The House on Primrose Pond

by Yona Zeldis McDonough

  “Applications? What applications?”

  “To law school.”

  “I didn’t know you were reapplying to law school.”

  “I didn’t want to tell anyone unless I got in. But I figured if you could come here and reinvent your life, I ought to be able to do it too. Especially since I don’t have to move to another state and I don’t have kids depending on me.”

  “Where?” She thought he would make an excellent lawyer.

  “Boston College. New England Law. Places where I can go at night, so I won’t have to give up the store. It’ll take longer. But I think it will be worth it.”

  “I think you’re right.” She reached out to touch the side of his face and his hand moved up to cover hers.

  “Can I sleep here, Susannah?” he asked. “Please? I won’t be any trouble . . .”

  “Of course you can.” Then it hit her. “Corbin, how did you get here?” She withdrew her hand from under his.

  “I think you know the answer to that,” he said. “Unless you want me to tell you that little story about the stork.”

  “No, I mean, how did you get to my house tonight? Did you drive?”

  He nodded and made a vague gesture with his arm. “Car’s out there somewhere. I left it on the driveway. I wanted to surprise you.” He smiled, a smile that was as inviting and sexy as ever.

  Susannah did not smile back. Bad enough that he fell off the wagon and got drunk. But driving drunk? That was a whole other level of self-destructiveness. What if he’d gotten into an accident and hurt himself—or someone else? She would not look at his face as she helped him off with his boots and fetched a pillow and blanket. Then she brought him a tall glass of water, and a bottle of Tylenol for the hangover that was waiting in the wings, and sat with him until he fell asleep.

  After that, she went up to bed, where she remained awake for a long time. Part of her still wanted him with her in bed. The gentle weight of him on top of her. The feel of him as their bodies curled together in sleep. Yet she did not get up to invite him to join her. Corbin Bailey may have been the sexiest man in the entire state. Or the entire country. But he came with way more baggage than she had first realized—and, really, didn’t she already have enough baggage of her own?

  THIRTY-TWO

  “Jesus, am I sorry.” Corbin was sitting in her kitchen very early the next morning; a mug of strong black coffee sat steaming in front of him. “I haven’t had a drink in more than fifteen years. But that thing with Wingate—it was a kick in the teeth. A punch in the gut. Or both. It threw me—it really did. So I told myself I would just have one. One couldn’t hurt.”

  “But it wasn’t just one.” Susannah stirred milk into her own coffee.

  “It never is.” Corbin said. “At least not for me.” He picked up the mug and took a sip.

  “Is there anyone to appeal to? Any way to get Wingate to change his mind?”

  “He says he won’t negotiate at all if I’m involved. So for the sake of the pond, I should just bow out without making a major issue of it. It’s the pond that’s important—not my ego.”

  “And you think he’ll do the right thing?”

  “That prick? No. But he’ll make a show of considering it—that way, it looks like he’s a reasonable guy. When in fact he’s manipulating the situation to serve his own agenda—he doesn’t care at all about the pond or the people who love it.”

  Susannah got up. “I’m making oatmeal; would you like some?” She almost hoped he’d say no, but he didn’t, so she went over to the stove to prepare it. A few minutes later, she brought over the bowls and sat down to eat. Maybe he sensed her discomfort, because he finished the oatmeal quickly and stood up to leave. “Look, I wanted to tell you again how sorry I am—”

  “It’s all right. I’m just glad you weren’t hurt. Driving over here when you were drunk was not smart.”

  “—and that I wanted to make it up to you somehow.” When Susannah didn’t answer, he added, “We’re still on for tonight, right?”

  “About that . . .” she began.

  “If you can’t make it, we could do it another night . . .” He studied her face. “Or not.”

  “I’m not sure what I want.” There, she’d said it. “I’m very attracted to you. And I like you—a lot. But what happened last night—”

  “Will never happen again.”

  “Can you say that for sure?”

  “Who can say anything’s for sure?” He sounded wounded. Also angry. “But if it makes you feel any better, I’m going to go to a meeting today.” When she said nothing, he elaborated. “A twelve-step meeting.”

  “I knew what you meant,” she said. “But this isn’t about me feeling better. It’s about you. You say you fell off the wagon because you were stressed, disappointed, and angry. Well, life is filled with stress, disappointment, and anger; how are you going to handle yours? With a drink? Or four?”

  “Hey, no need to get nasty.” His expression hardened. “I know what I’ve done and I know what I’m going to do. But if you don’t trust me—”

  “Trust is something you have to earn—”

  “And I haven’t earned yours.” He stood and zipped up his jacket. “Yeah, I get it. I really do.”

  Susannah followed him to the door. Was she doing the right thing? Maybe she was being too judgmental. Too harsh. “Will you be okay getting home? I can drive you if you want.”

  “That,” he said, “won’t be necessary.” Then he left. She stood there in the wake of his departure, not sure whether she felt relieved or gutted. She realized she hadn’t told him about Dave Renfew and the bow tie.

  Susannah gathered up the dishes and put them in the sink to wash. If she took a break from seeing Corbin, would that mean Calista would come home? That was the first even remotely positive thought she’d had since she’d opened her eyes. She immediately picked up her phone to call her.

  “I can’t really talk. I’m getting ready for school.” Calista didn’t even bother with Hello.

  “I’ll make it fast.” Susannah knew she should wait, but she so badly wanted her girl back under her roof again.

  “So you’re not going to see him because of me?” Calista asked.

  “That’s part of the reason, but there are other reasons too.” No need to go into them, though. “Maybe I was moving a little too fast.” There was a silence. “So you can come back home, okay? Now that you won’t have to deal with Corbin—”

  “But I like living with Alice. Even if Corbin isn’t around, I don’t want to come home. I want to stay with her.”

  “You don’t get to decide. You’re still a minor and I’m not giving my consent, Calista. You have to come home.”

  “Try to make me!” Calista flared. And then hung up.

  Her anger was strangely comforting to Susannah; it made her feel adult again. Adult and in control. It also made her own anger justified—at her daughter, and at Alice too, for acting as a wedge between them. Under the guise of concern for Calista, she was alienating her from her own family—

  The phone rang again. It was Alice. “Susannah, I have to tell you that I heard that last conversation. Or at least Calista’s side of it. And I’m sure you’re very upset—”

  “I’m not upset,” Susannah said. “I’m furious and I—”

  “I know, I know. But I have a suggestion. Why don’t you come for dinner tomorrow? The three of us, though you can bring Jack too if you think it’s a good idea. We can talk things over sensibly.”

  Susannah said nothing. She felt so condescended to, so patronized by this woman—but what other choice did she have? “I’ll be there,” she said finally. “What time?”

  “Come at six,” Alice said. “We have a lot to discuss.”

  We have a lot to discuss, Susannah mimicked in her head. We? Who’s we? You’re nobody to us. You’re nobody to
me.

  The phone was still in her hand and she quickly called Polly; why had she waited so long to confide in her? Luckily, Polly picked up right away. Curling up on the couch under the afghan, Susannah spilled the whole improbable story.

  “I don’t even know where to start,” Polly said. “Your mom? Calista? Or Corbin?”

  “Take your pick,” Susannah said. “I’m drowning and you’re the life raft.”

  “You’re not drowning, honey,” Polly said. “But you are flailing. First things first. You go to that dinner tomorrow night and you keep an open mind. Very open. Calista is acting out like crazy—just be glad she picked a classy septuagenarian and not a bunch of coke-snorting stoners to do it with.”

  “I think there are a few of those in the picture too.” Susannah thought of those indistinct figures she’d seen in the cars that had come to pick Calista up.

  “All the more reason to have a counterweight.” Polly took a breath, as if just gearing up. And after forty-five minutes of her advice, sympathy, and occasional burst of wit, Susannah felt better—and then she immediately felt worse. She had not worked for days; she’d better get some writing time in today. She hoisted herself off the couch. The dishes were drying, the counters wiped, and the floor swept. She’d put her house in order and she was ready to begin. Somehow the agitation was working for, and not against, her and she was able to enter the story easily.

  We had been living in Salisbury for about three or four years when I met Prudence Dunne. She was a good decade older than I was and she had come from Portsmouth, where her husband had been the jailor. She told me she had not liked being the jailor’s wife and even when she knew those imprisoned belonged behind bars—the man who’d killed his wife and three children as they slept, another who’d burned down his neighbor’s house and barn—she still felt pity for their wretched state. “And then there were the women,” she said. “I remember that poor Ruth Blay, plain as day, locked up for killing her newborn babe. I used to see her sometimes when I went down to the jailhouse to meet my William. She had such a fine manner, even in jail. Always “please” and “thank you” and “would you be so kind.” I never believed the things they said about her.”

  Prudence and I were in her kitchen, and she had just poured the tea from a blue-and-white-flowered pot. Just hearing that name again was like a spike pressing into my hand. But I did not tell Prudence about my unfortunate connection to Miss Blay. I had not even told Joel; there had seemed to be no reason to dredge all that up again. “I heard about her.” I worked to keep my voice even. “It was all such a long time ago.” I did not want to talk about it. Not then. Not ever.

  Then Sally and Pettingill came bursting into the room, along with Prudence’s two youngest boys. They were all flushed with excitement. “We want to go down to the creek,” said John, the older of the two. “Please say yes, Mother.”

  Prudence seemed to be thinking it over as she sipped her tea. My two were fairly dancing with anticipation, Sally hopping back and forth from one foot to the other, Pettingill tugging on her hand. It was a warm day in June, much like that other day, I realized. That day I did not allow myself to remember, except when the memory came unbidden, late at night as I slid down into sleep, or at dawn when I wrested myself from it again.

  “You children may go,” she said at last, and a muted whooping arose from the four of them. “But, John, I am placing you in charge. No one is to go in any higher than his or her knee, and you’re to stay in the cove at all times.”

  “Yes, Mother. Thank you, Mother,” said John, ushering the others out of the room. “I’ll watch them.”

  Prudence was about to say something when little Betsey started fussing in her wooden cradle nearby, and I went to pick her up. Even this slight noise caused my breasts, already so taut and full, to leak and I did not need to look down to know that the front of my dress was wet. I quickly unbuttoned and put the baby to my exposed breast to suckle. She latched on and greedily began to drink. She had a good appetite, this one, and she would grow healthy and strong. “There, my little poppet,” I said softly, using the term of endearment my own mother had so often used. “Drink your fill.”

  I did not look up but I could feel Prudence watching me. Still cradling the child, I stood. “I think I need to lie down for a bit,” I said. “Won’t you please excuse me?” I did not want this moment, fleeting as I knew it was, to be marred by anything else she might choose to say. I remembered the darkness that had enveloped me when my firstborn came into the world. I had rallied, and I had never been afflicted that way again. But the memory stayed with me, and gave the infancy of each successive child an almost aching sweetness. I knew how quickly the time raced by, and how soon the nurslings began to teeth, tumble, walk, and talk. I would surrender this babe to the world soon enough; best I should keep her close and tend lovingly to her as long as I was able.

  The next weeks were especially busy and I did not have a chance to visit with Prudence again. But in early July she called on me, and it was my turn to pour the tea, from a pot that was not blue but pink and silver lusterware with a border of tiny flowers across the rim. Joel had ordered a whole set all the way from London as an anniversary gift and I cherished the shimmering pieces, proudly displaying them along with my pewter and silver plate on the Chippendale lowboy I kept oiled and polished in my dining room.

  “May I offer you a scone?” I asked Prudence. My scones, buttery and flaky, were a point of pride, and this batch had come from the oven only a scant hour ago; they were still warm.

  “Yes, thank you.” She took the scone and spread it liberally with apple jelly.

  The children were off riding with Joel, except for Betsey, asleep in her cradle. She was just beginning to crawl and I had my hands full keeping up with her; I was glad for the short reprieve.

  “I remembered something else about Ruth Blay.” Prudence seemed to devour the scone in a mere bite and she helped herself to another. No wonder she was so stout, with chubby hands and little ripples of flesh wreathing her chin.

  I was silent. Though it had happened years ago, I had never forgotten the sight of that proud, pale woman being taken away in the cart. And I’d never forgotten my own unwitting role in bringing that about.

  “It was about the father of the child. She never named him, you know.” She eyed the plate of scones but did not take a second one. “They said it was because he was married.”

  How could Ruth Blay go to her grave without revealing the identity of the man who’d brought her to the gallows? “Could it be that, despite all, she had loved him and perhaps even wanted his child? Because there are ways . . .”

  “If you mean pennyroyal and the like, I don’t blame her for not daring to try it. The devil’s weed is what it should be called—women have died from it.” Temptation got the better of her and she helped herself to another scone.

  “But she died anyway.” I glanced down into my empty cup where the dregs made a lacy pattern at the bottom.

  “There was a man whose name was spoken in connection with hers . . .” Her eyes seemed almost to glitter. “John Page.” I must have looked blank, because she continued, “Reverend John Page. From Hawke. She’d been teaching there for a time and he was the one to oversee her work.”

  “A man of the cloth!” Poor Ruth.

  “A very learned man,” continued Prudence. “He got his training at Harvard and he was married, with children of his own. But he might have taken a fancy to her—they say he liked his liquor and he liked the ladies. And she had a way about her, she did. Even being in jail couldn’t dull her light.”

  I considered Ruth’s decision to keep silent. Even if she had named Page—or another man—there was no certainty that she would have been believed. And such a revelation would have ruined her reputation as well as his. They would have lost their positions and been subject to a cruel and public whipping. So it was little wonder that s
he had stolen off to South Hampton to have the baby alone.

  “Do you truly think she killed it?” I asked. Maybe she planned to give it to a childless couple. I wanted to believe that about her; I wanted it very badly.

  Prudence shook her head. “No, I don’t. She was so very remorseful. And having a baby, and a first baby at that, all by herself? No midwife or other women to help; no groaning beer or groaning cake to make it a little easier? Even with all the help, babies die—why, I lost two of my own. No, the birth could have gone wrong in so many ways. It’s just that this baby was hidden away. And then found . . .”

  “That was very unfortunate for her.” I could scarcely get these words out; it was as if guilt had clamped a hot, heavy hand across my mouth.

  “I heard it was a bunch of children playing in the barn,” Prudence said. “They pried up some boards and there was the babe, stiff and still as wax. I can imagine such a sight would haunt you forever.”

  “Forever . . .” Suddenly I stood. The guilt I had been feeling turned to bile, bitter and choking, and I had to step quickly outside and go behind the lilac bush, where I emptied the contents of my stomach. I stood gasping and panting for a few seconds before walking somewhat unsteadily to the well. I drew a bucket and used the cool water to rinse out my mouth and wash my damp, sticky face. Then, feeling somewhat restored, I returned to the house. My guest was standing in the back doorway, looking at me with an expression of great concern. “Are you unwell?” asked Prudence.

  “Yes and no,” I said. Now that I was calmer, I understood the true meaning of what had just transpired. It had not been simply the awful burden of my guilt rising up inside me; I was once again with child.

  THIRTY-THREE

  The next afternoon, Susannah knocked on Jack’s door to tell him about the dinner at Alice’s and ask if he wanted to come along. His clarinet was out; he must have been about to start practicing.