by Jane Steen
Tess chose that moment to walk into the room and looked at Blackie in mute surprise. I motioned her over to where I was standing.
“Did you have something to say to me?” I asked, facing Blackie. I felt a little afraid of him in this condition, and I was glad Tess was with me.
“Just thought you might be wondering about Mr. Ostrander.” Blackie shuffled into a more comfortable position on the tabletop.
“How on earth did you know about that?” I felt a jolt of astonishment. He put his finger to his lips again.
“Word gets around,” he explained. “Thinking that Ostrander might be the father of Jo’s baby, perhaps? You’d be wrong.”
“What do you mean?”
“Student of human nature, aren’t I?” Blackie said. “Ostrander’s not the marrying kind, nor the fornicating kind either—with women.”
I stared hard at Blackie, trying to work out if he meant what I thought he meant. Tess was looking at me with her eyebrows raised, and it embarrassed me to think that she understood something that I, sheltered from childhood, did not. Somehow, in my ignorance, I believed Blackie without hesitation.
“Besides,” his eyes brightened even more as he seemed to relive a memory, “he wasn’t the one sniffing round little Jo at the opportune moment.”
I jerked my head upwards. “You know, don’t you,” I said, and I could hear the hardness in my voice. “You have a duty to tell, Blackie, to give that girl and her baby justice.”
“Oh yes, oh yes,” he nodded in agreement. “But see, I won’t get nothin’ for telling ’cept a whole load of trouble for not telling before, see? And I ain’t the one to get a fellow man into trouble. But if you was to make sure I got a reward …” His voice had become wheedling, as if he were slipping back into a role.
“He wants booze.” Tess’s voice was flat.
Blackie launched into one of his wheezing laughs, which became a cough. His eyes watering, he beamed at the two of us, his three teeth shining yellow in the lamplight.
“Tell you the story for a nip,” he said. “For a bottle of whiskey, mind, I’ll give you a name.”
“You just told me you didn’t want a whole bottle!”
“I’d hide it,” he said. “For the day I really need it. Till I take that first nip, see, I can hold off. I just hums and makes the little demon go away. Then I’m good for a while, until the craving really catches me. But I’ve always wanted to keep a whole bottle hidden somewhere, for my day of need. An ambition, like. A little something to look forward to.”
I didn’t really understand; but then, I didn’t drink. Tess and I looked at each other.
Tess was the first to speak. “I know where I can get a bottle of beer,” she said.
Blackie’s eyes lit up. “And where’s that, then?”
“Do you think I’d tell you? You think you’re clever and know all the things that happen here. I know some things that happen here too. Things you don’t know.”
Blackie gave Tess a sour look. “Beer’s horse piss, begging your pardon, Miss Nell. But I’ll give you a little taste of the story for a full bottle.”
“You need to leave,” I said. I didn’t want to play this game, even if it meant acquiring useful information.
To my surprise, Blackie immediately slid off the table and headed for the door. As he opened it, he turned round.
“Bottle of whiskey, and you’ll know who the father of Jo’s baby was. Leastways, the probable father. Little Jo got around.”
He left, treading with a swagger I did not usually hear in his step. Tess looked at me.
“No, Tess.” I answered what was in her eyes. “I don’t think this is right.”
“It’s the only way we’ll find out,” she replied and began tidying the worktable.
TWENTY-ONE
The next day Blackie did his work without speaking, humming softly. I surmised that his attempt to extort a drink out of us had been the direct result of the “nip” he had somehow acquired and that, now the effects had worn off, he did not have any desire to pursue the matter. That was fine with me.
I had a brief chance to talk with Mrs. Lombardi that morning and heard that Mr. Ostrander was alive and had been moved to a private nursing home.
“Why—” I did not quite know how to continue.
“Why did he do it?” Mrs. Lombardi’s eyes were deeply shadowed, and her cheeks looked hollow. I didn’t know what an attempted suicide by hanging looked like, but I guessed it wasn’t pleasant.
“Well, really,” I said, “I was wondering if it had anything to do with finding Jo and her baby.”
Mrs. Lombardi looked surprised. “In what way?”
I didn’t want to be direct. “That… the superintendent felt guilty in some way. Perhaps for not checking that Jo did not arrive at St. Jude’s.” The last words came out in a rush; they were not what I wanted to say.
“We are all guilty of that,” Mrs. Lombardi said with a sigh. “But no. I think that maybe the discovery of the bodies was the tipping point.” She had been sitting at her desk with her head resting on her hands. Now she looked up at me, as if startled by a thought. “Wait. You think Mr. Ostrander was responsible for the baby? No… no.” She obviously wanted to say more.
I was silent, watching her face for clues.
“I have known Mr. Ostrander since he took up this post just after the War,” she said. “He was too old to serve, of course, although he would have made a fine general, I think.” Her eyes crinkled at the corners. “He was in the County Militia. A thing to be proud of, but if any attempt is made to speak of the War, he turns the conversation immediately. Still, that is not unusual. Many of our brave men who fought for the Union are silent about their experiences.”
“Has he said anything to you?”
“Just one thing. Before the doctor came. He said, ‘I will never be able to escape.’ I tried to ask him what he meant, but he simply turned his head away. And I may not have heard correctly; the poor man’s vocal cords are much damaged.” She sighed again and rubbed her eyes, blinking up at me. “I do believe, Nell, that the strain of the discovery of two bodies in the institution that was under his care was simply too much for an already fragile mental condition.”
I nodded, but I didn’t really believe that the two events were entirely unconnected. The man had been tightly wound, it was true, but not so close to the breaking point, if I were any judge. There was a link somewhere, and I just had to find it.
Then one of the staff entered Mrs. Lombardi’s office, and I returned to my workroom. It was frustrating—I desperately wanted to talk with her about me and Sarah and about the key to the insane wing.
Just two weeks before, I had felt secure in the present moment as my hard but not unpleasant life at the Farm proceeded. The future had been something that I could put off indefinitely. But now everything had changed. The discovery of the two forlorn bodies and the realization that Sarah would eventually be weaned and separated from me had made me feel as if I were walking along a cliff edge with one foot at the very brink.
After the excitements of the past few days, the following two weeks proceeded in the most deadly monotony. We sewed sheets and curtains and inspected the new woolen blankets that had arrived from Chicago, woven from the yarn produced at the Farm over the winter. The cows and their calves, the sheep and their lambs were gradually released into the greening fields. The hens clucked in their yard in front of the Women’s House. The flower garden between the two big buildings began to sprout a tender green mixture of new shoots and weeds, and Blackie and two other men spent a week tending to it. Tufts of prairie smoke, violets, Virginia bluebells, and other spring flowers popped up in the most surprising locations, to be beaten down by the April rains and rear up again with mute obstinacy.
Between the rain and the sun, only a few tiny heaps of snow were left in the most shadowed corners near buildings. The paths dried up, and I was able to put on galoshes and take Sarah out for walks to explor
e the Farm. I encountered various male residents and orderlies who stared at me; to them, of course, I was a newcomer. After a day or two they began greeting me and making enquiries about Sarah: Was she well? How old was she? They admired her copper hair and her eyes, which were beginning to take on more green than blue. She charmed them with dimpled smiles and wildly waving fists, and they smiled back.
Mr. Ostrander had been moved to his sister’s house in Evanston and was making a good recovery. It seemed unlikely that he would return to his post as superintendent. Mrs. Lombardi and Mr. Schoeffel were often to be seen in deep discussion, presumably about what would happen next.
We buried Jo and Benjamin in a single plain pine coffin one sunny, blustery day; Pastor Lombardi’s words were alternately snatched away by the wind and driven toward the group of inmates, including myself, who watched the coffin as it was lowered into its final resting place. I hugged Sarah tight, and my eyes were not dry.
And I learned two things from Mrs. Lombardi, who seemed to trust me more than ever. The key to the main door of the insane wing existed in five copies, held by herself, Mr. Schoeffel, Mr. Ostrander, and two senior orderlies. The door was generally locked after the wing was inspected in the spring and fall. But the last inspection had taken place at the beginning of the epidemic and had been rapid and cursory—just enough to ascertain that the roof was not leaking and that there were no rats. Nobody could positively remember locking the door; therefore, it was just possible that the door remained unlocked, and that was very unhelpful.
The second thing I learned was more chilling.
Mrs. Lombardi sat with her thumbs supporting her chin as she listened to my halting words about how I did not want to be separated from Sarah, how I hoped that she could help me find another solution.
When I had finished, she regarded me in silence for a minute or two. Her expression was sympathetic, but her hazel eyes were sad.
“Your stepfather has already written to me twice asking if the baby is ready for adoption,” she said. “He has urged me to the utmost diligence in finding parents for the child. He says that your mother is most desirous to have you home.”
I felt cold all over. “But Sarah is not weaned,” I stammered.
“And that is exactly what I have told him, both times. I will not endanger the health of the child by forcing an early weaning.”
She leaned forward and placed her hand on my arm. “But Nell, eventually she will be weaned. It is just a matter of time. And your stepfather is quite adamant that he will not countenance keeping the baby with you. Do not forget, Nell, that while you remain unmarried he has control over you and that, as a governor of this institution, he has control over me. I cannot go against his wishes.”
So that avenue of escape was closed. I would have to rely on my own resources. I realized that by refusing to put myself under the control of a husband, I had effectively prolonged my status as a child.
“I understand,” I said, but I could not keep my voice from shaking.
“You have a chance,” Mrs. Lombardi began, then stopped. She must have seen the hope in my eyes and shook her head slightly. “You may have a chance to talk to your stepfather in two weeks.”
“He is coming to the Farm?”
“All of the governors are. Mr. Schoeffel and I waited to see what would transpire with Mr. Ostrander, but it is now quite clear that he will retire from his profession. A new superintendent must be appointed.”
TWENTY-TWO
My preoccupation with the deaths and the governors’ visit made me inattentive to Tess, so when she suggested saving our noon meal to make an afternoon picnic in a sunny spot near one of the barns, I agreed more out of guilt than inclination.
“Why here?” I looked around us. It was not a particularly attractive spot, and I could smell cow manure. There would be flies, I was sure of it.
“It’s a good place.” Tess was already shaking out the ragged blanket.
I frowned, gazing at the rusted implements leaning against the barn. Perhaps Tess was trying to punish me in some roundabout way for neglecting her. She was definitely acting oddly. I lay Sarah gently on the blanket and drew a corked bottle of cold tea from my basket. Tess pulled a large, unlabeled bottle from hers.
“Beer? Tess, what is this? You are a teetotaler, and I have never drunk beer in my life.” And then the penny dropped. Blackie was shuffling toward us with a purposeful air.
“Oh, Tess.” I sounded indignant and reproachful.
“He said he has things to tell us. We should know. Jo and Benjamin are dead, Nell. Maybe they didn’t die by accident.”
I could not refute the possibility. “But to resort to bribing a drunkard with alcohol… it is wrong, Tess.”
Tess pushed her stubby nose as high into the air as it would go. “Killing is wrong too, Nell. Maybe Jo and Benjamin were killed.”
“And maybe not,” Blackie said softly as he reached down to take the bottle from Tess’s hand. “I ain’t pointin’ fingers. But a deal’s a deal. I’ll tell you what I saw.” He flipped off the bottle’s swing top with one hand and took a long gulp of the beer, then positioned himself carefully at a short distance from us, squatting so that he could talk without being seen from either of the Houses.
“There was a particular man around little Jo two years ago,” he said with a reminiscent grin. “She set her sights on him, see? Got up to all her little tricks. She had these ways of lettin’ men know she was theirs for the having. Actions speak louder ’an words.” He wheezed out so violent a laugh that he was forced to drop onto one knee. He took another long slug of beer before he continued.
“Well, this gentleman—oh yes,” he said in answer to my quick look and narrowed eyes, “a cut above, this one—started hangin’ around the barns, all casual-like, inspecting the state of the buildings and askin’ questions about the livestock.”
Blackie’s eyes shone as the beer began to take effect. “Saw him bein’ sinful with himself round the back of the barn that one time, when she’d gotten him all, ah,” he glanced over at Tess, whose eyes were as round as saucers, “bothered up and run off. Don’t think his missus had much warm at home for him, see?”
I wrinkled my nose in disgust but did not miss the implication. A married man with an invalid wife… not an inmate, certainly.
“Well,” said Blackie, finishing the beer in several gulps and eyeing the empty bottle regretfully, “after that I reckon he gave in, ’cause I saw him leavin’ the barns a few times, with her just before him or just after. Didn’t last long, mind. After a bit she got interested in makin’ a man of young Donny, and he ran out of reasons for visiting the Farm. But by that time the damage must have been done ’cause it wasn’t too long before you could see she had a belly on her.”
“You don’t think the father could have been Donny?” I asked. I knew the lad; a gawky, simple-minded boy of about eighteen who was innocently affectionate toward everyone.
“I asked him if he’d done it with her,” Blackie said, “and he swore he hadn’t. And I believe him; the lad’s not one for tellin’ lies.”
“And the name of Jo’s lover?” I felt a surge of impatience to know the truth Blackie held locked in his shuttered mind. “Blackie, in the name of justice, tell me now.”
Blackie stood up, and an obstinate expression combined in his face with an unpleasant leer. “Oh, I know the name… and more besides. Just one bottle, Miss Nell. You’re a clever girl; you’ll find a way to get it. Even half a bottle, if it’s decent whiskey. Make an old man happy, missy, and I’ll give you your justice.” He scratched at his lean cheeks, which were flecked with gray stubble and handed the empty beer bottle back to Tess. “Don’t go gettin’ caught now, little Tessy. I don’t want to get either of you young ladies into trouble.”
He sauntered off toward the Men’s House, for once not humming to himself.
I looked at Tess, who had picked up Sarah. “What should I do, Tess?” I asked. “I don’t want to get
whiskey for him. I don’t like him when he’s like that.”
“It’s his demon,” Tess said sagely. “His demon’s not very nice.”
“Maybe there’s another way of persuading him to tell,” I mused.
“Whiskey’s the best way, Nell.”
I looked hard at Tess. I had not known she could be duplicitous; but there was that bottle of beer. “Promise me you won’t give him whiskey,” I said.
“I promise, Nell.”
TWENTY-THREE
“Why are we doing this?” Tess asked me as she carefully swept under the tables for the fifth time in two hours. It was quite impossible to cut and sew without dropping threads on the floor.
“In case the governors decide to inspect us, I suppose,” I said absentmindedly. I was standing by the window holding Sarah, who was making a determined attempt to pull my hair out of its pins.
“They came to talk about making a new superintendent, not about our workroom,” Tess said huffily.
Our workroom was spotless. For two days inmates and staff had mopped floors, dusted and swept, scrubbed and polished. Now carriages were pulling up between the two Houses, and I watched with interest.
I had studied the list of twelve governors in Mrs. Lombardi’s office for clues as to which one of them could be Ly-lee. If Blackie were telling the truth about Jo’s lover being a gentleman, then it could well have been one of the governors.
I did not know what I would do if I identified Jo’s lover. What evidence did I have other than a name? Certainly no evidence of murder. The likelihood was that Jo and Benjamin would be forgotten before weeds covered their small grave, by all except, perhaps, Mrs. Lombardi, Tess, and myself. And yet I could not let the matter drop; those withered forms still haunted my dreams.
