The Great Plains (5 page)

Aloysius sat beside Annie and gently stroked her hand. On the floor lay the empty glass, the sticky lemon drink a dark stain on the floor. There was movement beneath the translucent skin of Annie's eyelids and he wondered what she dreamt of. Theirs had been a happy union, if not of love, it had eventually grown into something solid and trusting. Affection paved their relationship and gradually Aloysius had come to realise that friendship and respect were perhaps more reliable components when gauging a satisfactory marriage. They were not the feelings he'd anticipated in his bachelor days. Back then, his whole life seemed to comprise of a strange yearning. When he first grew interested in women he'd been but sixteen, in awe of the next door maid who had a penchant in summer for pouring a bucket of water over her chemise at daybreak. The fact she chose a spot at the rear of her employer's garden directly beneath the room he shared with his brother never struck him as strange until Joseph explained the obvious and took to disappearing in the middle of the night. Sometime later the maid lost her employ, but Aloysius recalled the tantalising image of cloth-wet skin for a year.

Dots of moisture gathered at Annie's hairline. Her cheeks were flushed. There was a row of covered buttons at her throat and, with her comfort in mind, he decided they should be loosened. But the undoing of them proved impossible. The pads of his fingers were thick, his movements clumsy. He had no experience in undressing women. Annie's undergarments, corset, pantaloons, stockings were often strewn about their room like items from a foreign country. He could not begin to understand the complexities of women's dress. Reaching for the bottle of smelling salts, he waved the vial beneath Annie's nose. She stirred and coughed, her nostrils twitched like a rabbit.

‘I am quite well.' Annie struggled upright, patting her moist skin with the back of a hand.

‘You look tired.' He adjusted a cushion behind her shoulders.

‘I am not the young girl you married, Aloysius. I have borne you five healthy children, shared your tragedies and triumphs and buried three little ones, bless them.'

He squeezed her fingers. There was an irritation to her tone, a trait that had become more pronounced over the previous months. ‘Perhaps we should leave our discussion until a later time.'

‘And go through the whole unfortunate history of Philomena's life again? I think not.'

There it was again, the curt response to the sorry saga of his niece's life. He wondered how pleased Annie really was when news of Philomena's discovery was first related. She was supportive of course, pleased for him and relieved after all the years of wondering, but the reality of the girl returning to the family fold was a totally different scenario.

‘When is the baby due?'

Aloysius shrugged. ‘I didn't ask.'

‘Well you must.'

‘I cannot explain how I felt on hearing of Philomena's daughter and of the unborn child. I dreaded sharing the news with you.'

‘There could be more,' Annie contemplated. ‘There could be more children. Oh heavens.'

Aloysius grew pale. ‘More? There was no mention of any other children apart from the daughter.'

‘Still, it remains a possibility.' Annie leant back in the chaise-lounge. ‘When you finally visit her, it will be up to you and the doctor to ascertain whether you feel Philomena will ever be able to re-enter society.'

‘And if she can't?'

‘She can't with an Indian daughter in tow,' Annie replied quietly, ‘regardless of whether the girl is simple. As for the unborn child,' she clucked her tongue, ‘well, we are not some frontier family anymore, my dear, and we are certainly not progressives. We have values; everything in its place and a place for everything. We must consider the futures of our grandchildren while doing our best for Philomena. If that means that the daughter and the unborn child must be sent back to the reservation, then so be it. Don't look so askance, Aloysius.'

‘No mother will willingly leave their daughter, especially with a grandchild on the way.'

‘I am in agreement with you, Aloysius. As a mother I am more than aware of the gravity of Philomena's situation. A decision, however, will have to be made for the good of the many, not of the few.'

‘The unborn child has Wade blood running through its veins. I'm not so sure I could –'

Annie was rubbing her temples. ‘Aloysius, I will not bring a pregnant Indian woman into this household. There is little choice to be made. Wade blood or not. The decision is clear. Philomena is welcome if she is able to resume a normal life. The other is not.'

November, 1886 – Dallas, Texas

Aloysius handed his overcoat and hat to the attendant and followed a stiff-kneed nurse along a cold featureless hallway. He was aware of a tightness in his throat and belly, of sweat soaking through his shirt and suit coat. Voices echoed through the walls and from under the doors of shared dormitories. He heard singing and crying, laughing and yelling. The babble of sound competed with a howling dog and as Aloysius trailed the silent middle-aged woman, they turned left, passing a bay window that revealed a neatly tended lawn complete with benches. This park-like scene, so at odds with the vocal inhabitants of the asylum, only served to intensify his discomfort. To meet Philomena under such conditions, after so many years, paid homage to neither her shocking life nor his own aspirations.

Finally the nurse slowed, stopping outside a plain white door. When she turned to Aloysius, simultaneously knocking on the door, he received a tight smile. Of course the woman would know who Philomena was, he thought with a tinge of annoyance. Hadn't the
Tribune
announced her arrival last week? Even at his own place of business, the newspaper that he had created, tended and grown since the outbreak of the war, he'd sensed intrigue amongst the staff. It wasn't his imagination. Aloysius stared at the door, wondering about the woman on the other side.

Dr Fitzgerald stepped into the hallway. ‘Mr Wade, good morning to you, sir.'

‘And you, Harry.'

‘I have taken the liberty of advising your niece of your imminent arrival. Extreme shock can induce erratic behaviour and although the institution is quite capable of handling the most difficult of cases, this one, I must say, is one of the more unusual. We certainly don't want to make things more awkward than they already are.'

Aloysius tried to concentrate on what Harry was saying but his speech was punctuated by the muffled sounds of the asylum, talking, laughter, the reprimanding tone of staff and the odd piercing scream.

The doctor nodded in the direction of the noise and the nurse walked off to attend to the ruckus. ‘The asylum, of course, caters for the insane, as well as those with debilitating illnesses such as consumption. The homeless also make up our numbers although we've made some progress in training them to help around the institution. Our finances are very much dependent on the generous donations –'

‘And the rehabilitation of my niece?'

The doctor frowned at the interruption. ‘As I explained when we last met, I fear the years with her abductors have quite removed any trace of her early life. Philomena shows no recollection of and no interest in normal society. There have been other cases of Indian captives being quite ruined by their experiences and I fear that your niece falls into this category.'

‘Are you saying that there is absolutely no chance of her ever leading a normal life?'

‘She has lived in the wilds for over twenty years, Mr Wade. The young girl you remember doesn't exist anymore. She is one of them, not one of us.'

Aloysius stepped, dispirited, into a small but comfortable sitting room. He noticed immediately what his monies were paying for and was cheered by the normality that the room suggested. A cloth-covered table with two chairs was positioned against a far wall while a settee filled another corner and provided a cosy nook, with its plush cushions and cream shawl draped over an arm. A bookshelf held a selection of titles, otherwise the room was quite plain apart from a painting of a woodland scene, a number of newspapers and a window, a barred window.

‘Philomena and her daughter spend much of their time either walking the length of the sitting room or gazing at the view beyond.' The doctor selected a key from a collection on a brass ring and unlocked the adjoining bedroom door. ‘Their bedroom is windowless and quite dark,' Dr Fitzgerald explained, his hand on the doorknob.

Aloysius swallowed. The years were dissolving. In seconds Ginny's daughter, Joseph's eldest child, would be standing before him.

‘Acquiescence is rewarded and opposition not tolerated,' the doctor stated. ‘They have learnt well enough during the last week what the consequences are should they not obey my commands, do harm to their surroundings or clothing or not eat the food provided.'

Aloysius wondered at the absolute detachment required for Harry to treat his patients. ‘Surely compensation must be given in my niece's case.'

The doctor gestured at the sitting room. ‘That, I believe, has already been given, although I am not averse to your niece being firmly reminded of the society she was born into.' He knocked once on the door. ‘Shall we?' He opened the door, and two women appeared from within a gloomy interior. Aloysius stared at the elder of the two. She blinked at the brightness, averting her gaze until she slowly grew used to the daylight. Aloysius noted a whiff of something musky, potently feminine, and then she was staring at him, intently. This, then, was Philomena.

His niece was tall and slight, yet shapely, strong yet womanly. He saw a resemblance to his brother but it was Ginny who stood before him. The extraordinary silver of her hair, the hazel eyes tinged with green and gold, the perfect symmetry of a remarkably beautiful face.

‘One has to wonder how such a creature remained undiscovered for so long. But then she did not come to us like this.'

Aloysius barely heard the doctor. Philomena was dressed in the fashion of the day, a tightly fitted long-sleeved bodice and a bustle that supported a profusion of drapery, frills, swags and ribbons. Her silver hair, such a singular feature of her mother, was artfully arranged, with a fashionable frizz of curls highlighting a broad, intelligent forehead and startlingly perceptive eyes. For the briefest of moments Aloysius believed that he was a bachelor again and it was Ginny who stood before him, such was the resemblance. He moved forward, his hands outstretched.

‘Philomena, it is me, your Uncle Aloysius. You are home, my dear girl.'

Philomena shadowed the wall, avoiding eye contact, while a dull-eyed, dark-haired girl loitered by the bedroom door.

‘Can she not understand me at all?' Aloysius asked helplessly.

‘I was told that she speaks a mix of Mexican and Apache. Apparently the Indian scouts that assisted with the bringing of Geronimo's band back to the reservation said that she also spoke and understood some English, but I think they misunderstood for I have not heard one single comprehensible word pass her lips since arrival.'

Philomena moved awkwardly in her gown. She walked about the cramped room as if constrained, her strong, brown hands plucked at the corsetry beneath, fidgeted with the pale green silk that was already torn about the high neckline. Aloysius noted that her hair had come undone at the back and that the length of it varied as if it had been roughly hacked at.

‘It usually takes two women to dress her,' Harry advised. ‘Today, however, she seems a little more subdued. I have been at pains to explain her situation in the hopes of forging some form of communication and have already advised her, on a number of occasions, that her daughter must return to the reservation, that there is no place for half-breeds in polite society.'

Aloysius was aghast. ‘But why would you say such a thing, especially when a decision is yet to be made?'

‘You told me not three days ago of the concerns your family members have, particularly your wife. I am not surprised and, good intentions aside, Mr Wade, we both know that common-sense must take precedent. Anyway, it doesn't matter. I'd hoped to illicit a response, any response, but your niece is beyond communicating with.'

As they spoke Philomena strode towards the window and gave a single thump with a fist to the glass pane.

Aloysius flinched.

‘Yes, and she has quite a temper, although at times I wonder if it is for show.'

The woman's shoulders rose and fell in anger, she pressed her skull against the glass and then turned towards the two men. The doctor was ignored. Aloysius believed that it was he she searched for, not as a loving niece might seek a long-lost uncle but as an object of derision. Philomena sensed that he was the reason she had come to this place and she stared at him with a fierce arrogance.

‘I thought perhaps that if she saw these …' With some apprehension Aloysius took the miniatures of his brother and Ginny from his suit coat and sat them on the table. ‘They are of her parents.'

Philomena watched his movements with interest, and then crossed to the table.

‘They are your parents, Philomena. Your mother died in childbirth and your father was murdered by the same Indians who abducted you.' Aloysius took a step towards her.

The doctor restrained him. ‘Let her process this news, Mr Wade.'

‘Was she with Geronimo?' Aloysius asked quietly. ‘In the capacity of husband and wife?'

The doctor shrugged. ‘Only Philomena can tell you that. And maybe it is something best not to know.'

The woman poked a finger at the family images sitting on the table. For a moment Aloysius imagined her remembering and running to the safety of his arms. Instead she backed away slowly, almost regretfully, her capable hands pressed firmly on the silk of her gown.

‘Nothing,' Aloysius muttered. ‘I was so sure …'

Philomena spoke gibberish to her silent daughter before turning on Aloysius. Her anger was flinty and hard as stone. Her eyes were moist. She spat on the floor at Aloysius's feet.

‘Behave yourself,' the doctor said sternly, clapping his hands once for order.

Philomena lifted her chin a little higher but did not move. The green silk of her gown stretched and contracted with each rapid intake of breath.

The daughter, a sullen creature with jet black hair and glowering eyes, sat, slump-shouldered, on the floor in the corner of the room. But for the distinctive Wade brow, she would have been unrecognisable to Aloysius. The girl moaned softly. She was heavy with child.

‘And the daughter?'

‘Unreachable. She is at odds with this world. I have done my best since their arrival,' the doctor informed Aloysius, ‘and I dare not increase Philomena's medication.'

‘She is still on bromide?' Aloysius's question hung. What might she be like if not for the calming properties bromide instilled? ‘Is there nothing you can do?'

‘With time, some limited re-education may be possible for Philomena,' the doctor admitted. ‘However, they will never be as you wish them to be.'

‘Surely you can't condemn her after a mere week?'

‘Look at her closely,' Harry replied. ‘Would you wish your niece to be locked away on the slight chance that one day she will respond to your presence, to my questioning?'

‘Philomena, you were with your father and brother when you were attacked. You were seven years old. The Apaches abducted you. Don't you remember that? Don't you remember your mother? My dear girl, I am your uncle, your father's brother. I have waited so long for news of you. There is an entire family waiting for you. Please, dear girl, you must remember.'

Philomena fists were clenched. A slender bicep was contoured by the material she wore. Aloysius noted the taut jawline.

‘I doubt they could ever return home with you,' the doctor explained apologetically. ‘And if they did, Mr Wade, you would have to ask yourself whether the great disturbance that they would inflict upon your household and extended family and friends was in the best interests of everyone involved.' The doctor withdrew a fob watch from his pocket and studied it.

For Aloysius, time had stood still since he entered the asylum, since he crossed the threshold into this room. He wrestled with the doctor's silence. ‘You think she should not have been brought here?'

‘You have done what any other would do in your place, Mr Wade.'

And yet now it seems wrong, Aloysius decided, for it was clear that Philomena was not one of them. ‘What would you do?'

The doctor pocketed the rose-gold watch. ‘The daughter is not far from the end of her term and should remain here until the birthing.'

Philomena's daughter drew an imaginary pattern in the air.

‘It will only be a matter of weeks,' the doctor continued. ‘Certainly, after the birth she should be sent back to the reservation with her mother. That would be in everyone's best interests.'

Aloysius heard a low hissing sound. It was Philomena. He saw the coldness in her eyes and something else, a wildness.

‘And it will give me time to study your niece a little more and, in so doing, allay your fears as to the ultimate decision.' Harry motioned to the door. ‘Let's retire to my office, Mr Wade. A glass of something fortifying is in order, I feel.'

Philomena followed their departure and, as the door shut, Aloysius caught a glimpse of her moving to the window, her fingers pulled at the pins and combs dressing her hair.