Chapter 14
The house had been tomb-like since dinner, but at midnight, as Fern crept downstairs and into her mother’s study, it felt like the ground had rent apart and swallowed it entirely.
Dunning. Her father had been angry, but surely, he hadn’t meant it.
He wouldn’t have his daughter committed to an institution just for defying him.
For accusing him of graft. Fern’s mother would never stand for it.
Buchanan wouldn’t either. Would he? The disgrace of such a thing would be irreparable to their family name.
But he had the power to do it. That much, Fern knew to be true.
He was serious about Young Acres. Fern’s mother would have to contact them in the morning. It might call itself a retreat, a haven, a farm, but it was still an institution—just one that was better equipped than the insane asylum here in Chicago.
At twenty-four, Fern was an adult, legally. She could leave. She could live on her own. But how would she support herself? All she’d known was her turret and her isolation, the protective bubble that kept her away from the rest of the world. The world she’d always been told would never accept her.
She couldn’t get a job as a secretary, like Bessy—no one would hire her to be the first face a person saw at their business. She had no skills to run a machine, like the ones at Harris Looms.
Cal. Fern couldn’t stop thinking about him. She’d lain in bed, staring at the ceiling or out the window, for hours since leaving the dining room. Now, the hour was obscenely late, but she couldn’t wait until morning when the newspapers were delivered to find out whether the hit had been successful.
The small Tiffany lamp on her mother’s desk buzzed with the electric feed as she switched it on.
The candlestick telephone shone in the light.
Fern dug out the exchange directory. There were four columns of subscribers with the last name Levy.
Knowing the street name was her saving grace.
She ran her finger down the columns, finally finding it.
She lifted the receiver and dialed the operator. Her breath shortened as she waited for someone in the Levy household to answer. Impatience and remorse for calling so late crossed through her. On the fifth ring, the line picked up.
“Levy residence,” a breathless voice answered. A woman.
“Hello, I’m sorry for calling so late, but is this Hannah speaking?”
“It is,” she replied after a startled moment. “Who is this?”
“I brought Cal to you earlier in the evening.”
“Oh! Yes, of course. Fern, isn’t it?”
Hannah’s bright tone fed her hope.
“That’s right. I…well, I was calling because I wanted to know if Cal…if he’s all right?”
“I wish I’d thought to ask for your last name and extension—I would have let you know. Yes, he’s going to be fine. He was hit twice, but my father said neither of the bullets struck any major arteries or organs, and he was able to extract them.”
The knot in Fern’s stomach unraveled, and the sensation nearly made her feel ill.
“Fern? Are we still connected?”
She blinked, realizing she’d gone silent. “Yes. I’m just relieved is all. Is he still with you?”
A fuzzy clicking sound over the line accentuated her own beat of silence. Then, “Rodney took him right after he woke up. He was a bit groggy from the chloroform, but my father said that as long as they were careful, the stitches would hold.”
Of course. He belonged with his brother, didn’t he? Even though Dr. Levy’s home had felt safer. More…normal.
Fern’s silence was awkward, and though she felt bad about it, she also couldn’t fix it.
“He asked where you were,” Hannah offered.
“Did he?”
“And if you were all right. He seemed angry, maybe a little worried Rodney might have seen you, but I told him I sent you home before he arrived.”
Cal’s worried expression could probably be mistaken as anger.
Fern could picture it well as she stared at her mother’s blotter, and the telephone wire coiled around her fingers.
The way his forehead would smooth and soften, his brows released from whatever tension that kept them almost constantly pulled together. His eyes, a depthless brown.
“Thank you,” Fern said, a little breathless still. “I’m sorry to call so late, Miss Levy.”
She laughed. “Just Hannah is fine since I’m calling you Fern. And it’s nothing. My father gets calls at all hours of the night.”
Fern found she liked Hannah very much and suddenly wished she would have the chance to see her again. But their only connection was Cal, and besides, it seemed she would be in Zionsville soon.
They said goodbye, and Fern replaced the receiver on the hook. The Tiffany lamp’s bulb hissed a little when she switched it off. The sound wouldn’t have been noticeable in the light of day, but at night, so many things were clearer. All senses, heightened. At night, more things seemed possible too.
After a few hours of sleep, Fern was awake again as the sun slid up over the lake’s horizon. Not a single tear had slipped from her eyes the day before or during the night, not even after the announcement that she would be sent off to Young Acres. Yet her eyes burned when she woke.
She couldn’t imagine living on a farm in the countryside, with other deformed or scarred people, children and adults alike. Sure, she wouldn’t be someone to stare at any longer…but what would she do there?
What could she do here?
In whatever fantasyland her mother lived in, she’d envisioned Fern marrying and setting up a home, just as she had. Hadn’t some part of her, however deeply buried, known how far-fetched that vision was?
The blame didn’t rest on her mother alone; Fern had lived in a fantasyland herself, never thinking about or planning for a future.
In her turret, time stood still. She’d been lying to herself and avoiding making any real plans.
So perhaps there was something attractive about Young Acres.
At least she’d be exchanging her turret for a new room, a new home, a new path forward, whatever it may be.
Maybe she should have felt excitement. Instead, her chest ached.
A knot formed in her throat. She wished it had been her idea to go to Young Acres.
She wished she’d asked her parents to send her, rather than be told she must leave home and go.
If they’d expressed hesitation at sending Fern away, rather than anticipation, then maybe it wouldn’t hurt so much.
What would Cal say? Would he think it was a good idea? One thing she knew for certain—he wouldn’t sugarcoat his opinion.
Breakfast was served, but Fern was the only one who arrived to eat. They were all avoiding her.
The last few times she’d left the house, nothing good had come of it, so she walked onto the back lawn.
The gardener had clipped the grass in diagonal lines, and the flower beds were erupting in reds and whites and pinks.
A small fountain burbled at the end of the crushed stone path. Everything was so subdued, so cautious.
No one had forbidden her to leave, and really, she was an adult and able to make up her own mind about where she went—but the lawn still seemed to have an invisible wall around it.
No, nothing good had come out of her few trips beyond the perimeter of her home, but at least she’d gone out.
Seen parts of the city that she’d only read about and looked at on maps.
Her heart had beat wildly, and from more than just running up and down the main staircase.
As illogical and dangerous as it was, Fern wanted to see Cal, just to make certain he really was okay.
But going to the Lion’s Den was out of the question.
Her stomach roiled just thinking about stepping foot inside Mama Rosa’s front door and seeing Rodney.
Cal would be furious too. He wouldn’t want her there.
She spent the rest of the day bringing up all the reasons she shouldn’t see Cal whenever her mind gravitated toward the idea of it.
The whole next day as well. When no one came up to the turret to talk to her about Young Acres, Fern started to hope that nothing would come of the threat.
But then, at breakfast the following morning, her mother appeared and dashed that hope away.
“Mrs. Crane, the superintendent at Young Acres, has approved your placement there,” she said as Fern was pouring coffee from the silver carafe. She spooned in sugar, her heart clamping down on the next pump of blood. “They will be ready for you next week.”
The bite of toast in Fern’s mouth turned to sawdust.
“I don’t think I want to go, Mother,” she said before sipping from a glass of water.
“That might not matter,” she replied, taking her chair at the table. Though she sounded tired, the stare she gave Fern was alert and solemn. “Your father won’t have you in this house any longer.”
The excuse rang hollow. “You brought up Young Acres before any of what happened at Harris Looms. These last few weeks haven’t inspired you to send me away. Not being able to find a beau for me at any of those ridiculous dinner parties inspired you.”
Her mother set down her coffee cup with a clatter. “That’s not fair. It’s not true.”
“Then maybe you just want me out of your hair.” Her mother opened her mouth to reply, but Fern continued, “Whatever the case, it isn’t because of my odd behavior these last few weeks.”
“It has been odd,” she agreed. Fern saw and heard her mother’s confusion and realized her father hadn’t shared anything with her mother regarding the pictures Rod had blackmailed him with. If he had, she wouldn’t appear so confounded. She’d tell Fern exactly why she needed to go to Young Acres.
“You’ve been associating with dangerous men, Fern” she whispered, lowering her voice in case a nosy cook was listening at the door to the kitchen. The shadows of Mrs. Jennaway’s feet could be seen in the gap between the door and the floor.
“I’m not the only one,” Fern replied.
“But you are a woman,” her mother hissed, then took a deep breath. “Your father’s business is his business.”
So, she did know of some of his activities at least.
“He is better equipped to handle the situations that might arise,” she went on, her voice accentuating different words, like equipped and arise. As though trying to make Fern understand, or maybe to convince herself.
Fern didn’t know for certain if her father had encouraged the hit on Cal.
He’d never admit it, not to her, not to anyone, but she did know he despised the Rosetti brothers.
Fern hated one brother but couldn’t find it in her to despise the other.
Even knowing that he wanted revenge on Buchanan for what he’d done to his sister, she couldn’t bring herself to hate Cal.
“I don’t think a place like Young Acres is for me,” Fern said, disappointed in her mother for knowing about her father’s corruption and never saying anything. For acting like it was fine for her, but wrong for Fern, to be associated with someone who was connected to organized crime.
“At least go and see it,” her mother urged. “You can’t make assumptions before visiting there.”
They ate in silence, but in Fern’s mind, there was too much noise. Maybe she should just go and see it. It might be nice. Or she might hate it and refuse to live there.
“It’s not like Dunning, where people are committed?” she asked once she’d finished her plate of eggs and ham.
Her mother looked scandalized, her red lips parting with insult. “Of course not! Fern, really, what must you think of me? To suggest I would have you locked up…” She trailed off, and Fern did feel a little guilty for questioning it.
“All right,” she said, pushing back her chair. “I’ll go see it. Just see it.”
Her mother sat a little taller, and her peeved expression transformed to one of relief. “I’ll arrange for us to go tomorrow, then. I think you’re making a good decision.”
Fern wasn’t certain about any of her decisions lately, but maybe getting out of the city would help silence her disastrous desire to see Cal. Time and distance.
Surely, that was all she needed.