The Anatomy of Deception - Lawrence Goldstone [28]
Promptly at the appointed hour, Simpson pulled up in front of the hospital in what seemed to be a private carriage driven by an aging man with gray whiskers and a disinterested air. Carriage, driver, and horse, while not exuding prosperity, seemed well-kept and functional—much, I realized, like Simpson herself. I stepped in and the carriage took off, the driver heading south for a destination that Simpson refused to divulge.
When I asked Simpson who owned the carriage, she replied tersely, “Friends of mine.”
We crossed the Schuylkill at the South Street bridge and continued south and west along Mifflin Street until just before South Twenty-second Street, where the carriage made a turn and pulled up in front of a three-story, brown clapboard building. Two women and three small children stood on the sidewalk outside. The women waved hello when they saw my companion.
“Where are we?” I asked her.
“You seemed confused as to the parameters of domestic fulfillment,” Simpson replied. “I thought a visit here might help clarify the question.”
Simpson alighted first and, before she went up the steps to the door, the children ran to her. She said hello to each of them by name. I followed her and my suspicion that this was no rooming house was confirmed the instant we entered.
The front hall led down the center of the building, with a staircase to the right. I saw at least six more children on the stairs or popping into or out of one of the rooms to either side of the hall. Two women moved between the rooms, occupied with some chore or other. The décor, I noticed, while not costly, was cheery and feminine—light colors, with a good deal of frill. The wallpaper in the halls was pale yellow festooned with cherubs.
“This is an orphanage,” I offered, as Simpson led me into a parlor on the left of the hall.
She did not reply. Instead, she bade me sit in a chair near the fireplace and asked if I cared for a cup of tea. I thanked her, hung my coat and hat on a tree near the door, and took a seat.
“I’ll be right back,” she said, and ducked back into the hall. I was left waiting for a minute or two, during which time a boy and girl, each about seven or eight, peered in the doorway at me, then withdrew.
When Simpson returned, she was holding two cups of tea. “This is the Croskey Street Settlement House,” she informed me as she placed the cups on the table and sat across from me. “It is not an orphanage. The children you see here live with their mothers. This building is part residence, part clinic, and part school.”
“And the fathers?”
“The fathers are not present.”
“This is reminiscent of a similar establishment for fallen women that I knew on the West Side of Chicago.”
“‘Fallen women,’” Simpson repeated with a shake of the head. “Ephraim, could you please define a ‘fallen woman’ for me?”
“It is merely a phrase,” I answered, trying to sound casual but knowing I had misspoken again. “To describe a woman who has a child out of wedlock. I presume that is who lives here.”
“A phrase indeed,” Simpson replied coldly. “A particularly insulting phrase.” She shook her head slightly, as if trying to comprehend my stupidity. I realized suddenly that, in these matters, I knew nothing at all. “Do you consider the men who cause these women to have children out of wedlock to be fallen as well?” she asked.
Did I? What if fortune had played against