The House on Primrose Pond

by Yona Zeldis McDonough

  The waiter appeared to take their order; at Janet’s suggestion, Susannah ordered the chicken potpie. “It’s one of the best things on the menu,” she said.

  Susannah still used a black leather-bound Moleskine for taking notes, and she pulled it from her purse along with a pen. She had to move aside the cobalt blue napkin—it matched the tablecloth and the heavy, faceted water glasses—to make room. “I’m hoping to write something about my mother, so I’d love to have any recollections you could share.”

  “She was a wonderful woman.” Todd tore open a roll, which he buttered lavishly. “So bright. So engaged. Very organized and detail oriented too. I adored working with her.”

  “She loved her job,” Janet said. “She said so all the time.”

  “I was sorry when she left us,” said Todd. “I told her I’d be glad to give her a recommendation. But she never contacted me about it.”

  Susannah hastily jotted down what Todd had said. “She didn’t get another job when we moved to New Jersey. She got involved with my school and was active in the PTA. Local theater too. And she was always in one book group or another.”

  “I told her she was spreading herself too thin.” Apart from “hello,” this was the first thing George said, and as an opening gambit it seemed just a shade hostile. “She was good at so many things but she never honed or perfected any of them. She should have harnessed her talent better.” His expression was disapproving.

  Susannah bent over her notebook, glad to have an excuse not to look at him.

  Was this a man her mother would have been drawn to? Loved? Todd seemed more likely a choice. Then the food arrived and so her note taking was suspended.

  “Susannah is doing some research about Ruth Blay,” said Janet. “She’s been in the library several times now, delving into our collection.”

  “It’s a good one.” Susannah pricked the crust of the potpie with her fork and a wisp of steam escaped. “And you’ve been so helpful, Janet.”

  “Have you been to the New Hampshire State Archives, in Concord? That’s where a lot of material is kept.”

  “Not yet. I’m still trying to map out how I want to handle the story first.”

  “A worthy goal.” He helped himself to another roll. “Lovely Claire Gilmore, with her black curls, her big eyes, and tiny hands . . .” He looked at George. “I don’t happen to agree with you, old man. Not at all. Claire wasn’t spreading herself thin. In her case, one skill enhanced the others, you know? Her theatrical talents made her a good reader, and being a good reader made her a good editor. And her knowledge in so many areas was also a help; a cultural editor needs to have a feel for culture at large, and that’s exactly what Claire had.”

  Susannah opened her notebook again and scribbled furiously; Todd called her mother “lovely” and had mentioned her “big eyes” and “tiny hands.” Weren’t these the observations of a lover? And like the poet, he mentioned Claire’s dark curly hair. Could he have written the note? It was extremely uncomfortable for her to imagine this—and he seemed to feel no guilt in her presence, no remorse or awkwardness at all—so she pushed the feelings away. She had committed herself to this quest; she wasn’t going to abandon it now.

  “You’re missing the point,” said George, almost angrily. “Yes, she was multitalented. But she couldn’t commit to any one thing and as a result she just squandered herself.” He threw his hands out in an exasperated gesture and hit Susannah’s water glass, which tipped over, wetting her notebook. Quickly, she snatched it from the table. George seemed agitated, even angry. Why?

  “I’m so sorry.” He stood and began blotting the table with his napkin. A waitress hurried over with more napkins, these for George’s pants, which had also gotten wet. When they sat down again, Susannah put her notebook in her lap, just to be safe. “So we were talking about Claire,” said George.

  “And Todd thinks you were being a bit harsh,” Janet added. “I happen to agree.”

  “Am I? I don’t think so. She was once offered a role in a play in New York City. But she wouldn’t take it because she didn’t want to be away from her job at the paper. It was a small part. Off-off-Broadway. But still—New York City.”

  “Was that the reason?” asked Janet. “I thought it was because she didn’t want to leave Warren, even briefly. She said she didn’t know how he’d manage without her.”

  Susannah could not imagine her mother saying that. Warren was the one who catered to her. They both did, really. She had loved her mother but felt a little afraid of her at times. Her temper. Her moods. When Susannah was about twelve, her mother had uncharacteristically surprised her with tickets to see the New York City Ballet perform at Lincoln Center. The Firebird was on the program and Susannah had been riveted by the scarlet-clad ballerina, her every movement and gesture an expression of anguish. How she loathed her captivity. And how desperately she wanted to be free. And sitting there in the dark, with the Stravinsky music swelling around her like a storm, Susannah remembered having the sudden, alarming thought that her mother was a bit like that bird. She loved her daughter and her husband, but there was always something of the wild thing about her—something that resisted taming or domestication. Susannah had never said this to anyone, not to her mother—who adored the performance and at the intermission bought them each a glass of champagne, Susannah’s first, to celebrate—and certainly not her father. Anyway, she had no words for what it was that she felt; it was just a current of feeling, an inchoate knowledge that was all the more terrifying for being inadmissible.

  “—I vaguely remember that,” Todd was saying. “Whatever the reason, she wanted to stay right here in town.”

  “Claire happened to agree with my assessment,” George said quietly. “I discussed it with her—more than once.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Todd.

  “Sometimes Claire got a little melancholy, a little blue,” George said. “We were friends and she’d come to me for advice. And when I told her what I thought, she agreed with me. ‘I want so many things,’ she said. ‘It’s too hard to pick just one.’”

  “Well, she never said anything like that to me.” Todd stuffed the last bit of the roll into his mouth. “And the idea that Claire was melancholy, as you so quaintly put it, is ridiculous. I never knew a woman with a sunnier disposition.” He seemed to be challenging George.

  “A person can have many sides, many facets.” George did not take the bait. “She might have shown me one face and you another.”

  Susannah looked at the two men sitting across from her. George seemed to know her mother well, and presented himself as her confidant. Maybe she’d been wrong in dismissing him as a possibility. Maybe he was more complex and challenging than she thought—qualities that would have attracted Claire. In any case, there was still evidence to suggest that either might have been her mother’s lover. Evidence, but no actual proof.

  The appearance of the waiter to clear their plates and leave the dessert menus was a brief distraction. And even though she was quite full from the potpie, she ordered dessert—apple crumble—so that the lunch would continue for a while.

  The conversation turned to other things—there was a paper mill in a nearby town whose potentially hazardous waste was threatening to contaminate Primrose Pond; a town hall meeting had been scheduled to discuss it. A new restaurant was opening in Eastwood and another was closing; a big storm was predicted for the area this coming weekend. Everyone hoped it would veer off in another direction. Then the desserts were brought to the table and they all began to eat.

  Susannah listened and nodded, but she wasn’t really paying attention. Pushing her crumble around on her plate with her fork, she was still trying to connect first Todd and then George as the author of that note. But what if neither of them had written it? Then Janet turned to her and said, “Harry Snady.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Harry Sna
dy. He was the director of the theater company. Why didn’t I think of him sooner?”

  “Of course. He’d be the perfect person to talk to,” said Todd. “He was her biggest fan, onstage and off.”

  “That’s true,” said George. “He knew her as well as anyone. Maybe better. I heard he’s over in Maine now, though,” said George, “and that his health is bad.” He’d ordered butterscotch pudding and was putting careful little spoonfuls into his mouth.

  “Do you have a phone number for him?” Susannah discreetly pushed her plate away; she was done with the crumble.

  “I don’t, actually. But I’m sure you could find him without too much trouble.”

  The check came and the two men gallantly insisted on paying Susannah’s portion of it. “It’s the least we can do,” said George.

  “Our homage to Claire. She left us too soon.” He stood and put on his coat.

  “In more ways than one. So many people missed her when she left town.” Janet had gotten up too. “After she died, some of the ladies from the various book clubs even established a little fund in her name.”

  “Really?” said Susannah. She must have made a deep impression on them. “To be used for what?”

  “Keeping the poetry collection fresh and current. That Poet’s Corner was so important to her and they all knew it.”

  “Ah, the Poet’s Corner,” said Todd. “I remember when she came into my office to pitch the column to me. I was reluctant at first. Poetry in a local paper? But she was so passionate. A real zealot. I decided to give it a try, and you know what? It was extremely popular with our readers. And we even won an award in arts coverage because of it.”

  “I had no idea . . .” said Susannah. But why would she? Apart from Linda, who had cleaned out the house, she had not attempted to contact anyone in Eastwood when her mother died. And she had lost touch with Linda too.

  “I remember the Poet’s Corner!” said Janet. “And wasn’t there some mystery poet she used to publish?”

  “That’s right,” said Todd. “She ran a bunch of his poems—of course I wasn’t even sure it was a him, but that’s what I surmised at the time—without ever knowing his name. He used a nom de plume.”

  “Was it I. N. Vayne?” asked Susannah. Maybe the “mystery poet” whose work appeared in the newspaper was also the author of the poems she’d found. I. N. Vayne certainly sounded like a pen name. And those poems could have been snipped from the Eastwood Journal.

  Janet and George shrugged, but Todd seemed to be thinking it over. “That could have been it,” he said finally. “But I’m not sure.” He moved toward the door. “I think Claire enjoyed the mystery. She was quite tickled that someone would go to the trouble of writing poems, sending them into the paper, yet keep his or her identity hidden.”

  What if his identity had been revealed? Susannah thought. And once it had, he’d become her mother’s lover.

  ELEVEN

  They all said good-bye in front of the Yankee Crockpot; the sun was slipping quickly from the sky as Susannah drove back home. She was no nearer to establishing the identity of the note’s writer than she had been two hours earlier. If either George or Todd really had had an affair with her mother, would they have been so willing to meet with her? Wouldn’t they have felt too guilty? Though George had seemed defensive and at moments hostile; maybe that was a sign? Still, Todd was the one who commented on Claire’s appearance. And then there was Harry Snady; Susannah decided she would try to call him right now.

  The house was empty when she got home. Jack had texted her to say he’d be at Gilda’s and her dad would drive him back later. Cally had mentioned she would be at the school library, though working on what exactly she hadn’t said. Susannah noticed a fluorescent green flyer had been slipped under the front door. She’d deal with it later. Right now, she was intent on tracking down Harry Snady; maybe he was the man she needed to find.

  • • •

  Maine directory information was able to give her phone numbers for three people named Harry Snady. The first had been disconnected. The second was picked up by someone with a slightly Southern drawl to his voice. He sounded quite young and said he’d never heard of her mother. When she tried the third number, in Eliot, Maine, a woman answered.

  “I’d like to speak to Harry Snady, please. My name is Susannah Gilmore and I believe he knew my mother.”

  “How did you get this number?” The woman’s hostility bristled, immediate and tangible.

  “From directory information,” Susannah said. “But I got his name through Janet Durbin. She’s the librarian in Eastwood and she said that—”

  “I don’t care who she is,” the woman said. “Harry is not available. And I’d appreciate if you didn’t call here anymore.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Susannah. “Janet said he knew her quite well. I don’t mean to trouble you, but it would mean so much to me if I could—”

  “The answer is no. And please—don’t call again.” She hung up, her voice replaced by the bland buzz of the dial tone.

  Susannah had no idea what to make of this. Was that his wife? Daughter? And why had she been so rude? She was disappointed that she had not reached him; his inaccessibility made her even more anxious to talk to him. But there was nothing she could do about it now, and so she picked up the flyer.

  PRIMROSE POND RESIDENTS TAKE NOTE!

  The Wingate Paper factory, in Wingate, New Hampshire, has been secretly dumping significant amounts of dyes too close to our pond. Wingate claims the dyes are biodegradable, but we have reason to believe they are not being truthful, and if they are allowed to continue unchecked, our pond will soon be saturated with unhealthy levels of dye. Do you want to keep these potentially hazardous dyes out of our water? Do you want to preserve the pond we all know and love? If so, please come to this very important meeting. Since Town Hall had some storm damage and is currently being renovated, we will meet at the Eastwood Library on Tuesday, February 1. We need to let the folks at Wingate know we stand together on this and that we won’t let Primrose Pond become the unofficial dumping ground for their industrial waste!

  —Corbin Bailey,

  Head of the Save Our Pond Committee

  This was what they had been talking about over lunch; the flyer made it sound even more important, if not urgent. She took it into the kitchen and fastened it to the fridge with a magnet. February 1 was a little over a week away; even though she had only recently gotten to town, she cared about the pond enough to attend. And she had to admit, if only to herself, that Corbin Bailey’s involvement made it even more intriguing to her. So he’d become something of an activist in the area; who would have guessed? But then, it seemed there might be many things about Corbin that Susannah had yet to discover.

  The sound of a car door slamming out front sent Susannah over to the window. There was Cally, getting out of a banged-up little car; Susannah peered out, trying to get a look at the driver, but all she saw was a shock of dark hair with skunklike stripes running through it. Then Cally was inside. She was wearing the purple boots and a fuzzy zebra-print coat she had recently acquired. “Hi.” She didn’t look at Susannah but headed right for the stairs.

  “Hello, honey.” Susannah was on maternal alert. Why wouldn’t Cally look at her? And was she weaving a little? Could she be drunk at four o’clock on a weekday afternoon? Taking the stairs quickly, she went to Cally’s room and knocked on her door.

  “What?” said Cally.

  “May I come in?”

  “Why?”

  “Why?” echoed Susannah. “Because I haven’t seen you all day and I want to talk to you.” She didn’t wait for permission but just opened the door.

  Cally was on the bed, her boots kicked off and lying nearby. Her laptop was open and she was peering intently into the screen. Susannah approached. As she suspected, the distinctive whiff of alcohol was emanating
from her daughter. She sat down on the bed and Cally jumped slightly.

  “Mom, I’m trying to do my homework.” She still would not look at Susannah.

  “While you’re drunk?”

  “Who says I’m drunk?” Cally’s head snapped up now, and in her eyes was what Susannah now thought of as the look—a mixture of blame, anger, and contempt—that just undid her every time.

  “I do. I saw the way you were walking. Also, you reek.”

  “I am not drunk,” Cally insisted. “And I do not reek. I had a couple of beers; is that a crime?”

  “Actually, it is,” said Susannah. “You’re underage in this state and every other state in the country too.”

  “Oh, come on, Mom. Just because we’re in New England, you’re going to go all Puritanical on me?”

  “Yes, I am!” Susannah got up from the bed and in an attempt to calm herself—it would be way better to have this conversation if she could demonstrate some measure of self-control—walked to the window. This room did not face the pond, but the snow-covered woods on the other side of the house. They looked mysterious and, at this moment, a little scary.

  “What are you going to do? Ground me?”

  Susannah turned to face her. Cally had the upper hand and she knew it. Susannah thought of the beat-up car and its skunk-haired driver. She was the only person even approximating a friend that Cally seemed to have here and, as such, Susannah recognized her importance. She did not want to ground her daughter; she wanted her to find her place and fit in. “Who was that who drove you home?” she asked, switching gears.