The Locked Garden

by Gloria Whelan

  I thought of Eleanor and her word eingeschlossen, shut in. However pleasant it might be inside the wards, however many white tablecloths and flowers and baskets of ivy, still Eleanor must hear the key in the lock.

  Papa led us up a sweeping stairway. We were greeted by Dr. and Mrs. Thurston and a small black Scotch terrier that turned excited circles in welcome. Dr. Thurston had white hair, a pointed white beard that wagged as he talked, and bright blue eyes that looked hard at you. Mrs. Thurston, like Aunt Maude, was a large woman, but where Aunt Maude’s figure was trussed up by stiff corsets, Mrs. Thurston overflowed into soft bundles in front and behind. Her hair was piled into a great puff, and a long necklace of jet beads like shiny black beetles stretched down the front of her green silk dress. She extended one welcoming hand to Aunt Maude and another to me.

  “How I have looked forward to having Edward and his sister-in-law and his dear daughter as our guests, Miss Wingate. You will see that since I call Edward by his first name, we are already on friendly terms. Dr. Thurston has only good things to say about Edward’s work with the patients. Now let me show you our little nest.”

  The little nest was pleasant and spacious, with a large parlor, a library, and a study for Dr. Thurston. Down the halls we could see several bedrooms. The parlor where we settled was handsomely furnished with fine pictures on the walls and pretty ornaments set out on the tables. Aunt Maude was clearly impressed. Still, she asked in a kind of whisper, as if she could be overheard in the nearby wards, “But what of the patients? Aren’t you worried about having them so close by? ”

  “Heavens, no,” Mrs. Thurston said. “It is very convenient for Dr. Thurston, and as for me, I have become quite friendly with many of the poor souls.”

  I was sure Mrs. Thurston meant well, but I was glad Eleanor was not there to hear her. I certainly did not think of Eleanor as a poor soul but as a good friend.

  At supper I had to sit quietly with nothing to do but bury my peas in my mashed potatoes and discover them again while I listened to Dr. Thurston set forth his theories. He said, “I am sure there is a relationship between a patient’s surroundings and the patient’s mental state. If beauty is around us, beauty will be in us. I spared no expense in the building of this asylum. The hallways are spacious. The windows are barred, yes, but they are wide and high, flooding the rooms with light. The patients look out at green fields, flowers, winding paths, newly planted trees and shrubbery. There is even a garden with a fountain, available to the more disturbed patients. The garden is locked, of course, but that is for the patients’ protection.”

  So that was what the locked garden was for. I thought it was nice that there was a garden for the very sick patients, but no matter how lovely it was, the iron bars of the fence must remind them of the bars on their windows.

  “People come from all over to see our asylum and tramp about the paths,” Dr. Thurston was going on. “We have had classrooms of students arrive with their picnic baskets to enjoy the grounds.”

  I knew that was true, because only the other day I had seen a family gathered in the shade of some maple trees, the mother handing around cookies and glasses of lemonade to several small children. I thought it must make the patients feel better to see that visitors liked coming there and weren’t afraid of the asylum, but then the visitors could go back home and the patients had to stay.

  Beneath the table the Scotch terrier was nibbling at my shoelaces. I took up a bit of buttered roll, and letting my hand drop first to my lap and then under the tablecloth, I gave the piece of roll to the terrier.

  Dr. Thurston was boasting, “On the wards there are pictures on the walls and fresh flowers daily. Many of our patients come to us from miserable conditions, from unhappy homes with no refinements, from poor farms and city slums. We open up a new world of grace and beauty. Our state has provided a hospital for our patients that is an asylum in every sense of the word.”

  I knew Papa would not be content just to listen, for I had heard him declare there was more to be done than to lock people away, no matter how nice the wards were. Sure enough, Papa interrupted Dr. Thurston to say, “I grant you that melancholy patients or those who have been abused at home will improve if removed from their troubled surroundings and will respond to the pleasant setting of the asylum. But what of those in the back wards who don’t notice such things? You must admit that because you refuse to allow straitjackets, such patients are managed only by strong doses of morphine. That is not a cure. What use are the pretty pictures and trees and flowers to such patients?”

  I saw that Dr. Thurston did not like to be reminded of such things, but he was very fair to Papa and said only, “Of course there are exceptions, patients who cannot be reached by beauty alone, but I am convinced that even in their disturbed state it has some effect. It is like the chameleon who takes on the color of its surroundings. It does not do so consciously, but it survives in the doing.”

  Papa was not to be quieted and boldly said, “But why should there not be medicine for the mind as there is for the body? ”

  Mrs. Thurston must have seen that there was to be no stopping the two men, for she stood up, saying, “Maude and Verna and I will leave the two of you to argue while we have our after-supper coffee.” With the Scotch terrier, whose name I learned was Macduff, trailing after me in the hope of more buttered roll, we returned to the parlor, where the maid who had served us supper brought us a silver tray with tiny cups of coffee for Mrs. Thurston and Aunt Maude and cocoa for me. On the tray were little cakes with the sugared violets Aunt Maude despised.

  Aunt Maude said, “Your maid is so efficient and so stately. I envy you. We have only a farm girl, and a patient at that.”

  “But our maid is a patient as well,” Mrs. Thurston said.

  “But what is wrong with Eleanor?” Aunt Maude asked. “Why did she come to the asylum?”

  I had been scratching Macduff’s ears, but now I stopped to listen, for I wondered the same thing.

  Mrs. Thurston was about to answer, but she paused and for a moment looked intently at Aunt Maude. What she saw there must have changed her mind, for she only said, “Whatever it was, I am sure Eleanor is doing very well, and you are lucky to have her. Now, here come the gentlemen to join us. Let us see if we can get Dr. Thurston to forget his theories long enough to allow us a little music. You would not know to look at him that he has a fine tenor voice.” She smiled fondly at him and, seating herself at the piano, asked Aunt Maude if she would join Dr. Thurston in a song or two.

  “Heavens, no. I have no talent along those lines, but my brother-in-law has an excellent voice. My dear dead sister, Isabel, would play and Edward would sing. I’m afraid, Edward, that you have not been able to bring yourself to sing again.”

  Papa said, “I am sure Isabel would not have wished that I give up singing.” He stood by the piano and in his fine deep voice joined Dr. Thurston in some German songs that I did not understand but that made Aunt Maude and Mrs. Thurston wipe tears from their eyes and sent Macduff under a chair.

  Mrs. Thurston turned to me and said, “Verna, I understand from your father that you play the piano. Would you play something for us?”

  I didn’t know what to do. While Aunt Maude said a lady should never put herself forward, Papa said it was false modesty to have to be coaxed. I took a deep breath and advanced toward the piano. Aunt Maude frowned, and Papa gave me an encouraging smile. I played Beethoven’s “Für Elise” and got through it with just two mistakes. Everyone applauded, even Aunt Maude.

  As we were leaving, Mrs. Thurston said, “Edward, there is a chapel in the asylum with services for the patients each Sunday. Dr. Thurston and I make it a point to attend. I play the organ. I hope you will sing in the choir.”

  Papa said, “I would be happy to.”

  Mrs. Thurston looked pleased. “You will find that many of the patients have fine voices, none of them finer than your very own Eleanor.”

  At that Aunt Maude looked stormy. I could not tel
l whether it was because Mrs. Thurston had called her “your very own Eleanor” or because Papa was going to sing in the same choir as the patients.

  FIVE

  Returning home from our supper with the Thurstons, I ran on ahead. Sitting so long with grown-ups had made me fidgety. When I got to our house, Eleanor was at the door waiting, a frightened look on her face. She scarcely said hello to me but kept her eye on Aunt Maude.

  “Is Carlie asleep?” I asked.

  Eleanor nodded and looked more unhappy than ever.

  Papa was just sending me off to bed when we heard Aunt Maude’s angry voice. I followed Papa into the dining room, where Aunt Maude was scolding Eleanor. Aunt Maude turned to us. “It’s Isabel’s glass punch bowl. There is a chip in it. I have told Eleanor never to touch it, and now just see what has happened.”

  Eleanor had made herself very small. Her face was as red as her hands, and there were tears running down her cheeks. “I’m so sorry, ma’am. It’s my fault.”

  “You don’t belong in a decent home. You don’t know how to handle nice things.”

  Papa put a hand on Aunt Maude’s shoulder. “Let us give Eleanor credit for pointing the accident out to you. Now I think we should hear what Eleanor has to say.” He waited for Eleanor to tell her story, but Eleanor only shook her head, repeating that it was her fault.

  I noticed a puddle of water snaking out from under the dining room table. Papa saw it too. He pulled up the tablecloth to find Carlie’s stuffed rabbit, Promise. It was soaking wet.

  Papa said, “Verna, go upstairs and get your sister out of bed.”

  Carlie wasn’t in bed. She was standing at the top of the stairway, her lower lip caught between her teeth and her forehead all scrunched up. It was how she would look just before she began to cry. She followed me down the stairway but had to be coaxed, sobbing, into the dining room.

  Papa put an arm around her. “Caroline, tell me the truth. Did you take the punch bowl down from the sideboard?”

  Carlie nodded her head yes.

  “And then what happened?” Papa asked.

  Between sobs, Carlie said, “I was in bed, but Promise was getting the bed dirty because he was all sandy, so I came downstairs and got the big bowl to give Promise a bath in. When I went to put it back, it was slippery. It jumped out of my hands.”

  Aunt Maude turned to Eleanor. “Where were you when this happened?”

  “I thought Carlie was asleep in her bed. It was such a nice night that I sat on the back steps and watched for falling stars. I never should have gone outside. It’s all my fault.”

  “You are not to be trusted with children,” Aunt Maude said.

  Papa looked angry. “Of course Eleanor is to be trusted. Caroline had no business getting out of bed. Now, girls, I want you upstairs at once. Eleanor, you go along home to the asylum, and remember, this was not your fault.”

  After Eleanor left, Aunt Maude said, “That was Isabel’s favorite bowl. I don’t know how you can make light of it.”

  Papa said, “Maude, a chipped bowl is not the end of the world. I am sure Isabel would agree with me.”

  As Carlie and I went up the stairs, I heard an angry Aunt Maude say, “You took that woman’s part against me.”

  Papa replied, “There is no taking of parts. There is only speaking the truth. This is not the first time I have had to explain to you, Maude, that Eleanor is very sensitive to criticism. There has been too much of it in her past.”

  After what had happened, I was afraid that Eleanor would not return, but the next morning when I awoke, I smelled pancakes. Aunt Maude seldom made pancakes. Eleanor was careful in all she did that morning, handling the dishes as if they were eggshells and saying little. Aunt Maude was on her best behavior as well. I heard her say to Eleanor, in a voice that sounded like it had been pushed through a sieve, “Perhaps I was a little hasty last night in what I said to you.”

  Quickly Eleanor replied, “I’m truly sorry about the bowl. If it can be repaired, you could take the cost out of my salary.”

  Aunt Maude said, “There will be no need for that.” But Aunt Maude, being Aunt Maude, could not keep from adding, “I only wish it had not been that special bowl.”

  The next day was a Sunday, and Eleanor didn’t come on Sundays. Aunt Maude made us fried eggs for breakfast. The centers were hard, and Carlie whispered to me, “Aunt Maude killed the eggs again.” After we had eaten, Carlie and I put on our hats and white gloves and followed Aunt Maude to the asylum chapel. Papa had left early to take his place in the choir.

  Both Carlie and I looked forward to church, because we always heard a new word or two from the pulpit that meant pennies. The asylum chapel was a small copy of the church that we used to attend. The patients were neatly dressed in what looked to be their best clothes. With the exception of a few who slunk down in their pews or looked suspiciously about, the churchgoers appeared perfectly normal. A minister stood at the pulpit, talking away. While we listened for words, Carlie poked her fingers into and out of her gloves, and I tried to twist my straight hair into curls. The choir, all wearing identical white robes, was seated to one side of the altar. I spotted Papa and Eleanor at once and, catching Papa’s eye, winked at him, causing Aunt Maude to nudge me.

  Eleanor sang a solo, “Jerusalem.” It was a hymn I loved. Imagining its “chariot of fire” appearing through the clouds sent shivers down my spine. Mrs. Thurston was right. Eleanor’s voice was like a glass of cool water on a hot day. I happened to look at Papa while Eleanor was singing and saw that he was staring at Eleanor. On his face was the look he got when there was an article in one of his journals that interested him. Aunt Maude noticed the look too. Her mouth formed a tight line, and her hands clenched until the knuckles whitened.

  On the way home I collected a penny for aspire. Carlie got a penny for damnation, which I think she chose because she could say the damn part.

  “Really, Edward,” Aunt Maude said, “I cannot understand your paying those children for words.”

  Papa said, “Teaching children that there is a value in words, Maude, cannot be a bad thing.”

  Even though it was July and ninety degrees out, Aunt Maude always gave us the same Sunday dinner: roast pork, applesauce, mashed potatoes, carrots, and peas. Carlie was separating her carrots from her peas, I was mixing the applesauce with the gravy, and Aunt Maude had just opened her mouth to tell us to stop playing with our food when Papa said, “Maude, on such a warm day you needn’t take trouble over a hot dinner. A little salad and a sandwich are all we need.”

  Aunt Maude got red right down to her neck. She always treated Papa’s suggestions as if he were criticizing her. “I’m sorry you don’t care for your dinner, Edward. I notice you don’t seem to have any problem with your appetite when it’s Eleanor cooking.”

  Papa looked startled. He hadn’t seen Aunt Maude watch him while Eleanor was singing. “Whatever can you mean, Maude? You know that I enjoy your meals. I am only remarking on the suitability of a large hot meal in this warm weather.” After that it was so quiet, you could hear everyone chew and swallow.

  Before we could escape the hot kitchen, I had to dry the dishes and Carlie had to put the silverware away. Since Carlie had to have all the spoons and forks fit one another just so, that took a long time. When we were finally outside, Carlie and I wandered over the asylum grounds. We stopped to watch a bee lose itself inside an orange lily. A hummingbird mistook Carlie’s flowered sunbonnet for a blossom. Where a geranium or pansy had wilted, a gardener was substituting a fresh plant. Most of the gardeners were patients, and their faces were familiar to us. They interrupted their work to call out a pleasant greeting.

  Louis was working outside on this afternoon instead of in the glasshouses. He was bent into a grasshopper shape, clipping grass around a flower bed, and took his time straightening up. Putting a finger over his mouth, he quietly tiptoed to a maple tree, signaling us to follow. A little way up the tree was a robin’s nest cleverly fashioned of bits of
birch bark and grass stuck together with mud. Four open beaks poked up from the nest. “I find plenty of worms in my digging,” Louis said, “but I wouldn’t chew the worms up even for them little fellows.” He winked at me. “I got the birds all on my side now,” he said.

  The last time we had seen Louis, he had promised to bring his medal from the Civil War to show us. Now he took it out of his pocket. It was wrapped up in a square of cotton. “I was with the Army of the Cumberland,” he said, “following General Rosecrans back and forth across the Tennessee River. After I was shot, I was in a hospital. You couldn’t sleep what with the moans all around you. The floor was slippery with blood, and there was legs that had been cut off all piled up. I still have nightmares.”

  I didn’t want to hear any more, but Carlie asked, “What happened to all the cut-off legs?”

  Louis grinned at her. “They just walked off.” He noticed the expression on my face. “It wasn’t all so bad. We was bivouacked not far from the Tennessee River. By the camp the river was littered with garbage and filth. But a mile upstream the water was pure. Willow trees hung over the river; whippoorwills called. Miserable as the fighting was, once I could get away for a bit to the river, I was fine. That’s how it is here at the asylum. I hate it inside, but once I get outside and get my hands in some dirt, I’m fine.”

  He bent down and began snipping again. “I got to tend to the grass. The flowers don’t mean as much to Dr. Thurston as his grass. It’s as if this little green piece of the world is one thing he can have just the way he wants. All day long he has to do with us patients in the asylum and our difficult ways; then he comes out here and sees the perfect green lawn. He’ll stand here and look at it as if he was a drowning man and it was a boat.”

  Carlie complained of the heat, and we left the path for the acres of trees that made little pools of shade. A figure came from behind a tree. “Well, it must be Caroline, and here is Verna as well.” It was Dr. Thurston himself. He seemed pleased to find us exploring the grounds. “Have you ever seen such a beautiful lawn? And what do you make of my little forest? ”