The Old Cape House

by Barbara Eppich Struna

  FROM INSIDE THE HOUSE, I could see Paul staring down into the hole. After a while, he went in. I wondered if he had found anything else. I decided to join him, leaving Molly in the house watching TV.

  The dirt cellar was about 4 feet deep and 4 wide. I climbed down the narrow steps into the hole next to Paul. It easily accommodated both of us. He picked some of the bigger pieces of wood from the box and carefully moved the dirt from under the iron straps that now extended out into thin air. He looked desperate for anything that might catch his eye. I didn’t want to miss anything either, or be left out of any new discoveries, so I also started to sift through the dirt.

  “Did you call the police?” he asked.

  “Yes. They’re sending an officer over to take a look.”

  “Good. It sure is exciting, but also kind of weird,” he said as he leaned back to study the black dirt surrounding us.

  I touched his arm. “You know, standing here makes me think of the nightmare I had the other night. I don’t know what I was expecting to find when we started digging, but I didn’t think we’d find part of a dead body.” Shivers rippled up and down my back.

  Paul leaned over to make sure the towel covered the bone fragment.

  Molly stood by the back door watching us. “Mommy, someone is….”

  I cut her off. “Just a minute honey. We’ll be right there.”

  We both climbed out of the hole.

  Casey, home early from her summer job, walked around the garage to the back. “Why is a police car in the yard?” She looked a little nervous.

  “It’s okay; nobody’s hurt. We think we found a small skull in the old box,” I explained walking over to her. I put my arm around her back and asked her, “Is the officer coming back here?”

  Casey nodded, then peered into the hole with a squeamish look on her face. “Is it in there?” she asked, wrinkling up her nose.

  “Yeah, it’s under the towel.”

  “I don’t want to see it.” She rolled her eyes and walked backwards toward the house. “I’m going in. You can tell me all about it later.”

  “Would you keep an eye on Molly?”

  “No problem,” she smiled.

  Paul and I walked around the barn to meet the police officer halfway. Paul shook his hand.

  The young man introduced himself as Officer Gomes.

  “Sorry to be a bother, but we think we’ve discovered something unusual in our back yard.”

  “Not to worry, sir,” Officer Gomes replied, his eyes scanning the house. “Why don’t you show me what you found.”

  The policeman swaggered as he walked, holding one hand on his holstered gun and the other loose by his side.

  Paul explained what had happened. “We accidentally discovered this root cellar,” he said, leading the officer closer to the hole. “As we dug deeper, we found a wooden box, but when we tried to dig it out the top collapsed. We found pieces of parchment and a bone that looks like a skull in the dirt.”

  Paul climbed into the hole and lifted the towel off the skull.

  The officer crouched by the edge of the cellar. “Interesting.”

  Paul held up the bone piece so Gomes could see it, pointing to small indentations where the eyes would have been. The bottom half was completely missing.

  “I’m going to give my sergeant a call. I’ll be right back.”

  I watched the officer round the barn toward the front of the house. Kneeling down by the edge of the cellar, I asked Paul, “What do you think they’ll do?”

  “I don’t know,” he sighed, resting the skull fragment on top of one of the iron straps.

  When Officer Gomes returned, he took a wide stance and looked straight at us. “My sergeant is contacting the State Police.” He stood a little taller. “Until then, we should not disturb the site. I’m going to have to ask you to please vacate the so-called root cellar, sir.”

  As I watched Paul and the officer reset the sawhorses to barricade the opening, I couldn’t help but wonder what’s next? What have we gotten ourselves into now?

  Officer Gomes continued his instructions. “You may go back into the house.” He waited for us to reach the back door before he strode to the front of the house, pausing to make sure we entered the kitchen. “I’ll be by my car.”

  I closed the screen door behind us. “This is so weird. We might have a real crime scene in our backyard.”

  Paul looked at me. “Should I open the gallery?”

  “Probably not a great idea,” I said. “No one is going to come in with a police car out front.”

  We both agreed to remain closed for the day and kept ourselves busy preparing lunch. After putting the dishes into the dishwasher, I glanced over to the driveway just as a black car pulled up alongside the police cruiser. A man dressed in a navy blue suit got out and shook hands with Officer Gomes. They headed for the backyard.

  “Paul,” I whispered. “Someone else is here.”

  We hurried out the back door and approached the two men. The suited man turned to show us his badge. “Hello. You must be Mr. and Mrs. Caldwell?”

  “Yes,” we responded in unison.

  “I’m Detective Jacobs from the State Police. I was over at the Orleans Courthouse when I got the call so I thought I’d stop by to see what you found.”

  “Nice to meet you.” We shook hands with the detective and told him all about the discovery of the cellar, then the chest, the parchment and finally the skull.

  I hurried back to the house to get the parchment pieces, which we’d placed in a small zip lock bag. By the time I returned, the detective was already sifting through the dirt with the end of his pen. I handed him the little bag.

  After examining its contents, Detective Jacobs said, “I might have to call the medical examiner.” Climbing out of the cellar, he added, “I’ll be right back.”

  We stood quietly around the edge of the opening.

  “Is this the first time you’ve ever encountered human remains?” Paul asked Officer Gomes.

  “Yes, sir,” he nodded.

  I attempted to make small talk with him but he seemed very serious. We waited in silence for the detective to come back into sight.

  “Well, it looks like one of the State Archaeologists will be coming instead. We only have one Medical Examiner for this whole area, including Boston. You know, state budget cuts and all.”

  “Oh, I see,” I caught Paul’s eye.

  The detective explained. “Procedures call for the medical examiner to be summoned whenever human remains are found. But in this case, when the bones are obviously over a hundred years old based on the parchment that you found in the box, we can call in the archaeologist. He’s coming from Orleans so he won’t be long. Officer Gomes will stay here until then.”

  He extended his hand to say goodbye. “It was nice meeting you, Mr. and Mrs. Caldwell. Have a nice day.”

  History and mystery…my favorite subjects. Even if it’s an inconvenience for us, I could hardly wait to see what happens next and shot Paul a big smile. He returned my look with a sly grin and left for his studio.

  “Would you like a cup of coffee or a glass of water?” I asked the remaining officer.

  “No thank you, Ma’am.”

  A few minutes of awkward silence passed before I decided to go back into the house, leaving the officer by himself. Within the hour, a big pickup truck pulled in next to the police car.

  Casey yelled from the front parlor, “Mom, now someone else is here.”

  I went out back and saw Paul watching from his studio door as an older man with long gray hair approached the officer. I watched him gesture back and forth from the cellar to the woods and back to the hole. Setting down his brown briefcase he climbed into the cellar to examine the skull piece. He spent several minutes evaluating the dirt around the chest. He snapped on white plastic gloves then picked up the plastic bag containing the parchment paper.

  Paul motioned for me to move in closer. The archaeologist appeared oblivious to
us. When he’d finished his analysis he climbed out of the cellar. “My name is Salinger,” he said, “I represent the State Historical Commission.”

  In his gloved hand was the small bone fragment that had been left near the iron bars by Detective Jacobs.

  “How old is your house?” he asked, walking over to the picnic table to put the evidence down.

  I proudly answered, “We think it was built around 1880.”

  Opening the plastic bag, he gently removed the two pieces of parchment and laid them out on the wooden table. “This piece with the numbers is very interesting.” He pulled a small magnifying glass out of his breast pocket. “Can you see the numbers here? I believe they read 1715.”

  I leaned over the table and was elated that we were right about the dates. “So you think there might have been another house here before this one was built?”

  “It was not uncommon for land to be handed down from one generation to another, with different houses existing on the same lot at different times.”

  “What do you think of the bone, or skull, or whatever it is?” Paul asked him.

  Salinger ran his fingers over the smooth part of the top. “Not sure yet.”

  “Is it a baby’s skull?” I asked.

  “Possibly, but again, I’m not sure,” he repeated.

  Silence. I heard the sound of someone’s lawnmower as Paul and I stood around the picnic table, anxious for any information from Salinger.

  “May I take this with me?” Salinger pointed to the parchment.

  “Of course, but we’d like to make a copy of it first,” I told him.

  He found no problem with that request, so Paul took it to his studio to copy it.

  “I’m amazed that anything survived this long down there,” I commented, glancing over to the cellar.

  “Well, given the right conditions….” Salinger surveyed the backyard then asked, “How far are you from the bay? A mile?”

  “Exactly nine tenths of a mile,” I answered, pleased with myself. “It was on the appraisal when we bought the house.”

  Salinger continued, “That distance would explain a lot. There’s more clay here, and you seem to be on higher ground.”

  Paul walked towards us with the photocopy and the little bag. “What did I miss?”

  Salinger repeated, “I was just telling your wife that based on the location of where you found the chest, and the dryness of the area, it’s possible that something could have survived from the 1700s.” He squinted into the setting sun. “Centuries ago, people would bury their loved ones on their own property or in very small out-of-the-way cemeteries. But I must say, this one is unusual. If it is human remains, burying them in a cellar would be under strange circumstances.”

  “Can you make anything out of the letters here on this other piece?” I asked trying to pick his brain.

  “Not sure,” he said looking at the faded letters.

  “I’ll see if I can run some tests on the paper and the bone fragment.” Salinger routed in his briefcase for a larger plastic bag and a small camera. “If you don’t mind, I’m going to take some photos of the area in question for my report.”

  “Of course,” I agreed. “Will you let us know what you’ve discovered? If anything?”

  “No problem.”

  “What happens now?” Paul asked.

  “Once we determine what we have, we can proceed with the proper disposal of the remains.”

  I questioned the word, ‘remains’ in my head, given the fact that there wasn’t anything left of the body but one bone. I could see the expression on Paul’s face, which told me that he thought the same.

  “Are you going to do any more digging?” I asked Salinger.

  “Not sure,” he said, clicking away with his camera.

  Paul cautioned the archaeologist, “If we try to remove the rest of the chest it will surely crumble into nothing. But if we’re very careful, could we see if there’s anything else down there?”

  “You should hold off on any more digging so as not to disturb whatever might still be buried in that dirt.” Salinger looked adamant.

  28

  Present Day – July 11

  BREWSTER – CAPE COD

  WE’D BEEN HEARING ABOUT an approaching hurricane all week, and everyone was anxious. Paul and I were especially so, as we waited to hear what Mr. Salinger would tell us about the items we’d found in the root cellar.

  The attractive blonde forecaster on the weather channel repeated, “…a good possibility of a strike along the East Coast, especially for Cape Cod and the Islands.”

  By Friday, the predictions turned into when and where it would hit the Cape. This was my first encounter with a hurricane, and it sent me into survival mode. I shopped for batteries, water, canned meat, instant coffee, pop tarts and anything that would keep without refrigeration.

  Paul and the boys took care of the outdoors, securing any large unattached objects and bringing smaller items into the garage. Paul removed the sawhorses, which barricaded the old cellar and drove two spikes into the tarp covering the area where we’d been digging.

  By early evening, the winds were gusting to over 50mph. The night proved restless for both of us, each wondering what we were going to wake up to in the morning. At 7 am the howling wind was smacking branches against our bedroom windows and rattling the glass.

  Paul jumped out of bed. “Okay. Tell everyone to get themselves washed and dressed before we lose power.”

  I scurried to rouse the children. “Let’s go. Everyone up and get downstairs. Molly, come with me.”

  The family all pitched in, gathering blankets, pillows, a radio and a large plastic clothesbasket filled with books, crayons, playing cards and a few board games. As the sky blackened and the rain traveled sideways, the power suddenly went out.

  We watched the trees whip themselves into circles from the wind, shedding most of their leaves in a swirling mass of green. Jim filmed the spectacle outside through the windows of the front parlor.

  Paul looked nervous. “I’ve never seen anything like this. We’d better get into the kitchen; it’s the newest construction and has the least number of windows.”

  Paul hollered out orders. “Everyone into the kitchen! Brian, go and get some duct tape and big sheets of cardboard from my studio. Jim, make sure the radio is working and all the flashlights are usable.”

  A wave of nausea drifted over me, I rushed to the bathroom thinking I was going to vomit, but my stomach held strong. Back in the kitchen, I quickly recovered. I watched the boys cover up the windows to protect us from the possibility of shattering glass. I felt bad for Paul. I knew he wanted shutters on the outside of the house, so that he could close them over the glass, but for now, the cardboard would have to do.

  We listened to the latest news on the radio; the wind had reached over 75mph, so the two bridges–our only access on or off of Cape Cod–were now closed. Paul shut the door as all of us crowded into the new kitchen to ride out the storm.

  The kids busied themselves trying to find something to occupy their minds. The room began to get stuffy, and no one seemed to notice me turning paler by the minute. I thought I was going to lose my breakfast. As the winds blew at 75mph, with gusts to 120mph, I whispered to Paul, “I don’t feel well. I’ll be right back.” He looked at me, but I don’t think he really heard what I was saying.

  I literally burst out the pocket door of the kitchen and ran into the downstairs bathroom. With a flashlight in one hand, I slammed the door behind me, just in time to throw up in the toilet. I prayed quietly, “Dear God, please don’t let this be the flu!”

  When I returned to the kitchen I took my seat in the rocking chair that Brian had brought in from the living room.

  “Everything all right?” Paul asked.

  “Must be all the excitement,” I said with a half-hearted smile, trying to cover up how miserable I felt.

  Everyone looked bored from being cooped up in the small room. I closed my eyes, inhaled dee
p breaths and tried to soothe my wretched body as the wind pounded against the house. I looked at Paul. He didn’t seem aware that I was still feeling sick. I couldn’t blame him; he was worried about the storm. I tried to gain a bit more sympathy from him. “I’ll be better; just let me relax a minute.”

  He looked at me and smiled.

  I felt a little selfish wanting more attention, but darn it, I really felt sick! I could hear Molly giggling as she played Chutes and Ladders with Casey. Jim fiddled with the radio, searching for music. Brian lay on the floor with his eyes closed. I was determined to feel better.

  As the sounds and sights of the storm began to blur inside my conscious mind, I thought of my mom. How I wished I could call her about the hurricane…and tell her that our family was safe. I remembered the day of her funeral. At the viewing, one of my peculiar aunts had told my older sister, Barbara, that my moving away is what killed Mom because I was the baby of the family. The crazy lady’s stupid words had hurt when I heard them back then, and they still hurt today. After all, I was not an only child; I had five brothers and sisters. My moving away did not kill our mother. My eyes began to tear. I really missed her. I forced myself to think of other things: my wonderful family, the fact that everyone was healthy–that Paul is in love with me.

  After only three hours the storm was over. The sky lightened, and the rain stopped. We ventured outside to see the devastation surrounding the house. Leaves covered the ground, and branches were sticking up and out of the strangest places. Trees lay across Route 6A blocking access east and west. It was strange to walk down the middle of the road and not meet a car. I warned the kids to get back indoors when I saw that power lines were strewn across the road. They were humming and sparking, sending little bursts of light into the rubble of tree limbs in all directions.

  Over the next few days, trying to live without electricity became uppermost in our minds. Our interest in the cellar was pushed back behind the immediate care of the family. We never noticed that the tarp had blown away from the cellar; revealing at its bottom the shiny edge of a small gold coin now peeking through the dark, wet dirt.