Jane felt eyes on her and glanced up into the rear view mirror to see her father glowering at her. She cast her head down and began to finger the fringe that danced at the end of her own scarf. She hated that look in his eyes, that look of pure scorn. Her mind wandered to the day that began this regrettable chapter of her life. She had been ill for some time, unable to keep anything down. When the cook served her eggs at the breakfast table that morning she'd had to bolt from the room to empty the contents of her roiling stomach. As she looked up from the porcelain bowl in the servant's bathroom off the kitchen, she came eye to eye with her mother whose silhouette blocked the daylight that had been streaming through the open door. One glance told her that her mother knew.
“Who?'
“Wh..what?,” she stammered. But the guilt was on her face. She could feel it glowing red as if her cheeks had burst into flames.
“Don't play with me, Jane. You know exactly what I'm talking about. Who did it? I know it can't be Jonathan because he shipped out months ago. I want you to tell me right now who did this to you.” Jonathan was a reference to her betrothed, Jonathan Chamberlain, youngest son of the Massachusetts Chamberlains whose family was the wealthiest, most respected Catholic family in the state, probably in the region. And Jane was to be married to him when he returned from the war, a match that Jane's father had been doing his best to arrange since the minute she had been born.
Jane sat still for a moment before she decided that honesty would be her only recourse. She steeled herself then muttered the name, “Thomas.”
At first Jane wasn't sure her mother had heard her, it been little more than a squeak to her own ears. But the ghost-white wave that crossed her face, followed by the resounding thud of her mother fainting onto the tile floor, confirmed that she'd been heard.
Jane's condition, as bad as it was, was made worse by the fact that the offending party was the grounds keeper's son. That family wasn't wealthy, it wasn't well-received or respected. And they weren't white.
But she didn't love Jonathan; he was cold. His touch, his hand-holding, his hugs were always stiff, almost compensatory. He was a mere two years her senior but he treated her like a child. He acted as if he were doing her a favor by courting her. He may have been the right man for her to marry, but Jane imagined her future with him would be the duplicate of her mother's existence. She feared that she would be sentenced to a life that was void of affection, the pain of her loneliness kept at arm's length by alcohol, dulled by tranquilizers.
So this last New Year's Eve, when her mother had allowed her some celebratory champagne, she'd found herself wandering around her expansive home long after the rest of the family had stumbled to bed in a post-countdown stupor. She'd seen Thomas in the kitchen while looking for some of the party leftovers to quell the drunken hunger. She followed him back to his quarters. For a brief moment she felt beautiful and alive. And she wasn't sorry.
Jane's life from that moment of confession had been a series of arguments, chastisements and beatings. Her father disowned her then thought better of that idea. He needed her to marry Jonathan. But that marriage could never take place if she carried the bastard child of a Negro gardener. Jane spent her days and nights in her room, awaiting her fate. While attempting to avoid the burning stares of her angry father. Her mother sat crumpled in her bed, alternating between bursts of tears and near catatonia. The family doctor had made several visits, not for Jane's welfare, but to keep her mother sedated. They'd told him she'd received some bad news from back home in Virginia and left it at that.
A week went by, then two, with no further words on the subject from her father. Then, last night, she'd awakened to find him standing at the foot of her bed.
“Get up,” he barked.
“Why?”
“Get up!”
Jane scrambled to her feet, fumbling with her robe and slippers, as her father shoved her out of her room and toward the stairs.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
“We're going to fix this problem you've created.”
“But how?”
“We're getting rid of it.”
“But Daddy...”
“Don't talk to me, I can't even stand the sound of your voice right now.” He turned to look at her at last with his cold, hard eyes. “God damn it, girl, you’ve made a mess of everything.”
Jane hesitated then continued, “But that's illegal and we're Catholic. I can't.” She pulled from his grip and stood her ground. “I won't.”
Jane had never seen rage like that which emanated from her father at those words. She wondered if he even was her father. His face was twisted and distorted, his eyes glowed. Jamison drew back his right arm and landed a blow to the side of Jane's face that sent her skidding across the floor in the foyer.
“You will never defy me, girl. You don't have a choice in the matter. You should have thought of that when you were trysting with a colored servant. You are not going to ruin our lives with your harlotry. I will rip that bastard from you with my bare hands if I have to.”
Jane was sobbing and crying for her mother, but her mother was standing, arms at her sides, in the doorway of the sitting room. She reeked of alcohol; her eyes were vacant and unseeing. She knew none of this. Jamison dragged her outside where the car was idling and tossed her into the backseat, not waiting to see if she was inside before slamming the door. Jane had mere seconds to pull her feet into the car. Her father then got behind the wheel, turned to her one last time to tell her to stop bawling, then threw the car into gear and sped out onto the road. She was stunned.
***
Jane was snapped out of her reverie as her nostrils were assailed by a stench so overwhelming that she felt her gorge rise; it threatened to spew last night's supper all over her father's back seat. She reached for the crank to roll down the window then realized that it was coming from outside the car. The air was heavy with the smell of rotting fish. Jane pressed her face against the glass in an attempt to see where it could be coming from and her mouth dropped in horror. It looked like how she imagined those horrible P.O.W. camps she'd heard about from news reels of the war. There were tall, sprawling fences topped with barbed wire, her view was spotted with signs on posts that were long ago rusted beyond being readable. They passed one that allowed her to make out some words between the patches of rust: BY ORDER OF THE rust GOVERNrust THIS ARErust OFF rustMITS. Startled, Jane looked at her father. He showed no signs of emotion one way or the other. She opened her mouth to ask him where they were but thought better of it. She wiped away the fog from the glass and continued to peer outside. She could have sworn she saw something dragging itself through the darkness between what appeared to be two houses that were now little more than ruins. When she'd gotten her eyes to focus, the car had already passed. All she could make out were buildings in varying states of dereliction. Her skin turned clammy as the cloying odor gained strength. She shuddered, pulled her coat closer around her and sank deeper into the seat. Maybe I’m better off not knowing, she thought.
Then the car skidded to a stop in what may once have been a parking lot, the best she could tell through the steamy window. There did not appear to be any lights outside but there were a few other cars of various ages and models parked in the vicinity. She could see the outline of a building with a few glowing windows. This must be a mistake. Before her brain could register that her father had parked and gotten out, the car door was opened and she was pulled from her seat by rough hands into the cold drizzle outside. It was her father. He marched her up to the door, told her to wait, then went inside. She gagged with every breath of the fetid air as the cold dampness attempted to worm its way into her winter coat. A few moments later he returned with a man dressed in what used to be a white orderly's uniform, but the white had long given way to the yellowed discoloration of age and multiple washings. The man grinned at her with a broad mouth and bulging eyes. She felt his clammy hand grasp her forearm and pull her toward the door but he said nothin
g. Her father never looked at her but dismissed her with a wave and a sharp “I’ll be back later to pick you up” as he headed back to the car. Jane stood in the doorway, rain washing away the tears that streamed from her swollen eyes. Where has Father abandoned me?
The squat orderly tugged at her arm then ushered her into a cramped waiting room. There were two other women there, neither of whom would look at her. Jane busied herself again with the fringe on her scarf. It felt like hours before she heard her name. She looked up to see the smiling face of what may have been a nurse. The woman had those same wide, staring eyes as the orderly. Her smile, though broad, was bereft of warmth. Jane rose to her feet with timidity and allowed the woman to take her by the arm. The clamminess of her touch crawled all over Jane's skin. Jane cast her eyes down as the woman weaved her through the chairs toward the back of the room. She noticed that the woman's gait was more a drag; her feet never seemed to leave the ground. She looked at the door as they shuffled through. The worn letters spelled out PROCEDURE ROOM.
Upon entering the room, Jane could smell a hint of disinfectant beneath the pervasive fishy odor that served as ambiance for this whole area. There was a dull metal table in the center of the room with what looked like some bizarre handles at one end. The nurse guided her toward the table and instructed her to disrobe and climb onto it. Her words dripped from her mouth in a garbled stream. Jane was unable to decipher most of what she said and relied, instead, on her ability to understand the hand motions that accompanied the instructions. Shaking, Jane peeled off her coat, then her robe. She started to remove her nightgown but the nurse waved at her saying what sounded like that would be fine. Jane climbed atop the freezing table and sat, legs dangling over the side, awaiting further direction. The nurse was busying herself with a canister that she had pulled alongside the gurney as a door in the corner of the room swung open. A tall, blond man strode into the room, white coat gleaming in contrast to the dinginess of everything else in her sight. His smile seemed genuine. Jane felt instant relaxation. The man arrived gurney-side with an outstretched hand. Jane accepted the proffered hand and it closed around hers, pumping it up and down.
“Hello, Jane, I'm Doctor Mott.”
Jane nodded a silent greeting.
“Your father told me all about your situation. Please don't worry about a thing. The procedure takes only a few moments and we will do our best to keep you comfortable. You will feel some pressure but our friend here,” he gave the canister a hearty pat, “will make sure you feel no pain.”
Jane exhaled. This man was the only normal thing she had been in contact with since her arrival. She found her voice.
“What is this place? Is this a town?”
“Yes, indeedy. Welcome to Innsmouth.” He made a welcoming gesture with open arms then laughed. Leaning in closer, he said, “I don't blame you. I'm not nuts about it either.” Then louder, “it used to be a much different place. It was once bustling and lively. But a few years back there was some...trouble, and then the government got involved and that was a real dilly of a pickle. Now with the war on, they seem to be preoccupied with trouncing the Germans and the Japs, so they’ve pretty much left this place, although it’s still not the same as it was. But the natives are proud.” He jerked his head toward the nurse whose back was to them.
As if on cue, the nurse then moved to Jane's side and pushed her down onto the table with gentle hands, the garish smile never leaving her face. Jane was able to make out the word ETHER before a mask was lowered over her nose and mouth. The doctor said, “Here we go, Jane. Just relax. I’ll see you again when it’s over.”
The last thing she saw before her eyes closed of their own volition were the froggish eyes of the attending nurse looming over her. Jane could no longer see, but she could hear movement around her. She heard what sounded like the rusty squeak and swish of a swinging door followed by an unfamiliar muddling of gurgles and what must have been words. She sensed something heavy moving itself toward her and her nausea returned as the fishy stench enveloped her once more. At the edge of her consciousness, Jane felt her legs being grasped by something slimy and positioned into something cold and unwieldy. Those handle things aren't handles at all, she thought as her hands were being strapped down above her head. She attempted to struggle but her efforts never made it past her will. Then, with no preamble, something icy forced its way deep into her. There was more pressure than pain but she felt violated by the alien intrusion. There was a forcible tugging. Jane felt as if something were trying to pull her inside out. She felt a sudden vague warmth. She cried out but nothing more than a quiet moan escaped her lips. A gurgling voice barked a command that she could not decipher, then the world went black.
***
Consciousness returned one sense at a time, but it began with pain. It was a dull, aching, hollowness, a void that felt recently evacuated. She was lying on her back on a lumpy mattress and under a stiff and scratchy wool blanket. Sound came next: a constant dripping close by, her own moans, and the creek of bedsprings as she moved. The odor she breathed in was the same mix of fish and rot that seemed to permeate this god forsaken town with a faint antiseptic undertone. Her mouth tasted stale and coppery and her tongue was a sluggish, dry sponge that was slow to stir. Jane opened her eyes and saw only dull, grey light awaiting her. Turning her head from side to side revealed that she was alone in a small room. Other than the single bed she was in, it was devoid of furnishings and warmth. The walls were bare, discolored, and warped from years of water damage. The dripping that seemed to thunder in her ears came from a bucket placed in one corner of the room. The dented tin pale was overflowing, so every drop that fell into it from the seeping stain in the ceiling caused more murky water to spill out onto the faded tile floor.
Hello? Jane tried so say, but her mouth still wasn’t working. She attempted to raise herself up on her arms, but they felt too rubbery and weak to do the job. “Hello?” This time she managed a croak that was as audible as a whisper in church. She licked her dry lips, inhaled to fill her lungs with the foul air to try again, but stopped when she heard a scream.
Jane froze, listening, wondering if she had heard what she thought she had, when there was a second scream. This one was longer, filled with terror, and came from a woman somewhere outside of her room.
She felt her flesh tingle as goose bumps broke out all over her. She then heard Dr. Mott’s cheery voice from the hallway past the open door to her room, “Well it seems Miss Watkins woke up during the procedure. I guess that’s what we get for watering down the ether to try and make it last.” Jane heard the man’s footfalls coming closer, so she laid back down and shut her eyes until she was peeking out between the lashes of her eyelids, trying to feign unconsciousness. She didn’t know why she did that, but it felt like the right course of action.
Miss Watkins, whomever she was, continued to scream.
“Damn it all,” Dr. Mott said, closer to Jane’s room, “Nurse, she’s the last girl of the day, right?”
Jane heard someone with a mouth full of mud answer, but the voice was so inhuman sounding that she couldn’t make sense of the reply.
“Well good, that’s at least something,” the doctor said, and now he was standing right outside her door looking in at her. Through her slitted eyes, Jane couldn’t make out his face, but his silhouette gave her the impression that he was studying her through the gloom.
“And Miss Chatham, how are you doing in there?” he called.
Jane remained silent.
“Miss Chatham…”
The screaming continued.
Jane saw Dr. Mott’s shadow nod, turn, and continue down the hall. “Well get in there, nurse, and shut her up before she wakes up the whole damn town. You know how they hate a fuss.”
She heard someone croak out an affirmative and then the sound of the screaming intensified as the door to the room Miss Watkins occupied was opened by the doctor. “Young lady that is enough of that!” she heard the doctor shout over th
e hysterical screams, “Sure, this little fellow ain’t nothing to look at, but he isn’t hurting you. He’s just sucking out that little problem of yours, and this is how you treat him?” The door closed and the rest became muffled words and hoarse pleas of “get it out of me, get it out of me!”
That was enough for Jane.
She sat up in bed and looked around for her clothes, although she knew they weren’t in the room with her. I’ll get new clothes, she thought, I’ve just got to get out of here, this is all wrong. Clad in a thin, cotton gown and nothing else, she tiptoed to the door on her bare feet and looked down the hall to where the shouts had given way to gasping sobs.
“That’s it, young lady, that’s it, go back to sleep,” she heard Dr. Mott say.
Jane stepped out into the hall, turned in the opposite direction from that room, and took three shaking steps before she froze in her tracks when she heard what the doctor said next: “Nurse, tell the elders that we’re going to have to dispose of this one once we’re done.”
Oh my god, Jane’s mind screamed, and then she was off. Her feet stumbled across the cold, wet floor, her eyes sought any avenue of escape, and her hands grasped at each clammy doorknob as she came to them. The first door she tried was locked. The next led to a small closet of near empty shelves, the third to an unoccupied room identical to the one in which she had awakened. Next was a small office she thought had to be Dr. Mott’s. There were shelves stacked with books, a desk cluttered with papers, an ashtray with a smoking cigar in it, and another pail catching water dripping from the ceiling, but no exit.
A Lonely and Curious Country Page 17