In the Midst of the Sea

by Sean McCarthy

  I have free reign of the house while he is at home, but while he is out, he has taken to locking me in the cellar, the key in his pocket. I do not like the cellar, the dark, the damp, and the shadows, even the well. But it is a good place to hide my journal as Hiram would never look down here. Since it started, he has not been gone for more than a few hours at a time, but he examines me closely upon each return, looking into my eyes, and asking me to open my mouth as he peers down my throat as if he were a physician. I am not sure what he is looking for and he refuses to say.

  April 14, 1872

  There was a child. I did not tell Hiram, not even before it was gone. I was not far along. I suppose Hiram may have been pleased, assuming we were successful in our creation, but if nothing else, I now realize it is dangerous to make any assumptions when it comes to Hiram. His thoughts and beliefs, desires, seem to change dramatically from one day to the next, one hour to the next, and what is worse, I’m not entirely convinced it was his. Although I don’t clearly remember my entire evening with Mr. Randolph I do know I lay beside him, and anything could have happened. I only remember the lightness of his touch, dancing fingers, but could it have been more? Could he have managed to move somewhere inside me? He is a magician of sorts, and the entire episode felt trance-like in nature, so who is to say for sure?

  Whomever the father, the child is gone—breaking my heart and tearing through my womb. I cannot imagine it was a child meant to be—not if it was Hiram’s, not if it was Mr. Randolph’s. If it survived, it would have either been illegitimate of father, or illegitimate of love, for no matter how much Hiram may insist he wants a child, wants to love a child, I don’t believe he is capable. He has become far too detached to give or take anything like love. When the pain started, I took to my bed—thankfully he was out for the afternoon—and pulled the chamber pot close by. I clenched my teeth, and began to perspire, and then when the pain got to be too much, I knew something was happening. It passed quickly, and when it was over, I hurried to the cemetery and dug a small hole before Hiram returned. I wanted the poor child to be buried in hallowed ground. I dropped to my knees and I sobbed and I prayed, promising her, that we would see each other one day. That we would be with each other. And then when I was finished I returned to my yard, and planted an acorn behind the house. Spring is here, and I am hoping the seed will take. I wanted something to be there, always, so I could look out the window and remember the child. Something for me, and secret from Hiram. My child, my baby girl. I am sure I will never have another.

  34

  Ford stood at the kitchen window, drinking a glass of orange juice and staring at the big tree. Diana would be home soon. He had followed her and the man to the coffee shop, his mind now focused, no longer playing tricks on him, and he stood down the street, in the doorway of the Tibetan store, waiting for them to come out again. There was little to do in a coffee shop, and he didn’t want her to see him. He needed to make sense of it all. Find out who the man was, why she was with him. A divorce lawyer? Maybe. But no, that didn’t make sense, wouldn’t be a lawyer, not painting on the green. Maybe a real estate agent, talking to her about available apartments? But that didn’t make sense either. Why would they meet there, like that? Or maybe she was hiring him for a painting? One of Samantha? Or maybe a birthday present for Ford, a surprise? But even that didn’t make sense. He had never been big on art, so why waste the money? His money. No, he thought, she had to be doing something with him, had to be fooling around.

  But if he accused her without catching her actually doing anything—other than meeting somebody for coffee—all hell was going to break loose again, and then if she were innocent, he was going to end up looking like the bad guy. Again.

  Always the bad guy.

  He had waited, trying to keep from sight, trying to keep one eye tight on the coffee shop door, but there was more pedestrian traffic than usual out today, more cars, making it difficult, and then a UPS truck had pulled up, blocking his view. By the time the truck pulled away, Diana was standing alone outside the shop, her back turned to him as if she were looking in the window before she turned and left. If there had been any sort of embrace—a kiss?—he missed it, but she did in fact leave on her own. And that could mean everything, or it could mean nothing. Ford slipped down the alley beside the shop, and then rushed home before she could get there. He needed to control his temper. Keep it in check. If she was fooling around, then sure, he could yell and scream all he wanted, and it was in his right, but he had to know for sure. Couldn’t let her provoke him. Didn’t want to let her make him do things he’d regret. Not again. That wasn’t him.

  He wasn’t his father.

  He sipped his orange juice again, and then splashed in some vodka. A little more champagne. He hoped it would help him sleep. He was overstressed. Overtired. All of it closing in at once, getting the best of him, again. He watched the way the oak tree cast a shadow on the cemetery, the swing moving slowly in the breeze.

  35

  When Diana got home, Ford was in the backyard. She could see him clearly as she walked up the dirt road. She didn’t expect him to be awake, never mind outside. Despite the chill, he was wearing the blue-gray postal shorts that he kept for the summer, a stripe up the side, and one of his ribbed white tank tops. Black boots and black dress socks. A tall glass of orange juice on the ground beside him.

  He was cutting down the oak tree.

  Diana had stopped to pick up a few groceries on the way home, and now she dropped the bags on the front lawn. Ford swung the ax as if looking to hit a line drive. Thud, wind up, release, thud. Every muscle in his bare arms and shoulders constricted as he connected, and a sweat had broken at his brow. He was more than halfway through.

  Diana’s thoughts were racing. He was cutting down the tree. It made no sense. Why on earth would he be cutting down the tree?

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  Ford stopped, wiped his forearm across his brow. Face red. He was panting, the dead grass littered with bright wet wood chips.

  “This thing is solid as a rock,” he said. “I’ve already been at it for almost an hour. I should have tried to borrow a chain saw. Ken at work has one, I think.”

  “But why are you cutting it?” Diana asked. “It’s a beautiful tree.”

  Ford looked up through the naked branches. Initials carved across the trunk, the higher up the fainter, scarred over, older. Samantha’s swing still hung from the limb—just a board and two pieces of rope, pushed through the holes and knotted to hold it, but she used it all the time.

  “It’s pretty old,” Ford said

  Diana scowled. “So that means you have to kill it?”

  Ford repositioned himself. Swung the ax. Wooden handle, flecks of rust across the blade. Diana wasn’t aware they even owned an ax. The blade connected, got caught in the trunk, and she watched as the impact sent vibrations out through Ford’s body. Up through the arms, into the shoulders and finally causing his legs to totter. He fooled with the ax a little, wedging it this way and that, and then finally pulled it free, staggering backward as he did.

  “It’s not that. I just wanted to let more sunlight into the house—that house seems so dark all the time—and besides, the tree blocks most of our view of the graveyard, and it blocks a lot of the sky when I have my telescope out on the balcony. It’s such a pretty view. I hate seeing it go to waste.”

  “Well, it was a pretty tree, too, Ford. I loved this tree. And Samantha loved her swing.”

  “You love a lot of things it seems. I can’t even keep up with them. All that lovin’.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Nothing. Just talking. Didn’t you tell me we don’t talk enough anymore? I wouldn’t want you to go looking for someone else to talk to. Who knows what that might lead to?” He swung. “Anyway, I’m going to buy her a swing set, probably next summer. A nice one. And I can always plant you another tree. A new one, in another spot.” He stopped, wiped his brow aga
in, gazed off to his right and pointed. “Maybe over there so it won’t block the view. You like new things don’t you?”

  “You should have asked me before killing it.”

  “I wanted to ask you, but you weren’t home. I had no idea where you were.”

  Diana was silent.

  Ford picked up his drink. Took a long sip. “Where were you?”

  She looked at his eyes, something there. He was acting bizarre, and he never usually bothered asking her where she went in the mornings. Why was he asking her? He knew something, or thought he knew something.

  “Picking up some groceries,” she said quietly.

  “That it?”

  “First I went for a walk on Ocean Park. And the beach.”

  “I like that, those walks on the beach. Walks in the park, too.” He smiled, he turned, and he raised the ax.

  “You shouldn’t have cut down the tree without asking me.”

  Ford swung. Connected. Vibrated again.

  “It’s my house, Diana. My yard. If I want to cut down a stupid fucking tree, I’ll cut down a stupid fucking tree. It’s going to make the yard that much prettier. This thing has probably been here for over a hundred years.”

  “All the more reason to let it live.”

  He swung. “Do me a favor? If I get to be over a hundred? If you’re still around. Don’t let me live.”

  “You’re an ass.” She walked away, and picked the grocery bags up off the front lawn, the sound of the ax still echoing in her ears. She hadn’t seen this coming—had never even heard him complain about the tree, and she wondered why he was doing it. Why he would wake up from his nap, and head out there now? He almost never did anything in the yard in the good weather, never mind February. It made little sense. And the tree had been there nearly as long as the house itself, she knew that. In her heart, she knew it was the tree that Elizabeth had mentioned in the journal. It had to be. And now it was going. And for what? Because her husband was crazy. Nothing more, nothing less.

  He knew something. Or thought he knew something. Had to. And she wondered if he had followed her.

  Diana put the bags on the counter in the kitchen. She could see him through the window, still out in the yard, and even with the windows and doors shut, she could still hear the thud of the ax. Feel the vibrations. The whole house felt to be vibrating; she swore that it was. Diana closed her eyes, trying hard to clear her head. She thought of Elizabeth, and in the darkness of her thoughts, she could see a woman’s face. A young woman, her lips parted in a silent cry.

  And then came the roar. The big tree cracking, and the falling to the earth with a thud that shook the floor beneath her. There for a second, then gone. As was the face that had been locked in her head.

  36

  April 22, 1872

  It is now my third straight day in the cellar. Hiram slaughtered the animals, the pig and the sheep, before he left, making a mess with straw and blood, the entire barn floor soaked in blood. It was unjust to leave them to suffer for my sins, he said, to leave them to go hungry. I fled the barn before he began, but I heard their cries; he had never slaughtered our beasts himself before, and he did not finish them quickly; and then he ordered me to come with him to clean up the mess. He hung the head of the sheep on a nail on the wall.

  After forcing me to the cellar, he left me a small amount of food and I knew that wasn’t good—he had never left me with food before, so I assumed that meant he would be gone longer than usual. I tried to flee, to run up the stairs when he brought it down—some bread from the bakery, cereal, the remains of a chicken I had cooked two nights earlier, two jars of apples, and a pitcher of water, and two hunks of raw meat—from the pig and the sheep—but he got hold of me, and it did no good despite my struggling. He slapped me twice.

  “The Devil has hold of you,” he hissed. And then he pushed himself against me, pressing me against the dampness of the cellar wall. He wrapped his arms tight about me, and began to whisper.

  “We can’t do this,” he said. “Not until we get to the bottom of it all, what is happening to you. What they—he—have done to you. I fear what might happen were it to happen again, with God looking on. I fear his wrath. I fear for your soul,” he said, “I love you, Elizabeth, I love you too much,” and then he kissed the top of my head. He pulled away, and when I once again tried to run, he batted me down. I had dirt in my teeth from when I hit the cellar floor, a tooth chipped, and I could feel the side of my face beginning to swell.

  It was the first time he had struck me since we last had relations when he returned from his trip. The act must be holy, he has said, must be seen as holy in the eyes, the light, of God, and it cannot be holy if we risk having me respond the way that I did. He must learn, he said, why I responded the way that I did, and what we can do to prevent it from happening again. I could explain that it was my body responding, not my soul, nothing inherently evil—not that I am aware—but I fear it would just make things worse if I were to take ownership of it. As it stands he views me as a vessel for the evil, but not the evil itself. But sitting here in the dark of the cellar, a candle burning beside me, I have to ask myself, Am I evil?

  Perhaps I am.

  April 26, 1872

  When he returned he unlocked the door. When I came up, he stared at me a moment, and then advised me to fix him some dinner. My food supply had run out the day before, and I was quite hungry, the pains starting in my belly. I wanted to wash, too, feeling covered with the dust of the cellar, but I feared if I did, I would set him off. I lit a fire in the stove and began boiling the water for some potatoes. Hiram had brought back some greens and he tossed them on the table. He took a seat at the table and sat watching me. He did not appear as though he had combed his hair, and it was strange for him—to have been out in the community in such a disheveled state. I could feel his eyes boring a hole through my back as I moved about, but it felt good to see the light from outside, the mist moving between the tombs. I fixed him a cup of tea.

  “Do you not wonder where I have been?” he asked at last.

  I pressed my teeth into my lip, took a breath. “I would think that if you wished me to know, you would tell me.”

  “I was up in Boston,” he said. “Visiting my cousin. He’s doing very well. His practice is bringing him in more money than I think he could have ever expected, but I fear as though he may have lost sight of the Lord. I fear many people, these days, may have lost sight of the Lord. I informed him of this and asked him to move his family out here to be with us, thinking that we could perhaps establish a new community—a new city on the hill, here across the Jordan—but I got the impression that he does not wish to leave Boston. A shame. The city can hide many things, both around us and within us, but even the crowded streets and rising buildings can hide nothing from the Lord. I also stopped to pay a visit to your father.”

  My body suddenly stiffened. I had no idea that Hiram was traveling to Boston, less still that he might stop to visit my father. He had never had much to say to my father, and had once informed me that he feared he may be somewhat simple. My father was never simple though, he was just very quiet. Never one to push his piety into the faces of others. We had always had a fine time with each other, and now I feared what Hiram, in his current state of mind, might have told him.

  As if reading my mind, he suddenly said. “I told him that you have been ill, that he should pray for you. And there was much truth in my words for you haven’t been well, haven’t been yourself, your old self. You haven’t been the good woman I married. I did not get into the details of your sickness, for your father did not look well himself. He’s quite frail, and has a terrible cough. A neighbor has been looking in on him, I understand, and the neighbor doesn’t think he is doing well either. Consumption, I fear, and I did my best to keep a safe distance. He asked if you could write to him but I let him know that in your current state that would more than likely be out of the question. As soon as she is well, I told him, but I did not offer him
a great deal of hope.”

  Hope. My father. Consumption. I felt my heart beginning to break just a little bit more. Wondering if it were true. Any of it. Although something told me Hiram may have very well stopped by to see him, if nothing else to attempt to extinguish any attempts at communication. I hated him then. Both my love and hate for Hiram have always waxed and waned, but now it was just hate. Pure, simple hate.

  “I must go see him,” I said at last.

  “You will do no such thing.” Hiram sipped his tea. “I stopped in Edgartown on my way home,” he said at last.

  I felt my back tense up again. “If I had known you were going, I would have asked you to pick up some provisions. Coffee and flour and things,” I said. “We’ve nearly run out.”

  “We will make due,” Hiram said. “It is in times like this that we all need to make do. Some of the mystics used to believe that hunger provides visions. Of what is, what will be.” He paused again. “What was.” I heard him stir his spoon in his tea. “I do not subscribe to the beliefs of the mystics, but being a man of visions myself—of sights and sounds—their experiences intrigue me. Do they intrigue you, Elizabeth?”

  “I have never thought much about it,” I said.

  “No?” I heard him sip, and then when he placed the cup back down upon the table, I heard it rattle. Rattling was not good. Rattling meant his hands were shaking.

  I turned and looked at him, forced a smile. “Only what you’ve told me,” I said, “of spirits and such.”

  “Ah, yes,” Hiram said. “Spirits. They can tell us quite a bit, can’t they?”

  “I wouldn’t know, I’ve never heard them speak.”

  “Never?”

  I shook my head and started in on the potatoes.

  “I heard there was a magician in town, Edgartown, a few weeks back. A conjurer. He goes by the name Paschal Beverly Randolph. A negro. Or at least partially so—mixed race—they say his complexion is quite dark. Negroes with the slightest degree of education always like to assign themselves fancy names, these days, it seems. Trying to abolish their past, their histories as slaves. I cannot fault them that, as inferior as their kind may be, slavery was an evil institution. But this one believes himself to be a man of letters. Educated above the others. Believes himself to be one of us, I suppose. Have you heard of him?”