Page 55 of The Daring Times of Fern Adair
“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.Justsee 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.
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 dutyof 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 ouroldest 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 buffingthe 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 theweek?”
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.
