Chapter 22 - The Mercy Cage

The twenty-second chapter of our novel, in which Charlotte awakes in the infirmary to find out one of the girl's has disappeared, and one is no longer alive.

Charlotte- 1900, New York City

Prologue // Chapter 1 // Chapter 2 // Chapter 3 // Chapter 4 // Chapter 5 // Chapter 6 // Chapter 7 // Chapter 8 // Chapter 9 // Chapter 10 // Chapter 11 / Chapter 12 // Chapter 13// Chapter 14 // Chapter 15 // Chapter 16 // Chapter 17 // Chapter 18 // Chapter 19 // Chapter 20 // Chapter 21

I blink my eyes open a few times- the dust had sealed them tightly while I slept. A sigh draws from me when the walls I see are those of this damned house and not my childhood bedroom. I wish to roll over and hide again in sleep, but I am beginning to know better than to linger when others start to move. I feel the other beds stirring, so I stretch and feel my skin assaulted by the scratchy nightgown. This damned place. I carefully flash my eyes around the room- Anne’s bed lay empty. My stomach churns, had I been home I would have had the courage to speak my mind, to defend Anne the way I often defended our clumsy maids or my young cousins when they might act with impropriety. But here…Here I froze. And Anne is gone. Will she be at breakfast? Will she never return? A chill climbs my spine and I shake the thought away as I pull off my sleep-dress and reach for my clothes before I feel eyes on me. We are ladies, aren’t we? Don’t we deserve to change with some privacy? 

I look over to Fannie, she is almost finished getting dressed, and her head hangs heavy. Does she feel guilty, too, for not defending Anne? I can’t place the look on her face, it seems almost empty. Is that how you feel when you are here for too long? It hurts my heart to see someone so kind, so soft like Fannie, carrying a weight that heavy. “Fannie-” I whisper. Fannie lifts her head, startled to hear her name. Our eyes lock, and I mean to ask, “did you sleep alright?” but no sound comes out. Her eyes are so sad. So deeply sad. We just look at one another and share sadness for a moment, until the corner of her mouth twitches (I can’t tell if it was supposed to be a smile or a quiver of the lip) and she pulls her eyes from mine. She resolutely sits and laces her boots. I do the same. 

The rest of the morning moments passed as if very far from me, like I was in the safety of my mind while my body moved through it all in the world. At one point the nuns blared into the room with their chimes that it was time to rise and start work. I suppose we work in the laundry both the mornings and the afternoons, but yesterday I arrived in the morning so I only worked once. Yesterday? Could it only have been yesterday I arrived? How odd. Only since yesterday and I have seen two different girls dragged away- Helen, the girl in the laundry, and then Anne.  The nuns clang their chimes, though most girls are already up with boots tightened. It’s the Lord’s day everyday, and those that sleep are sinners. Upon the whistle, the girls line up to show obedience and I realize again I lag behind. I quickly step forward to join the queue, and then follow the herd of girls down the steps once more to the laundry. The only words Sister Agatha croaks are “Hurry along. With one less, you’ll have more to cover in the time.” I suppose Anne won’t be back today. 

     It seems that the morning laundry is not as blisteringly hot as yesterday in the late afternoon, though still challenging, and inordinately quiet. Not many words were exchanged between the girls, and even fewer glances. Someone named Laura directed me to my task for the day, then went back to her post. My task was ironing with Harriet. The bitch. I put my head down and worked without making eye contact with her in case she chose to rat me out for breathing wrong. I am thankful I was assigned to iron, at any rate- though I only ironed once as a child, my dear lady's maid, Georgina, showed me her eloquent skills in ironing my finest gowns. I remember gasping that she managed to avoid the pearl buttons so deftly. I suppose her tips apply to most fabric, though I erred on the side of caution and made it a point to not hold the iron too long on any sections of the dress. 

     The hum of the fire underscored the morning, and the noises of the laundry submerging and emerging from water. The rollers pressing the water out of the fabric became the ebb and rhythm to the work. I try to count in my head to see how many minutes each garment takes to complete, but my mind wanders and I lose track. It must have been hours at least. How much longer must we continue? Until lunch? I don’t dare ask Harriet. I can practically feel her scowl puncture my cheeks beside me as we work. She is so sour, so vile, that the air around her spoils. I keep my head resolutely down and begin counting once more. That is, until I hear the sounds of heaving close-by. 

Katherine. 

      I snap my head up and see her, doubled-over. She begins to vomit, quite violently, and thankfully, not into a bucket full of patrons’ clothes. Fannie and another girl closeby manage to scrounge an empty bucket for her to heave into. Fannie rubs her back and all eyes dart around the room to see if the sound has attracted one of the Nuns. The other girl that rushed to help her quietly soothes her and implores her to hush. Katherine wretches but nods, trying to do so as quietly as she can. That is when the smell began to penetrate the room. Mixed with the heat of the fire and the steam of the dirty laundry, it is a lethal combination. Other girls stifle gags, though we manage to continue on. Soon enough, Katherine’s nausea has subsided, and she returns to work, spitting into her bucket occasionally. Harriet glances over me a few times. Finally she says, “you know it’s because the bastard is with child?” I choke on my spit as I swallow. Oh god, what do I say? I hate her. But if I don’t respond, I will be the next target, and God knows what will happen. Fannie feels me stiffen from across the room and appears, having concocted a reason to walk over and check in on our ironing and folding. Fannie drops a load of clothes into my bucket to launder and fold and gives me a look I am beginning to know all too well. A warning. I nod, with a “Mhm” and continue to launder and mind my own business. The distraction works, and Harriet scowls to herself, doubling down on her ironing. 

     The hum of the fire persists, how long has it been? My stomach growls even though the air is thick with the smell of sickness still. Mine can’t be the only one, we have been at it for ages.  Suddenly Mary scrambles for a bucket and wretches. Girls near her step away. She wipes the vomit from her mouth with her sleeve as she raises her head, and lunges at Katherine, “You disgusting pig! Look what you did! Do you only think of yourself? Dump that!”she growls, kicking Katherine’s bucket, sloshing it. She returns to rolling the laundry, but not before kicking the bucket further away just as Katherine heaves again, this time all over the cobblestone floor. It spreads. The smell is sickening, and more girls stifle gags. Sister Gertrude rushes in as Katherine finishes retching onto the floor, and smacks her across the cheek. A pathetic whimper escapes her and the wind leaves my lungs. I can hardly breathe waiting to see what will happen to Katherine; Harriet scoffs beside me and across the room Mary chuckles. Little brat and whore that they are. I don’t believe Mary to be more than a nuisance, an obnoxious prankster, but her impeccable timing shames Katherine as Sister Gertrude declares, “No meals today for you, Katherine. You don’t seem to need them. Mop this up this instant.” She covers her nose and leaves as quickly as she appeared. 

     Once Sister Gertrude goes, the whispers begin. I fold a nightgown carefully as the whispers around me intensify, and I overhear the girl Laura say to Victoria, “If they took Anne to solitary… that means…” “There’s only room enough for one,” a girl with wide eyes chimes in. Victoria looks down and then does the sign of the cross. “God, take care of her.” she whispers before returning to her tasks. My mouth agape, Laura looks at me, shrugs, and then returns to her laundry. 

   The pregnant pause of the laundry intensifies. Helen is no longer with us.