Caleb shouted and grasped for me as sparks and bits of wood rained upon us. He caught the quilt and pulled. I grasped it, and into the open air we fell. Caleb carried Papa away from the smoking building. He looked at me on the ground beside him, ink covering my dress, Abram’s quilt still near my mouth.
Time seemed to still. I needed to check on Papa. Caleb would want to get the animals from the barn. Yet all I could see was the look of sadness on his face as he took in the picture I had appliqued on the quilt—an Indian with a massive rock behind him.
Abram and his rock.
He seemed to tear himself away from the pull of the quilt. He ordered me to stay where I was, then ran for the barn. Chickens scattered.
I shook Papa. He did not respond. His skin no longer felt heated. Black ash marred his face. I shook him again, frantic. I put my ear to his chest but heard nothing.
He was gone.
Neighbors came then. Men hauling buckets of water from the well to put out the flames. When the house was naught but a pile of ash, they left to check on the rest of the settlement.
’Tis no accident of the hearth, I heard them say. Three other homes were looted during meeting. Foodstuffs taken. Cattle shot. One other home besides Papa’s was set ablaze.
’Twas the natives. They had attacked.
They killed Papa.
Caleb carried Papa’s body carefully to his wagon, as tenderly as carrying a babe, as if jostling him would disturb his peace in heaven. I remember thinking about his big, strong hands, that ’twas strange they could be so gentle.
He told me I best leave the pieced quilt behind, that others in the settlement would not take kindly to seeing it. While he readied the wagon, I hastened to the barn, where one of Mama’s trunks remained in the loft. I climbed the ladder, lifted the heavy cover, and placed Abram’s unfinished quilt within its solid protection. I sat on the rock beside the barn and waited for Caleb to call to me. I did not look at the back of his wagon. ’Tis more than I could bear, seeing Papa’s lifeless body shaken about in such a manner.
Papa died on a Sunday. ’Tis the day of the Resurrection. ’Tis a day of miracles. ’Tis a day of rest and quiet. But death does not seem to know the days of the week.
And neither, it seems, do the natives.
June 22, 1675
Late
Goodwife Howland snores lightly beside me. The stone walls of the garrison close around us. I know not which man is posted sentry outside the door, but I cannot sleep.
All was quiet today, and Caleb bore danger for the sake of digging a grave for Papa. We held a simple service inside the garrison. Caleb buried Papa a short ways off, near the river.
He finished his shift a bit ago. I sat against the cool garrison wall, awake. He slid down next to me. I did not resist when he put his arm around me. I buried my head in the crook of his arm and finally shed tears for Papa, tears of fear for what lay ahead.
“Will help not come?” I whispered into Caleb’s shirt. It smelled of old soap and sweat, but I did not mind.
“Soon,” he said, though I could tell he and the other men were worried.
I feel I know something the rest of them do not. I feel the weight of responsibility on my shoulders.
I know Abram, even if it seems as if our time together was so very long ago. Fear and sadness have a way of slowing down the days, of making all else seem unreal. The sole hope I have to grasp at this time was the garrison and the families in it. They were real to me. Caleb was real to me.
Yet Abram told me he had acquaintances—maybe even Captain Church. He may be able to secure us help quicker than Governor Winslow at Marshfield, for would not it take days to organize an army?
Part of me knew it madness to think a lone native in the woods would have better friends than our own men, but all our men were too busy here, protecting the women and children in the garrison. How else would anyone outside the settlement of Swanzey know we are in danger?
What if Abram could help?
Caleb fell asleep quick, and now I am up wrestling with my thoughts on paper.
I will wait another day. Perhaps help will come tomorrow.
June 24, 1675
A few militiamen arrived yesterday, nothing close to an army. They are scattered and unorganized, and spend their time making rounds to the homesteads while the men of our families continue to guard the garrison.
News came of more homes ransacked. Worse yet, Goodman Alby was shot by an arrow while taking his shift at the door yesterday morn. I heard the whiz of the arrow. I heard it hit flesh. He did not make a sound, other than his body hitting the dirt floor. Goodwife Howland says he will survive, that the arrow passed through his shoulder. The same is not true of one of the stout dogs belonging to Mr. Cobb. The poor creature sensed the natives in the forest and attacked. We heard a gunshot and a yelp. The beast has not returned.
Soon after, John Salisbury took opportunity to shoot one of Philip’s marauding men. Our men’s spirits lifted after that. ’Tis wrong to delight in death, but to my shame, I could not help feel an increase in my own soul as well.
Our high spirits did not last, for this very morning, John Salisbury and six others stole away to Goodman Alby’s house. ’Tis close, but a quarter of a mile away. Their intent was to gather corn, for our foodstuffs run short. That was hours ago, and they have not yet returned.
Caleb is restless. I know he wants to see to the missing men. I also know he does not wish to leave the garrison without a proper amount of men to guard it.
And still, help does not come.
Darkness descends. I can no longer stand still.
I know what I must do.
Chapter 22
After reading an email from the Private Investigator I’d hired stating he’d found Mary and was putting pieces of information together for me, I sat on the back patio, sudden loneliness eating my insides.
I should be happy Mary was found. My obligation to Barb would soon end. And yet I couldn’t deny that I’d been so wrapped up in Elizabeth’s story that I hadn’t given Mary as much thought as I should. Would the journal mean as much to her as it did to Barb? As it was becoming to mean to me?
This was why I didn’t like to slow down. Slowing down meant feeling and thinking. Keeping busy meant distraction. Accomplishment.
On a whim, I picked up my phone and called Kyle’s cell.
He answered on the third ring. “Hey, Mom.”
“Hi, kiddo. I’ve missed you.”
“Yeah . . . sorry I haven’t called. Things have been real busy.”
“Still working hard, huh?”
“Yeah.” His tone stoked the embers of my heart. Something was wrong.
“Everything going okay?”
“Yeah, sure. Just getting anxious to get back to school and stuff.”
And stuff.
“Talk to me, Kyle. Are things not going well with your job? With Dad?”
“No—no, they’re fine.” Pause. “Dad tell you he got a new motorcycle?”
The nerves behind my eyes tightened. “No. I haven’t talked to your dad in a while.” Too long. It had been too long. “He take you out for rides?”
“Naw, he offered, but you know, feels kind of weird . . . two guys on a bike.”
“Uh huh.” Somehow I felt the motorcycle was connected to what bothered Kyle. If only he’d come right out and tell me. “Bet your dad’s spending a lot of time with his new toy, huh?” Maybe Kyle was hurt Matt wasn’t around so much?
“Yeah. Hey, I gotta go. Greg and Blaine are picking me up in a few. I’m glad you called. Love ya.”
“I love you, too.”
The line went dead.
I waited ten minutes and called Matt’s cell phone. I’d given him his space, but we still needed to talk, if for no other reason than the son we shared.
It rang five times, then went to his voice mail. I listened to his voice but didn’t leave a message. He’d see that I called and call me back soon.
My heart
stuttered as a motorcycle neared the drive. Despite the warm August night, I shivered on the patio and went to light the hearth. It had taken me a few times, but I figured if Elizabeth Baker could cook and live over an open flame, I could light one on my patio hearth. The motorcycle continued up the street and my breathing returned to normal. I turned my attention to the address in the email on my phone.
Mary Dawson
82 Castro Way
Sacramento, CA
A phone number was listed below it, as well as a paragraph of information that stated Mary had been married twice and now lived with one daughter and was a teacher’s assistant in a high school not far from her home.
I sighed. I’d need to contact Mary, but first I needed to finish Elizabeth’s journal this weekend.
I closed my eyes, my thoughts pulling.
Three days, two phone calls, and one voice mail later, Matt still hadn’t returned my calls. He’d have to talk to me sooner or later. I half expected him to drive up on a whim with his new motorcycle and announce that he was either ready to come home or to leave me for good. It wasn’t like him to be so silent.
I heard a car engine in the front and held my breath.
“Sarah? You there?”
Essie. I released my breath. “In the back!”
She greeted me with a hug. “You know your eyes can fall out from reading too much?”
I rubbed my eyes. “It’s just an email. I haven’t even started school yet.”
Essie sat down heavily in a patio chair and leaned back, spreading her capri-clad legs in unladylike fashion. “You excited?”
I closed my laptop. “I wish I were more excited than I am. I think once the summer’s over, once the estate sale is behind me and I’ve made peace with whatever’s going to happen with Barb’s daughter—and maybe my marriage—maybe I’ll be ready then.”
“Jen told me you’re the most competent nurse the hospital has. You’re going to be a great NP.”
“Thanks.” I wanted to shout to the world, See, I am good at something! Maybe I’d failed as a daughter, maybe I’d failed as a wife, but I would not fail in this.
“So, Randy and I were in Newport last night.”
I tried to think who Randy was, but my mind skidded on Newport.
“You saw Matt.”
Essie pressed her lips together in uncharacteristic seriousness. “At first I didn’t recognize him. He was on a motorcycle—a nice Harley. He pulled into the house you told me he and Kyle are renting, and when he took off his helmet, there was no denying it was him.”
I breathed in deep through my nose. “What else,” I ground out.
“I felt like you should know.”
Black spots appeared before my eyes. I wanted to run upstairs to my bedroom and bury my head beneath the pillows. But I couldn’t. I had to know. “Tell me.” I didn’t recognize my own voice.
“There was a girl on the back of the bike. I couldn’t see much, but enough to see it wasn’t . . . you.”
Even now I tried to make excuses for Matt. Maybe he’d seen someone who needed a ride. Maybe he’d been helping someone. But only one face came to mind.
“D-did she have blonde hair?”
Essie nodded. “I didn’t see much more than that. I mean, it could have been innocent—I don’t know, I didn’t see them making out or anything, but it just didn’t look . . . innocent.”
I didn’t need to ask for details. I could picture Cassie’s toned legs straddling my husband’s hips. Her arms around him, her chest pressed against him as the engine rumbled beneath them.
I screwed my eyes shut and stifled a scream. Instead, I rose on unsteady legs and went into the house. I scooped up my purse and fumbled for the keys on the woven basket atop the entry table. This had to stop. I needed to confront my husband. If he wanted a separation, fine. If he wanted a divorce even, fine. But enough sneaking around with that—that hussy.
“Sarah, wait.”
I ignored my sister’s voice.
“Sarah.” She blocked my way to the garage. “You can’t go out now; you’re not thinking.”
“I’m thinking more clearly than I have in months. This needs to stop. I’m his wife!”
“Just come back and sit on the patio for a few minutes with me, will you?” Essie guided me to the back, where I’d left the fire burning.
I curled up in the fetal position on one of the chaise lounge chairs and smacked the arm with my hand. “I hate him.” Riding that tramp around on his bike, and right beneath his son’s nose, no less. No wonder Kyle was anxious to come home. His father was spending more time with the girl Kyle had a crush on than he was with him. Than he was with his mother.
“I couldn’t not tell you,” Essie whispered.
“You did the right thing. I just—I don’t know what to do anymore.”
“Try not to see it as black-and-white, you know?”
I raised my eyebrows, mustering all the sarcasm I could in a single expression. “No, I don’t know.”
“I mean, you told me yourself you’ve been spending a lot of time with Pete—”
“Don’t go there, Essie. That’s not the same at all.”
“How do you know it’s not the same? Would Matt be happy about you taking golf lessons from this guy, taking walks on the beach with him, talking to him about your husband? All I’m saying is give Matt a chance to explain himself before you go barging down there.”
“I’ve given him almost two months to explain himself. He won’t return my calls. What am I supposed to do? Wait around until all of Newport County knows what I don’t?” I inhaled a quivering breath. “And Pete and I are colleagues. Nothing more.”
I was thankful Essie didn’t call me out on the lie.
“Matt started it,” I mumbled into the pillow top of the chaise. I knew it sounded petulant, but it was true. I was the one who wanted to work things out, he just skulked away like the weasel he was.
Essie sat on the corner of the chaise. When the tears finally fell, she rubbed my back.
I hitched in shaky breaths through my sobs. “This isn’t how I pictured things, how I pictured us.”
“You need to talk to him.” She rubbed small, concentric circles on my back. I closed my eyes as a last trembling sniffle overtook me. “Probably not tonight, and maybe not even tomorrow. But soon.”
“I will.” The smoke from the fire kept the mosquitoes away and my sister stayed with me until the red glowing coals of the embers finally died out.
Chapter 23
There’s something satisfying about getting one’s hands and knees dirty. I’d never realized it before, but I enjoyed weeding. For once, I ignored Barb’s home and embraced the warm Thursday evening. Instead of waiting for Rodrigues Landscaping to pick my weeds on Saturday while I was at the museum, I donned a never-before-used pair of gardening gloves and pulled out the wide green blades of uninvited crabgrass beginning to crowd the climbing hydrangea.
I admired the clean area I worked on and moved to the left, where a bunch of orange marigolds grew with vigor. I didn’t remember telling Matt I liked the color orange or marigolds, but somehow the flowers had appeared on the walkway leading up to the front porch, bright and sunny for all to see.
Cautious at first, I pulled one up by its roots.
And I thought pulling weeds was satisfying.
With each marigold uprooted, I celebrated my desire and capability to handle my own life, my own house, my own lawn. Maybe this weekend I’d go to the garden shop down the street and purchase something I wanted in the front of my house. Maybe a perennial instead—a purple lilac or asters or lilies—something that came back year after year despite the harsh winters and frigid cold. Something hardy and enduring. Something that persevered.
A truck engine rumbled up the drive, and I wondered what Louis and Greg would say when they saw me tearing out the marigolds. I turned to wave.
My hand fell. What would Matt say to me tearing out his marigolds?
He pulled u
p to the garage. Kyle hopped out of the passenger’s seat with his duffel bag and raised a hand to me. “Hey, Mom.” He disappeared into the house.
Matt lowered his phone from his ear and got out of the car. He walked toward me. I stood, brushing my hands on my shorts.
I would be civil. No, he hadn’t returned my calls, but I would not lose my cool, even if part of me still wanted to jump down his throat with accusations.
I was about to manage a polite greeting, but he beat me to it. “What are you doing?” He looked at the marigolds, their bright, sunny heads on the edge of the lawn beneath smatters of dirt, their roots exposed to the harsh sun.
“Hi,” I said, ignoring his question.
He flashed me an annoyed look. “Hi. What are you doing?”
“Just thought I’d plant a perennial here instead. You know, maybe lilies. What do you think?”
“I think you should let Louis and Greg do it.”
I ignored the temptation to take the bait he held out. Did he think only someone who arrived in a Rodrigues Landscaping truck could accomplish such a feat? And why did he care so much anyhow? He hadn’t seen the place—our home—in weeks. I clamped my mouth shut. We would end up arguing, but not about what either of us was really upset about.
“I didn’t think you were bringing Kyle back until next week.”
“He wanted to come home.”
“Did he say why?”
“Maybe you should ask him. He’s your son, too.” Matt’s tone was hard. I hardly recognized it.
“I know he’s my son.” I attempted control but felt myself losing it. “But I’ve barely seen him all summer.” I dropped back on my knees and continued pulling up the marigolds. “I’ll talk to him.”
“Can you—can you just wait until I leave to do that?”
I shrugged. “Sure.” I peeled off my gardening gloves. “We should talk.”
The Edge of Mercy Page 17