From city hall, I decided to walk to Second Avenue. I couldn't have anyone tracing my taxicab, and I wanted to arrive as mysteriously as possible.
It was a strange sensation, going someplace with the deliberate intention that they would deem me mad. I worked to dispel my growing feeling of guiltiness. Also my temptation to giggle.
At last, I arrived at Matron Irene Stenard's Temporary Home for Females, a dismal tenement house with no aspirations beyond mere functionality. I drew in a deep breath, then pulled the bell.
The door was thrown back with a vengeance by a short blonde girl just entering womanhood. “Yes?”
Putting on my best dreamy voice, I asked, “Is the matron in?”
“Yes,” barked the girl. “She's busy now. Go to the back parlor and wait.” Stepping back, she flung the door wide.
Feeling less guilty after such an unkind greeting, I passed through the front parlor, aware of three women listlessly engaged in sewing or reading. A little boy stared at me from behind his mother's skirts.
The back parlor was a lightless room, colder than the September air outside, and furnished with uncomfortable armless chairs. I found one with an upholstered seat in desperate need of dusting. Removing neither hat nor gloves, I simply sat as if unaware of the cloud that rose to either side of me.
The wait was long enough to allow me to take in every aspect of that chilly room: a wardrobe, a desk, a half-empty bookcase, an organ, and a scatter of chairs. The windows butted up so close to the next building that hardly any daylight squeezed through. Two peeling panels in the striped wallpaper showed older paper beneath. The newer paper was discolored near the lone gas jet, currently unlit.
Eventually, a lean woman in a pinched dark dress erupted into the room and cannoned a single word at me. “Well?”
“Are you the matron?” I asked in a slow, unconcerned way. Eyes not quite focused, I might have been talking to a spirit hovering behind her. Best to get started at once.
“No,” snapped the slender woman. “The matron is sick. I'm her assistant. What do you want?”
“I want to stay here for a few days, if you can accommodate me.”
“I have no single rooms. But you can share with another girl. I'll do that much for you.”
“I shall be glad to share,” I said evenly, already thinking of how to convince a roommate of my madness. “How much do you charge?”
“Thirty cents a night.” From her voice she half-hoped I would cry `Alas!' and depart.
I opened my little purse and let her see the full contents, or lack thereof. I had brought just seventy cents with me. The sooner my funds were depleted, the sooner they would throw me out. A girl without funds was a girl without friends.
I handed her nearly half of my ready money, which vanished into a tight grip. “You'll have to wait here until I can arrange a room. It won't be soon. I have other things to do.”
Half-risen, I made no reply, but simply sat again, releasing a second cloud of dust, and returned my vacant stare to the faded wallpaper. Expecting an argument, she was clearly bemused. “What's your name?”
I looked past her. “Brown. Nellie Brown.”
“I'll put you down in the book.” She stalked off, leaving me on my own once more.
That wait was dreadful. I longed to rise and pluck a book from the shelf, inspect the desk, press the keys of the organ to see if it even played. But I kept utterly still, listening to myself breathe. Each swell of my lungs became the most interesting sound in my mad little world.
Suddenly a bell downstairs clanged loud enough to rival the doorbell. At its signal, the women in the front parlor rose, and others came trudging downstairs from various parts of the house. All of them headed sheeplike to the basement, where dinner was obviously being served.
No one spoke to me. No one invited me to join. So I continued to sit, vacuously staring. Part of me wanted to chew my cud.
The temptation to laugh was growing upon me. Despite my determined attempt at blandness, a few chuckles started in my clenched belly and forced their way up through my throat and nose. “Stop that,” I warned myself.
“Don't you want something to eat?”
I almost jumped. The assistant matron was staring at me. She had clearly heard my chortle, or else my admonition.
Looking up at her, I said simply, “Yes.”
“Then come downstairs!” She almost shouted it, consternation propelling her past indifference to exasperation.
Rising unhurriedly, I followed her to the basement stairs. “What is your name?”
“Mrs. Stenard.”
So she had been lying when she said she was not the matron. Easier, I suppose, to pretend to be a functionary.
I stopped on the uncarpeted stairs, produced my notebook, and wrote her name crossways in a margin. I could feel her disconcerted gaze on me—no woman likes being written about by a stranger. Then I put the notebook away and, without acknowledging her at all, continued down the stairs.
The basement was even more disheartening than the back parlor. The floor was bare, and the wooden tables were unvarnished, unpolished, and uncovered. Two gas jets sputtered and a lone oil lamp flickered, casting the meal into gloom from the start.
I was surprised by the number of chairs gathered at the bare basement tables: at least twenty, of which eight were presently filled. Room was made for me at a table with three other women. I smiled vaguely at them, not looking any in the eye, and they resumed their desultory talk, neatly excluding me.
The blonde girl appeared in an apron, clearly now playing waitress. Fixing me with a look of indiscriminate hatred, she planted her arms on her hips and rattled off, “Boiled mutton, boiled beef, beans, potatoes, coffee or tea?”
“Beef,” I said slowly. “Potatoes. Coffee and bread.”
“Bread comes with it,” she said disdainfully, already off to the kitchen.
Sooner than I expected, she returned with my order on a battered metal tray that she clattered down in front of me. The food was unappetizing, and I only made a feint of eating it as I listened to the lifeless conversations around me. There was nothing of any interest, just simple scraps of human interaction to fill the void between this meal and the next.
I began feeling unaccountably angry with myself. I was here to play on the credulity of these women when I should be championing them. Men like Wilson believed this kind of life was good enough for any respectable woman, when in truth it was not fit for a mouse. Let any man exist here for even a few hours and he would rebel, cursing the government, the charities, and his God in a single breath. Yet these women endured this colorless life day in and day out!
But I had a job to do. Swallowing my pity, I watched as each woman crossed to a desk in the corner where they paid Mrs. Stenard for their meal. Taking my nibbled meal without comment, the little blonde gave me a worn red ticket. On it was marked 27 cents, which I dutifully paid. Within two hours I had run through nearly all my money.
The meal being over, there was nothing to do but return to my chair in the back parlor. There I sat in enforced idleness for the longest afternoon of my life.
The other women avoided the back parlor in favor of the front, where at least there was more light. I watched them through the connecting doorway. Most sat in equal stillness, waiting for night. Or death. A few filled the time with lacework or knitting. One woman kept nodding off, only to wake herself with her own snores. I hoped she would not be my promised roommate. Another sat reading and scratching her head, occasionally uttering an admonishing, “Georgie!” at her son without looking up from her book.
Georgie himself was a terrible brat. Once, he rushed headlong into the back parlor to deliberately butt my arm with his head. Discovering a target that did not fight back, he repeated his impression of a ram. And again.
This cannot stand.
As it was out of character for “Nellie Brown” to admonish anyone, I had to deal with it a different way. Removing my blank gaze from the far wall, I fixed it upon Georgie.
Georgie stared at me with a stupid grin fixed across his sticky mouth.
I stared at him.
He fidgeted.
I stared.
He squirmed.
I ran my tongue across my lips.
He ran, screaming in terror.
Score to the madwoman of Allegheny.
Throughout the whole day, the front bell would clang, and woman after woman would arrive to look for a room. Blondie would thunder to the door with unwelcoming scowls, having been distracted from her constant muted singing of hymns and popular songs. With the single exception of a lady in from the country for a day's shopping, every one of the prospective residents was a working woman, sometimes with a child in tow.
As the meager daylight dimmed, Mrs. Stenard came in to light the gas jet. Perched on her low stool she frowned at me. “What is wrong with you?”
I looked up blankly, saying nothing.
“Have you had some sorrow? Some trouble?”
“No,” I replied vaguely, concealing my surprise. “Why?”
“Oh, because,” she answered in the role of the all-knowing matron, “I can see it in your face.”
I offered wide-eyed astonishment. “You can?”
“Yes,” confirmed Mrs. Stenard, stepping down. “It tells a story of great tragedy.”
“Well, everything is so sad,” I said haphazardly.
She reached out to pat my shoulder. “You mustn't allow it to worry you. We all have our troubles, but we get over them in good time. What kind of work are you trying to get?”
“I don't know.” I felt a stirring of unease. The last thing I wanted was to elicit sympathy. “It's all so sad.”
Pulling a chair closer, she sat. “Would you like to wear a nice white cap and apron and be a nurse for children?”
Children like Georgie? Thank you, no! Drawing out one of my monogrammed handkerchiefs, I covered my face. “I've never worked. I wouldn't know how.”
“But you must learn.” With benign harshness, Mrs. Stenard waved a hand toward the front parlor. “All these women here work.”
“Do they?” I said in a whisper of amazement.
“Of course they do, Miss Brown. They are all good ladies.”
“Miss Brown?” I asked, blinking.
“That's your name, isn't it?”
Recalling the Spanish word for brown, I said, “Yo soy Nellie Moreno.”
That confounded her. “But, Nellie, you said it was Brown.” Clearly frustrated with me, she yet persisted in her helpfulness. “You must be tired. Rest will do you good. And socializing. Talk to these other women.”
Suddenly, I spied a route to dispel her well-intentioned mothering: Albert's trick of calling me a liar when he himself was lying, of cheating when he was cheating. Might not a lunatic accuse others of lunacy?
Lowering my head so that my hat almost concealed my eyes, I confided, “They look horrible to me. Like crazy women. I am so afraid of them,” I added, my unblinking eyes meeting hers.
A variety of emotions fluttered across Mrs. Stenard's face, but she remained dogged. “They don't look very nice, true. But they are all good, honest, working women. We do not keep crazy people here.”
We'll see if you can say that come morning! That thought brought up my laugh again, and this time I let it out, dropping my handkerchief a fraction so she saw my smile. In a voice pitched just loud enough to be overheard in the front parlor, I went on. “They all look crazy. I promise, I am afraid of them. There are so many crazy people about, one can never tell what they will do. So many murders committed, and the police never catch the murderers. They never catch them!” From somewhere I found a noise—half laugh and half sob—that would have been given a rave by even the most jaded theatre critic.
It was amusing to see how swiftly Mrs. Stenard was out of her chair and across the room. Remembering her step stool, she darted back for it. “I have more lamps to light. I'll come back to talk with you after a while.” She exchanged looks with the ladies of the front parlor as she passed.
She never did come back.
Eventually the supper bell jolted the house, and the midday parade repeated, this time with more people. There were fewer choices, as supper was merely the leftovers from dinner. In the basement a few women eyed me askance, but none outright avoided me. Yet.
Back upstairs after supper, I found both parlors full, with not enough chairs to go around. With the solitary gas jet in each room and a little oil lamp in the hall between, we were all cast in a sickly glow, shadows dancing upon half our features.
As all the chairs were taken, I was unable to sit and stare. I wondered if I might not achieve a swifter effect by engaging a couple of these women. I wanted to be on my way to the madhouse as soon as possible, if only to escape this dreary place. A few nights here and I might actually gain admittance to Blackwell's without any performance on my part!
Noting two particularly chatty women, I floated up to them. “Excuse me. My name is Nellie Moreno. I am lonely. May I join you?”
I must have been an odd picture, still in my hat and gloves, circles under my wide, unblinking eyes. But they were kind and gracious, and one of them moved to share a seat with her friend, making room for me. They introduced themselves as Mrs. King and Mrs. Caine. From their accents I knew their origins, at least in the vaguest sense. Mrs. King was a Southerner, while Mrs. Caine hailed unmistakably from Boston.
Their conversation itself was uninteresting, but they made a point of attempting to include me. I just stared back at them, making no reply beyond a shrug or a muttered, “I couldn't say.”
They did not seem unduly concerned. Perhaps they thought I was shy, or simple. Having achieved such success with Mrs. Stenard earlier, I decided to again try out my accusation. “Everyone here looks crazy,” I confided in them.
Mrs. King laughed in a genteel fashion. “Listen to you. Are you not from the South? Your accent says y'are.”
I agreed that I was from the South. I decided to agree with everything, and if I was contradicted, to simply be confused.
“Where did you receive schooling?”
“In the convent,” I answered, inventing.
Mrs. Caine explained she had come to New York for a job correcting proofs on a medical dictionary. “But I have been ill of late, and lost my place. I think I tomorrow I must give in and go home to Boston. Do either of you know what time the Boston boat leaves?”
“Nine-seventeen.” Too late, I caught myself. Nellie Bly knew the timetables of the ferries, but not Nellie Brown. Except now she does.
“Thank you, Miss Moreno. What about you? What work are you in search of?”
“I don't think I should like to work,” I remarked blankly. “I think it is quite sad that there are so many people forced to work at all, like peóns at the hacienda.”
That was the moment they looked at me as if I was truly crazy.
“Hacienda?” said a new voice. A brunette not much older than me came over to join us. “That's a Spanish word! It means house.”
“Do you speak Spanish?” asked Mrs. King.
“I take lessons.” Smiling at me, the brunette employed a Spanish more fluent than my own. “Buenas tardes. Me llamo Dorothy. Como te sientes?”
Panicking, I answered, “Buenas tardes, Dorothy. Cómo estás?”
“Estoy bien. De dónde eres?”
Dónde—that meant where. She was asking where I was from. “La hacienda.”
“Dónde está la hacienda?”
I shook my head. “No sé.” I don't know.
She kept pressing, and between evasions I invented wildly, stealing huge swaths from Huck Finn: the dead mother, the abusive father, the sailing up the Mississippi. I might have even mentioned the Widow Douglas. How are they not catching on?
I was running out of phrases to evade her. Dorothy was going to spoil my whole plan, and it was all my fault for trying to be clever by using Spanish words.
Feigning a sudden pain, I put a knuckle to my forehead and bit my lip until tears came to my eyes. Looking up, I stared into their eyes. “It's gone. It's all gone.”
The trio was quite startled by my tears. They might have tried to comfort me, but the little blonde came up to us. “It's time for bed.”
“I'm afraid.” I leaned close. “All the women here look crazy.”
“You—you have to go to bed,” said the young teen.
“Must I? Could I not just sit on the stairs all night?”
“No,” said the girl, recoiling.
Mrs. Stenard came over. “You cannot remain here. Or everyone in the house will think you are crazy.”
“Me? But I'm not crazy.” The surest way to get people to believe you are a thing is to deny it.
By this point, every woman in that parlor was looking at me with extreme unease. Lifting me by the elbow, Mrs. Stenard escorted me to the stairs. I did not resist, simply repeating, “But why can't I sit on the stairs? I'm not crazy. They're the ones who are crazy.”
In an attempt to distract me as we climbed the stairs, Mrs. Stenard said, “Do you have any bags?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Where are they?”
I looked around the landing as if searching. “I don't know. I don't see them…”
Rising from the crowd of women watching me, Mrs. Caine ascended. “Let me take her.” Mrs. Stenard was only too happy to hand me off, allowing Mrs. Caine to escort me the rest of the way.
Leading me into the room I was to stay in, Mrs. Caine sat me down in a chair and talked soothingly while she unpinned my hat and took down my hair. She was incredibly kind, and I wish I could have been grateful. If the world were full of Mrs. Caines, there would be far less misery and loneliness.
But her kindness was not an aid to my deception. So when she suggested I remove my coat and dress, I said, “I don't want to undress. Not in a house full of crazies. I want my things. Where are my things?”
By now, other women had gathered at the door to watch. As soon as I refused to undress they started muttering.
“Why, she's crazy enough.”
“Poor loon!”
“I'm afraid to stay with such a crazy in the house.”
“She will murder us all before morning!”
“Fetch a key and lock her in the room!”
One woman proposed sending for a policeman, and I wanted to say, Listen to her!
Again, Mrs. Caine championed me. “What has she done? Who has she harmed? She is merely confused, and likely tired. A good night's sleep will see her restored.”
The woman I was meant to share the room with shook her head. “I won't stay in the same room with her for all the Vanderbilts' money!”
Mrs. Caine stepped between them and me. “Then I will stay with her!” And shut the door in their faces. She turned to me. “I should have asked. Is it all right with you?”
“I should like it of all things,” I replied blankly.
So the kind and good Mrs. Caine became my roommate. She was not so trusting, however, that she could ignore me and my strange behavior. Eventually, she decided to mimic me and remain in her clothes as she laid herself down on the lone bed. “Would you not like to lie down as well?”
“No.” I was so tired that I feared I would fall directly asleep the moment my head touched the pillow. Instead I said, “What is your Christian name?”
She seemed comforted by so normal a question. “Ruth.”
“Like from the Bible,” I said.
“Like from the Bible,” she agreed.
Known for her kindness and devotion. Racked with guilt, I sat next to her on the bed, but faced the wall.
What a terrible night I gave her. Just as she would start to nod off, she'd jerk awake to look at me in fright. In the between times, she would ask me questions: how long had I been in New York, how old was I, where else I had lived, how did I fill my days, and more along those lines. To every question, I would simply answer in my dishrag dampness, “I forget.”
Before midnight, she was close to tears. “Your eyes are terribly bright,” she said. “They shine so. I fear for you.”
“Why?” I asked her. “I am perfectly well. Only I have this headache…” I started mentioning the pain in my head at intervals, knuckling my forehead to show the spot.
Suddenly, we heard a scream from elsewhere in the house. There was a commotion in the hallway as everyone tried to pack into our room. But Mrs. Caine assured everyone the scream had come from neither her nor me. The ladies all peered at me, sitting fully dressed on the bed, staring at the wall.
Another door opened, and in moments the screamer was confessing. She had been wakened by a terrible nightmare—of me! “I saw her, the mad one in there! She was rushing at me with a knife in her hand! She meant to murder me!”
“She has been in our room all night,” snapped Mrs. Caine. “She's made no threats against anyone. She says her head hurts.”
“Has she not slept, even a little?”
“No,” confided Mrs. Caine softly. “She is very strangely behaved. I'm afraid for her.”
“I'm not afraid for her,” said the screamer, perfectly loud. “I'm afraid of her!”
Mrs. Caine closed the door on the hallway gaggle and slowly returned to sit upon the opposite side of the bed.
“What was that cry?” I asked, unmoving.
“One of the girls had a nightmare,” she said simply.
“I'm not surprised,” I answered. “In a house filled with those crazy women, they must all suffer nightmares. It is why I do not like to sleep. I wish I had a gun.”
That remark was more frightening to poor Mrs. Caine than any I had previously made. “You don't have one?”
I shook my head. “No.” Fixing her with my eyes, I allowed a little hope to creep into my dream state. “Do you?”
“No. Thank Heaven, I do not.”
I sighed and resumed staring at the wall.
Reassured that I was unarmed, Mrs. Caine eventually fell into a sound sleep. Relaxing a little, I crept to a chair across the room. It was uncomfortable, which helped me stay awake as I looked for some way to fill the time.
I posed myself a question: what had brought me to this place, this pass, this moment in time? From my earliest deeds, could I ever have imagined I'd be sitting in a miserable boardinghouse feigning madness so I might gain admittance to an insane asylum?
That brought a smile to my lips. No, I don't think in all my wild youth or angry teen years I could have conjured such an outcome.
How did I get here, then?
That was an interesting line of thought. I began laying the rails of the track that had brought me to this place. Over the course of that long night, the pages of my life were turned up and I stood face to face with myself.
If that's not crazy-making, I don't know what is.