A White Room (14 page)

Margaret thrust a finger at me. “Well, you’re wrong. She will drive that committee into the ground”—she pointed down—“and you’ll see. They’ll come begging, begging me to come back. Not that they will go through with it.”

“I thought Ida had final say.”

She shrugged one shoulder. “There really isn’t anything that says one way or the other.”

I remembered my posture and thrust my bosom out.

“How is Mr. Dorr?”

“He’s working.”

“I imagine Mr. Coddington keeps him busy with the work he’s doing.”

“I don’t understand why it calls for him to work at all hours.”

“Well, it’s sinful what’s going on, is it not?”

“Um…I suppose.” I didn’t care enough to try to figure out what she meant.

“Your husband is only doing what he knows is just, and you have to support that.” She jabbed her finger at me again.

“Course.”

“You know, my husband and son both work at all hours, too.”

“Oh.”

She slurped.

The room pulsated with pink, as if it were a stomach preparing to digest. Nauseating. I was supposed to be talking. I didn’t know what to say. What were we discussing? “I’m surprised your son isn’t wed yet.”

“Hmm.” She peered over her teacup. “It’s this town.” She sighed. “My poor boy. I’m afraid I might have to go to some length to match him up.” Margaret leaned forward, teacup in one hand, saucer in the other. “I must hurry before he settles for an underprivileged country girl. To be honest, I’m afraid he may already be at risk.”

“Really?”

She sat up. “Ida suspects it, and I think she might be right.”

“Who’s the young lady?”

“I’m not sure, yet. He’s said a few things—asked how I felt about a woman with this quality or that. And people have spotted him out at odd hours. When I ask, he says he had to see a patient, but his father doesn’t know what he’s going on about.”

“Are you going to put a stop to it?”

“I just need to convince his father to send him to the city, where he can find a proper girl.” She sipped. “Or find the little wretch.”

“Has he asked his father to go to St. Louis?”

“Oh, he would never. He is reverent of his father, never questions him, never opposes him. He is loyal.” She nodded firmly.

“Hmm. I thought he wanted to start his own practice.”

She snorted. “He says that to others but hasn’t said a word to his father. It’s a silly notion, really, and he knows it.”

I felt bad for Walter. He seemed to have a gentle disposition—not one for confrontation. His father probably ruled over him even more than Margaret did.

“How is that handmaid?” Margaret asked. “The one who refused her lying-in. Poorly raised.” She shook her head.

“She manages.”

“You must have tremendous patience. I hold my servants to the highest standards, and I make sure they perform to capacity. This little colored girl—one of the servants found her sleeping in the hay, so I heaved a bucket of slop on her. I guarantee she won’t sleep when she should be working again. If she does, she’ll starve—I’ll toss her out like a ratty old dog.”

“Hmm.” I narrowed my eyes at her.

She surveyed the room again. “I know you didn’t decorate, but I wouldn’t be too put out.”

I scanned the room cluttered with figurines, doilies, and an overcompensating pink prairie motif. “Did I say I felt put out?”

“No, but…” She shrugged.

I suppose I hadn’t needed to. There were fat porcelain children, firefly lamps, butterfly vases, and candy dishes shaped like sheep. My eyes locked onto a cabinet with eyes for windows and ducks strewn across its belly. “I can see why the previous owner abandoned it all.”

“The Nelsons didn’t abandon this house.”

I perked up. “You knew them?”

“Oh, yes.”

“What happened to them?”

“Run out.”

“Why?”

“The bank confiscated their estate. Probably why your husband got it for such a bargain.”

“That is a sad story.” I thought of the family leaving town, heads hanging low. The house, filled to the brim with their belongings, watching as they faded into the distance. The furniture had obviously grown bitter after their abandonment. “And his family—what of them?”

“I assure you they are not living in any circumstances as fine as the ones you’ve commandeered.”

Could it have been the house? The house had swallowed them up.

“Emeline?”

“Pardon?”

“Are you happy with it?”

I spotted something out of the corner of my eye. “I—saw…”

She shook her head. “What’s that, dear?”

“I’m not certain.” I froze, dumbstruck, and inhaled deeply. “It was pink.”

“Pardon?”

I looked up at her. “Pardon?”

“I asked if you and your husband were happy with the house?”

Had she not seen it? “Um—I…”

“Go on.”

“My husband is a bit—um…shy.”

“What do you mean?”

“Pardon?” I leaned forward and studied the chair.

“What do you mean when you say he is shy?”

“I—I don’t know if he’s enjoying it here…with me.”

She scrunched her face.

I leaned back and touched my head. Why did I tell her that? She would tell everyone—I didn’t care anymore. “I mean, I don’t know if he enjoys being here.” There it was again—a pink and white swirl. The chair—it was moving.

“Did he tell you that?”

I watched the chair. “No.”

“No?”

The chair’s candy-cane arms stretched out in front of Margaret. She didn’t even flinch. My eyes darted from the chair to her and back again.

“He isn’t happy around you?”

She didn’t see it. Was it real? “I don’t know.”

It locked its thick arms around her. It was going to squeeze.

“Mar—” I wanted to warn her, but I couldn’t.

She sipped her tea, undeterred. “He must be happy to see you after a hard day at work?”

It tightened around her waist.

I shook my head “no.”

“Oh.” She paused and put her teacup down, the chair moving with her. “Are things not well between you two?”

The striped arms tightened and tightened and tightened.

I tried not to look at the chair. I didn’t know what to do. My eyes darted back and forth between her and the creature twisting around her like some pink and white striped python. How did she not feel it? “Uh—fine. He—he just—he’s busy.”

“If he isn’t content at home, something is wrong.”

I couldn’t stop glancing down at the horrifying event happening before my eyes. I tried not to reveal the horror on my face.

She paused. “Emeline? Are you all right?”

I shook my head and wrenched my attention free. My bottom lip trembled.

“What are you looking at, child?” She searched around herself, oblivious to the violent struggle between human and chair.

“I’m sorry. I—I—” My heart pounded and my hands trembled.

She eyed me curiously. “I’ve overstayed my time. I should go.” She stood with her gloves in hand, and the chair suddenly returned to its original shape. It had been squeezing the very life from her moments ago. How? She must have been near death, but there the chair sat, ordinary and motionless. I rose, confused, hunched forward, staring in wonder.

“Perhaps you need to make more of an effort to please your husband. The next time you call, we will discuss some specific things you can do.” She eyed my stale tea cakes. “Perhaps a cook.”

I lowered myself back onto the rosy sofa. How could this be? What did it mean? The chair had moved, attacked. What—

“Emeline!”

I looked up, wide-eyed, mouth open, perfect posture gone.

Margaret studied me. “Perhaps you should come see my husband.”

My eyes wandered.

“You look pale.”

Eleven

May 1901

“J
ohn?”

“Hmm? Oh, um. Fine.” John absently sifted through the mail.

We were eating breakfast, oatmeal and steak. I would have expected a remark on the odd pairing from anyone else, but not from John. I almost wished my mother were there to express concern over my black and blue dress accenting the dark circles under my eyes—at least she cared. It angered me, but I no longer cared what he thought of me. “Are things well at work?” I asked in a snide tone.

“Hmm. What?” He lifted his head.

“I said, are things well at work?”

“Oh—well.” He returned to the mail. “I suppose.”

“I am starting to think you prefer work to home.”

“Hmm?” He picked up his steak knife and sawed at the charred meat.

“Do you enjoy work more than me?”

“Hmm?” He stuck a chunk into his mouth.

“John!”

He looked. “What?”

I shook my head. “Never mind.”

He shrugged.

I sighed. “I’m trying to ask if you—sometimes it seems—do you prefer being at work, more than you…prefer being here—with me?”

“Hmm?” He didn’t look up.

“Do you feel relaxed?”

“Huh?” He still didn’t look up.

“I mean, are you relaxed when you come home?”

Finally he raised his head, aloof. “Pardon me?”

“Are you more relaxed at work?”

“Emeline, what are you talking about?”

I lowered my eyes and prodded my food. “I’m just wondering.”

His eyes fell to the post. “About what?”

I wanted to scream but I restrained myself. “How…is…work?”

“I told you, fine.”

“You’ve never really explained what you do at the firm.”

“What’s there to explain?”

“What do you do?”

He scratched his head, bewildered. “I’m a lawyer, Emeline.”

I sighed and laid my head on the table. He didn’t respond even though I kept it there for a minute before sitting back up. “I am interested in your cases. What do you do all day?”

“My cases?” he mumbled, stuffing food in his mouth. “I’d rather not.”

I gave up.

When he finished his steak and two bites of oatmeal, he stood. “I have to go in for a while.”

It was a Saturday, but I wasn’t surprised.

“I shouldn’t be long.”

I stared at him.

He laid his napkin on the table and left. The front door clacked shut. I sat for a while, watching the dishes. Finally, I stood, gathered the plates and lowered them in the dumbwaiter. Then I descended into the basement. I removed the excess food, filled the basin, and scrubbed mindlessly, trying not to let the place drown me in anguish. It pounded on my emotions, my weaknesses, like crashing waves, but I remained as steady as jagged rocks sticking out of the sea.

I wandered in my head to distract myself. I pondered where I would go when James freed me from my marriage, but James still hadn’t responded to my letter. What if he’d told Mother and she told him to ignore it? No, he would come anyway. He would fight for me. He promised.

I racked a clean dish and lathered the next. A loud thud made me jump. Then I heard noise from above, creaking sounds, as if someone were traipsing across the parlor. I let my head fall back and stared at the ceiling. It had to be John. I placed the wet dish on the stack, picked up my ivory lamp with the tall cylindrical glass cover and cautiously scaled the stairs. I always moved with wariness while in the house alone, for I feared disturbing something. At the top of the stairs, I looked down a dark hallway. I hadn’t opened the doors, in case John returned quickly. If he’d been home, he would have left open the door to whichever room he was in. None were ajar.

“Jo—hn?” It felt like hollering underwater. I cleared my throat and took a breath. I was preparing to raise my voice when pounding on the second floor stopped me. I turned my eyes up and listened, too frightened to move. Was it John? Was it the beast?

A clanking noise came from the parlor. I saw the glow of the lamp on the doorknob, hesitated, heard clacking, and inched over. I grasped the knob, twisted it, and pushed the door open.

It opened to reveal that all the furniture in the parlor was moving, dancing. The winding appendages of the bizarre tables and chairs were actually twisting and twirling. The legs were flailing, and the statues and pictures were sashaying. I dropped the lamp, and the glass cylinder shattered on the floor. My disturbance did not halt the wooden beings’ frenzy. I thrust my hands out. “Stop! Stop! You must stop!” The furniture continued to dance as if I didn’t exist. I looked around at the chaos and tried to think of the appropriate action. I needed to stop this. John could return at any moment. “Stop!” I screamed as loud as I could to cut through the clanking and flailing. “Stop! Stop! Stop now!”

They refused to respond, and an unbearable sense of urgency rose within me from deep in my abdomen. I screamed and grabbed at the snaking extremities. I took hold of the leg of a chair and snapped it off. With the sound of the chair’s limb breaking free, an unquenchable need to demolish these rebellious objects began to boil in my gut. I bunched my hands into tight little rocks and experienced my own detonation. I picked up a statuette and hurled it at the wall. I kicked over a table, and all the bric-a-brac crashed to the floor. I stomped down on the legs of the table I’d knocked over, breaking all but one off. I continued seeking out the most frail furnishings and tearing them limb from limb. The entire room fell into a hush. I seized a detached extremity and waved it in the air. “Do you see? Do you see what I can do to you?”