The House on Primrose Pond

by Yona Zeldis McDonough

  “I know you will,” said Evangeline. “You’re a widow. Widows have too much time on their hands.” Alice said nothing. Even sated with food and nourished by company, Evangeline was not that mellow; she still had to deliver her parting shot.

  It was dark when Alice stepped outside. Her phone rang just as she reached her car. “Everything’s fine,” said Corinne. “She has a slight chest infection, but it’s mild; it’s good you brought her in so soon. Dr. D’Arco’s prescribing an antibiotic for five days and . . .”

  Alice did not even hear the rest. Emma was all right. Emma was fine. She realized she felt a little shaky and had to brace herself against the roof of the car. Had Corinne’s news been different—well, she really didn’t know what she would have done. When she felt steady enough to drive, she got in.

  The sleet had tapered off but the temperature had dropped, so that the road was slippery with a glasslike sheen of ice. But at the end of the trip, there was the ordinarily demure Emma bounding across the office to greet her. “Hello!” She knelt so Emma, freshly washed, combed, and fluffed like a show dog, could lick her cheek. The tears that welled suddenly were the sweet tears of relief. Grief had been averted, pushed down the road. At least for now. Alice put the bottle of Emma’s medicine in her purse and paid the bill.

  Twenty minutes later, she was walking up the path to the house, Emma right beside her. She had left herself some of the same chicken and rice dish she’d brought to Evangeline, so she would eat that for dinner. Only now that it was over could she allow herself to feel the stress and strain of the day. She felt worn out and looked forward to a quiet evening, with either the Georges Simenon novel she was reading or a program on television.

  But there was a surprise waiting by her front door: a tall, slim figure in a fluffy black-and-white-striped coat. Calista! “Is something wrong? Have you been locked out of your house?” The fatigue she’d felt just moments earlier had vanished, replaced by equal parts worry—was the girl all right?—and delight—how good it was to see her.

  “No, nothing like that.” A strand of red hair had escaped Calista’s black beret, vivid against her pale cheek. “I hope you don’t mind that I’m here. I just needed to talk and you seemed like someone I could talk to. I mean, there’s my mom but I don’t want—I mean—”

  “Why don’t you come in? Have you eaten?” Calista shook her head. “Neither have I. Let’s have a bite together, shall we? And you can tell me all about it.” Hand on Calista’s elbow, Alice ushered her inside, where she would feed her the chicken, the fragrant rice. And didn’t she have a baguette in the freezer? And some crisp gingersnaps she had baked, to go with the coconut pudding? While they ate, they would talk. Naturally, she was someone Calista could confide in. She would listen, say all the right things, in exactly the right tone of voice. “You can tell me anything, you know. Anything at all.”

  THIRTEEN

  Immersed in the steaming water, Susannah leaned her head back, closed her eyes, and willed herself to relax—as if will had any part in relaxing. It had been a day of small irritations: the washing machine had gone on strike, the cable guy had failed to show up, and some raccoons had overturned the trash barrels, gnawed through the black plastic bags, and merrily strewn garbage all around the side of the house. Her efforts to reach Harry Snady had been futile. She could have written, but she thought her letter would be intercepted. That woman was not letting her guard down for a second.

  And even on a day that had not been peppered with such annoyances, Susannah would still feel as if she was camping out in the house rather than living here. There were unpacked boxes and various items she wanted—her stapler, her heather gray cashmere shawl, her set of nesting Fire-King mixing bowls, a collection of sea glass that spanned three decades—had not yet surfaced. She’d been so busy she’d hardly had a chance to talk to any of the friends she’d left behind—not the tight-knit Park Slope circle of women she’d met and bonded with when her kids were babies, or the friends who stretched back even farther than that, from her publishing job and college.

  The water was beginning to cool, so she turned on the tap, filling the tub nearly to the brim. It was a massive old thing, claw-footed, with a sinuous porcelain lip that extended several inches over the sides. The tub was not original to the house; it was one of her father’s salvage yard finds that summer they all spent here. Her mother was the one who took baths, so the tub had in effect been a gift to her. But when it was lugged, with much effort and cursing, up the stairs and installed, Claire’s reaction had been chilly at best and rude at worst; Warren had looked so hurt.

  Susannah was no closer to unraveling the mystery of her mother’s secret or the reason for her own preoccupation with it—and she knew it was a preoccupation. She had achieved not a resolution but an uneasy stalemate with her daughter, and her new novel’s point of view continued to bedevil her. And then, as she lay immobile in the tub, looking up at the ceiling with its faint tracery of old leaks, it came to her: the elusive voice she’d been praying that she’d hear. But it was not Ruth’s voice she heard. It was Betsey’s.

  She immediately stood up and pulled the plug; the water began to drain in a voluble gurgle. Then she wrapped herself in a terry robe and hurried to her room. Everything else could be put on hold, but this—this could not wait. Betsey was the key. No, not the key. The frame. Susannah could tell the story from Betsey’s point of view, in the first person—that would give the events the immediacy she wanted. Betsey’s narration would provide a sense of context and history. Betsey had lived to the age of 105; she had plenty of time to reflect on what had happened. And she could be a mouthpiece for the years following Ruth’s death. Adopting her point of view would allow Susannah to explore the themes of guilt and responsibility, regret and remorse. These were universal themes; they would crack the story open and make it widely appealing. It certainly appealed to her.

  Although it was past eleven o’clock and she had not planned to do any more work this evening, Susannah sat down at her desk and turned on the computer. She should have been reading or watching television—activities that would calm, not stimulate her. But inspiration of this kind was mercurial; now that it had come to her, she wasn’t about to let it go. She didn’t have to strain anymore to hear the voice she had been waiting for. It had finally started talking to her. All she had to do was listen.

  Salisbury, New Hampshire, 1828

  I am an old woman now. My face is lined, my hair is white, and my joints are stiff. But although my body is giving out, bit by treacherous bit, my mind is still as sharp as ever. I was born in 1763, more than sixty years ago. So much has happened since then. To the world. To me. Yet I can still name the trees outside my door and the birds that find sanctuary in them. I remember hymns learned in girlhood. Prayers too. The birth dates of my children—I had many—and of their children. I recall days that waxed full with joy, and others picked clean by despair.

  But there is one day, June 14, 1768, that stands out even clearer than all the rest. I remember it like it was painted on the limpid glass of my mind only minutes ago. I will remember that day until the moment I die, and am facing the final judgment before our Creator and Lord. And that may not be so far off; none of us knows when our Maker will call us home. Only last week, as I stepped out the kitchen door, my foot slipped on a wet leaf plastered to the stone, and down I went in a heap. I was alone in the house; I could not get up and I could have been there for hours had not a neighbor chanced by to help me rise again. I was fine, with only a bruise or two to show for my clumsiness. But the incident reminded me of how truly fragile I am. How fragile we all are. And that the time given to us is not unending, but finite. How much of mine is left I do not know.

  So it is for that reason that I want to unburden myself now, and tell the tale that has haunted me for decades. I tell it now because I need to relieve myself of its heavy weight, but also because I wish to share it with future generation
s. I have been a modest and quiet woman, not one to seek attention or stir up discord. Yet I have seen many wrongs perpetrated against those of my sex. I could not right them in my lifetime, but I believe that if I bear witness to the past, my words may serve to change the hearts and minds of those who come after me.

  This is a harsh story. A cruel one. And it ends in tragedy. I had a pivotal role in those harrowing events. But even though I set it all in motion, it was not my fault. For I was so young then—as young then as I am old now. Too young to understand the implications of my actions. Too young to predict or comprehend their dire consequences. But I am getting ahead of myself, and telling it out of order.

  I will start at the beginning. First I must offer my fervent thanks to my mother, God rest her soul, who insisted that I be taught to read and write. Reading and writing were gifts denied to her, and so she was all the more determined that I should have them. And what gifts they were! Once I learned to read, I never stopped. The Bible was my first primer, and I read its stories again and again. Later, the glorious plays of the bard William Shakespeare. Novels by Master Henry Fielding, and Miss Jane Austen, bound in wine-dark leather and shipped all the way from England. That weighty tome by Master Richardson, Clarissa, that took me more than a year to complete. The poems of Anne Bradstreet, a wife and mother whose ability to express herself I admired and at times envied. All these words have worked their way into my soul and it was my mother who gave them to me. Because of her gentle tutelage I am now able to take up my quill and draw forth the past with no more than the nib of my pen and a bottle of ink.

  To tell this tale, I rely heavily on my memory, which, as I have said, is excellent, as well as a diary I kept as a younger woman. Years ago, I adopted the habit of setting down my thoughts and feelings because the very act of writing seemed to put the world in some kind of comprehensible order; I emerged from this task restored and refreshed, as if newly baptized. I never showed these writings to anyone, so their existence is entirely secret. But this document I write now is quite different. I am writing it to be read; I want to blare my truth to the world, and hear it resound and echo back at me. Then maybe I will find some peace; Lord knows it has eluded me thus far.

  It was June, a halcyon month in New Hampshire. Neither stiflingly hot nor oppressively damp, it was perfect, with days that were long, fair, and golden. But that particular day it was warmer than usual, the kind of day when you would want to slip off your shoes and hitch up your petticoats to wade in a stream. My uncle Benjamin and I were on our way to the frontier town of Salisbury, New Hampshire. Along the way, we would stop at the Curriers’ farm. I was riding on a pillion behind him, the horse a dainty little dappled mare with a quick trot and a habit of rearing her head back and shaking it from side to side that made him very cross. But he was too softhearted to use a crop and merely scolded her for her bad behavior.

  The woods we passed through were very green and still; I remember the branches of the trees hung so low that Uncle Benjamin had to stop frequently to push or even cut them out of the way. We saw a cluster of blueberry bushes circling a small pond and we stopped there too. “We’ll bring the Curriers some berries,” Uncle Benjamin said, and we put them in my apron, which Uncle Benjamin tied closed and gave to me to carry when we continued on our way.

  When we finally arrived, we were hot, hungry, and thirsty. I gave Mrs. Currier the berries we’d gathered and she brought me inside for a cool drink and a thick slice of bread with butter and molasses. We would be having dinner, but that would not be until later. Mr. Currier showed Uncle Benjamin where the horse could have a drink; she too was hot and thirsty.

  After I had rested for a little while, Mrs. Currier asked me if I’d like to join the other children who were playing outside, and I said, “Yes, ma’am, I’d like that very much,” the way I’d been taught. So she took me back outside and down into the flower-dotted meadow, where I saw two boys and three girls, all running and laughing. “Patience and Sarah! Please come now!” And when they did, she introduced me; they were her daughters. Sarah was seven, two years older than me, and Patience was a big girl of twelve—nearly grown. Then the other children came over: James, Will, and Margaret, who was called Peggs.

  “Betsey is our guest and I know you’ll all play nicely together, won’t you?”

  “Yes, Mother,” said Patience. She was older than any of the others and seemed to be in charge.

  Mrs. Currier went back up to the house and James ran over and touched my arm. “Tag!” he called. “You’re it.” Then he dashed off and so did everyone else. I ran after them, giggling and shrieking. Finally, I caught up with Peggs and tagged her on the shoulder. Now it was my turn to run from her. We played at tag for a time, and then hide and seek and then leapfrog. Peggs and I picked daisies and clover; Patience and Sarah wove them into garlands. It was all great fun.

  But the afternoon sun was strong and high and after a while we grew too hot to be outside anymore. “Let’s go into the barn,” said James. The barn did not belong to the Curriers, but to Mr. Clough and his wife, Olive. Patience said we were allowed to play inside.

  “Maybe we’ll find buried treasure,” added Will.

  “Not likely,” Patience said. “But the ginger cat who lives in the hayloft had kittens; they’re so small and they have the bluest eyes.”

  So we all trooped into the barn, which was cool and pleasant after the heat of the day. It smelled of fresh hay and of something more pungent, the different animals that lived there. I saw an old horse, a couple of cows, and a large spotted sow.

  “Let’s find the kittens,” said Sarah. She went off to see, and Peggs and Patience went with her. I stayed behind.

  “I still think there’s buried treasure in here,” said Will. “Gold pieces. Or silver.”

  I didn’t really believe him, but I ambled around, pretending to look. But there was nothing so very interesting down there after all. I decided to join the girls and walked toward the ladder that led to the hayloft. That’s when I noticed the loose floorboards—three or maybe four. They intrigued me and I stopped to inspect them more closely. Maybe Will was right and there were gold pieces hidden underneath. Wouldn’t that be marvelous? And if I were the one to uncover them, that would be the most marvelous of all.

  So without saying anything to any of the others, I knelt beside one of the boards. It was very worn and stained with mold; it was also so loose that I could pry it up easily with my hands. I got a splinter, but it was a small one. I pulled it out by myself and I didn’t even cry. I was too eager to see what was under there. But instead of the winking treasure I anticipated, I saw only a bit of wadded-up white cloth. How disappointing. I thought it was a rag, so I gave it a tug. It did not move.

  “What are you doing?”

  I looked up and there was Will, with James right beside him.

  “These floorboards are loose,” I said. “And there’s something under them. But it doesn’t look like treasure.”

  “Let me see.” Will elbowed me aside. “It could be part of a sack and the gold pieces could be wrapped up inside.”

  “That’s right!” said James. “They could.”

  “Let’s pull up the rest of the loose boards,” I said. “Then we’ll know.”

  The boys agreed and we all set to pulling. Surely we would find something wondrous inside the bundle once we had unwrapped it—bright coins of gold or silver, shiny necklaces heavy with colored stones.

  This is the part of the story that replays over and over in my mind. I can still see it all so clearly. The late afternoon light streaming through the open barn door, the horse dipping his head to eat, the eager voices of Peggs, Patience, and Sarah, still searching for the kittens whose plaintive mews could just barely be heard.

  The floorboards were all up now, and the neatly bundled cloth, wrapped and folded tight, was fully exposed. It was dirty, and a sticky bit of cobweb clung to one edge. />
  “Let me open it,” I said.

  “No, me,” said Will.

  “But I found it,” I insisted.

  “She’s right,” James said.

  “I’ll let you do it,” Will said, “if you promise to share whatever is inside.”

  “I promise.” I lifted the bundle into my arms. It felt too light to be coins or jewels. And yet it had some heft to it. Some substance. And it had a sharp, even rank odor, perhaps from having been under the floorboards, a musty, foul-smelling place. I was highly conscious of my role as the one who would reveal whatever might be hidden within the folds, and in that moment I felt myself to be very important.

  Carefully, I peeled back the corner of the cloth. Underneath was a tiny face, with closed eyes and feathery lashes. Beneath those eyes, a tiny nose and tiny blue-tinged lips. The face was chalk white and drawn. The dark gold hair on the head was matted with what looked like dried blood. It was a baby, and it was dead. That was when I began to scream.

  When Susannah finished typing these pages, it was almost one o’clock in the morning and she was so pumped she wanted to go outside and jog around Primrose Pond. But that would totally wreck her day tomorrow, so she went downstairs, poured milk and a dollop of maple syrup into a mug and zapped the concoction in the microwave. Amazingly, it worked and she fell into a deep, luxurious sleep.

  The next morning, she went over what she’d written. She would need to edit it and revise it, of course; she went through many drafts before arriving at a finished manuscript. Still, this was a good start. She didn’t know much about Betsey Pettingill, because there wasn’t much to know. She’d done brief online genealogical searches for Betsey’s name, both in the historical society in Portsmouth and the state archives in Concord, and neither one was particularly fruitful. There was a Betsey Pettingill born in the mid-nineteenth century—definitely not “her” Betsey—and an Elizabeth Pettingill who lived in the late eighteenth. But what might cause a historian to despair might give a novelist cause to rejoice. The facts about Betsey’s life were unknown, so Susannah was free—actually obliged—to invent them.