Chapter 15
It took several hours to drive from Chicago to Zionsville, a little town located northwest of Indianapolis.
They covered endless miles of flatlands, rolling hills, patchwork fields, and some scattered forests, with Fern squeezed between her mother and father in the backseat of the Nash Touring, and Mr. Carlson behind the wheel in his fine cap and suit.
He even wore a pair of black driving gloves for the journey despite the heat.
The windows were rolled down, a good breeze bringing in the scents of grass, fresh manure, and diesel, along with particles of dust and grit, which built up on their clothes and skin.
There was little conversation between the three of them; there wasn’t really anything to say.
She’d agreed to look around Young Acres; her parents were content about it.
In fact, Fern was surprised her father had agreed to go with them. She’d have thought he’d delegate the duty of bringing Fern on a tour to her mother. That he’d have more important things to do than take a day away from the city to walk around a farm for the deformed.
They arrived late in the afternoon, and Mrs. Crane met them outside the main doors to the big, rambling, red-brick Young Estate.
A stone plaque had been set within the brick, over the entrance’s mantelpiece, naming the place.
The grounds were clean and well-kept, and the superintendent smiled often, appearing how Fern imagined a warm grandmother would.
They only saw a handful of the residents, but they wore regular clothing, not uniforms, and seemed to be roaming freely.
A pair of young women in the garden didn’t appear deformed in any way, though when one of them got to her feet from weeding a bed of cucumbers, one shoulder drooped significantly.
Her back had a large hump. The other woman helped her walk to another garden row, this one of feathery carrot tops.
“This is a home for men and women, and boys and girls, alike,” Mrs. Crane said when they came across a young boy with an expansive, red splotch over the skin on half his face and upper neck—a birthmark.
Another boy he was with, a little older, smiled and waved happily at them.
His eyes were set wide, and his small nose appeared flattened.
“Up to what age are the residents?” her father asked. Whenever he spoke or asked a question, Mrs. Crane would stand at attention and firm her voice a little more than when Fern or her mother asked something.
“Our youngest resident is six months old, and our oldest is sixty-seven,” she answered. “We are a family here at Young Acres, comprised of many generations.”
It sounded nice, Fern supposed, as did being a part of a family that might understand what it was to be different.
As they toured, they learned that the younger residents attended school, and many of the teachers were residents themselves.
This was a working farm, which sold beef, cheese, milk, and eggs.
Residents were expected to work, if they were able-bodied and old enough: in the kitchen, on the farm, in the school, or even in Mrs. Crane’s office.
Some of the more fortunate residents went into town, three miles south of the estate, to work at positions there.
One resident was employed as a driver to transport those who went into town regularly.
With every corner of the property that they walked, Fern’s mother’s smile grew more brilliant.
The judge raised his eyebrows, as though impressed.
Fern saw the beauty of Young Acres, and she recognized a well-oiled machine where people were content and accepted.
A surprisingly eager part of her wanted to be happy here too.
But with slowly spreading comprehension, Fern knew what this place would really be: an enlarged version of her turret. A place to tuck herself away from the rest of the world. A place to hide. Could she really be happy by hiding away as she’d done her whole life?
Their heels tread over the crushed stone of the driveway as they made their way back toward the car. Mr. Carlson was buffing the hood of the Nash even though overhead, gray clouds promised to drop rain soon.
“Well, I’m very impressed,” her father said. “Fern? What do you think?”
She didn’t want to insult Mrs. Crane, who was so clearly proud of the little world she managed here. Fern smiled tightly and clasped her hands behind her back. “It’s a lovely spot.”
The superintendent practically glowed from the compliment.
“Good, good,” her father said. “Then I suggest a trial run. Fern will stay on for the week.”
She spun toward him. “Stay? For the week?”
Her mother’s eyes were wide but not surprised. She watched Fern cautiously, apprehensively.
“What better way to know for certain if you like it? A tour isn’t enough,” he replied.
“I couldn’t agree more,” Mrs. Crane said. “We have a room ready for you, Miss Adair. The others are excited to meet you.”
So, she’d known to prepare a room in advance. Disappointment settled like a log in the pit of Fern’s stomach. Her mother fluttered her lashes and grinned as if she were greeting a guest for one of her Saturday dinners.
“I think it’s a wonderful idea, and you’ve seen how beautiful this property is. Mrs. Crane will take good care of you, darling.”
This had been their plan all along. Get Fern to agree to a tour but secretly plan to leave her here for the week. She stared at them, her eyes burning with unshed tears.
“I don’t have my things. How can I stay?”
Her father snapped his fingers. “Carlson.”
The driver went around to the trunk of the car. When he retrieved her brown leather valise and came to set it down by her feet, Fern wished the ground would split open, swallow her, and seal itself up again. Even their driver had known she would not be returning to Chicago with her parents.
“Margie packed everything you will need,” her mother said brightly.
Fern’s throat closed off. “You said it was just a visit, Mother.”
She folded her hands together in front of her waist. “Your father thinks it’s for the best. You were willing to have a look; now it only makes sense that you be willing to try it out for a time.”
“You tricked me,” Fern said, her voice breaking.
Mrs. Crane cleared her throat. “Perhaps I should leave you to discuss things.”
“No need,” the judge snapped. “Don’t be overdramatic, Fern. This place is perfect for you. One week. If you’re not happy after one week, Carlson will fetch you.”
Fern hated him right then. She hated all of them.
Even their driver, who had never been anything but kind to her and now was an accomplice.
She was an adult. She could make her own decisions, and yet this one was being foisted upon her.
Pitching a fit and making a scene would be childish, even though it’s what she wanted to do.
They were treating her like a child, but she refused to act like one.
“One week,” she said, blinking back her tears. Born of frustration, not fear, though her parents wouldn’t know that. One week, and then she would leave. Although she wouldn’t be returning to South Woodlawn. Fern didn’t know where she would go just yet, but it wouldn’t be there.
Her mother kissed her cheek as Fern stood still, unresponsive. Judge Adair got into the car first, and after another encouraging smile, his wife followed him.
Mrs. Crane waved as the Nash pulled forward and drove toward the road, which was lined with leafy trees, showing their silver backs in the breeze.
One week. She could get through one week here.
The room Fern was assigned was small but tidy, with a view of the apple orchard behind the main house.
She couldn’t clear the stone lodged in the base of her throat that first evening, so when Mrs. Crane introduced her to some of the other girls and women on her floor, she only nodded in greeting.
Their names entered one ear and dissipated out the other almost immediately.
The girl with the hump she’d seen in the garden earlier had a room diagonal to Fern’s, and a blind woman lived right across the hall.
Another woman who lived on her floor but didn’t appear to have anything wrong with her at all, knocked on Fern’s door to tell her dinner was being served.
She wasn’t hungry, but as she sat at one of the three round tables in the large dining room, there were so many eyes lifting to get a glimpse of her that she ate every last morsel on her plate, if only to avoid conversation.
The food might have been tasty, but as she lay in her slim bed that night, looking out the window, she couldn’t remember.
How relieved they all must be, back at home, to have her out of the house, out from underfoot, off their minds and consciences.
What did it matter really? No one would miss her.
No one would wonder where Fern had gone off to.
Cal, whatever he was doing, wouldn’t wonder either.
She was nothing but a disaster—and Buchanan’s sister—to him.
The next morning, Mrs. Crane led Fern to the library, which was housed in the east wing of the main house. There were other buildings around the property, including a greenhouse and a well house, several workshops, and a garage for the two autos they kept for making runs into town.
“I’ve been told you’re an avid reader,” Mrs. Crane said as they entered a dark and musty room. It was about the size of the dining room back home, with shelves on every wall and a few freestanding stacks.
“I am,” Fern managed to reply. Her throat hurt from the first few words she’d spoken since the afternoon before.
One week. Just a few more days.