The House of Memory (Pluto's Snitch Book 2) Page 8

  “What’s your name?” I asked again. “I’m Raissa.”

  Instead of answering, she cut and ran, her thin legs churning. She disappeared behind a cistern, and I stopped. Chasing her might damage her. If she was a patient, I didn’t want to terrify her. I would ask Camilla who she might be.

  I returned to the front, avoiding the sad Hygeia as she poured her water. The lobby had filled with vacant-eyed patients who sat passively, watching me walk by. No one attempted to talk to me, though several looked as if they might cry. I couldn’t allow myself to imagine what they were thinking or feeling.

  I passed by a table of four women, their hair a fright, their nightgowns dingy. I forced a smile. “Hello.” I nodded politely and walked past.

  “Help her.” One of the women spoke just as I’d left them behind. I stopped and turned to face the table. They stared into space, not seeming to notice me at all. Yet one had spoken.

  “Help who?” I asked, stepping closer. “Tell me and I’ll try.”

  They didn’t move or acknowledge my presence. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the brunette girl standing at the corridor. Before I could react, she disappeared down the hallway. When I got to the corridor, there was no trace of her. Though I listened for footsteps, I heard nothing as I found my way back to Camilla.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Camilla sat in a straight-backed chair in the small cubicle that was her room. She’d returned there, just as Nurse Brady had ordered, to wait patiently. I found it difficult to believe this young woman had ever defied her mother or anyone else in authority. She wasn’t a flapper by any definition I’d ever heard.

  I told her about the young girl who flitted about the hospital.

  “That’s Connie Shelton,” she said. “I’ve been looking for her, but they told me she went home.”

  “Connie’s a patient?”

  “Was. She went home.”

  What was the proper phrasing to ask what mental illness someone suffered from? “How did Connie come to be at Bryce?”

  “Her parents were killed in a fire, and a neighbor accused her of setting it. A few days later she tried to set the neighbor on fire.”

  “Oh.” It was a pathetically weak response.

  “There’s more to the story,” Camilla said softly. “Connie’s father died when she was a child. Her stepfather forced her to . . . do things.”

  I knew exactly what she meant. “That poor girl.”

  “It gets worse,” Camilla warned. “The neighbor knew what was happening in that house and refused to help Connie. He held the common belief that women are chattel, meant to serve the needs of the man.”

  I nearly staggered, then sat, trying to conceal the murderous rage I felt. The young girl I saw, barely coming into her maturity, had been used by the people who should have protected her. I didn’t want to think about such a thing. My childhood had been so safe and secure. It had given me the strength to endure loss and heartbreak.

  “The court sent Connie here. They view her as dangerous, but she was only trying to survive. The neighbor told the court she could stay with him, and so they sent her there. She has no other relatives willing to take her. Well, her room and board came with a price tag.”

  “Did she set the fire that killed her mother and stepfather?”

  “She doesn’t remember doing it. The neighbor told the law officers that he saw her do it, but he could be lying. He could have done it. He told the court she acted like she was in a trance.” Camilla scoffed. “I have some sympathy for her in that regard.”

  My interest was immediately stirred. “I’d like to talk with her.”

  “They let her out yesterday.”

  “But I just saw her.” If it was the same girl. “She was wearing a yellow dress, and she had long, dark-brown hair. She was outside behind the rose garden and then in the front of the administration building. I tried, but I couldn’t catch up with her.”

  “That sounds like her, but she left yesterday morning. I saw them leave. I was looking out the window.” She went to the window and pulled back the drapes, revealing the bars across the opening. This was a hospital, but it was also a kind of prison.

  “If she has no relatives, who came for her?”

  “Nurse Brady said her uncle had finally agreed to take her in and provide medical care for her. I couldn’t find out if she’ll be tried for the death of her parents or not. Maybe they decided she wasn’t responsible because she is ill.” She returned to her chair. “I wonder who you saw. Most of the patients are older than I am. Not many younger girls here.”

  “I’ll ask at the desk,” I said. “Now, tell me a little about David. I met him yesterday, and he seems completely devoted to you.”

  Camilla’s body relaxed, and she smiled. “He’s a good man. I love him with all my heart. He’s nothing like Mama. He wants me to be safe, of course, but he also respects that I can do things on my own.”

  “Like visit Zelda in New York City?”

  She nodded. “He knows I want to work in the bank before I start a family, and he agrees. He wants me to share that part of his life, like true partners.”

  I was surprised. Most men of David Simpson’s social standing wouldn’t consider having a wife who worked. Women were the domestic helpmates, to use Maude Granger’s word. Men worked, controlled the finances and all decisions about the family. The exceptions were the women like Maude, who’d terrorized their husbands into compliance. And now the modern women who wanted to shoulder responsibility and have a say in what happened in their homes and families and the workplace. The Great War had taken my husband, a man I missed every day of my life, but it had also given women the impetus to demand equality.

  “Do you think you can help me?” Camilla asked.

  “We’ll certainly try.” Camilla looked drained, and I wanted to explore Bryce a bit. “I have to find Reginald, but we’ll return tomorrow,” I told her as I picked up my clutch.

  Camilla put a hand on my arm to stop me. “Do you sense anything? Wrong with me, I mean?” Her confidence faltered. “Like a dark spirit or demon inside me?”

  “Not at all,” I assured her. “I don’t sense anything untoward or dangerous in the least.”

  “Thank you.” She came to me and hugged me tightly.

  Camilla was petite, and I put my arms around her, feeling more protective than ever. If David Simpson were somehow playing her false, I’d make him sorry.

  I left her standing in the middle of her stark room, so small and so alone. She held her shoulders back and stood erect and lifted her hand in farewell. She was strong. Maybe stronger than I was. I hurried down the hallway, my leather-soled shoes clacking along the wooden boards.

  When I reached the lobby, Reginald was there, still under the watchful eye of Nurse Brady. He thanked her profusely for her assistance in the tour, and we started out the front door. Reginald had called a car to drive us into Tuscaloosa, where we’d booked a hotel room for the night.

  “I need a moment,” I said to Reginald when I felt certain Nurse Brady had gone about her duties. “Please hold the car when it arrives.”

  “What are you up to?” he asked.

  “Checking on another patient. Connie Shelton. I saw her today, but Camilla insists she left with her uncle yesterday morning.”

  “I’ll hold the car,” Reginald said.

  A few minutes later I was in the business office, wearing a smile. “Can you tell me how to get in touch with Connie Shelton? She was friends with Camilla, who asked me to deliver a letter. If I had Connie’s address, I could mail it.”

  The clerk barely looked up. She went to a file cabinet and riffled through some tabs before she pulled up a manila folder. “Says here Connie Shelton left with her uncle, James Patrickson of Decatur, Alabama.”

  “Is there an address?” I asked, notebook and pencil in hand.

  She gave me the address; there was no phone number, which wasn’t uncommon for rural areas.

  “Connie left with him y
esterday?” I had doubts about this good-hearted uncle’s miraculous appearance.

  “Yes, he signed her out. He had a form from the Montgomery police chief saying it was okay to release her to her uncle’s custody and care.” She handed the form to me.

  “Yes, of course. It’s good a relative came to help her.” I’d believe it when I checked it out.

  “We get fire starters sometimes,” the woman confided. “The doctors say it’s a compulsion that can’t be controlled. Except with surgery. But the law said to turn her loose, so we did it. She’ll be back after she chars a few more people.”

  So Connie was another candidate for Dr. Perkins’s knife. “I see. Thank you.” I returned the folder and hurried outside before Nurse Brady discovered me poking into files.

  Reginald waited beside the hired car and helped me into the backseat. “Did you find the information you wanted?”

  “I did, and I’m afraid Connie Shelton may be dead. What did you discover?”

  “Dr. Perkins has free rein at the hospital to conduct his surgeries. The board governing the hospital believes he’s on the verge of finding a cure for mental illness so that the residents at Bryce Hospital can be returned to their communities, docile and no longer a danger to themselves or others. He’s developed a less invasive procedure that doesn’t require removal of the top of the skull. It’s very hush-hush. A miracle treatment, or so Nurse Brady believes.”

  “Docile and no longer able to care for themselves or make a decision or work. If their families won’t care for them, what will happen to them?”

  “They’ll live on the streets or wherever they can find shelter, but they won’t be a drain on the state budget.”

  The car pulled down the long lane of trees and turned toward the river town of Tuscaloosa. A breeze blew through the open windows of the car. The day was fading into a beautiful sunset. I glanced behind us and viewed Bryce Hospital. A young woman, barely older than a girl, stood beside the fountain of Hygiea. The wind ruffled the skirt of her yellow dress and her brunette curls. She lifted a hand in farewell, turned, and was lost from view.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The Burchfield Hotel was a Tuscaloosa highlight, a three-story brick building on the corner of Third Street and Greensboro Avenue near the train depot. It was well known for its fine dining. Zelda had arranged our rooms, and our bags were at the front desk, waiting to be delivered. For the sake of propriety, Reginald’s room and mine were separated by a long hall. An independent woman, even a widow, was not above suspicion when traveling with a man. It amused me that hotel management felt it was its duty to protect my honor.

  I tipped the bellboy when he put my bag down and waited until the door clicked behind him. I fell across the bed, exhausted. I hadn’t realized how tense I’d been. Relaxing into the soft mattress, I took in the room. The floral wallpaper was cheerful, and the sturdy furniture serviceable and clean. The dresser and highboy were well crafted, but they were poor imitations of the antique pieces at Caoin House. Still, the room was comfortable and pleasant.

  After dinner with Reginald, I intended to come back to this room, take a hot bath, and crawl into bed. Tomorrow we had to go back to Bryce Hospital. It would be another grueling day.

  A light tap at my door told me Reginald was ready to go down to dinner. I forced myself off the bed and met him in the hallway. The long corridor that led to an elevator was dark, though electric lights helped dispel the gloom. Cherry wainscoting covered the lower portion of the hall with red-and-gold-patterned wallpaper on the upper portion.

  “I’m starving,” Reginald said as he offered his arm. “Shall we eat in the hotel dining room or venture out?”

  “I’m happy to stay here.” I had no desire to leave the hotel. In fact, room service sounded like heaven. Were it not for leaving Reginald alone in a strange city, I would have gladly gone without dinner for the chance to sleep.

  We took the elevator down to the first floor, and I stepped off the creaking contraption with some relief. I wanted to learn about all the modern conveniences of city life, but riding three floors above the ground in a box held by cables and wires made me anxious. Stairs were perfectly adequate for my needs.

  The hotel dining room, lit by beautiful crystal chandeliers, bustled with waiting staff. Hotel guests and locals sat at white-linen-covered tables as Negro men brought drinks and menus, served the food, and cleared the tables. White waiters took the orders. The maître d’ showed us to a table in the back of the dining room with an excellent view of the entire room. Tired though I was, I enjoyed people watching. Folks who were out of town—whether for business or pleasure—had a tendency to feel anonymous. The proper behavior imposed by neighbors and community went out the window.

  My gaze fell on a young woman at a table with an older man. She looked to be about sixteen, but it was impossible to tell because of the heavy makeup and provocative dress she wore. Her V-neck plunged low, and a long strand of pearls enticed the eye to her cleavage. Her kohled eyes were languid, suggestive, sensual. Her dark hair was cut short, and the marcel waves showed time and expense. Judging by her behavior, she was old enough to know the ways of men.

  The tablecloth had been pulled back by the gentleman’s girth, and I could clearly see her foot, free of a shoe, rubbing his leg. Her painted toes crept higher and higher. He liked it very much, judging from the way he leaned toward her. His hand moved beneath the table, and he ran his fingers up her thigh.

  Reginald raised his eyebrows. “Learning some new maneuvers?”

  “I admire a woman who knows how to get her way,” I whispered. “Though she doesn’t look much older than a girl. I wonder why her parents let her marry a man so much older.”

  Reginald sighed. “Oh, she’ll get everything she wants from him before the night is over, plus some hard cash. Youth is an asset when it comes to selling flesh. In New Orleans the young prostitutes, male and female, are easy to find. Some no older than twelve. They do what’s necessary to survive.”

  “She’s a prostitute?”

  “The oldest profession, or so they say.”

  My impulse was to rise and . . . what? Intervene? What help could I offer the young woman?

  “Should we call the police?”

  “The cops would arrest the girl and let the man go. Do you really want to punish her? I suspect her life is hard enough.”

  Without being obvious, I studied the girl. She hadn’t touched her food, but the portly man was wolfing down a thick steak and potatoes. He hadn’t noticed that she wasn’t eating, only drinking. Fury at his cavalier attitude toward the young woman made me want to walk over to his table and slap him as hard as I could.

  “Don’t do it.” Reginald put his fork down. “Don’t.”

  “Do what?” I clenched my jaw so hard I had to force the words out.

  “Don’t go over there and slug him. You’ll be the one in trouble. If you break this up, he’ll find another girl. You know that.”

  “He’s a swine.”

  “He is.” Reginald nudged my wineglass toward me. “Take a sip.”

  I did as he ordered.

  “Raissa, the world is unfair. For women. For men like me. For the poor. For the Negroes. For so many. When you can make a difference, by God, intervene. This isn’t an instance where you can make a difference.”

  “It bothers me.” I thought about the women I’d seen at Carlton McKay’s private club in Mobile. I hadn’t gone ’round the bend with anger over them. They were a different kettle of fish, the difference being that they were grown women. They had a sense of contentment, even enjoyment, about their lives. The girl across the room with the fat man looked . . . dead. The idea of moving beneath that man would take the joy out of life, but I couldn’t see that she was being forced. It was her choice, yet it seemed so wrong.

  “Much in life bothers me, but I don’t run around punching people in the face. By the way, if you do go over there and start a fight, kick him in the balls. Hard. I’ll go your bai
l for the pleasure of watching.”

  Reginald signaled a waiter. When the man arrived, Reginald whispered in his ear. He pulled the forty dollars he’d made gambling on the paddle-wheel out of his billfold and slipped it to the waiter, who left with a curt nod.

  “Zelda has covered our meals and expenses,” I reminded him.

  “That was for the floor show.”

  I frowned, but he nodded toward the waiter he’d just tipped, who came from the bar carrying a trayful of drinks. Just as he approached the table where the young prostitute sat, he stumbled. He tried to regain his feet but failed, plunging headlong into the table. The drinks flew across the expanse of linen directly into the man’s face. A wedge of lime rested on one shoulder, and broken crystal cluttered the floor around the soaked diner’s chair.

  “Oh, sir, I am so sorry.” The waiter dabbed at various stains on the man’s chest. “I apologize, Mr. Wilton. Let me help you to your room, and I’ll take your suit to be cleaned immediately.”

  For a moment Mr. Wilton refused to move. He sat as still as stone, then pushed back his chair so vehemently that it fell over. All conversation in the dining room had stopped.

  “I’ll have your job,” Mr. Wilton said to the waiter. “You clumsy baboon. You won’t work here again.”

  “Please, sir, it was an accident. I tripped.” The waiter gathered more napkins to dab at Mr. Wilton’s dripping front. “Let me help you to your room. I’ll have these clothes cleaned and back to you by tomorrow morning.”

  “Get out of my sight.”

  The waiter hurried away. Wilton turned on the young girl. “Don’t just sit there. Get up and help me.”

  The girl sat at the table, her gaze on her untouched plate. Her hands gripped the edges of her chair.

  The maître d’ rushed over and spoke soothingly to Mr. Wilton. “This will all be taken care of. We apologize. I saw what happened, and Burton tripped. It was a terrible accident. Your meal is, of course, on the hotel. I’ll have something else prepared and sent to your room while your clothes are being cleaned.” He led Mr. Wilton away.