A White Room (22 page)

I continued my pursuit, stepping gingerly. I knew the house would attempt to inform John of my scheme. I’d evaded his eyes, but I didn’t know if I could evade his ears. The sound of creaking floorboards on the steps above might be more obvious than the sliver of color he’d thought he saw pass his door. I stepped slowly and carefully, wincing with every creak and groan. I made it to the stair’s first right turn without hearing any noise from below. Then I slipped into the narrow space between the two turns where you couldn’t see the top or bottom of the stairs. Darkness filled the space. I couldn’t see the step in front of me.

The stairwell had not attempted to assault me since my experience with Mrs. Schwab, but now it knew I was vulnerable. The darkness prevented me from seeing it, but I could feel the pallid walls narrowing. My stomach wrenched. I couldn’t keep away the thoughts of being stuck in the walls, eternally bound within the darkened white—buried, unable to move. I quickened my step, risking a ruckus.

A part of me wanted to fall to my knees and give up, beg the walls to spare me, but the thought of the children broke through my fears. The memory of the depression and horror I’d experienced while trapped in my white room followed, and a fury burned inside my chest. I stopped fumbling for steps and stood still as the walls inched closer. I clenched my hands and opened my eyes. In the darkness, without speaking, without making a sound, I stretched my arms out, felt the solid mass beneath my palms and pushed. In my mind, I screamed with all the strength of my entire being without making one real sound.

The walls gave way and my arms stretched as far as they could. All was calm. I took in a long deep breath and exhaled. I smiled with satisfaction and continued my trek up the staircase. I reached the landing and dropped my head in relief. Suddenly, my eyes refocused, confused by the light, and standing before me was John. I froze. My lips parted, eyes unblinking. John had been upstairs the entire time, not in the library.

“Emeline?”

“Yes?”

“What are you doing?”

I had no idea.

“Are you all right?” He held up the light to see my face.

“Yes.” I shrank away from the brightness.

“Where’s your lamp?”

“Um.” My eyes bounced back and forth.

“You’re back then?”

“Yes. What?” I could only react. “No.”

“No?”

“No—I mean I’m back now, but I’m leaving.”

“Pardon?”

“I forgot something.”

“What?”

“I forgot something for Mrs. Grace.”

“What did you forget?”

“Um, a donation for the church committee.”

“I thought dues were collected at the beginning of the month?”

“They are.” My arms and shoulders relaxed out of their caught stance. “This is a different donation, for a special case.”

“What case?”

“Uh—children.”

“Children?”

“Needy children.”

He squinted. “Do you have enough left in your allowance?”

“Of course.”

He looked me over. “Why are you fumbling around without a lamp?”

“Uh, I must have forgotten.” My smile felt taut. “In a rush.”

“Hmm. Well, you’d better be off if you’re going to be back in time to make supper.”

“Of course,” I said, giddy and compliant, shocked by his consent. I hopped out of his way as he passed me.

“Wait.” He halted and my heart fell. “Here.” He handed me the snake-handle lamp and started down the stairs. “I couldn’t stand the thought of you slipping.”

“Thank you.” Why was he being so nice, so trusting? He left and I felt a little dizzy but pushed the feeling aside because I still had things to do. I went to the linen chest and packed several items into a bag. Afterward, I rushed down the stairs, no longer terrified to make a sound, and barreled down to the basement for a thin cut of beef, some barley, and a few dried vegetables. I moved too quickly for the dungeon’s sadness to settle. I went back up and passed the library without acknowledging John.

Mr. Buck, now surely suspicious because of the amount of time I’d spent in the house, took me back to town. He returned me to the general store, and once again I entered and waited for his subsequent distraction. I paid no attention to Mrs. Landry and quickly left, feeling absolutely rushed and concerned that my running about town again, this time carrying two stuffed bags, would certainly end in someone spotting me. I quickly made my way down the alley and knocked on the door of the little tenement. The small dark boy opened the door again, just a little, saw that it was me, and allowed me to enter.

I set my bags down and opened the larger one, pulling out fresh linens to give to the children. They took the sheets, and two older children got to work laying them out. The younger ones pulled the material to their faces, inspecting the superior fabric. I asked the boy to gather water in a bowl and gave him a rag. The children took turns cleaning themselves and one another. Slowly, their skin transformed from the appearance of fresh soil to that of wet ebony rocks. After they were clean, I slathered a mixture of turpentine on the outside of their throats and chests to ease the congestion.

I was in a terrible rush, given that I had to clean a little apartment in the same time that a brief social call takes. I started to sweat as I swept, dusted, wiped down surfaces with a damp cloth and organized what little clutter existed in the tiny space. Meanwhile, I boiled the meat in some water to create a beef tea and added the barley and dried vegetables. They sipped the warm brew, and I instructed them to inhale the steam deeply.

“I must go now, but you need to do your best to keep yourselves clean, and once you are better, help your father keep this house in order just as I have done today.”

Their white eyes darted toward the door and I spun around. A burly colored man stood in the doorway, his eyes tight with anger. Moist dirt covered his leathery skin and collected in little beads. He dropped a heavy bag that clunked when it hit the ground. “Who are you?”

Blood rushed to my cheeks and my heart raced. I stood. “I—I—”

“What are you doing with my children?”

I put my hands out. “Mr. Whitmay, I—I’m trying to help.”

“We don’t need no help.”

“No—your children—” I motioned toward them.

“We don’t need any help. Get out!”

He stepped close to me, and I stepped back closer to the children. “Who are you? Why did you come here? Why did you come into my home—why? Did you come to steal my babies?”

“Please, sir—Mrs. Schwab sent me.”

He lowered his shoulders, but his threatening scowl remained. “How’d you get in here?”

“A lady from downstairs knocked for me. I’m not charging anything.” I gestured toward the children again without removing my eyes from the bear in front of me. “I only wanted to help.”

I felt the small, soft hand of the little boy slip into mine. Mr. Whitmay widened his eyes at his son and then his eyes fluttered at the sight of his clean home. His children were clean and so was their bedding, and they all had soup, which cooled as they waited for their father’s response. His eyes turned on me. “They…look betta.”

“I don’t think they are very ill.”

“They’ve been like this for weeks.” He gestured with his large hand.

“Sometimes sickness will linger without cleanliness, food, liquid, and rest.”

“I don’t have the time. I don’t know how. I don’t know how she—” He shuddered and his eyes glistened. Men were not taught how to care for children or illness or themselves. He’d probably neglected the cleaning duties since the day his wife had passed because he didn’t know how to go about them.

“It’s all right.” I reached out to touch his hand, giant and moist. He flinched and pulled back. I knew it was unacceptable for a colored man to touch a white woman, but I didn’t care about those things anymore—society, rules. He was just a man. Besides, I couldn’t help but try to comfort him. “You’re doing fine, and you’ll learn. Your children can help, too.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, his eyes darting back and forth.

“If they don’t get better, tell Mrs. Schwab. I’ll come back if you need me.” I picked up my bags and passed him to get to the open door. I peeked over my shoulder to see him wrapping his muscular arms around his children before I left.

Mrs. Schwab breathed in the scent of the stew, her eyes closed. “Pork?”

I nodded.

She buried two fingers in the heap of moist meat, boiled potatoes, and rehydrated vegetables. She pulled out a hunk and put it in her mouth, closing her eyes again. She lay on her side on the mattress with her baby asleep next to her. The house was as it had been the other day, lacking children but filled with evidence that they had been crowded there not long before.

She sucked her fingers, one by one. “You can call me Lottie. It ain’t proper, but I think we past that, don’t you?”

I nodded. “You can call me Emeline if you wish.”

“I won’t when others are around.”

I looked away. “Thank you.”

She rubbed her baby’s head and touched her little nose. “You want to hold her?” She shifted to sit up and pass her swaddled babe to me.

“Can I?” I took her in my arms and regarded the little thing lightly bundled in a thin cloth, so small and pink.

“Hope you don’t mind…I already used your name.” She set down the bowl of stew and slowly caressed the head of her sleeping daughter. “Emma.”

I looked up at Lottie, blinked rapidly, and then lowered my eyes to Emma. An astonished smile grew across my face.

“I wanted sometin’—sometin’ to remind her—and me…to be grateful.”

We sat staring at Emma and avoiding each other’s eyes for a few moments until Lottie spoke. “I’ll return to my duties next week.”

“No, that’s not necessary.” I handed her child back. “You need time.”

“No, I need money.” She rocked the babe ever so slightly. “My husband is workin’ as hard as he can, and it ain’t enough. We now got seven chillin to feed.”

I looked around the shanty and imagined what Lottie’s life must be like—hunger, the constant struggle.

Lottie looked at her baby. “She’s ganna hate me.”

I stroked the baby’s head. “What do you mean?”

“For havin’ her.” She lifted wet eyes. “For bringin’ her to this wretched world.”

I shook my head slowly, somewhat confused.

“They all ganna hate me.”

“Why do you say that?”

“As soon as they realize…Already started with Lucy.”

“It’s not your fault. What could you have done?”

Her chin quivered as she closed her eyes and pinched her lips together.

“You couldn’t have done anything differently.”

“I coulda tried harder to stop it…end it.”

“What?”

“I—I knew I was expectin’…before quickenin’.” She lowered her voice. “Coulda ended it.”

“No.” I put my hand on hers. “You couldn’t have.”

“You never heard of a—abortion?”

“You mean murder your unborn child?”

Tears dripped from her eyes. “It ain’t murder before quickenin’, before it’s got a soul.”

“You did the right thing.”

“I hear of ways to do it yourself. People doin’ it behind closed doors.”

“I don’t think you could have done that.”

“That’s what I thought, but—” She took one of Emma’s little hands between her thumb and forefinger. “My chillin will suffer for her. She will suffer. They already eat half what they should. My husband and I ain’t hardly eat at all.”

Lottie was oddly thin for having just had a child. I stared at one of the water-stained walls and realized what she already knew. The boys—the gems of her family—would darken in the sun and become rough and broken from labor. They would die young, their bodies breaking. The girls—if lucky—would become servants or go to the city to work in the factories. Eventually they, too, would mourn the suffering their many children would endure, having no ability to provide enough food, shelter, or promise of better days. How could the world allow this fate to befall anyone, children? How could society look down on people like Lottie? How could I have looked down on her—on people like her? I turned my gaze from the wall to this desperate woman, and everything I had ever known changed. I changed.

She held the baby tight and her tears fell. “I was too selfish to let her go,” she said.