A Deceptive Homecoming by Anna Loan-Wilsey Page B

let me leave?”
    I wanted to tell her she was foolish to think such a thing, but I couldn’t. She had every reason to be afraid. I’d been there before, and after reading a list of reasons for admittance that included everything from immorality and grief to novel reading and uterine derangement, I held the same fear. And I knew they could do it without anyone’s consent.
    â€œDon’t you have family or a friend who could go with you?”
    â€œNo, Levi and I moved here from Omaha a few months ago. We don’t have family in town. Our children are all grown with families of their own. And we haven’t made any friends yet. I know you as well as I do my neighbors. It’s not like home where we had lots of friends. I still don’t understand why Levi made us leave. He had a good job working for the Elder Carriage Company.” She reached across the table and grabbed my hand in both of hers. “Please, Miss Davish, will you go?”
    No, I told myself. I can’t go back there. I swore I’d never go there again.
    And yet my heart ached for this poor woman. Would I plead with a stranger for help if it meant finding the truth about a loved one? About my father? And too, I couldn’t deny the pull of curiosity. Could this be a strange case of mistaken identity? I hadn’t heard of Frank Hayward spending any time in the asylum and assumed Levi Yardley was the escaped patient. But if so, why hadn’t he contacted his wife? Hadn’t I seen him in the buggy making his getaway? Or had I? Could Levi Yardley be the man whom Asa Upchurch found in the street? Could he be the man in Frank Hayward’s coffin? If so, I’d been right to disturb Ginny with the news. But then where was Frank Hayward? I had to find out.
    And yet I still couldn’t believe my own ears when I said, “Very well, Mrs. Yardley. I will accompany you to the asylum.” The woman sighed in relief.
    â€œPlease call me Bertha.”
    â€œVery well, Bertha,” I said, standing. I placed coins on my bill, snapped my purse closed, straightened my hat, and said, “Let’s go find out what happened to your husband.”

C HAPTER 13
    I t hadn’t changed a bit. After hiring a cab, the mile walk beyond the last streetcar stop being too strenuous for Mrs. Yardley, we drove beyond the city limits on Frederick Avenue until we came to pasture and farmland. Horses grazed as men in denim overalls drove a caravan of Bain wagons toward a distant orchard. Dairy cattle, chewing their cud and swishing their tails, watched as we passed. Dozens of men in old woolen suits and women in gray linen aprons, their backs bent, took no notice of us as they harvested fruits and vegetables from gardens that stretched for acres. We had arrived at State Lunatic Asylum Number Two. I never discovered where Number One was; I didn’t care. Surrounded by a deceptively pastoral scene, this institution, with its redbrick four-story building sprawling over a quarter of a mile long, capped with numerous cupolas and wings that stretched out on either side of the center, like some large raptor about to take flight, haunted my nightmares. And here I was again. This time I wasn’t leaving without answers.
    As we pulled into the semicircular drive, lined with trees shading the many wooden benches and swings scattered about, Mrs. Yardley leaned over, and said, “Are we in the right place, Miss Davish? It looks like a city park.”
    â€œDon’t let the illusion fool you, Mrs. Yardley.” Before long, she understood what I meant.
    We disembarked from the cab and headed up the path to the main entrance. Bertha Yardley’s expression soon reflected my own trepidation. Before reaching the front doors, we passed a row of men in plain blue suits with white shirts but no ties, rocking incessantly, their chairs lined up parallel, instead of perpendicular against the wall. Several had their arms cuffed to the