Down the Rabbit Hole

by Susan Campbell Bartoletti

  Aunt Adeline charged in, her face purple with rage. She brandished a leather strop in her hand. “Do you know how I have sacrificed to make a home for you and to care for you and your brother?”

  For a moment, I was stupefied. I couldn’t speak. I felt glued to my chair. I didn’t know where her rage came from.

  Then my wits returned. “Aunt Adeline, you’re not feeling well,” I said, talking as I moved, trying to wend my way around her. “Let me call Mrs. Goodwin. She’ll bring you some tea.”

  Before I could reach the safety of the hall, Aunt Adeline grabbed my arm, digging her nails into my skin. “I am responsible for your moral development, to make sure you are a good, obedient girl, one who doesn’t shame her family and sully her family’s name.”

  My aunt withdrew a stack of letters from her pocket. All addressed to Merricat.

  My heart sank. “How did you get those?”

  “Merricat’s mother is a good, decent woman,” said Aunt Adeline. “She has forbidden you to write to her daughter again. I’ll teach you not to make a fool out of yourself and out of this family.”

  She raised the leather strap and brought it down on me, flogging me as one would flog a horse.

  Mother always said that we must give words to terrible experiences because words release the power that the experiences have over us, but even as I write the words, I cannot release the shame and humiliation of that beating. I’m going to close this diary for now.

  Later

  Four thirty. Our train stopped in Erie, Pennsylvania. It felt good to walk on the platform and stretch our legs, even if only for fifteen minutes. After we boarded again and the train started off, I began a game with Lucy and Adam and Gideon that Father and I had played.

  “I see something yellow,” I said.

  Adam and Lucy took turns guessing, squealing when they spotted the yellow slippers on a lady passenger. Gideon played with his eyes, searching out each color. After several rounds, Gideon tapped me, motioning that he needed the toilet.

  I let him go alone. Several minutes later, he returned, his face shiny pink and his forearms wet from scrubbing. His hands were cupped and his eyes twinkled mischievously.

  “Mouse,” he said, uncupping his hands.

  Out popped a mouse! The poor thing trembled down to its tail!

  Lucy screamed and Adam screamed and Sallie screamed just because they screamed. The frightened little creature leaped from Gideon’s hands and darted down the aisle, causing the women to scream and lift their feet.

  On the floor, the carpetbag swelled and twisted. In a flash, Mozie clawed his way out and bounded after the mouse.

  “No!” screamed Lucy, and she leaped after the cat.

  Gideon bounded after Lucy.

  Adam chased Gideon.

  Sallie toddled after Adam, screaming happily, waving her arms in the air.

  I couldn’t scream. I couldn’t move a muscle. I just stood there, my heart bursting and tears squirting from my eyes. Gideon spoke!

  The conductor caught Mozie and carried the squirming cat back to us. “Is this your stowaway?” he said.

  “No,” said Gideon. “That’s my cat!”

  “Does he have a ticket?”

  “No,” said Gideon. “He’s a cat.”

  “Any more trouble, and I’ll have him arrested,” said the conductor.

  Gideon took Mozie from the conductor. “Don’t arrest my cat! No more trouble. I promise.”

  Once Gideon makes a promise, he means it. “Be a good cat,” said Gideon as he tucked Mozie into the carpetbag. “Or you’ll go straight to jail.”

  Lucy cried because she wanted a pet mouse. To quiet her, I read her the “Mouse’s Tail” from Alice.

  Gideon’s first word in nearly five months has worn everybody out and now

  Seven fifteen. We stopped in Cleveland for supper. We slurped down mussels and thin broth with Gwen and the children.

  All during supper, Gideon talked a blue streak. It seems as though all the words that he had stored up over the months poured out. He told Adam how he found Mozie, a tiny kitten that fit into his hand, beneath a neighbor’s porch; how Mozie’s fur looks like an M on his forehead; how Mozie is short for the composer Mozart; and how Mozie is the best cat in the world.

  Gwen remarked that she saw me writing in my diary and declared that no girl ever wrote more. That made something grow and grow inside me, and that was my desire to spill everything out, from my parents’ accident to Aunt Adeline to Cousin Ellen and the terrible thing that had made us run away.

  But I didn’t tell Gwen any of those things. It’s too soon. I told her that my parents had died recently, and that we’re going to live with a friend of my mother’s.

  “It’s hard to lose someone you love,” said Gwen.

  I felt myself well up, but I didn’t want to cry in front of Gwen and everyone else in the dining car. There are times I have an overwhelming need to talk about my mother and father. I looked at Gwen and knew she would listen lovingly, but something inside held me back.

  I dabbed my eyes on the back of my wrists and excused myself to use the washroom. Sallie reached her chubby arms toward me. “May I take her?” I asked.

  Gwen said, “Of course.”

  Sallie leaned into my arms and dug into my sides with her little legs as if she were riding a horse. I pushed my grief aside and we whinnied past the uppity Mrs. Duggans.

  Gwen is staring sorrowfully out the window. I am glad I didn’t add to her sorrows, whatever they may be, by telling her mine. Her mind seems to be working on something deep.

  A Visit from a Doctor

  One day, after a heavy August rain had scattered the petals from Mother’s favorite rosebush, I was sitting in our garden, mourning the roses, when a visitor from Philadelphia called on us. Aunt Adeline introduced Dr. van Lavender as an old family friend.

  His name sounded familiar, and then I recalled the letter Uncle Edward had received long ago. Dr. van Lavender was a tiny man with a pointy gray beard and clear blue eyes.

  Mostly, he asked questions about Gideon. He said, “I see” a lot and scribbled my answers in a tiny notebook. His handwriting looked like a secret code.

  He wanted to know about Mother’s side of the family and if I had known my grandmother and aunts and girl cousins.

  I said no, that I’d never met my grandmother, that she died when I was a baby and that I was the only daughter of an only daughter who was also an only daughter.

  Dr. van Lavender marveled at that and wrote that down, too.

  He asked me about Gideon and the sort of boy he was. I said, “Do you mean before the accident?” and he said, “Yes.”

  I answered Dr. van Lavender as honestly as I could. There was something about his demeanor that made me want to answer him. I told him that Gideon was backward in learning to walk and to talk and that it took him longer to learn some things, but that Mother always said there are a time and a season for everything, especially children, who are God’s greatest creation.

  The doctor nodded. “Your mother was a wise woman.”

  “Yes, she was!” I said. It felt so good to talk about Mother. I told him how Mother taught Gideon to read and to write and to do simple math and to tell time.

  I told him how Gideon loved to play, just like other boys his age, even though he is clumsy and can’t do everything as well they do, but he wants to keep up.

  The doctor nodded and wrote down everything and wanted to know about Gideon’s daily habits.

  “Gideon has nice habits,” I assured the doctor. “He’s clean and takes care of all his personal needs. He washes himself exceedingly well and is very particular about his clothing, especially his shoes. He doesn’t like to be dirty or to wear scuffed shoes. He makes his own bed and tidies up after himself.”

>   “Can you describe the changes since the accident?”

  A lump rose in my throat. I wiped my eyes with the back of my wrist. I told the doctor about Gideon’s refusal to talk and the faraway place his mind goes during our lessons and his great fear of the carriage house.

  “It sounds as if life with Gideon is both surprising and heartbreaking,” said the doctor as he closed his notebook.

  How well the doctor understood!

  “Children like Gideon have a special claim on us,” said the doctor. “In addition to that special claim, Gideon has suffered a deep trauma. You both have.” He tapped his notebook thoughtfully with his pencil. “But I can help the both of you, if you’re willing.”

  I grabbed his sleeve. “How?”

  “Children like Gideon are born into all kinds of families, from the humblest cottage to even the greatest mansion. A child like Gideon weighs heavily upon family members who love them very much and want what’s best for them.”

  Something inside shriveled. I shrank away from the doctor. “Gideon never weighed heavily on my parents! He doesn’t weigh heavily on me!”

  His eyes seemed to penetrate my brain so that he knew what I was thinking. “Are you being honest with yourself, Pringle? Don’t you wish you could return to school? Continue your studies? See your friends again? Have you considered your future?” And then, he said, “Certainly, your mother and father considered your future, or they would not have sent you to boarding school.”

  Dr. van Lavender extracted a slim leaflet from his vest pocket. The leaflet had the same engraving as the letter that Uncle Edward had read in Father’s library, so many weeks before. “I am the director of a school near Philadelphia,” said the doctor. “It’s a boarding school for children like Gideon.”

  “No!” I leaped to my feet. “Mother would never —”

  The doctor smiled kindly. “Think of it this way. You attend boarding school for the best possible education, one that’s suited to you, with your needs and interests at heart. Don’t you want Gideon to have the same opportunity? One that’s designed for children like him? One where there will be other children his age? Where he will study music and crafts and receive training in a trade? Doesn’t he deserve that?” And then he added, “Don’t you want a larger life for yourself? Don’t you deserve that?”

  I took the leaflet and turned over the doctor’s words in my mind. My thoughts flew in every direction. I felt confused. I remembered the prayer I had prayed so long ago. I did want a larger life. The doctor offered the answer I’d yearned for.

  A few nights later, Father’s attorney, Mr. Royce, was our dinner guest. I always liked Mr. Royce and considered him a trusted family friend.

  After the dishes were cleared, Uncle Edward called upon Ellen to sing.

  My cousin has one of the clearest, prettiest singing voices I’ve ever heard. I could see she loved the attention. Then she recited, “How Doth the Little Busy Bee” by Isaac Watts. My uncle’s eyes glowed with pride.

  “She belongs in the theater,” said Mr. Royce.

  Ellen’s eyes shimmered at the praise. She clapped her hands together as if she couldn’t believe that people were paid to sing and to dance and to show off.

  “The theater is no place for our daughter,” said Aunt Adeline.

  Ellen’s face burned with shame, the shimmer snuffed from her eyes.

  In Ellen, I recognized a yearning so deep that I pitied her and envied her at the same time. I thought about how badly I wanted to return to Merrywood and a normal life. I understood what it’s like to want something so badly it fills you up.

  Right now I want sleep.

  Wednesday, September 6, 1871

  The last thing I heard last night was the conductor calling out Toledo, Ohio, at a quarter to midnight. Around me, passengers are stirring. I’ve nudged Gideon awake so that he can take his turn at the toilet and wash basin.

  Gideon snapped open his pocket watch. “Six thirty,” he said.

  The train has picked up speed, rushing us toward our new life. Outside, Lake Michigan glitters, stretching from horizon to horizon, as large as a sea.

  I have one last story to tell, and then I’ll close this diary and that part of my life. No more looking back! Only forward! In Chicago, everything will be different.

  Beautiful Dreamer

  It seems like a lifetime ago but it was just five days ago. Aunt Adeline had a terrible row with Uncle Edward over her allowance. My aunt thinks a woman of her station should have more money to spend.

  The next day was a “Do Not Disturb Mama Day.” We all stayed home from church and the curtains were drawn all day. We were relieved when Aunt Adeline took her afternoon tea in her room. Ellen sat in a chair, braiding the hair on a new doll, looking forlorn.

  “Would you sing for me?” I asked.

  Her eyes brightened and she scooted off the chair. “Want me to show you a dance?” She lifted the hem to her dress around her calves. “You won’t tell Mama?”

  I promised.

  Ellen began to move her feet as she sang. “Beautiful dreamer, wake unto me —”

  Upstairs, Aunt Adeline berated Mrs. Goodwin over something trivial. As her mother’s voice rose, Ellen missed a step. She waited until her mother’s tirade ended, and when the bedroom door slammed shut, she started over.

  “Starlight and dewdrops are waiting for thee —”

  As she sang, she clasped her hands together against her cheek. She bent at the knees and then arced both arms over her head and tiptoed in a circle.

  I pulled Gideon from his chair. We copied Ellen’s steps. It took several tries, but Gideon caught on. At last we had the steps and the words.

  We sang and danced again, and when we finished, Ellen let go of our hands. She twirled on one foot, kicking out her leg as she turned. As she spun, she neared the table that held her mother’s Rogers statue.

  “Watch out!” I said.

  Too late. Ellen kicked the table. The table wobbled and the statue sailed off. I dove toward the falling statue, but missed. It crashed to the floor and shattered. Clay pieces flew all over.

  Horrified, Ellen leaped away.

  “What was that?” shrieked Aunt Adeline. Her feet sounded like gunshots as she rushed down the stairs and into the parlor.

  Aunt Adeline spotted the fragments, and then her eyes flew to the empty spot on the table. “Who did this?” she said, her eyes blue ice as she looked first to me and then to Gideon and then to Ellen. “Answer me.”

  “Mama,” said Ellen as she raised her hand.

  My legs quaked. I prepared to step between her and her mother, to shield my cousin. I knew what her mother was capable of.

  Ellen’s raised hand turned into a pointing finger. “He did it, Mama. It’s Gideon’s fault.”

  Gideon stared blankly, not understanding.

  Aunt Adeline’s face contorted with fury. She slapped Gideon across the face, hard. She called him a terrible name and ordered him upstairs.

  I glared at Ellen. “You lie!”

  Ellen buried her face in her mother’s dressing gown and sobbed.

  “You’ve done nothing wrong, precious,” said her mother.

  I moved in front of Gideon. I didn’t care what she did to me. I wasn’t going to allow her to hurt my brother again.

  At that moment, the front doorknob rattled. In walked Uncle Edward. He looked at Ellen clinging to her mother and sobbing. “What happened?”

  Ellen sobbed louder and cleaved to her mother for protection. She knew I wanted to wring the truth from her!

  “Oh, Edward,” said Aunt Adeline, holding up a piece of the shattered statue. “Look what Gideon did.”

  Uncle Edward drew her to him. “I’ll buy you another.”

  “Don’t you see?” said Aunt Adeline. “It’s n
ot the statue. It’s Gideon. He’s not making any progress. No matter how hard I try. And now he’s destructive. It’s only a matter of time until he hurts someone. You’ve got to do something before Ellen gets hurt. If anything ever happened —”

  Uncle Edward wiped Aunt Adeline’s tears with his handkerchief, telling her, “I’ll notify Dr. van Lavender first thing tomorrow morning.”

  Keep Me from Evil

  That night, I wandered through Mother’s room. I longed for a sense of Mother, but the scent of jasmine and violet had faded from the room, disappearing along with most of her things.

  I sat at Mother’s writing desk, a pretty desk with turned legs that Father had bought her from France. I imagined her sitting there, writing letters to me. “What am I supposed to do, Mother?” I asked. “Shouldn’t I be happy that Gideon will go to a special school? One for children like him?”

  I opened the middle drawer of her desk. There lay Mother’s Bible. Mother had a habit of copying her favorite verses in the front of her Bible. She had marked 1 Chronicles 4:10. It was Jabez’s prayer.

  “Oh, Mother,” I cried. “Are you telling me that I deserve a larger life? Is that what you want for me? Weren’t those your very words when I left for boarding school?”

  The floorboards creaked. A hand touched on my shoulder. “Mother, I knew you would come!” I said, crying.

  But it wasn’t Mother. It was Mrs. Goodwin. I broke down in huge heaving sobs. “I miss my mother. I can’t bear to feel this sad anymore.”

  “There, there,” said Mrs. Goodwin, stroking my head. “You’re grieving, dear. You’re supposed to feel sad. It’s something we do to heal.”

  She let me cry myself out, and then she said, “Pringle, there’s something I must tell you. You mustn’t let them send Gideon away. It isn’t right. He belongs with family.”

  “But Dr. van Lavender said —”

  “What the doctor thinks and what he knows are two different things.”