The House on Primrose Pond

by Yona Zeldis McDonough

  “How did you know that?” The girl didn’t seem alarmed, only curious.

  “I’ve lived in this house, and this town, for years and years. So I hear all the local goings-on. I know that you, your mother, and—what is it, brother? sister?—moved here from New York City.”

  “That’s right. My mom, my little brother, and me. I’m Calista.” She stopped stroking the horse and extended her hand. “Calista Miller.”

  “Alice Renfew.” She took the hand, thinking that the girl had been very well brought up; this pleased her somehow. “Calista is such a lovely name. From the Greek, meaning, ‘She who is most beautiful.’”

  “You know all about me!” Calista seemed to like this.

  “Well, I know the myth. There was a nymph, daughter of the Arcadian king Lycaon. Zeus fell in love with her, and so Hera, who was jealous, transformed her into a she-bear. Zeus felt sorry for her, so he placed her high in the sky, among the constellations.”

  “Wow,” said Calista. “You really do know everything.”

  “Maybe not everything.” Alice smiled. “But I took a Greek and Roman mythology course in college. And did know your grandparents.”

  “Really?”

  “Oh, yes. They were my neighbors.”

  “They died when I was little; I don’t remember them.”

  “I remember them quite well. I’ll have to tell you all about them.”

  Jester emitted an impatient snort. “Oh, he’s cross that we’re not paying attention to him,” said Alice, and Calista began stroking him again. “Would you like to ride him sometime?”

  “Could I really?”

  “If it’s all right with your mother, yes. And we’d have to get you a helmet.”

  Calista suddenly looked very grave. “I’d never ride without a helmet,” she said. “Never.”

  Alice noted her reaction but did not remark on it. The wind began to pick up and she had to acknowledge that, while she was enjoying herself immensely, her feet were almost numb. She’d better go back into the house. “Come and visit sometime,” she said to Calista. “I’d love to have you over.”

  “Thanks,” Calista said. The wind whipped that hair of hers around her face. “I’d like that.”

  Alice went back inside and made herself a cup of tea. She was glad to have met her new neighbor. She’d already met the girl’s mother, and she vaguely remembered that she’d been up here one summer; it must have been before Dave died. But she’d never felt any particular connection or rapport. Whereas with Calista it was different.

  There was a box of thin chocolate wafers in the cupboard and she took them out. Dave would have liked this girl, she decided. Dave would have liked her very much. Years ago, when they were newly married, she and Dave had tried to have children, but it had not happened for them. Month after disappointing month, thinking, Yes, maybe this time; I’m two days late, now three, only to have all that hope literally bleed right out of her. Alice knew that the disappointment ground away at him too. Back in those days they didn’t do much testing, not at all like now, when everyone was poked, prodded, and analyzed to death. So it was never entirely clear where the fault lay; Alice was not sure she even wanted to know.

  She finished the tea, rinsed out the cup, and put the cookies away. It was too early for dinner and she felt restless in this blue, not quite evening hour. Emma seemed to pick up on her mood; she tilted her head inquisitively and looked at her mistress. Alice got up. It might have been too early for her evening meal, but it was not too early for Emma’s. She prepared the dog’s food and set it on the floor. Emma ate, as she did everything, with great delicacy, and when she was through, she nudged the bowl with her snout, her signal to ask for a biscuit. Alice gave it to her, then went to the door to let her out into the yard.

  While Emma was outside, Alice took a couple of carrots from the crisper, her coat from its hook, and a flashlight. Then she joined Emma in the yard. Emma trotted up and followed her beyond the fence and across the meadow. Alice rarely visited Jester at night, but Calista’s interest earlier in the day urged her toward him, as if she could recapture some of the hopeful anticipation she’d felt at their meeting by returning to where it had taken place.

  Alice unlocked the latch on the barn door and let herself inside, using the flashlight until she located the pull chain that illuminated the stalls. Jester whinnied and Alice produced a carrot from her pocket, which she fed him. It was cold out here, but Alice didn’t want to go back into the house yet.

  There had been an afternoon back in the late 1960s when Alice was in the office filling in for Dave’s receptionist, who was out sick. A girl of about seventeen came in. She had very close-set eyes and an unfortunate beak of a nose but her luxuriant mane of red hair—even gathered into its girlish ponytail, it was something to see—must have turned heads everywhere.

  “Hello, Mrs. Renfew.” The girl’s voice was just above a whisper. “Do you remember me?” Alice looked carefully. “Lucy,” said the girl. “Lucy Delvaux.”

  “Lucy!” said Alice. “Of course!” She remembered the child as one of three or four in a large, noisy family that never paid its bills on time. Dave continued to treat the children anyway. “I haven’t seen you in ages—you’re practically all grown up now.”

  “We moved,” Lucy said. “To Kittery.”

  Kittery was just over the Piscataqua River, in Maine. “Well, it’s nice to see you again. What brings you here?”

  “I wanted to see Dr. Dave.” The ponytail seemed to quiver. “I don’t have an appointment but I was hoping—that is, I thought—”

  “I see,” said Alice. And she did. There was some kind of trouble; she could sense it. “He’s with someone now, but if you wait here just a little while, I’ll squeeze you in.”

  Lucy sat down to wait and Alice went back to her filing. Every now and then she would cast a surreptitious glance at Lucy; the girl sat with a copy of Life magazine open on her lap but she did not turn a single page. Tears shone on her cheeks.

  When the boisterous but darling Harris twins had emerged from the examining room, Dave ushered Lucy inside and closed the door. Alice had a feeling she knew what the story would be. And over dinner that night, Dave confirmed her hunch.

  “Knocked up,” he said succinctly over a plate of roast chicken, mashed potatoes, and brussels sprouts. “By a sailor, no less. He was stationed at the base.” The naval base was midway between Portsmouth and Kittery; they passed it often. “But he’s long gone, shipped out along with the fake last name he gave her.”

  “Oh, dear,” said Alice. “Does her family know?”

  “Not yet.” He speared a sprout. “I offered to tell them, though.”

  “Can she—you know . . . ?”

  “Have an abortion?” Dave never did like to mince words.

  “Well, yes.” Alice knew that what she proposed was illegal. But she also knew Dave didn’t think it ought to be and that he would know where to send the girl if necessary.

  “Too late for that. I’d say she’s almost five months along.”

  “Five months!” Alice dropped the roll she’d been buttering. “I would never have known.”

  “Neither did she.” He was fiddling with his fork now.

  “She came to me for help; she didn’t know where to turn. So I had an idea. An idea that I hope you’ll like . . .”

  “What is it?” But she knew even before he said it.

  “I told Lucy she could come live with us. Her family could invent some reason for her absence. You’d take care of her and Jed Cooke says he could deliver her down at the hospital; he’ll keep it very quiet.” Jed was an obstetrician who practiced in Portsmouth; Dave had known him for years. “Jed’s brother’s a lawyer; he could draft the adoption papers. All legal and aboveboard, of course. I told Lucy we’d give her money for college and she could enroll next fall.” Dave’s fork had take
n on a life of its own, circling, jabbing, jutting, poking. “You haven’t said a word.” Dave looked at her anxiously. “Won’t you please say something?”

  “You darling man!” She rushed from her seat to embrace him.

  • • •

  Jester finished the carrot and pawed the dirt impatiently until Alice produced another. Her hands were cold and she balled them into her pockets. Emma looked up and then placed her head down again. Clearly they weren’t going anywhere.

  • • •

  Lucy had moved in the very next day. The long, snowy winter kept her inside a lot, which was just fine; she had no desire to run into anyone she knew. She was a good-natured girl, insistent upon helping Alice around the house, and grateful for her place in it. Those close-set eyes of hers? They shone with intelligence and feeling. That nose? Why, it was aquiline, not beaky: strong, proud, and beautiful. Alice taught her to knit, and together they churned out tiny garments and cozy blankets for the baby, all in yellow and white, since in those days no one knew what the sex would be. They grew close enough for Alice to feel she could ask about the baby’s father. “He was a good dancer,” Lucy said. “And he always brought me flowers when he came to pick me up.”

  “How long did you know him?” Alice was aware this was a delicate question.

  Lucy concentrated on a sleeve. “Not very long,” she said finally. “About ten days. But we went out together every night while he was stationed here, and by the last night I felt like I could trust him. He said he loved me; I believed him. And when he got us a room so we could be alone for a little while, I wasn’t afraid to go with him.”

  “He didn’t . . . force you, did he?”

  Lucy shook her head, and her glorious red ponytail whipped from side to side. “Oh, no! I wanted to.” The girl’s face was suffused with pink.

  “There’s nothing for you to be ashamed of,” Alice said gently. “You believed this young man when he said he loved you, and I’m guessing you felt like you loved him back. If there’s anyone who should be ashamed, it’s him. He’s the one who ran away.”

  “I never thought of it that way before,” said Lucy.

  Alice waited, the sound of their needles clicking companionably as they worked. “You could have made an effort to find him, you know. It wouldn’t have been impossible.”

  “Why?” Lucy asked. “To force him to marry me? That’s not what I wanted.”

  “He should at least have been made aware of what he’d done and not left you to deal with it all on your own.”

  “I suppose.” Lucy lifted up the sweater; it was nearly done. “But since you and Dr. Dave took me in, everything’s all right now—even my mom thinks so. I’ll have the baby; you’ll adopt it. I can go to college in the fall, just like you said. No one will ever have to know.”

  “No one,” Alice said. “It will be our secret.” And it would. The baby would have so many more advantages than if she or he grew up with Lucy—two stable, loving parents, a spacious and beautiful home, an opportunity to attend the best schools and camps, access to lessons of all kinds—maybe they ought to get a piano, just in case?—exposure to a different class of people, regular trips abroad. She, not Lucy, would be the child’s true mother. The accident of its birth would be nothing more than an obscure footnote.

  • • •

  Finally, the cold won out. Alice reached out to touch the horse’s muzzle, but he shook his head and turned away; he was pouting because there wasn’t going to be a final carrot. She checked the buckle on the heavy lined blanket that was strapped around his middle. Just before she turned to go, Alice noticed something in the straw. She knelt and retrieved a glove made of fluffy sky blue angora. It belonged to the girl, she realized. Calista. She must have dropped it.

  Back in the house, Alice placed the glove on the kitchen table and ran hot water over her hands to warm them. She supposed she ought to eat some dinner, but she had no appetite and decided not to bother. Sometimes preparing a single meal was just more trouble than it was worth. She could always have a snack later if she felt hungry.

  • • •

  Lucy’s labor started on a Sunday morning in March. Alice helped her into the car and Dave drove them all to the hospital in Portsmouth. Jed Cooke had already been telephoned; he was waiting for them. Alice and Dave didn’t go into the delivery room—that was another thing that wasn’t done back then—but they sat together, hands clasped, in the waiting area. The morning turned to afternoon and the afternoon to evening. Dave wanted to get something to eat, but Alice would not budge, so he went to the cafeteria and brought her back a wedge of pie and a cup of coffee; she was too keyed up to touch either.

  It was dark when Jed Cooke emerged from the delivery room. There was blood on his scrubs and his face shone with sweat, but he’d taken off his mask and he was smiling. “A seven-pound baby boy,” he said. “He’s perfect.”

  Alice rose from the bench as if she’d been drawn up by the top of her head with a string. “Can I see him?” she asked. “Please?”

  “Let the nurse clean him up first.”

  Alice paced while she waited, looking out the window onto Lincoln Avenue. And then finally she and Dave were allowed into the room where Lucy was propped up on pillows, holding the swaddled baby against her chest. Above the white cloth, his eyes were slate blue and his brows, barely visible, were arched and achingly delicate. The tufts of hair on his head were a brilliant coppery red—just like his mother’s.

  “Oh,” said Alice. “May I hold him?”

  Lucy nodded and gave the baby to Alice. How easily her arms accommodated his weight; how naturally he seemed to fit against her. But if she felt an instant connection, the baby did not. He twisted and squirmed, his head turning back in his mother’s direction.

  “Maybe he needs to—you know . . .” Lucy pointed to the front of her green hospital gown, on which two wet patches were visible.

  “Of course.” Alice returned the baby to Lucy; instantly she felt bereft.

  “The nurse said I should do it just for a couple days. It will be good for him, you know? There’s special stuff in there that can help him grow.”

  Alice looked at Dave, who nodded. “Colostrum,” he said. “Very healthy. We can get him onto the formula in a day or two.”

  “All right,” said Alice. But, healthy or not, she didn’t like the idea.

  The next day, when Jed Cooke’s brother Ronald showed up with the paperwork, Lucy would not sign. Nursing the infant, she had succumbed to the curve of his cheek, the flutter of his red-gold lashes as he drifted off to sleep. Her mother had come round to see her in the hospital and she too fell under the baby’s spell; she was going to help raise him while Lucy lived at home and went to community college part-time. “I’m so sorry,” she told Alice. “I know how much you were counting on having him.”

  No, you don’t, Alice thought. But said, “I understand. He’s yours, after all. It’s hard to give him up.”

  “Not hard,” Lucy said, gazing down at the baby she held. “Impossible.”

  • • •

  Alice went into the pink living room with its profusion of cushions, tassels, and fringe, and sat down on the couch. Emma was right behind her. That redheaded boy of Lucy’s? He’d be a man now, in his mid-forties, quite possibly married and with children of his own. If they’d been fortunate enough to keep him, she and Dave might have been grandparents, and she’d have grandchildren filling her house. Instead, there was only Emma.

  But now she had new neighbors. Neighbors who might become friends. And there was Calista. What was she doing now? Homework? Or was she texting or playing some inscrutable game on her phone, the way all the young people did these days?

  Alice went back into the kitchen. The sky blue glove was still on the table; it seemed to be reaching out to her. She looked over at the clock: ten thirty, too late to return the glove now. But to
morrow afternoon, sometime after the school bus swung by, would be perfect. Alice went to the stairs and called Emma to follow. Delivering that glove to its red-haired owner would be a very neighborly thing to do; Alice had always prided herself on being an especially good neighbor.

  TEN

  The Yankee Crockpot, the restaurant Janet Durbin had chosen, was right in the center of Exeter, just a short distance away from the entrance to the venerable boarding school. Susannah parked her car and walked past the entrance, catching a glimpse of the well-maintained building and grounds; even in the dead of winter, the place exuded a subtle air of privilege.

  When Susannah walked through the door, she saw that Janet was already at the table. Along with her were the two she had invited to this lunch. Damn. Susannah wished she’d gotten here sooner; it would have given her more time to prepare herself. Even though she’d wanted this meeting, the actual fact of it was more awkward than she had imagined. It was possible one of these men had been her mother’s lover and had written that impassioned note to her. One of them had wanted her to leave her family—leave Susannah—to be with him.

  Todd, the now retired editor of the newspaper and the elder of the two, half rose in his seat and took her hand in both of his. “You look so much like Claire,” he said. “You could have been sisters.” He seemed to be about eighty, with wisps of white surrounding the pink dome of his skull. His eyebrows were thick, and surprisingly dark, a sharp contrast to his hair.

  “No, she doesn’t.” George Martin spoke before Susannah had a chance to respond. “You’re a very attractive woman. But Claire was one of a kind.” George was a fellow actor in Claire’s theater group who taught drama at the high school.

  “I’ve never thought I looked like her either,” Susannah said.

  “Well, I see the resemblance.” Todd reached for the breadbasket. “Clear as day.”

  “People see what they want to see,” said George. He was looking at the menu, so Susannah could not read his expression. She guessed he was in his late fifties, so he would have been younger than her mother, with straight gray-brown hair that he tied in a ponytail; he wore a stretched-out cable-knit sweater over a blue denim shirt. She couldn’t imagine him as her mother’s lover; he seemed too subdued, too quiet. Too much like Dad, flashed through her mind. Any lover of her mother’s would have been more like her—mercurial, sporadically brilliant, charismatic.