“I’d like to rent a box.”
“Only if you swear to check it regularly.”
Kathryn held up her right hand. “I swear.”
The woman gave her a form to fill out and wrote the box number and combination on a piece of paper. “I’m Millie, by the way.”
“Kathryn Stinson.”
Millie’s handshake was firm and cordial. Liking her already, Kathryn moved on to the next item of business. “Are there maps of the town dating back to the 1850s? I ask because I’m trying to locate what’s left of the house and mill that belonged to my ancestors, the Cutters.”
Millie blinked and a shadow crossed her face. The next moment, her expression was as open and friendly as before. “The Registry of Deeds in Great Barrington has the colonial records and proprietary plans for all the towns in Southern Berkshire County. If you want to save yourself some legwork, we’ve got a copy of the original plan for New Nottingham and other old maps at the historical society room in the basement of the town hall. It’s closed now, but if you don’t mind waiting till noon when I take my lunch break, I’ll be glad to show you what we have.”
*****
“Right on time.” Millie beamed when Kathryn walked into the post office at noon. As they left the building, Earl Barker hopped from his pickup.
“’Lo, Mill, Starstruck. Better watch out for her, Mill. She drinks Lucas’s coffee black!” He grinned.
Millie rolled her eyes. “Grow up, Earl,” she said in a voice like the rap of a ruler. “So he pulled the black coffee trick on you,” she continued as they walked across the street to the town hall. “Don’t take it personally. He tries that with every newcomer. Can’t help it his head stayed stuck in high school.”
“Really?”
“I should know. I was married to the man for over twenty years.”
“You were married to him?” Hard to imagine this brisk, self-confident woman tying the knot with that joker.
Millie laughed. “Earl’s not so bad. Just doesn’t know how to behave sometimes.”
“Misbehaving seems to run in the family. Among the men, that is.” She told Millie about yesterday’s encounter with Garth, including what Lucas Rogers had told her about Garth’s feud with Diana Farley.
“It’s true Garth and Diana didn’t get on, but that was some time ago,” Millie said as they approached a side door to the town hall.
“And she’s dead now.”
Millie took out a bunch of keys. “Yes.”
“What about Diana and Earl?” Kathryn asked on an impulse. “Was there bad blood between them, too?”
Millie frowned at a strip of peeling paint on the door. “Earl cleared the land for the Farleys, did the driveway, and dug out the pond. He and Diana got along fine—just fine.” She jammed a key into the lock with sudden ferocity. The door opened, and a miasma of cold, mildewed air wafted from below. Kathryn wrinkled her nose.
“Sorry about that,” Millie apologized, as they descended the steps. “The boiler burst and flooded the basement several years ago, and we’ve never been able to get rid of the smell. Still, we’re lucky to have this space for our collection.”
The room resembled an old curiosity shop. In the center stood an oak schoolteacher’s desk, its surface stained with India ink and one side blackened, probably from years of proximity to a wood stove. An assortment of rickety chairs surrounded the desk. The shelves and display cases lining the wall held a hodgepodge of items: an antique sewing machine, part of a plow, a dusty tea set, a handful of arrowheads, and a rusty black top hat.
Millie removed a yellowed map in a glass frame from the wall and laid it on the desktop.
“This is a copy of the original plan of the town, showing the first proprietors.”
Examining the plan, Kathryn found a large rectangle with the name “Cutter.” Inside the rectangle were two small squares near a kidney shape with a wavy line attached to it. The squares must mark the locations of the house and mill, but what about the kidney shape and the wavy line? Millie told her they represented Leech Pond—or rather Leech Swamp−and the brook that ran into it.
“Do the brook and Leech Swamp show up on contemporary maps?” Kathryn asked.
“Here. See for yourself.” Millie handed her a recent relief map of the area.
After Kathryn had located both features she said, “Why are the house and mill so far from the present town?”
“The town moved, but the house and mill stayed put.”
“Who owns the property now?”
“Gordon Farley. It’s in his woods.”
“Then it’s right in my backyard. That should make it easy to find.”
“You’re not planning to go there now, are you?” Millie sounded alarmed.
“Yes. Why not?”
“I wouldn’t go into those woods now if you paid me,” Millie declared.
“Why? I heard that since the town passed the ‘written permission’ law, the woods aren’t as dangerous as they used to be, even during Deer Week.”
“Whoever told you that was wrong. It’s one thing to pass a law, another to get people to observe it, particularly around here. Take it from me: you don’t want to go in there now.” Millie squinted into space, neck craned forward, as if straining for a glimpse of an unseen enemy. Changing the subject, she said, “If you’re interested in the early history of New Nottingham, you might like to have a look at this.” She rummaged in the drawer of a wooden cabinet and handed Kathryn a file folder.
“What is it?”
“Parts of Emily Goodale’s recollections.”
“Emily actually wrote down her recollections?” This was exciting news.
“She told them to Diana, who taped and transcribed them. When the Farleys first bought land in New Nottingham, Diana wanted to learn more about the area, especially the old farms on Rattlesnake Hill. She was referred to Emily, because Emily grew up on the Judd farm, where the Farleys built their house. Diana was so fascinated by Emily’s stories about the old days she got us started gathering materials for a town history.
“Unfortunately, we lost a lot of those materials when the basement flooded. I don’t know what became of the tapes Diana made, but she salvaged some of the typed pages by using a hairdryer on them. That’s what’s in the folder.”
Kathryn flipped through the pages. Many were badly stained, and there were gaps in the sequence of page numbers, but by her rough estimate the folder contained about fifty pages. “Okay if I borrow this?”
“Sure.” Millie smiled then her expression darkening, she said, “Remember what I said about not going into the woods this time of year.”
Back at the general store, several men lolled on the porch with coffee, sandwiches, and smokes. Lucas Rogers was there, a man in paint-splattered overalls, and Earl Barker, joined by his brother Garth. It was easy to see they were related: same rugged features, blue eyes, and light brown hair. Yet while Earl’s features were well spaced, Garth’s were compressed, giving him a mean, ugly look.
Her body tensed. It’s just a bunch of men, she told herself, but the silent way they watched her was intimidating.
As she approached her car, Garth lobbed his burning cigarette onto the roof of her car. He vanished into the store, the screen door banging behind him. She wanted to go after him and insist he remove the butt. Instead, she reached for it, singeing her fingers. With a cry of pain, she dropped cigarette and file folder. Loose pages scattered every which way. Laughter rang out from the porch. She glared at the men. To her surprise, they turned shame-faced, shuffled off the porch and helped her gather up the pages.
Earl brushed grit off a sheet and handed it to her. “Why did your brother do that?” she demanded.
His cool blue eyes met hers. “Shouldn’t have parked in his spot, Starstruck.”
“What do you mean?”
He g
estured toward a large red-white-and-black Marlboro cigarette sign in the store window. “Always parks opposite that.”
“Frigging macho Marlboro man,” she fumed.
The skin around Earl’s eyes and mouth crinkled. “Yeah,” he said in the husky voice of a backwoods crooner. “Yeah.”
Chapter 10
Back at the house, Kathryn plopped into a patio lounge chair with Emily Goodale’s recollections. She skimmed the pages, looking for mention of the Cutters. The one brief reference told her what she already knew: Obadiah Cutter was the first settler of New Nottingham, and over time the Cutters became the wealthiest family in town. She went back to the beginning and read more carefully in case she’d missed something.
The word “paradise” caught her eye. She smiled. That’s how she’d thought of the Farley house. Emily, however, was referring to another location: a mansion further up the hill that had belonged to the Whittemores. She read on—about the Barkers and how people thought the rattlesnake venom in their blood was responsible for their violent tempers. So even then they had a bad reputation.
A few pages were devoted to Old Man Barker, a bogeyman to Emily and the other children in town. Given their fear of him, Kathryn admired the spunk with which young Emily, acting on a dare, approached him.
One day when my uncle took a horse to the smithy to be shod, I hid in the straw at the back of the wagon. When the coast was clear, I snuck out. Old Man Barker was in the shop, removing a piece of red-hot iron from the fire with a pair of tongs. I crept up behind him and shouted “Boo!” He let go of the tongs, and the fiery iron dropped onto his boot. He kicked it off and stumbled blindly after me as I dashed back to my uncle.
“What’s going on?” my uncle demanded.
“Keep your boy out of my forge,” Old Man Barker growled
“It’s my niece Emily who’s here,” my uncle replied.
“Emily?” Old Man Barker repeated in a less angry voice. “Well then, she should know better than to sneak up on a body.”
“It won’t happen again,” my uncle promised, hoisting me into the wagon.
Here the story took an unexpected turn. The next day, Old Man Barker, scrubbed clean and wearing his Sunday best, showed up at the Judd household and asked to see Emily.
As I stood shaking before him, he put a hand on my head, then moved it downward, tracing my face with his fingers. They were rough and callused, but his touch was gentle. “Who does she favor?” he asked my great-grandmother, Aurelia Judd, “Leonora or her father?”
“Leonora,” my great-grandmother replied softly, tears coming into her eyes.
“’Tis so.” He pressed a handful of penny candy into my palm.
After that he visited me once a year. He would touch my face and ask who I favored. Then he would give me candy or a trinket. In spite of the treats, I dreaded these visits. I couldn’t forget that the hands touching me had killed someone. I had many nightmares in which he went from feeling my face to strangling me. When I told my great-grandmother, she said, “If you knew the truth, you would understand he is more to be pitied than feared.” But it wasn’t until after Old Man Barker’s death and she was near death herself that she finally told me his story.
Eager for the conclusion, Kathryn turned the page only to discover a gap in the sequence. The narrative shifted to a description of the one-room school Emily had attended as a girl. She thumbed the pages, checking to see if the missing ones were in another place. They weren’t. Maybe they had never been retrieved when she dropped the folder. She drove to the village and scoured the general store parking lot without success. She even went inside and asked Lucas Rogers if anyone had found pages and left them with him.
Then she walked over to the post office. Millie sat in the rear, telephone handset wedged between her head and shoulder, her face tight with concentration, while she scribbled furiously onto a pad. Kathryn caught her eye and Millie signaled her to wait. “What can I do for you now?” Millie asked once she was off the phone.
Kathryn explained about the missing pages in Emily’s recollections. “They had to do with Old Man Barker. Do you know his story?”
Millie shook her head. “I made up my mind a long time ago that what I didn’t know about Earl’s family couldn’t hurt me.”
“You didn’t read about him in Emily’s recollections?” Kathryn persisted.
“I never gave those pages more than a quick glance. Figured I’d wait until they appeared in print as part of the town history. But why not ask Emily? They’re her recollections.”
“I’ll do that.”
Back at the Farley house, Kathryn sat on the patio, thinking about Old Man Barker and the woman in the photograph, and how she had to get their stories from Emily. First, though, she needed to visit the house foundation and mill ruins. Millie’s warning came back to her: “I wouldn’t go into those woods now if you paid me.” Well, she wouldn’t go alone. Her boyfriend, Alan, was coming for a visit this weekend, and he could accompany her. Although he worked as an attorney for a large Boston firm, he was from Maine originally and had spent a lot of time outdoors. On one of their first dates, he took her for a long walk in the Concord woods, impressing her with his ability to navigate the confusing maze of trails.
In the meantime, she would do some exploring of her own. She’d drive up the hill and try to find the hot spots Brandy had mentioned. She was also curious to see the Whittemore estate that Emily had described as a “paradise.” It had been visible from the Judd farm then, but now it no longer was.
She drove until she came to a long, gravel driveway with imposing stone pillars on either side. The high, wrought-iron gate was padlocked. Disappointed, she turned on her cell phone. No luck there either. A beat-up old car pulled up beside her. A teenage boy, wearing jeans and a black t-shirt with a logo, got out. He was tall, lanky and attractive with light brown hair, blue eyes and a friendly grin. “Looking for hotspots?” He pointed at her phone. She nodded.
“You need to drive a little further up. I can show you the exact spot. I’m Pete Barker, by the way. Earl and Millie’s son.”
No surprise there. He had his father’s good looks, and his mother’s pleasant manner. She hardly knew any teenagers, but she liked this one.
“You’re the new tenant at the Farley place, right?” Pete Barker said. “From Boston?”
“Yes on both counts.”
“Cool.” His smile broadened. “Been to any of the clubs there?”
“Clubs?”
“Places like The House of Blues and the Paradise Rock Club.”
No fan of rock music, she hadn’t gone to either, but she didn’t want to appear un-cool. “I’ve been meaning to, but . . .”
“Well, if you ever have an extra ticket, let me know and I’ll be on the next bus. C’mon, I’ll show you that hotspot.”
She followed Pete’s car up the road, stopping when he did to check for reception. Her phone picking up a signal, she gave him a thumbs up, and he drove on. She called Alan at his office to tell him the good news. The call over, she made a U-turn and started down the hill, only to pull over to admire the view. Before her stretched a checkerboard of forest and field, dotted by houses and barns like the colored pieces in a Monopoly set, and pierced by needle-like church steeples. The slumbering giant of a mountain loomed in the distance. The sun was beginning to set. She drank in the fiery beauty until the light faded to gray, and she continued on.
The two girls seemed to pop out of nowhere when she rounded a bend in the road. Kathryn swerved, slammed on the brakes and jumped from the car, heart racing. One girl was sprawled in the middle of the road, while the other tried to pull her up. “Are you all right?” Kathryn asked.
“We’re okay,” the standing girl said brusquely. It was Cheryl Barker.
“Liar!” the other girl cried. She had the same pasty complexion and cobweb-fine blonde hair as
Cheryl, but looked even younger. She was also very pregnant. “Our car broke down a ways back and she expects me to walk all the way up the goddamn hill. I’m seven months’ pregnant, for chrissake. But she don’t give a shit. Don’t want me to have my baby neither. Hopes I’ll fall and miscarry.”
“That’s not true. I take you to your doctor’s appointments, don’t I? That’s more than he ever—” Cheryl bit her lip. The other girl began to bawl.
“I can give you a lift home,” Kathryn offered.
“Take it, Sis,” Cheryl said. “I’ll walk.”
“Are you sure? I’m happy to take you.”
“Thanks, but I’d rather walk,” Cheryl said.
Except for an occasional muffled sob or sniffle, Sis was quiet on the drive up the hill. She merely pointed when they reached her home, a log cabin with a huge satellite dish, a rusted swing set, and various rusted appliances out front. The lights were on inside, and a pickup was parked in the driveway. Sis didn’t look happy to be there and shivered even though the evening was balmy.
“Will you be okay?” Kathryn asked.
“Yeah,” Sis said in a quavering voice. She got out awkwardly and wobbled toward the cabin, whimpering like a whipped puppy. Kathryn’s headlights shone on the rear of the pickup, illuminating two bumper stickers. One read, “How’m I driving? Call 1-800-Fuck-You.” The other was even more ominous: “Keep Honking, I’m Reloading.”
On the way down, she spotted Cheryl marching determinedly uphill. With her slight figure and wispy, short hair, she might have been a child crusader from long ago. Was she, too, headed into battle against impossible odds? Kathryn slowed in case the girl had changed her mind about a ride. But with a shake of her head, Cheryl strode past.
The Farley house rose up in the shadows like the hull of an ancient ship. Too bad she hadn’t thought to leave a light on. She flipped the switch in the front hallway then turned on the living room lights. Everything looked just as she’d left it: fly strips dangling from a beam like streamers from an old celebration, Amore dozing on the couch, her Boston lithography book neatly aligned on the coffee table. Yet something seemed wrong.
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