it as a major event and women rush out to buy it.

  Once, I asked Mother why we didn’t own a Rogers group. She scoffed and called them sentimental decorations, not true art.

  I’m glad Mother didn’t see Aunt Adeline’s statuary, and not because it’s one more tasteless decoration. The Foundling makes me think about children like Gideon who are whisked off to orphanages, where they never see their families again.

  A Ride Along Ridge Row

  The next weeks brought more riots by the striking miners. Scarcely a day passed in April and May that didn’t bear news of another beating or attack on a man who dared to return to work in order to feed his family.

  After nearly
a month of confinement, I feared that I’d lose my mind if I didn’t get out of the house. I told Jenkins, “I wish to ride along Ridge Row.”

  He faltered. “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Miss Pringle.”

  But I insisted, and so he did. As the carriage clattered along the road that ran like a spiny backbone high above Roaring Brook, I mettled myself, for it was the road that Mother and Father had ridden that warm spring morning.

  What drew me there? Why do we torture ourselves by visiting and revisiting sites of painful remembrances? I don’t know.

  I imagined Father driving fast, the reins in his hand. Mother laughing and calling, “Faster, Franklin! We want to feel the wind against our faces.” I imagined Father snapping the reins, urging the horse; Gideon laughing, yelling, “Go go go!” He loved a fast ride as much as Mother.

  And then what?

  Father was an expert driver and horseman. What caused the carriage to tip?

  I rapped on the carriage hood. “Stop,” I told Jenkins. I stepped from the carriage and stared down the steep drop to the brook. Water tumbled over great jutting rocks. My stomach turned over. Something sour inched its way up my throat. How many times had the carriage flipped before it landed upside down in the water?

  The man who had discovered the accident came to the funeral. He wore the soft, worn clothing of a workingman, and he clutched his cap between his hands. Perhaps the buggy hit a rut, he said. Perhaps the wheel fell off. Perhaps the horse spooked and bolted, making my father lose control.

  No one knew for sure. The only certainty was that the buggy had plunged over the steep embankment, taking my parents with them. Miraculously, Gideon had fallen out near the top.

  Thoughts, feelings, memories, questions — they all lumped together in my throat. I swallowed hard to loosen them. I rapped again on the carriage hood, saying, “Jenkins, please take me to the cemetery.”