by Jane Steen
Tess often sat beside me to do her work, of which she was very proud. She constantly asked if her stitches were small and straight enough; I advised her gravely, trying not to be impatient with her incessant need for affirmation. Sometimes I would stop working and watch her as she sewed, her face wrinkled in concentration, and wonder if this was what it felt like to have a sister.
A week after Sarah’s birth, Mrs. Lombardi came to visit me as I sat alone, creating felled seams inside a set of men’s nightshirts. She pulled a chair over to my bedside and fingered my work appreciatively.
“These will be very comfortable,” she remarked.
“And last longer,” I said. “The edges will not fray or tear when the men are moving around in bed. And seams are easier to do when you’re sitting in an incommodious position.” I grinned at her; I had protested several times against my enforced confinement. I felt strong and well, and Sarah was nursing lustily several times a day. I wanted to do something more interesting than take care of a baby and look out at the snow.
Mrs. Lombardi was silent for a moment, watching me out of her splendid hazel eyes. The weak winter sunshine struck vivid reds and greens from the plaid ribbon she always wore at her throat, fastened by a most unusual brown and cream cameo brooch.
“Nell,” she said softly, “I wish to ask you about your anxiety on the day of Sarah’s birth. Whatever made you so worried about summoning me through the snow? We are quite accustomed to the weather here and well organized for emergencies. This is not an easy place to manage, as you can well imagine, and we expect unusual events.”
I fidgeted with my needle, weaving it into the fabric. I had guessed that she would ask me, and I did not want to tell the story. We had not talked about that day for a very long time at home.
Sensing my discomfort Mrs. Lombardi looked away, toward the small hump that Sarah made in her crib. She reached over and touched my baby’s hair where it was already beginning to escape from its cap.
“What a color.” Her voice held a note of admiration.
I felt my throat tighten. “Just like my father’s,” I whispered.
Mrs. Lombardi did not reply, and the silence stretched out for minutes. I could feel my heart pulsing as if the story were trying to beat its way out of me, crying out to be told. I waited for Mrs. Lombardi to say something so that I could answer and turn the conversation elsewhere; but she was silent, gazing at my sleeping baby.
My resolution broke. “My father died in the snow.” The words tumbled out of my mouth in a rush.
Mrs. Lombardi did not turn her head. “Really?” she said in a whisper. “I thought it might be something like that.”
Another minute went by in silence as I drew several deep, painful breaths, staring resolutely at the cameo brooch at Mrs. Lombardi’s throat, not daring to meet her eyes. The silence seemed to grow and expand until it became a huge empty space, waiting to be filled with my words.
“I was six years old,” I began.
THIRTEEN
“My mother had a baby—the first since I was born. She is not in good health, you know. She has a heart condition that makes her tired and out of breath.”
Mrs. Lombardi nodded. “Was she very ill?”
“Back then, not so much. She has become much worse in the last ten years. But I remember she was always tired, and the birth was …” My voice trailed off, and I chewed at my lower lip, keeping my eyes fixed on Mrs. Lombardi’s brooch.
“She had a bad time.” Mrs. Lombardi’s voice was matter-of-fact, and that helped me continue.
“Terrible. For a few hours it didn’t seem so bad; Bet, our housekeeper, and my nursemaid, Daisy, and the maid we had then were quite cheerful. They gave me candy and told me I would soon have a little brother or sister. My father also seemed happy, although he could not keep still and walked in and out of all the rooms in the house until Bet was nearly driven crazy. I remember asking her why Papa couldn’t go into the bedroom to be with Mama; Bet laughed and said that it was women’s work. And then later when the doctor came I argued that he was a man, but by that time nobody was listening to me.”
I lapsed into silence, remembering my tall father with his flame of red hair bursting into the kitchen where I sat playing with an abacus. He swept me up into his arms to pace with him, up and down the room, until Bet firmly told him that he would make me dizzy.
He had swung me back down into my chair and taken a seat by the fire, staring at the ceiling where I could hear muffled noises. Outside the snow was swirling; it was almost Christmas, and I had made a line of little snowmen to represent Mama, Papa, myself, Bet, and Daisy. I put an acorn that I’d kept from the fall into one snowman’s arms to be the baby. I did not like our maid, so I left her out of our little snow family. Daisy was bossy, so I made her snowman crooked.
“Why is baby taking so long to be born?” I asked Papa.
“Babies take a long time to come, Nellie,” he said, his eyes crinkling.
I yawned. I had woken up before dawn with the sound of the midwife arriving, and it was now five o’clock. I hoped I would be able to kiss the baby before I went to bed that night.
The evening dragged on, and the mood of the house changed. Bet was frequently absent from the kitchen, and the maid with her; Daisy played with me but darted out into the hallway whenever she heard footsteps on the stairs. I suppose I fell asleep on the kitchen floor, and Daisy took me to bed; the cold sheets woke me, and I had only just started to drift back to sleep when the screaming started.
“Nobody came to see if I was asleep,” I told Mrs. Lombardi. “I expect they all thought I was, but I sat up listening, hugging my doll and sucking my thumb until it was red raw. The screaming got worse and worse, and there were voices and feet rushing up and down the stairs and from one room to another. I could hear my father’s voice, frantic to be let into the bedroom, but the doctor shouted at him that he could do no good, they were doing all they could to save my mother.”
“Was the baby dead?” asked Mrs. Lombardi.
“I don’t know if he was already dead, or if he died after he was born. By the time the screaming stopped, I was hiding under the bed with my fingers in my ears, trying not to hear any more. I must have spent most of the night that way, and I think I fell asleep eventually. I remember Bet coming into my room and looking for me and scolding and kissing and hugging me all at once when she found me under the bed. And the house was quiet, and it was morning.”
“And then?”
“And then after breakfast my father came to me and told me that my little brother was dead and that my mother was very ill. He had been crying; oh, Mrs. Lombardi, I had never seen him look like that before. The doctor left, and the undertaker came to take my little brother’s body; I was never allowed to see him, not even to kiss him goodbye. Bet told me years later that it was better that way, but she wouldn’t ever tell me why.”
Mrs. Lombardi’s face wore an expression of deep sympathy. “Poor little thing,” she murmured, and I didn’t know if she meant me or my dead baby brother.
I drew a deep breath, preparing to tell the next part of my tale. A few snowflakes drifted against the pale blue sky, and the room was silent save for Sarah’s soft breathing.
“Bet said that Mama seemed to improve a little in the first hours after the birth, but then she became much weaker. By that time it was afternoon. My father decided to go fetch the doctor again and left on foot because the quickest way to the doctor’s house was by a narrow path through the woods, which was not suitable for a horse.”
The very last time I saw my father he was shrugging into his warmest jacket, pulling on his thick boots and sheepskin mittens, and reaching for his walking stick. He stopped to kiss me and stroked my curls.
“Be good now, Nellie,” he said. “I’ll be back soon.”
“And then he was gone,” I told Mrs. Lombardi. “The doctor’s house was three miles through the woods, and the snow had stopped hours before, so he should have made it eas
ily. But he never came back.”
“What happened?”
“He reached the doctor’s house; the servant spoke to him. But the doctor was not there. He had been at another patient’s house and had decided to return to see Mama before he went home. No one at the doctor’s house knew that, of course, and I guess Papa just turned around and headed homeward. By this time it must have been quite dark, and the weather had changed shortly after he had set out.”
“Eleven years ago?” Mrs. Lombardi’s eyes narrowed. “I remember that winter. It froze so hard and so suddenly that my neighbor’s cow died in the night.” She looked at me with a startled expression, and I answered her thought.
“Yes. He made it to about half a mile from our house, but by that time, Bet said, he must have become confused because he headed off the wrong way, farther into the woods. And yet there was moonlight, and the trail was clearly blazed; that path was frequently used as a shortcut, even in the snow.”
The room was so quiet that a falling ember made us both jump. Mrs. Lombardi seized the fire tongs and deftly tossed the glowing red coal back onto the fire. She hesitated before turning back to me. “It is unlikely that he suffered much, you know, Nell. They say that dying of cold is like falling asleep.”
“They found him under a bush,” I said. “Bet told me that he was curled up quietly, his hands crossed on his chest, frozen. His hat, his mittens, and his jacket were found some distance away, as if he’d felt too warm.”
“And your mother, of course, recovered.”
“Yes; she was very ill for a while, and they did not tell her of my father’s death for several days. In the end, she guessed. We could not have the burial until the ground thawed in the spring, of course, and so by that time she was quite well again.”
Sarah stirred and began to make the squeaking noises that indicated she was hungry. Mrs. Lombardi scooped her out and held her for a moment. “Your father’s hair was just like this?” she asked.
“Exactly the same.”
Mrs. Lombardi’s face lit up. “Then your father lives in her, Nell. I am sure he sees her from heaven.”
I was not so sure but remained silent and took my baby in my arms.
FOURTEEN
By mid-March the snow still covered the earth with a frozen blanket. My life had resumed its normal working pattern, with the addition of a wicker crib in which Sarah accompanied me in my daily tasks. I sat in Mrs. Lombardi’s office hemming some tea towels that Tess, to her delight, had managed to decorate with some simple embroidery. The scratching of Mrs. Lombardi’s pen mingled with Sarah’s grunts as she rubbed her eyes, settling into sleep.
Mrs. Lombardi sighed, studying a sheaf of papers on the desk in front of her. We had been discussing the lateness of the spring and the quarrels that now broke out frequently among the farm workers, bored with their indoor tasks.
“We are going to open up the insane wing.” As if she had only just made the decision, she stuck her pen into the inkwell with a resigned air.
“Why?” I asked, troubled by the thought. “Is an asylum closing? I thought we did not house the insane?”
“No, but we have twenty senile women arriving from a privately-run sanatorium in Waukegan that is being modernized.”
“Why are the women coming here?” I asked. “Surely there are other less, well, less institutional places.”
Mrs. Lombardi smiled at me, showing her small, very white teeth. “One of our governors is also on the board of the sanatorium. It is an excellent arrangement for us, as the sanatorium will pay for the refurbishment of a wing we would soon have had to open up anyway. The attendants from the sanatorium will come with the ladies, and we will have almost no extra burden save the cooking and laundry. And as soon as the modernization is complete, they will leave us.”
“When will the women arrive?” was my next question.
“On the first of June. Weather or no weather, on the first of April we must begin work on the rooms. They are not at all suitable as they are.”
She was silent for a few minutes, making notes on a new sheet of paper. I watched her pen dipping into the inkwell, scratching across the page, and dipping again.
“We are receiving a sizable payment from the sanatorium,” she remarked. “They have stipulated that all rooms be freshly painted and supplied with new bedding and curtains.”
“By June?”
“Yes, indeed. I will instruct the company in Chicago that supplies us to send bolts of cotton suitable for making sheets, and a heavier cotton that will do for the drapes. Nell, can I count on you to supervise the confection of the bed linen and curtains?”
“Of course,” I said. “I will need to take measurements of the windows and to know the dimensions of the beds.”
“You may start in two weeks,” Mrs. Lombardi said. “I will provide some help for you. It should be quite a straightforward task.”
I nodded and then jumped as the door swung open and the superintendent walked in. He glanced for a second in my direction and then clearly dismissed me from his mind. One of the many things I did not like about Mr. Ostrander was his habit of only addressing those persons with whom he had business; he would ignore anyone extraneous to the conversation. Naturally that meant that he barely ever spoke a word to the inmates.
“Can you not prevent the women from quarreling?” was his abrupt opening. “I do not wish to have my ears assaulted by squealing females whenever I enter this House, Mrs. Lombardi. Kindly speak to your staff about it.”
Mrs. Lombardi rose and stepped out from behind her desk. Her expression wore the polite, wary smile she usually adopted when dealing with our superintendent, who was “wound up like a clock-spring” as Blackie put it. Mr. Ostrander was a tense, bony man with a mania for order and efficiency, and his regular demands for more regimentation of the women’s diet and routine ran directly counter to the kindness with which Mrs. Lombardi accommodated all the variations in the women’s abilities and needs.
Without waiting for Mrs. Lombardi’s reply, Mr. Ostrander ran his fingers over his sandy fringe of beard and went straight to his point. “I need the contract for the sanatorium tomorrow.”
“I was just instructing Nell about the preparations we must make.” Mrs. Lombardi sounded brisk and efficient.
Mr. Ostrander’s eyes flicked in my direction, and then he glanced down at Sarah. His thin mouth tightened, and he returned his attention to Mrs. Lombardi.
“Kindly do not delay the start of the work on account of the weather. We must not fall behind schedule.”
“As I said,” Mrs. Lombardi’s smile faltered, “I have been instructing Nell that we will begin work on the first of April. She is most diligent and hardworking; we are getting far more done now that Edie does not have to work alone.”
Again Mr. Ostrander’s gaze fell on me, and again he looked away without a word. I tried not to look as uncomfortable as I felt. I welcomed Mrs. Lombardi’s praise, but not in front of this man, and wished I could make myself scarce. But leaving the room would involve struggling with my work and Sarah’s basket all at once, and I knew I would make an ungainly exit at best. I did not want to do anything to lower Mr. Ostrander’s opinion of Mrs. Lombardi in any way; it already seemed to me that he went out of his way to prove her wrong wherever he could.
Mr. Ostrander removed a silver watch from his vest pocket and pressed the button to open it. He scrutinized the dial and compared it with Mrs. Lombardi’s wall clock. Appearing to find the latter inaccurate, he carefully moved the minute hand a few degrees. He snapped the case of his watch shut and slid it carefully back into his pocket, clearing his throat as he did so. I had the impression that he was trying to find something to criticize.
“Very well.” He moved toward the door, and Mrs. Lombardi followed him. Her smile had vanished. At the threshold, Mr. Ostrander turned and spoke in a low whisper. I did not think he realized I could hear.
“A fire and a footstool? For such a woman? Really, Mrs. Lombardi, you mu
st not be seen to condone the sinful natures of these females.”
I heard Mrs. Lombardi’s indrawn breath, but Mr. Ostrander did not give her a chance to reply. His footsteps receded in the cadence of a march; he had, I knew, a military background.
My cheeks burned hotter than the warmth of the fire warranted, and I blinked back a tear as I watched Sarah sleeping. Somehow that hissed remark had wounded me; perhaps because Mr. Ostrander was a reminder of how the authorities outside the Farm would view me and my child. I did not mind for my own part, but for Sarah’s… I tried to imagine who her future parents might be and what they might think or speak of me, and a small fist seemed to squeeze my heart inside my ribs.
FIFTEEN
Winter still held us hostage when April arrived. A few patches of miserable yellowed grass showed through the tired snow, and the Farm rang with the sounds of livestock impatient to regain the fresh air.
Leaving Sarah with Lizzie, I dressed myself in my warmest clothing to enter the insane wing and urged Tess to do the same. Her job was to note down measurements as I called them out. A large, flabby man called Jimmy had been assigned to help me measure, as Blackie was needed elsewhere.
Mrs. Lombardi, warmly wrapped in a red wool coat and plaid beret, fitted a key into the elaborate lock of the insane wing door and turned it. The well-oiled lock moved easily; Jimmy put his large, soft hands to the handle and pulled the door toward us.
It swung open without the slightest creak and an unpleasant, musty smell filled our nostrils. Mrs. Lombardi sniffed, a worried expression on her face.
“It smells damp, somehow. Different than the last time we came in here.” She took a few steps forward, peering along the corridor. “I hope the roof is not leaking. The last time we visited this wing was in September, wasn’t it?”
“Just before you were so sick, Mrs. Lombardi,” said Tess. “I missed you when you stayed at home.”
