The House on Primrose Pond

by Yona Zeldis McDonough

  “Even if it breaks your heart? You say you need to know what happened. But don’t you think what you need to do is heal?”

  “Polly, you don’t—” Susannah heard the front door open. Jack and his new friend Gilda Mooney had just walked in. “I’ve got to go,” Susannah said.

  “To be continued,” said Polly. “And empty your mailbox!”

  Susannah ended the call as Jack opened the fridge and pawed around inside looking for a snack. She was still rattled but tried to hide it by preparing a cup of tea. Jack closed the fridge, container of milk in one hand, box of donuts in the other.

  As Jack and Gilda ate their donuts, gulped their milk, and talked about the upcoming weekend, Susannah sat down at the table and sipped the tea. Was Polly right? Would it be better to leave all this alone and apply herself to the present—her work, trying to make a home here for herself and her kids—rather than dig around in the past? So what if her mother had had an affair? Was it even any of her business?

  Susannah turned to the mail. Amid the bills and the mail-order catalogs, there was a large envelope with a hand-addressed label. It was from Todd Rettler. She picked it up but did not open it right away. She knew she could destroy it and put the pieces in the fireplace to burn. Stop this crazy quest of hers right now. Outside, the wind shook the windows in their frames; Jack and Gilda had finished their snack and gone up to his room. She was alone, and the envelope remained unopened in her hands.

  Then, all at once, she was tearing at the flap. There was simply no way she could not pursue this. Even if, as Polly had said, she had to break her own stupid heart to do it. Inside, she found a brief article that ran when Claire had been appointed culture editor, a grainy photo of her taken at an office party, a few restaurant receipts, and some lined yellow sheets that contained meeting notes. There was also a brief letter from Todd.

  January 26

  Dear Susannah,

  So nice to have met you last week; you put me in mind of your mother in so many ways. After our lunch, I went digging through some old papers—I’m an incorrigible pack rat—and found a few things I thought you might like to have—just some odds and ends from her time at the paper. Good luck with all; I hope to be seeing you around town.

  Warmly,

  Todd

  P.S. The mystery poet? The name was I. N. Vayne.

  Susannah looked through the papers quickly; she would take more time with them when she was alone. His confirmation of I. N. Vayne’s name was potentially useful, though she still had not figured out his identity or if he was the same person who’d written to her mother. Then she looked at the note again. The words all had that same right-leaning slant, and they were printed, not formed in cursive.

  Even allowing for the degradations of age, there was no way this writing was the same as the writing on the note in the shoe box upstairs, the note whose bold, looping words were now burned into her brain. If she had wanted proof, here it was. Todd Rettler had not written that note to her mother. Polly, had she been here to witness this discovery, might have said it was a lucky break. Todd was not the one; now let it drop. Polly had been right about one thing, at least: Charlie’s death had ripped her life apart. She could not rebuild it; she saw that now. All she could do was try to construct some alternate life for herself. And to do that, she had to know who she was, and who, really, were the people who had shaped her. She looked down at the letter again. Todd Rettler had eliminated one possibility. But there were others, and she was going to pursue them.

  FIFTEEN

  Susannah tucked everything Todd had sent back in the envelope and brought it upstairs. It was after four and Cally still was not home. The conversation with Polly had temporarily pushed the phone call from school out of her mind, but now it had come charging back: something else to worry about.

  Jack and Gilda were talking in low voices behind the closed door of his room. Could she be his girlfriend? Now the phone call was like a weight, solid and immovable. Where was Cally, anyway? Susannah texted her but there was no reply. Hungry for distraction, she checked her e-mail and there, at the top of the in-box, was something that, for the moment, pushed everything else aside.

  TO: Susannah Gilmore

  FROM: Tasha Clurman

  SUBJECT: Your pages

  What you have done here is fresh, interesting, and provocative. But I am not convinced it’s going to work as a novel for Out of the Past Press, especially since your readers have come to expect something quite different from you. I can tell you are drawn to this material, and I do get why you are not so keen on Jane Seymour. Yet those are not sufficient reasons, in my mind, to jump ship quite so radically.

  Look, I know you are going through a bad patch, what with Charlie’s death and the move and all. Let me take Jane off your plate; there’s a new author named Kitty Redden I’m interested in trying out—I’ll bet she would leap at the chance to write her story. You can take a little time off; God knows you deserve it. Cast around for another idea, and if you settle on one, bounce it off me. Or else, if you are really committed to this Ruth Blay project, find a way to convince me that it’s going to work.

  Tasha Clurman, a crisp, sixtyish Brit with an ink black bob whose battle to quit smoking was waged with long cinnamon sticks on which she perpetually chewed, had first been Susannah’s boss, then editor, and eventually friend. Susannah had always trusted her completely. But right now she was determined to prove her wrong. What a day it had been: the school, Polly, the letter, and now this. Yet Betsey Pettingill’s voice was clear in her mind. She opened the document and began to type, an act tinged with desperation that felt more like transcription than invention:

  I was so startled by the gruesome bundle I held that I dropped it, which made James start to scream as well. Sarah and Patience and Peggs came running over to see what was causing all the commotion. The little ones began to cry when they saw; Patience was the one who took charge. “I must go get Mother,” she said. “Wait here.” But none of us would do that, not with the baby, partially uncovered, lying on the dusty, straw-littered barn floor. So we all walked silently back up to the house together.

  My uncle and Mr. Currier were nowhere to be seen, but we found Mrs. Currier in the kitchen, pounding out a ball of dough with her fists on a stained and worn cutting board. The sleeves of her dress were rolled up and her arms were covered in a fine, floury dust; flour had settled on her face as well. I remember thinking that she looked so pale, like the dead baby out in the barn.

  The shrill sound of our voices caused her to say sternly, “Quiet down! Patience, will you tell me what this is all about?” So Patience told and Mrs. Currier’s expression went from annoyance to controlled but visible horror. “Are you sure?” she asked. “This isn’t one of your pranks, is it? Because if it is, I will be very angry and—”

  “No, Mother, it’s not a prank,” said Patience. “Please come and see.”

  Mrs. Currier wiped off her face and brushed at her arms; then she stood, shaking out her apron, which sent the flour dust everywhere. We all went out the side door and back across the meadow to the barn. I was petrified when we reached the darkened opening again. Maybe the baby had turned into a ghost and vanished. But when we stepped inside and went to the spot, the bundle containing the baby was still there. I had never been so frightened of something so inert, and I never have been since.

  Mrs. Currier knelt and took the baby in her arms. “Poor wee one,” she said, and ran the back of her finger across a cold white cheek. Then she looked up. “Patience, go get your father. He and Mr. Pettingill are probably down by the stream.”

  Patience sped off and Mrs. Currier set the baby down on a bale of hay. I noticed that she covered the baby up with the cloth and I was grateful for this; the vision of that small, drawn face had been burned into my memory and I did not need or want to see it anymore. Then she asked, “Who found the baby first?” There was a silence during
which I wanted to run up to the hayloft and bury myself in the hay. But everyone was looking at me; there was no way to avoid the telling. I explained how the boys and I had been looking for treasure but that I was the one who saw the floorboards and made the discovery.

  “Was the baby alive when you found it?”

  “No, ma’am,” I said. Why would she ask this? Didn’t she believe me?

  “Betsey, I need you to be very sure when you answer. You said you dropped the baby when you folded back the cloth; maybe the baby was hurt in the fall?”

  “No, no!” I cried. “The baby was dead when I found it! Dead!” I was so terrified by this line of questioning that I turned and dashed out of the barn, colliding with my uncle, who had just walked in. Mr. Currier was right beside him.

  “What’s all this about a dead baby?” He leaned down and scooped me up; sheltered in his strong arms, I felt my trembling subside.

  “Come and see.” Mrs. Currier led them to the bundle. My uncle peeled the cloth all the way back, revealing the entire baby, which was naked. In that brief instant I saw that it was a girl; then I quickly looked away.

  “You think Betsey had something to do with this?” my uncle asked.

  “I never said that.” Mrs. Currier looked uncomfortable. “But since she was the one who found the babe, I thought it would be wise to inquire about—”

  “This child has been dead for days, God rest her soul. Can’t you see that?”

  “Well, I didn’t know exactly and so—”

  “If you didn’t know, you shouldn’t go around laying blame or insinuating that—”

  “No need to get angry.” Mr. Currier, who had been silent until now, chimed in. “My wife was understandably upset by this horrific discovery, but she meant no harm to the child, did she now, Betsey?” He came close and tried to put a finger under my chin but I pressed my face against my uncle’s chest. “What we really need to do is tell the Cloughs—the barn is on their property. And then we need to fetch Philips White. He’s one of the justices of the peace around here. He’ll know what to do.”

  My uncle set me down as Mr. Currier saddled up a horse; he would stop at the Cloughs’ and then continue on to Justice White’s house. Mrs. Currier sent Will, James, and Peggs home; then she told the three of us that we were to come back up to the house. “Can’t we play outside?” Sarah wheedled. “Please?”

  “All right,” said Mrs. Currier. “But you’ll have to stay where I can see you.”

  “What about the baby?” asked Patience in a small voice.

  “We should leave her where she is until Justice White gets here.” My uncle went over to cover the baby once again. I wondered then if she’d been given a name, and if so, what it was.

  Just as we were about to leave the barn, a soft thump caught our attention and we turned. There was the ginger cat, holding one of her kittens by the scruff of its neck. She padded over to the bale of hay on which the baby lay shrouded, twitched the thick rope of her tail, and was gone.

  Susannah looked up. The sky was dark now; she ought to be headed downstairs to see about dinner. Scanning what she had written once more, she hit save and set the laptop on sleep. Jack’s and Gilda’s voices could be heard behind the closed door of his room; maybe Susannah should invite her to dinner? She seemed like a nice girl and Jack was visibly smitten with her.

  Cally was walking into the house just as Susannah came down the stairs; they met in the kitchen. There were a dozen questions Susannah wanted to hurl at her daughter: Why are you cutting classes? Where are you going? Who is this girl you’re hanging out with? But she remembered her conversation with Polly and said only, “How was school today?”

  “Fine.” Cally walked to the fridge, opened the door, and considered her options.

  Don’t leave the door open while you make up your mind, was another thing she wanted to say, but again, with great effort, she kept herself in check.

  “What’s happening with Spanish?” Cally had told her that the high school did not have an advanced French class, so rather than place her in a lower-level—and in their view time-wasting—section, they had placed her in introductory Spanish. This might have been all right had not everyone else in the class been a freshman. Some of them are Jack’s age! Cally had complained.

  “Nothing special. The kids are all jerks. The teacher is okay. He’s so short that half the boys tower over him.” She emerged from the fridge empty-handed and closed the door.

  Susannah put a pot of water up to boil. She was making spaghetti; the meatballs and sauce had been made the day before, so this would be an easy meal. “Do you know Antoinette Benoit?” she asked. “She’s the eleventh-grade dean.”

  “I met her on the first day.” Cally looked nervous. Or was this Susannah’s projection? “Why?”

  “She called me today.” Susannah waited, and when Cally didn’t answer, she went on. “She told me that you’ve been cutting classes and that you were disrespectful to the history teacher.”

  “He’s disrespectful to us!” Cally burst out.

  Not the answer Susannah would have expected. “In what way?”

  “Mom, he is so boring I want to set myself on fire! No one that boring should be allowed to teach anyone else.”

  She did have a point. “Still, you were rude and you hurt his feelings. Do you think there might have been another way to handle it?” You see, Polly—I’m trying here!

  “I don’t know.” Cally pulled out a chair and sank down into it. “I wanted to wake him up.”

  “And what about the cutting classes? How long has that been going on?”

  Cally studied her nails, which were short and painted a vivid iridescent turquoise. “Pretty much from the start.” She looked up at her mother imploringly. “Can’t I go back to Brooklyn and finish school there? I already talked to Arianna, and she said she would talk to her mom about my living with them. Arianna’s room is pretty big and she said we could share it.” Arianna was Cally’s best friend.

  “You talked to Arianna but you didn’t talk to me?” Susannah sat down at the table facing her daughter; dinner would wait. “How could you do that?”

  “I wanted to see if her mom would agree before I asked you.” Cally pinned her with that beseeching gaze. “If she says yes, will you let me, Mom? Please?”

  Susannah was quiet. She wanted to acknowledge the desire—that everything could remain the same, that Cally could once more inhabit her old life—before she replied. “I wouldn’t get to see you very much,” she said finally. “It’s a long distance and you don’t drive yet.”

  “I know, but I’m so miserable here! Don’t you care about that?”

  “Of course I do.” Susannah suppressed the urge to reach out and touch Cally’s cheek. “But I want to find a way to deal with that while you’re still living here, with us.” She stopped, unsure if she should reveal any more. “I can’t let you go, Cally. I’ve already lost your father; I can’t bear losing you too.”

  “You can’t bear it! It’s all about you, isn’t it? Well, if it hadn’t been for you, Daddy would still be alive! It’s your fault that he got killed!” Cally stood and pushed her chair roughly from the table. But before she could leave the room, Susannah put a firm, restraining hand on her arm.

  “Stop saying that.” Her voice was low but fierce. “Stop it right now. You’ve said it before and I didn’t push back. Well, I’m pushing back now. It’s untrue, it’s cruel, and hearing you say it just tortures me. I loved your father; you know that. But if he was such a big damn fool as to not wear a bike helmet, well, that wasn’t my fault. So you can stop blaming me right now.” She managed to turn away from Cally before she erupted in loud, gulping sobs. For several seconds, she just surrendered and even luxuriated in it; the strain of keeping things together—for her kids, for herself—was sometimes more than she could tolerate.

  “Mom, I’m
sorry—I didn’t know. I mean, I just miss Daddy so, so much—”

  “So do I!” Susannah whirled around and grabbed her daughter in a tight hug. But Cally endured rather than reciprocated the embrace.

  “Hey, is everything all right down here?” Jack had walked into the kitchen.

  “We’re okay.” Susannah used her fingers to brush the tears away. And then, “Do you think Gilda would like to stay for dinner? We promise there won’t be any more shouting, right?” She looked at Cally, who quickly looked away. So it was to be a détente. Not a peace treaty.

  “I can ask her.” Jack turned to go back upstairs and Cally went right after him. Susannah remained standing in the kitchen, staring at the place her daughter had occupied just a few minutes before. When was the last time Cally had allowed herself to be hugged? She couldn’t even remember.

  Then she turned her gaze to the kitchen clock. It was after five—too late to call Ms. Benoit back. But she would call first thing tomorrow and arrange a meeting at school. Maybe today’s conversation had opened something up in Cally, forcing her to see beyond her own grief into someone else’s. God, she hoped so. Susannah went over to the stove. The water had boiled completely down and there was no longer enough water for the pasta. She refilled the pot and set it on the stove, ready to start again.

  SIXTEEN

  Since the town hall meeting was being held at the library the surrounding streets were choked with cars. Susannah had to park several blocks away and then pick her way over the snow and icy patches to reach the building. The wreath she had first seen on the door was down now, and the door itself kept opening and closing as more people went inside. It was going to be a full house.

  She unzipped her red parka and headed for the stairs along with everyone else. There was Janet Durbin several feet and many bodies away from her; maybe they could sit together. Janet had been so helpful with so many things and Susannah was grateful to her; she hoped that Janet would become a friend, her first in her adopted home.