The Forgotten Room

by Karen White

  The name appeared to have a magic effect. The twin furrows disappeared from between the man’s brows.

  “Schuyler . . . ,” said the maître d’, checking his book. “Ah, yes! Mr. Schuyler reserved a table in the Palm Trellis. If you would come this way?”

  The Palm Trellis, it appeared, was on the roof. The maître d’ handed Lucy over to a uniformed elevator operator, who whisked her upstairs to a vast room where white fans turned lazily overhead, dispelling the July heat. Window boxes spilled over with hydrangeas, and sweet-scented wisteria twined around white-painted trellises.

  Back at Stornaway House, her attic room would be hot and close. The shared kitchen would be even hotter, with the depressing smell of day-old boiled cabbage that seemed to have sunk into the very walls.

  On an impulse, Lucy tugged her mother’s ruby pendant from its hiding place. It was heavy and old-fashioned, but the ruby was real. It made her feel, a little bit, as though she belonged here.

  Through the long windows, the sky was shading gently toward dusk. The breeze from the fan ruffled the long chiffon panels of Lucy’s dress as she followed yet another attendant through the long room, to a choice table at the back, framed in an arch of wisteria, shaded by two tall palms.

  As they approached, a man unfolded himself from his seat at the table. The light was against her; Lucy could make out only a dark suit, dark hair, a broad set of shoulders.

  What would Didi Shippen do?

  Pinning on a stiff social smile—and trying not to trip on the hem of her gown—Lucy held out a hand. “Mr. Ravenel?”

  Mr. Ravenel made no move to take her hand. He stood frozen, an expression of surprise amounting to shock on his face.

  In a voice so low that Lucy could hardly hear it, he said, “Your eyes are blue.”

  Ten

  JUNE 1944

  Kate

  “Well, he is a doctor.”

  I stood in the middle of the tiny single room of a three-floor walkup in a dubious East Side neighborhood south of Park and stared into the pretty freckled face of my best friend, Margie Beckwith, her eyes wide with possibilities.

  “So am I,” I reminded her. “But I’d rather kiss a cockroach.”

  She shuddered with an empathy that only sisters or best friends who’d known each other since they were in diapers could have. Our mothers had met on a bench in Central Park when we were babies, our prams parked next to each other by happenstance, and then by design as the women discovered they had much in common. Or, more specifically, that they both had the same delusions of grandeur.

  Whereas my father had been a lawyer with a respectable pedigree, most of our family money had been lost in the crash of ’29, and while we weren’t penniless, we had most definitely become middle class. It had always been apparent to me that while both of my parents had minded our social demotion, my mother had been much less forgiving of our circumstances. She’d been a loving wife and mother, but I’d never been able to completely shake the feeling that she always believed that there had been another life, a bigger, brighter life, waiting for her somewhere around the corner.

  Mr. Beckwith sold men’s suits at Bergdorf’s, while Mrs. Beckwith taught piano to the privileged—and mostly tone-deaf according to her—children of those who’d managed to hold on to their money, or the newly rich. The latter she considered beneath her and were tolerated only because they paid well. Although neither the Schuylers nor the Beckwiths lived anywhere near Fifth Avenue and Sixty-ninth Street, their bench in the park was somehow fitting.

  Margie turned toward her closet. “I don’t know why you’re asking to borrow clothes from me—we’re nowhere near the same size. And I certainly don’t have anything appropriate for dinner at 21.”

  “Exactly,” I said, eyeing her curvy figure, which had gone out of style during the Victorian age. “I’m not trying to look attractive.”

  She pulled out a dark gray skirt and examined it before putting it back with a dismissive shake of her head. “That’s not something you say to a friend from whom you’re borrowing clothes, you know.”

  “I’m sorry, Margie. I didn’t mean it that way. It’s just that Dr. Greeley makes me so angry. He’s practically blackmailing me to go out with him. Otherwise, he’s going to do his best to ruin my career.”

  “Well, maybe you shouldn’t be kissing patients.” She sounded a bit peeved as she roughly slid hangers over the rod in her closet.

  I blushed at the memory of Captain Ravenel’s lips on mine. Despite my best efforts to forget it, I could still taste him every time I closed my eyes. Which is probably why I hadn’t had much sleep in the past week. A week where I’d happily delegated his care to Nurse Hathaway and the other staff doctors, ignoring his requests to see me.

  “It wasn’t like that. He . . . surprised me. And then excused the whole thing to Dr. Greeley by saying he confused me with someone else.”

  Margie looked over her shoulder at me. “I wish some good-looking man would surprise me with a kiss. That sort of thing doesn’t happen in the archives at the New York Public Library, unfortunately. And if it did, it would probably be from some old man wearing tweed with suede elbow patches and smelling of mothballs.” She screwed up her face, her good humor returned. “Of course, I’d probably still be grateful. It’s been a good deal too long since I was last kissed. This war is taking far too long.”

  “Send a Western Union to Hitler, why don’t you? He probably hasn’t realized.”

  “I just might,” she said, turning around and holding up something brown, wool, and indescribable. The only way I could tell it was some sort of garment was because it was on a hanger.

  “Whatever it is,” I said, “it’s perfect.”

  “It’s a dress that was my mother’s, and not only is it blatantly out of style, but it’s also hideous. And it’s about two sizes too big for you.”

  I was already unbuttoning my blouse. “Then let me borrow a belt, too.”

  “I’m still not sure why you agreed to go out with this guy, Kate. Just tell him no and let him say what he wants. You’re a brilliant woman—one of very few, I’d bet, who’ve graduated from college in less than four years. And you’re a good doctor, too. Surely your work will speak for itself.”

  I slid the rough material over my head, grimacing in the mirror as it settled on my shoulders. “In a perfect world, maybe. But I’m a woman, and a young woman at that. People will believe what they want to believe. They’re already prejudiced against me because I’m only twenty-three and already a doctor. They think I haven’t paid my dues because I graduated from medical school in two years—along with just about every other MD candidate since the war started—which they conveniently don’t remember. Like it’s my fault there’s a shortage of doctors. I’m constantly made to feel as if I need to wear my Vassar diploma around my neck as well as my MD to prove myself.”

  I turned to the side and back, making sure the heavy material hid all of my curves. “So, no, my work doesn’t count, only the word of my male colleagues.” I leaned forward and plucked Margie’s cigarette from the ashtray and took a long drag before regarding myself in the mirror again as I blew smoke at my reflection. “Which is why I’m being forced into this charade tonight. I just need to make sure that Dr. Greeley is left with no illusions. I plan to talk about my thimble collection and my crooked toes all night.”

  Margie took the cigarette and took a drag before placing it back in the ashtray, studying me with a tilted head and narrowed eyes. “I hate to tell you this, Kate, but even in that awful dress you still look beautiful.” She took a folded handkerchief from the top drawer of her dresser. “Maybe if you wipe off your lipstick.”

  I did as she instructed and faced her again. “How’s this?”

  She shook her head. “It’s no use. Maybe you should show him your toes just in case.” Margie stuck her head back into the closet and when she turne
d around she was smiling triumphantly.

  “Here are a pair of my librarian shoes—only seen on elderly women over eighty and younger women who are on their feet all day and work in libraries—and which will look perfect with those old stockings with the ladders running up and down your legs.”

  I smiled, knowing the thick, clunky heels and manlike uppers would be perfect with the dress. “I hope they don’t turn me away. The 21 Club is pretty ritzy.” I’d wanted to go to my mother’s favorite restaurant—one she’d told me about again and again when I was a child yet where to my knowledge she had not been since I was born—but I’d sadly discovered that Delmonico’s had closed in 1923.

  Margie took another drag from her cigarette, then blew the smoke up to the ceiling. “Why’s he taking you there? It’s not like he couldn’t take you to some dive—you had to say yes anyway.”

  “His cousin’s the bartender, so he can get us a table. Dr. Greeley is trying to show me how important and well connected he is, I suppose, even though we’ll probably be put in some corner by the kitchen.” I slid on the shoes and sighed. “I can’t believe I went to med school for this.”

  “Sure. You could be living the glamorous life of a librarian like me instead. What I wouldn’t give,” she added under her breath.

  As I folded up my skirt and blouse to tuck into my pocketbook, she said, “Maybe I should stop by the hospital and meet your Captain Ravenel. Since you’re not interested.”

  “He’s taken,” I said, a little too quickly. We hadn’t heard back from any member of his family, or any Victorine. I’d decided that if something hadn’t arrived by today, I would send another letter to let them know that he was on the road to a full recovery and that arrangements could be made to bring him home by the end of the month if his recuperation continued on the same path.

  According to Nurse Hathaway, he’d not requested a pen and paper to write a letter himself, and I tried not to read anything into it. I had no interest in the captain except as his doctor. I’ve been drawing your likeness since I was old enough to pick up a pen. I gritted my teeth, wishing I could stop hearing his words. But they haunted me, a ghost that accompanied me during my rounds and at night in my dreams when I was finally able to fall asleep.

  Margie stood back from me, eyeing me critically as I pinned my hat to my hair and pulled on a pair of kid gloves that had once belonged to my mother. They had once been expensive, purchased years ago by my father and given as a Christmas gift. They were worn now in the fingertips, and I’d resewn the seams along each finger several times, but I couldn’t bear to part with them. There was precious little of my mother’s I still had. And when I wore the gloves it was like having her hand in mine, guiding me like she had when I was a child.

  Margie shook her head. “You look positively awful, but still better than most women. Are you sure you don’t want to spend the night here? You know I’m always up for a midnight gab session.”

  I leaned forward and hugged her. “I know, and I appreciate it. But I have early rounds in the morning so it’s better that I sleep at the hospital. We’ll have lunch next week and I’ll let you know all about it—down to the last gory detail.”

  “All right. But if you change your mind, just ring the bell. I’m a light sleeper.”

  We said our good-byes and I hurried down the three flights of stairs and out into the humid night and began walking toward the nearest subway. I’d refused to leave the hospital with Dr. Greeley, knowing it would only fuel the gossip mill, and I was already prepared for the argument we’d have about him not bringing me back to the hospital. Not that he would necessarily offer, of course. He made a big deal out of me being a “new” woman, an educated doctor of independent means. I suppose he thought those were insults, too.

  I walked in the early-evening drizzle, futilely trying to avoid the drips from shop awnings as I passed beneath them, then quickly ducked into the station. I bought chewing gum from the vending machine on the subway platform so I’d stop gritting my teeth, hoping Dr. Greeley wouldn’t think I’d freshened my breath for him. After a short wait, I boarded my train and sat down. I’ve been drawing your likeness since I was old enough to pick up a pen.

  What had he meant? I shook my head to mentally erase the words and attempted to focus on the evening ahead, where I would at least be getting a free meal. Instead, all I could see were eyes the color of winter grass, and hear words spoken with a soft Southern drawl.

  I struggled through the heavy wood doors of Stornaway Hospital, feeling—and probably closely resembling—a rat drowned in an overflowing gutter. I was soaking from the rain, and bone weary from trying to stay mentally sharp during the interminable dinner where I had fielded off innuendoes, hands on my thighs, and blatant attempts to kiss me—only one that I’d allowed to be successful. I had to give him something to chew on, to make him think there was hope. Otherwise, I had no doubt I’d be asked to pack my bags and find another hospital where fraternizing with the patients wasn’t frowned upon. Most likely on the corner of Never and Ever.

  I wondered how long I could take a steaming hot shower for without using up all the hot water in the building. Probably not long enough to scrub every inch of my skin the number of times required to erase Howard Greeley’s clammy touch and rubbery lips.

  The night nurse at the reception desk gave me a disapproving glare as I walked past her, too tired to attempt a smile or share any pleasantries. It didn’t matter. News of my appearance so late in the evening would be spread among the nurses and staff by morning rounds. Hitler had nothing on the nurses at Stornaway—perhaps he should consider using them for his propaganda machine.

  In my exhaustion-induced delirium, the thought made me giggle, and I was awarded with an outright scowl and then a loud shhhhh, complete with a fat index finger pressed to the nurse’s lips. Ignoring her, I used the central marble steps to climb to the nurses’ quarters on the sixth floor. The small space was filled with six metal beds, three of them occupied, including the one I’d been using and under whose pillow I had just that morning tucked my pajamas. The bucket I used for my toiletries was nowhere to be found.

  I peeled off my gloves and stuck them into my pockets, then slid out of my dripping dress and slip, letting them fall to the ground because there was nowhere to hang them. I was still wet, and I smelled like a damp sheep. My gaze fell upon a bathrobe at the foot of what had been my bed. Without remorse, I grabbed it and wrapped it around my body, feeling mildly mollified.

  I thought longingly of my peaceful attic room filled with light and the lost treasures of the people who’d once lived in the building. But it certainly wouldn’t do if I spent the night up there now, not since Captain Ravenel had awakened and begun his long road to recovery.

  With a heavy sigh, I crawled under the covers of one of the unoccupied beds and closed my eyes. I should have been able to fall asleep immediately. The week had been long, my workload heavy. And tonight’s battles simply exhausting. But my thoughts kept drifting up toward the attic and to the solitary figure in the metal-framed bed. I kept picturing him as I’d last seen him, propped against the pillows, his face very close to mine. I remembered the sketch he’d drawn of me, and I wondered what had become of it. I was fairly sure it hadn’t fallen into Dr. Greeley’s hands or I would have certainly heard about it by now. I needed to remember to ask Nurse Hathaway if she had it. I wanted to keep the sketch. Not as a memento, I told myself, but as a reminder of something I might want to remember later in life. A reminder of the time a kiss had made light and color explode inside of me, a brief second when I’d questioned my chosen path in life.

  I threw back the covers, knowing sleep would continue to evade me the longer I sought it. So as not to wake my sleeping companions, I stepped out into the deserted hallway and stood, listening to the nighttime pulse of the building, the soft hum like the memory of voices trapped inside its old walls. I crept out toward the elegant marbl
e stairway, looking upward toward the glass skylight, and imagined I could hear the sounds of one of the grand parties that must have once been held in the mansion. I closed my eyes—just for a moment—and imagined I could see the handsome men in their tuxes and the beautiful women in their elegant clothes and jewels, smiling and dancing.

  I opened my eyes, feeling dizzy. My imagination had seemed too real, as if I’d been remembering an event from my own past. I itched for a cigarette, to give my hands something to do more than from any real craving. But the night nurse would serve my head on a platter if I were discovered. I had almost decided to call Margie when I remembered the promise I’d made to myself earlier, about how I’d write to his family again if I hadn’t heard back by today.

  I’d already begun stealthily walking down the stairs, listening for the night staff, and was almost at Dr. Greeley’s office door before I realized what I was doing. All correspondence was usually placed on his desk until he found the time to open it at his convenience. I happened to know that he was most likely already asleep in his bachelor’s apartment, and that he also routinely didn’t lock his office door—not because he was forgetful, but because he assumed his exalted position meant nobody would dare enter his office without his permission.

  I turned the doorknob and opened the door. After making sure nobody was watching, I flipped on the light and locked the door behind me. I quickly went through the stack of mail on his desk, but there wasn’t anything from South Carolina—Charleston or elsewhere. I was about to admit defeat and try getting to sleep again when my gaze fell on an Army duffel bag shoved under a table heaped with books and papers.

  All of the officers in the hospital had their duffel bags on the floor at the foot of their beds. All except for one. I bent down and read the name stamped in bold black letters on the side: CPTN CJ RAVENEL.

  I sat back on my haunches, trying to justify what I was about to do. Maybe I didn’t have the correct address and my letter had not reached his family, and there might be something inside with another address. With the same bullheadedness that had made me apply to medical school despite what everybody else said, I unzipped the bag, making myself believe that if I didn’t do this, then Captain Ravenel’s family would be worried sick, possibly believing the worst.