Nine courses! Annie tried to imagine staying interested in food that long. She tipped him two dollars for squeezing the huge trunk, valise and hatbox into her stateroom.
His jaw opened so far that his huge mustache fell into his mouth. He studied the two single bills as if nobody had ever tipped him so much. In 1898, for all she knew, that was a week’s pay. Had she made a major mistake, marking herself out as a woman who didn’t even know how to count money? Or had she made a close friend?
The porter assured her that anything she wanted, anything at all, she was just to raise a finger and she would have it.
She summoned appropriate speech for a lady. “I shall ring if I require assistance.” That sounded more 1898 than “Hey, great, okay.” She shut the door on him and then let herself sag with the relief of being alone and safe.
How sturdy, and how lovely, the lock was. The polished brass was inscribed with the steamship’s initials, a flaring ornate plaque with curlicued handles. Everything was sumptuous. The cab driver had certainly obeyed Devonny’s instructions to do this first class. First class in America a hundred years later was not half so first class.
Dinner, therefore, was a shock.
Ladies traveling alone were segregated.
In a back corner of the two-hundred-foot salon was a table whose flowers were wilted and whose cloth was stained. The women who were unescorted by men were served last, and the food was cold. Nobody complained.
Annie’s mother was ferocious in restaurants. If she didn’t get good service, Mrs. Lockwood whipped her waiter verbally, explaining that she was paying serious money for this meal, and they’d better provide seriously good service along with seriously good food, got it? (People got it.)
The women around Annie were ashamed of themselves, and did not attempt conversation, because what value could any other single woman have? Most were in black; black was as fashionable now as it was for her mother, a hundred years later.
Annie tried to get comfortable, but her clothing was not intended for relaxation. The corset Schmidt had pulled so tight was intended to keep Annie’s spine vertical and her waist thin and her kidneys shoved up against her lungs. She had so much sleeve she could hardly manage her fork over the plate. Of course, that kept down the amount of food she could eat and made her waist even thinner.
“What a shame,” said Annie brightly, “that the weather is so ugly. I would love to stand on deck and see New York State go by.”
They looked at her expressionlessly.
“You’d be disappointed. There’s nothing to see,” said a woman wearing a ruby-red gown, a wine-red shawl and a rusty orange scarf. Perhaps she was unescorted because she was dangerously color-blind.
“Where are you all headed?” Annie asked.
The women busied themselves with their unappetizing plates.
“I’m going to a place called Evergreen,” Annie added.
Their eyebrows rose in concert. A row of thin noses swiveled toward her, and a woman in black shifted her plates and glasses over, creating space, as if Annie carried a fatal illness. “And who,” said the woman, “is in Evergreen? Surely no one related to you.”
Annie had no cover story prepared.
Their pale faces, free of makeup and compassion, were like old cloth dolls. Their cheeks sagged and their hair was limp. They were nothing; nobody treated them as anything; and yet Annie was afraid of them. If she needed help, it would not come from people who knew what kind of patient went to Evergreen.
“My brother,” she said nervously. That might work, she thought. I could pretend to be Devonny. Yes! I’m Miss Stratton, not Miss Lockwood. Surely I can wheedle my way in as Strat’s dear sister.
“Your brother is in Evergreen, miss?” said Ruby-wine-orange.
This was good practice for whatever happened at Evergreen. “I love him deeply,” she said. “My family has disowned him. He is in despair and disgrace. I, his sister, Devonny Stratton, am going to him anyway.” She lowered her voice. With all the drama she could muster, she added, “Without my father’s permission. For I love my brother. And he needs me.”
How they softened. On their hard and hard-used faces was kindness, and Ruby-wine-orange said gently, “You will have to be strong, Miss Stratton. You are facing many difficulties. Will your family disown you, too, once they learn what you have done?”
Annie decided on the lowering of eyelashes to answer this question. Let sorrow be her speech.
It worked.
Ruby-wine-orange, introducing herself as Miss Rosette, took Annie’s bare hand and squeezed it gently.
A band struck up.
Annie loved music. This music had lots of rhythm, lots of brass, and demanded that feet snap across hard floors. Her heels tapped and her waist swayed. And, indeed, it was a dance! Several couples got up. “Oooh,” said Annie happily.
“You must not dance!” said Ruby-wine-orange, horrified. “There are bachelors here.”
Harriett’s doctor listened to what Moss had to say. “I am afraid,” he told her, “that given Miss Ranleigh’s condition, I do not think we should wait for the post.”
Moss did not understand.
“You must use the telephone,” said the doctor.
Moss could not do that. She did not know how. It was too much to ask. But the doctor turned away, for he had important things to do, and she, Moss, must attack this herself.
Stiffening her resolve, she went to the main building, where the billiard and smoking and guest rooms were. There, too, high on the wall, was the large wooden and metal apparatus. She wiped nervous hands on her apron.
Luckily the telephone company did most of the talking for her. Eventually the connection took place. Very mysterious it was, the way the voice came through the wire. She was getting used to electricity, although of course only for other people, not herself. She would stick with kerosene lamps, thank you, and not little glowing bulbs of bursting glass.
The gentleman was most interested that Miss Harriett wished to change her will. “I will come myself,” he said, with such courtesy and understanding that it warmed Moss’s heart. What fine people Miss Harriett came from!
“Thank you, Mr. Walkley, sir,” said Moss, and she curtsied, never thinking that on the telephone they couldn’t see you.
Walker Walkley’s rage grew through his bones like a fever. So Harriett Ranleigh wanted to leave her money to a scrubwoman or an Adirondacker! The fool!
No doubt this Moss woman had infected Harriett’s mind, not that it would take much. Women who received education were always at risk. Thinking damaged them.
Walk’s brain was exploding. How could Devonny and Harriett—girls!—have accomplished anything?
He loathed Harriett. It would be no loss to the world when Harriett left it. Should he rush to Clear Pond? But if Harriett was in the process of dying, better Walk should let her die with the old will in place.
But what if Harriett called a local attorney and got this new will written anyway? Walk could probably overturn it; women were incompetent to decide these things. But it was messy, and he wished to avoid mess, just collect money.
And what about Miss Lockwood, on her way to Strat?
Walk must not do anything too quickly. Thank God he lived in an age of instant communication. A telephone call to the asylum was in order, but first he must think carefully through all possible problems.
There was danger here, and it must be other people who suffered, not Walker Walkley.
Walker Walkley ordered two carriages to bring the traveling party to the railroad station. He did not want to be in the same carriage with Devonny. He did not want to imagine her smug look, hidden by her layers of veiling. He did not want her to see his own smug look, since he knew all her plans.
The private Stratton rail car was hooked on the back of the California-bound train, and behind it, another private car—the Colts of Colt Guns—had been fastened. The Stratton car was trapped. But that did not mean Devonny was trapped.
&nb
sp; Walker almost wanted to smash her between cars, never mind send her to California. But he had to have her as his wife. She would pay. He liked thinking about how Devonny would pay.
Walk tipped Stephens, the officer in charge of the car, explaining that Miss Devonny was upset about her brother and might actually try to get off the train and visit young Mr. Stratton on her own. Stephens was to be understanding, but he was not to permit it. Stephens, who loved Miss Devonny, and had loved Strat, was very sad and agreed that Miss Devonny could not be permitted to have lunacy touch her.
Walk could hardly conduct the conversation. He could not gather his composure enough to bid Devonny good-bye. She waved to him through the window, and he saluted her with his hat and was maintaining his bow as the train left Grand Central.
Schmidt had been brought up in the Lutheran church, which was fond of guilt. Schmidt could feel guilty when she did not perfectly iron a sheet.
The guilt she felt over her betrayal of Miss Devonny and Miss Lockwood was enough for Schmidt to hurl herself beneath the wheels of the train. And the money had not been Mr. Walkley’s to give her, of course. It was young Strat’s own money, tucked under his mattress, found by a maid months ago. The staff had discussed whether to send it to him, and decided that people who worked for asylums were probably thieves and would keep it for themselves, and it was better to tuck the money back for Mr. Strat, hoping there would be a healthy return.
So I’ve stolen young Mr. Strat’s money, thought Schmidt, and I’ve betrayed Miss Devonny and betrayed Miss Lockwood and betrayed my entire upbringing and all my beliefs.
The train had a wonderful, almost soothing rhythm to it, its hundreds of wheels clattering over hundreds of track connections. There was a sort of safety in the repetition of wheel noise.
Miss Devonny was full of demands for this, that and the next thing. At least Schmidt did not have to go far to fulfill these demands. In fact, Schmidt did not have to go at all: the rail car had its own staff. Schmidt, to her astonishment and joy, had her own teeny little room. It was a sort of pocket in the wall, from which a bed folded down, and a sink poked out and a window looked upon the rushing world.
Never in her life had Schmidt had a room to herself.
She thought of the postal service, which whisked a letter in a single day to the proper address. She thought of the post box in Grand Central, beneath that fabulous dome of painted sky, where she had dropped the letter to her brother. A letter containing one hundred dollars telling him to spend it on heat and fuel and warm clothing.
Miss Devonny said, “What are your thoughts, Schmidt? You look so strange. Are you ill? Do you have motion sickness?”
“I’m thinking of California, Miss Devonny.”
“California is a strange thought,” agreed Miss Devonny, and then she required tea and hot sweet pastries and soft butter and also a map so she could see where they were heading.
Schmidt found the map, wondering if she herself were headed for Hell.
Since her porch had south, east, and west windows, Harriett had become a sunrise and sunset collector. She gathered colors in her heart: magenta and grape one evening, surpassed by sparkly gold or fluffy pink the next. Would there be color in Heaven? Would she hear the laughter of children there?
“Come now,” said Moss robustly. “You will go into remission, Miss Harriett, I know it. A good patient gets another ten years, or even twenty. You will be one of those, because you are such a good obedient patient. An attorney is coming, but you must not think about wills and dying. Think about life and living!”
Charlie came to visit. A book of poems by John Greenleaf Whittier was lying open on Harriett’s bed. “Harriett, you’re not supposed to read,” said Charlie. “It taxes you too much. Shall I read aloud to you? Poems are best out loud anyway. And here’s Snow-Bound. Nobody is more snowbound than we are.”
But she did not want to hear Whittier. “You talk to me, Charlie.”
“You would have loved last night’s lecture,” Charlie said. He held her hands gently between both of his and mourned that she was so cold, so limp.
“A naturalist from the Park Service talked. He was so proud, Harriett. It was quite touching. The Adirondacks are the largest park in America. A million acres. Just three years ago, 1895, the great State of New York voted to keep the land forever wild. Otherwise logging would destroy its beauty.”
I will die where the world is forever wild, thought Harriett. I will be part of something that doesn’t die. This world, when I die in 1898, will be the same world it was in 1398, and the same that it will be in 1998. “Keep talking, Charlie,” she whispered. “It comforts me.”
Stephanie Rosette admired herself in the looking glass. She loved her outfit. She loved the hot intense look of the reds and oranges against each other. She loved how people cringed when they looked at her clothing.
Stephanie Rosette had lost her job in the shirt factory and was going to be a nurse in one of those huge cheap tuberculosis asylums. The kind with many cots in each ward. The kind where people go to die, not get well.
Stephanie Rosette was strong and tough, and she could nurse, and she supposed she would get used to the wilderness of the Adirondacks, not that she wanted to. Stephanie preferred civilization. Her last precious week in New York, she had spent the last of her pitiful savings. She had gone to the zoo and the aquarium, the symphony and the library with the lions in front and the Natural History Museum, saying good-bye to all the things she loved about New York. She window-shopped in the great stores: Tiffany’s and Abraham & Straus.
Then she accepted her fate, and got on the steamship to go to a job that would last twelve hours a day, six days a week. Forever.
This short overnight voyage would be her final joy in life.
The beautiful girl who had shared the dinner table had been most interesting. Miss Stratton had slipped once and called herself Miss Lockwood. Most odd. A lady, definitely, but without a lady’s manners. Sweet and courteous, but off-key.
She was startled by a knock on her door. “Yes?”
“Porter, ma’am. Miss Stratton, ma’am, wonders if you would be kind enough to assist her in her stateroom.”
Stephanie Rosette was puzzled but willing. Flipping the long ends of her orange scarf to help herself think, she followed the porter. She was big and bulky and her colors were loud and unforgiving. He was a little afraid of her, which Stephanie enjoyed.
Miss Stratton let her in quickly. “I’m so embarrassed,” she said. “Please forgive me for asking you to do this.”
One look at Miss Stratton’s gown and Stephanie knew that the girl could not undress herself. She was buttoned and laced and strapped and tied. Stephanie shook her head. Ladies. Really, there were times when Stephanie was grateful not to be one. “You usually travel with a maid, don’t you?” she said, trying not to be annoyed. “Here. I will get you into your nightclothes.” Practiced fingers whipped down a row of forty tiny tight buttons in little silken loops. She unknotted the stays and released the corset. Stephanie unlocked the huge trunk and pawed through it to find nightclothes.
Oh, the beautiful stuff that lay so gently folded between lengths of tissue! Satins and laces, fur trims and velvets. Ruffles and pleats and eyelets and silk. The sheer loveliness of Miss Stratton’s fashions brought tears to Stephanie’s eyes. Just once in her life, how she would love a gown like one of these.
“Miss Stratton,” breathed Stephanie, fingering the beautiful stuff. “How lovely you must look in these!” She thought ruefully that Miss Stratton’s waist was about one third of her own. “Sleep tight. I will come to your room early in the morning to help you dress for the day. Do not open the door to anybody but me.” Ladies had little sense. They believed the world was peopled by gentlemen, when in fact it was peopled by fools and rowdies.
There was something so forlorn and lost about this young girl. How old was she? Sixteen? And going on a quest that could not possibly succeed. She would only be terribly punished by her
family. And yet Stephanie admired her. To save a beloved brother. Had not women since Antigone sacrificed for their brothers?
Sleep tight. No bad dreams, no lost blankets, no cold feet, no scary noises. If Miss Stratton’s brother were trapped in an asylum for the insane, he had not once slept tight.
Stephanie prayed gently for the sleep of both.
Late in the evening, the same gentle attendant who had brought water and rags before brought Katie a piece of candy. A long stick. A peppermint-colored candy, whose sweet drippy scent filled the entire room. Strat actually forgot Anna Sophia at the sight of that candy. Six months of oatmeal, bread, baked beans, beets, and more baked beans had made Strat crave sweetness.
Katie gave it to Douglass. All of it. The entire stick. She could have broken it in five, and each of them, even Conspiracy and Melancholia, could have had a bite.
But Katie said everybody else had more than Douglass and that Douglass needed it most. Douglass was completely happy with his candy, as if he were not in an asylum, as if people really were kind and good things really did happen.
Strat thought about desserts. Fudge. Taffy. Chocolate. If somebody gave him a sweet, he’d gobble it down so fast he’d never even taste it, never mind share. How would Strat ever be nice enough to raise Katie’s opinion of him?
He was thinking less. Using less of his mind. Around him the weeping and swearing of Melancholia and Conspiracy seemed quite reasonable. He listened to it as if listening to a dance band. It occurred to Strat that the technique of Evergreen was working well: he was becoming less sane. As time went on, he would fit the diagnosis they had chosen for him.
He wanted to laugh, but his emotions seemed to have departed. He was just there, and Douglass had the candy.
Walker Walkley did not care for the Adirondacks.
He disliked uncivilized places.
He did not care about maple trees that turned red in the fall and spruces that went black in winter. He did not care about lakes and streams. He did not care about dead ducks or live ducks. He did not wish to wear red plaid, red flannel, or snowshoes. He did not wish to eat venison or trout, and he certainly did not want to snare it himself and get soiled and wet in the process.