The Broken Hours: A Novel of H. P. Lovecraft (23 page)

A movement to my right startled me and I turned to see a young woman stepping through the shrubbery, picking at the twigs in her hair with one hand. She looked up at me in surprise. A white face, plump in a pleasant, full-featured way. Her eyebrows so fine and highly arched that I realized what I’d taken for surprise was merely her natural expression. She wore a nurse’s cap, slightly askew. A white collar poked out from beneath an old black woollen winter coat covered in cat hair which she clutched about her shoulders. Her skirt and stockings and shoes were white also, though on the tip of one shoe, the right one, there was a large brownish stain. I averted my eyes, noticing then that she held a cigarette behind her back.

I’ve startled you,
she said.

Not at all.

I can’t imagine the look I must have had on my face
.

I’m afraid I didn’t notice.

Polite,
she said.

You work here, I take it?

She raised those eyebrows even higher and sighed.
I think I was just deciding.

Difficult morning?

Difficult night. One of those shifts. The ones you hear about in nursing training but believe will never happen to you. Not used to it yet, I guess
.

To what, may I ask?

The nights
, she said. She lifted the cigarette then, with an embarrassed pursing of the lips.
Do you mind?

Not at all.

I don’t think there’s any rule against it, per se. But I don’t really know. There might be. I’ve been wrong about so many things.
She puffed on the cigarette, exhaled.
And one doesn’t like to take chances. You know, right off.

You’re new, then?

Day three.
She tapped ash onto the lawn and ground it down with the toe of her stained shoe.
They tell me it gets better.

Do you believe them?

No
. She laughed humorlessly.
I mean, this is what I signed up for. It’s just, things are so different in theory. On paper. If you know what I mean
.

Yes,
I said.
I think so.

I’m what my mother calls thin-skinned, I’m afraid.

It makes for a good many bruises.

Let me guess
, she said.
You’re the new doctor.

Hardly
. I laughed.
What makes you think so?

Hmm
, she said, tilting her head.
You just have that look about you. Of analyzing things. You know? A good observer, I would say.

I’ve certainly been called worse things.

Me, too. Only a few moments ago.

She laughed ruefully and flicked the ash from her cigarette, looking at me curiously.

I’m visiting someone,
I said, anticipating her question.

Oh. That’s too bad. Visiting hours aren’t until after lunch, I’m afraid. Mornings are for treatments and therapy. Routine is crucial. Any minor change …
She finished with a shake of her head.

I see.

You must be new then, too.

You could say that.

I’m sorry.

For what?

She shrugged and looked up at the building.

I mean, it can’t be easy, either
, she said.
Having someone in here. That’s all.

In there, out here. None of it is easy, it seems.

She looked at me doubtfully, sympathetically.

I suppose I shall have to come back then
, I said. Then, on second thought, I pulled the letters from my overcoat pocket and added,
Say, would you mind delivering these? I’d be awfully grateful. Just until I can make it back.

She took the envelopes.
Two letters, my. Who’s the lucky lady?
Her face blanched.
I’m sorry. That was stupid of me. I’m still getting used to the things you should say, the things you shouldn’t say. Every day brings a new list of mistakes.

It must be difficult.

It is. But I shouldn’t be complaining to you. Mistake number 201.

Not at all
, I said.
Well. Good day, then.

Wait
, she said behind me,
the name. I don’t even know it’s a woman you’re here to see. I just assumed. It usually is, you know. The ones who get visitors, I mean. The men, hardly anyone comes to see them.

Seems a shame. I wonder why.

I think they’re more frightening, the men. The women—it sounds silly—but one almost expects it, madness. I don’t know why. That sounds terrible, doesn’t it? And it isn’t fair. Some are worse than others, of course. The stories I could tell. But insanity in men? It’s quite a different thing. It’s—I don’t know—bigger, somehow. So much more violent. The women, they mostly only hurt themselves.

That stands to reason, I suppose.

Does it? I wonder. The only thing is,
she added,
the thing I really can’t bear, if there are children involved—the things I’ve heard, I can’t, I honestly can’t—

She stopped abruptly and turned away from me. Her hair had pulled loose from the bun in back and hung in lopsided strands down her neck. It was an uncomfortable moment. I wondered if I should speak, but then she turned back to me, eyes shining.

You told me you aren’t a doctor,
she said,
and here I’m talking to you like you’re mine. You were about to tell me the name.

Of course,
I said.
Yes. It’s Mrs…. Phillips. Or, no, Lovecraft.

She stared back at me with that perpetual look of surprise.

You’re not sure?

I—

Oh, I’m sorry.
She waved a hand.
There I go again. I shouldn’t pry. These things can be complicated.

Yes.

I understand. Well. Phillips-Lovecraft. I’m not sure I know her. I’m still getting acquainted with all the wards. But I’ll be sure she gets the letters. I’ll give them to Sister Clem. She knows everyone. Whether they like it or not.

Clem?

Clementine. An old sourpuss, so goes the saying. I’m a little afraid of her myself, actually, but she’s been here forever. She makes it her business to know them all. S
he put a hand up over her mouth.
Oh
, she said.
I didn’t mean “them,” not the way it sounded.

Not at all.
In fact, I had been thinking much the same.

I’ll make sure she gets the letters.

Much obliged.

I was about to tip my hat in what I hoped was a gallant manner, when the nurse suddenly straightened, dropping the cigarette in the grass and stomping it out with her shoe. I heard footfalls coming toward us on the gravel and I turned.

An older gentleman in a gray woollen overcoat and spectacles stood behind me. He carried a large black leather satchel.

Forgive me
, he said.
I have interrupted your pleasant conversation.

He smiled in a friendly, easy, open way. He was a man whom people trusted, you could see that immediately. You could see he knew it, too. His silvery hair was combed back in a neat wave from his forehead, hiding, as it were, nothing.

Excuse me
, the nurse said abruptly.
I’ll be sure to deliver …

She flapped the envelopes at me without looking up and was off, stumbling up the first stair and struggling a moment at the door, pushing instead of pulling, and finally gone.

The gentleman adjusted his gleaming spectacles.

How are you this fine morning?
he asked.

I am quite well
, I said. Pleasant fellow.

You seem lost
, the man said, tentatively, inquiringly.

Not at all.

Or, perhaps, at a loss.

No indeed.

The man looked up at the hospital and then back at me.

Friend of our Ivy’s, are you?

Ivy?
I looked back at him blankly.

The young lady you were speaking with.

Ah. No. I just happened upon her, here.
I gestured at the shrubbery awkwardly, then withdrew my hand.

Mm, yes. Out lingering in the rhododendrons again, our Creeping Ivy.
His smile faded.
Out for a stroll, then, were you?

Quite
, I said. I tried out my own smile, felt it quiver. Sweat prickled beneath my armpits. I had never been fond of doctors. It was not an uncommon reaction.

Are you—were you—on your way inside?
He gestured at the asylum.

Not just at the moment.

I was aware I must look quite suspicious. I groped for something to say. What I really wanted to ask about was the lighted window I had seen every night, and the slow telegraphing that came to me sometimes across the darkened city. But how to phrase it?

This building … ,
I began. But I could not ask.

Yes?

Do you know, perchance, when it was built?
I said instead.

Built?
He pursed his lips, tilting his head up to look at the building. A trick of the light blacked out his spectacles. He shook his head.
I confess I haven’t the foggiest.
He looked back at me, the faintest trace of a smile, I thought, flickering around the corners of his mouth.

Was it built as such?
I stumbled on.
As an asylum?

I believe it was.
He looked at me carefully, seeming to consider. Then he said,
If you’d like to come in with me, I’m sure we can find out the particulars. Someone is bound to know. One of the sisters, perhaps. I sometimes think they came with the building, just between you and me. And I’ve been here a good while myself.

I wouldn’t want to trouble.

No trouble at all.

You know, I have of it the most remarkable view, from my study window. Over by the university.

Indeed?

Yes, most remarkable. It looks
, I said,
almost as of a castle at night. Lit up, you know.

Does it?

Quite
, I said, nodding. Then, for lack of anything else,
Quite.

We stood a moment in uncomfortable silence.

Well
, he said, and hesitated. He appeared on the brink of saying something further, then seemed to think better of it.
Good day to you, then.

I watched him mount the wide stairs and cross the verandah, his clipped footfalls resonating across the empty lawns like the shots of hunters in autumn. At the door, he paused beneath the wide white portico and glanced back at me. I repressed the urge to lift a hand. He nodded, once, his spectacles darkening over again, before stepping inside, and I turned away, relieved and trying hard to make it look as if I were not.

I had to return, of course. I had to bring my employer some word of his mother before Jane arrived and everything, the entire sham, collapsed around me. I felt, however irrationally, that I owed it him.

The young nurse was not there smoking in the shrubbery, though I had somehow expected she would be, as if she came with the landscape, the angel at the gate. I lingered a moment at the foot of the stairs, feeling overwhelmed, sick, at the thought of entering that building, an asylum. Finally, mustering my resolve, I swung the heavy door open and stepped inside.

I was hit with an overwhelming odor of bleach and paste wax and distant, starchy cooking. The day had grown bright and the sunlight filtered in coldly through the many windows into the main foyer, luxurious with blue velvet armchairs and draperies of a light, airy fabric, though the hallways leading away in either direction were dark in spite of large windows at their ends, lit by dim orange lights which reflected on the gleaming floors like pumpkin lanterns. Down the passage nearest me, a man in baggy clothing moved with a bucket and mop, making wide, graceful sweeps. He looked up abruptly and stopped his motion, waiting for me to move on. I turned away, back to the bright foyer. The bitter taste of paste wax hung in the back of my throat and I swallowed hard. My palms sweated inside my overcoat pockets and I pulled them out, wiping them against my trousers. No one seemed to take any note of me. There was an air of bustle and purpose. Nurses moved, clacking across the polished floors, calling to one another. It was not what I’d expected from the outside. Still, in spite of the many windows and polished floors, there was an air of oppressiveness, of heaviness.

If you gaze into the abyss, I thought, the abyss also gazes into you. I wondered where I’d come across such a phrase, for it was surely not of my own invention.