Live Free or Die

by Jessie Crockett

  “Let’s make a party of it,” Augusta said. She opened the fridge and pulled out a bottle of wine. Hugh followed me to the dining room for wine glasses.

  “I don’t suppose there’s a rental car agency in Winslow Falls?” He gently took the two glasses I handed him and held them like he was sure he was going to snap the stems.

  “No, there isn’t. Besides, it’s not a night for traveling,” I said. “The house is plenty big enough, even for you.”

  “I don’t want to put you out.”

  “Augusta has the actual guest room, so you’re the one most likely to be put out. Josh’s room is cluttered, but I don’t think it smells.” Hugh followed me back to the kitchen.

  “Thanks,” he said. “I appreciate it.” Back in the kitchen Augusta ladled out bowls of chowder while I poured the wine.

  Three servings later, Hugh pushed his bowl away and groaned.

  “I hope you saved room for apple crisp.” Augusta stroked her French manicure across Hugh’s sleeve.

  “I did,” I said. “Any ice cream to go with it?”

  “It’s too cold for ice cream,” Augusta said. “I made rum raisin hard sauce.” Hugh lolled his eyes around in his head.

  “With the way you cook, you ought to be the sister on the fire department.”

  ‘Not likely,” my sister said. “Gwen’s the tomboy in the family.”

  “She sure is a trooper,” Hugh said. “You should have seen her bumping down the hill on her backside to see if the other driver was hurt, not to mention dragging that giant hand along like a sled dog.”

  I jumped up and moved the dishes to the sink to crust over until morning. The last thing I wanted was for Augusta to tell Hugh about some of the tomboy escapades of my childhood.

  “What hand?” Augusta asked. Hugh went to the mudroom and brought in the sculpture. He set it on the kitchen table and peeled back the afghan.

  “It doesn’t seem too damaged for something supposed to have burned in the museum fire.” I ran my hand over the flaking paint. Time and the elements had silvered the exposed wood and roughened the surface, but the carving was clearly the work of a skilled craftsman. The hand was about four feet high and eighteen inches wide. The index finger pointed skyward while the rest of the fingers were closed into a tight fist. Fingernails were etched into the fingertips, and a ring was carved onto the ring finger. In place of a stone set into the ring was a star.

  “Is it from the museum?” Augusta asked.

  “It sure looks like it,” I said, looking over the sculpture for signs of scorching.

  “How did it escape being burned?” Hugh asked.

  “There was scaffolding set up at the museum for the roof repair,” I said. “Maybe someone used it to climb up and take it.”

  “Okay,” Hugh said. “Why would anyone do that?”

  “There would have to be a good reason,” I said. “The clock tower was too high to shimmy up there for the view.”

  “Agreed. Could it have been a prank?”

  “Like a fraternity thing?” I asked. “The Odd Fellows are the only organized group of guys around here, and they are mostly past it for prime tower climbing.”

  “It could be kids.”

  “You mean the DaSilva kids.”

  “I mean if it was a prank, kids are the first on the list.”

  “It seems too big for a kid to handle,” Augusta said.

  “I think the best possibility is the skinny guy. He had the thing in his possession, which is more than we can say for anyone else.”

  “Why would he want it? Some sort of hand fetish?”

  “Maybe it’s valuable,” Hugh said. “It has to be pretty old. Does anyone know much about it?”

  “If anyone does,” I said, “it would be Ethel. Or Gene Ramsey. He’s on the museum board of trustees because of his knowledge of antiques.”

  “Once the storm clears up,” Hugh said, “we ought to talk to them.

  “I’ve still got to buy my mother a Christmas gift. I can ask Gene about it while I look around at his shop, The Hodge Podge. If he doesn’t know, I’ll go ask Ethel.”

  Augusta moved closer to the sculpture and scrutinized it. “I’ve seen that before,” she said.

  “Of course you have,” I said. “It was on top of the Museum.”

  “No,” Augusta said, “somewhere else.”

  “You mean this isn’t the only one?” I asked. “It seems pretty unusual.”

  “I remember, it’s a symbol of the Know Nothing Party. They were big in the 1850s.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Absolutely. I saw something about it on a television antique show. Some lady had a hand sculpture from the steeple of a de-consecrated church. She bought somewhere in Kentucky. The show’s expert said it was really valuable. There aren’t too many of them left anymore.”

  “When did you see this program?” I asked.

  “I don’t know, six months ago.”

  “And you’re sure about the sculpture?”

  “I’m sure. You know how it is when the expert on those programs has good news. They dither around twitching and congratulating the owner on their good fortune.”

  “If you say so. I don’t watch them,” I said.

  “They spent a lot of time on it. I felt sorry for the woman who was up next. Her item turned out to be a Victorian version of a velvet Elvis.”

  “Did Beulah insure the building taking the sculpture into account?” Hugh asked.

  “I’m not sure. I’ve got all the paperwork for her estate. I can check in the morning,” Augusta said.

  “I’m too wound up to sleep. I’ll see what I can dig up on the internet about the Know Nothings,” I said.

  “Would you like some company? I’m not sleepy yet either.” Hugh said.

  “Great idea. Gwen could use the company of an able-bodied man late into the night. You kids be good, and don’t do anything I wouldn’t do. Not that I can think what that would be.” Augusta winked elaborately in Hugh’s direction and floated up the stairs.

  Augusta had always held herself in high esteem in the sexual adventure department. Me, I’m more of a prude, and I’ve come to accept that. As far as I can tell there are no wild oats in my Quaker box. Even if I was in the market for a date, I couldn’t get one with my sister around. She oozes pheromones like a pantry pest trap. If chemists could bottle essence of Augusta into a perfume, there would be no more lonely women in America.

  “You and your sister aren’t much alike, are you?” Hugh watched her go.

  “No one believes we have the same parents. The computer’s in here.” I tried to stop blushing as I led the way into the den and pulled a second chair up to the oak table Peter had set up as a computer desk.

  “She doesn’t leave a guy much room to enjoy the chase does she?”

  “Augusta likes to live fast. Subtlety slows her down.” I’d always admired Augusta’s direct approach. I hadn’t considered that it might backfire sometimes.

  “I like subtle.” Hugh settled in the second chair and eyed the room. “This is a comfortable room. Are you a travel buff?” I followed his gaze as it landed on the framed antique maps hanging around the room.

  “They were my husband’s. This was his office.” It felt strange to be sitting in Peter’s chair, explaining his space to another man.

  “Divorce?” Hugh sounded genuinely interested.

  “Car accident. Sort of.”

  “Sort of?”

  “Peter was a surveyor. One afternoon the driver of a car didn’t slow down for the Men Working sign and struck him. Peter died before the ambulance could even get to him.”

  “That’s pretty grim. How long has it been?” Hugh leaned forward a little and studied my face. It felt like he was listening with his whole self, not just a little corner of his brain like most people do.

  “Seven years.”

  “Have you been on your own that whole time?”

  “No. I had my sons to finish raising. Owen was six
teen and Josh was twelve when it happened. Now the boys are grown, and I’m on my own.”

  “Do you get lonely rattling around in this big house?” Hugh brushed his arm against mine as he reached for a pad of paper and a pen on the table.

  “Sometimes.” Blushing again, I bent my head over the keyboard, flicked the power switch and started searching for the Know Nothing Party. I typed the name into a search engine and waded through a bunch of entries with nothing to do with history. Eventually I picked up a line on them and started following it.

  They were an ultra-secret society, like the Steadfast Order of the Loon only more paranoid. They blew onto the national political scene in the 1850s and caught on like a paper fire. Apparently, they had an arson problem, too. As radical anti-immigrant, anti-Catholic conspirators, they set fire to churches, making it impossible for any Catholic churches in the Northeast to procure property insurance. The tide of anger against an influx of Irish and German immigrants fueled support for their activities.

  “Listen to this,” I said. “The Know Nothing Party, also named The Order of the Star Spangled Banner, rose from obscurity to prominence in the 1850s. At the height of their power, ninety U.S. Congressmen were affiliated with the movement. In 1856 the party unsuccessfully supported the candidacy of Millard Fillmore for President. Little is known concerning the party as each time an individual was asked if he belonged to the group, he reportedly answered, “I know nothing,” thus giving rise to their name. Their power base covered Maryland, Kentucky, Pennsylvania and New England where immigrants competed with native-born peoples for manufacturing jobs. Anti-Catholic sentiment already running high was fueled by the sensational book entitled The Awful Disclosures of Maria Monk.”

  “That’s quite the title,” he said.

  “There’s more. ‘Their influence was mostly over by 1860 but laws remained on the books in New Hampshire until 1877 banning Catholics from holding public office.’”

  “You’re kidding,” Hugh said.

  “I wish I were.”

  “Sounds familiar doesn’t it?” Hugh said.

  “What does?”

  “All the anti-immigration stuff. It’s like we’ve been treading water for a hundred and fifty years and nobody even realized it.”

  “We may not have realized it, but I bet the DaSilvas sure did,” I said.

  Eight

  The next morning I woke late. The excitement of the last few days had worn me out, and the plows had interrupted my sleep. Fortunately, Trina works on Fridays for me so at least I wasn’t late for work. Augusta’s snores rumbled toward me as I staggered to the kitchen to start some coffee. I wasn’t looking forward to clearing the driveway with my ornery snow blower, but it had to be done.

  Someone had filled the woodstove and stoked the fire. A piece of paper lay on the table. I unfolded it and ran my eyes for the first time over Hugh’s handwriting. He had caught a ride with a plow driver back to his truck. He mentioned that he’d call me later. I read the note over several times, then asked myself why I would do such a thing. Just as I was resolving to get dressed and tackle the driveway I spotted Diego DaSilva scooping snow at the end of my driveway.

  I raced down the mudroom stairs. “What are you doing?” I called out from the open doorway, wishing once again that I wasn’t showing the village my pajamas. It was getting epidemic.

  “Shoveling. I was passing and the fireman asked me if I wanted to earn money. Is okay for you?”

  “It’s great. I’m delighted.” He turned and went back to the end nearest the road. I admired the way he began with the hardest part first. Every time the plow passed in the night it had built the bank at the end of the drive up by a few more inches. There must have been two feet of it packed in hard. I closed the door on the sound of his shovel scratching and poured myself some coffee.

  The giant hand was still sitting in the middle of the kitchen table. I wrapped the afghan back around it and lugged it into the room I called the library. The name was a little pretentious, but it was crammed full of books. Peter and I were both avid readers. One of the first projects we had tackled after buying the house was to build floor-to-ceiling bookcases around the room.

  I carefully sat the hand on one of the wingbacks flanking the fireplace and left. Returning to the kitchen, I opened the folder of clippings from Ethel to look over while I breakfasted on leftover apple crisp. I fanned out the yellowed bits of newspaper across the table. The photos were interesting, and many of the buildings seemed altered by changes in the landscaping.

  In a photo from a 1904 Fourth of July issue of the Courier the museum showed clearly as a backdrop for a parade. Behind a beautiful hat worn by an ugly woman, a plaque was attached to the wall of the building. Squinting, I could read nothing more than the word Mill before my eyes grew blurry.

  By the time I finished a third cup of coffee, the drag of the shovel was getting closer to the house. When I looked out the window above the sink, I saw Diego bent over, hacking at some ice that had adhered to the pavement. Pretty thorough for a kid with little experience with snow. The driveway was cleared generously. He hadn’t tried the usual trick of making the opening just barely wide enough.

  People who put in a poor investment early with their driveway clearing invariably paid for it later. Winter caves in on the lazy. You have to push back the first few snowfalls much farther than necessary to leave room for what’s to come, sort of like wearing stretch pants to Thanksgiving dinner. Make sure you’ve got room, or things are going to get uncomfortable. The shovel went silent, and I heard a knock on the mudroom door.

  “Do you have salt to put on the walkway? Someone will fall.”

  “It’s in the barn in a five-gallon bucket near the door. Come on in as soon as you’re done.” I watched him push open the barn door, and for a second I could have sworn it was one of my own boys. Same dark scruffy hair, same slouchy posture bundled up in a parka two sizes too big.

  Nostalgia this early in the day didn’t bode well. My days off were always the hardest days without the boys. When Owen and Josh were small those days were full of church services, family dinners and drives to visit elderly aunts. When Peter was gone, they were the best way to keep some stability in our lives. The Sunday dinners that had been cooked by Peter turned into ice cream sundaes and popcorn enjoyed over board games. Eventually Owen got tired of the junk food and learned to cook. Just thinking about his lasagna made my mouth water.

  I ran my eyes over the photos again and wondered whether the sign was still on the Museum. I decided if I worked up the courage to get dressed, I’d check.

  Diego let himself back in and stood dripping all over the floor. His ratty gray sneakers were soaked through, and his hands were red and raw.

  “Kick off your shoes and leave your coat on a peg. I bet you’d be willing to eat a snack and drink something hot.”

  “I am hungry. I didn’t have breakfast.”

  “You’re a hard worker for a guy with an empty stomach. I wonder how you’d do if you ate before you got going?”

  “I don’t know.” He surveyed the kitchen carefully. Part of me wondered if he was casing the place to break in later with his little brothers in tow.

  “Do you like apple crisp?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Do you like apples?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Let’s give it a try. Do you want some hot chocolate?”

  “Do you have coffee?”

  “Are you old enough to drink coffee?”

  “My brother drink coffee. He is two.” I peered into his dark eyes and remembered an awful lot of coffee comes from Brazil. Probably Brazilian children are weaned on it.

  “What do you take in it?”

  “If it is hot I will drink anything.” I filled a mug and handed it to him with the sugar bowl and the cream pitcher.

  “Fix it however you’d like.” I dug around in the cupboard and found some chocolate syrup. “You want to stir some of this into it?�
� He nodded. While he dressed his coffee I microwaved a heaping plate of crisp. Watching him, I noticed his wrist bone poking out as he stirred his coffee. I scooped a big blob of vanilla ice cream onto the hot crisp before placing the plate in front of him. He poked at it with a fork then dove in. He shoveled food as efficiently as he shoveled the driveway. Watching him eat was inspirational. With his alternating shoveling and sipping he could teach hot dog eating contestants a thing or two.

  “It is good.”

  “Want some more?” I asked as he picked up the last flakes of oatmeal with the back of his fork.

  “Please.” I refilled his plate and poured him more coffee. He leaned over the newspaper clippings while he waited for seconds.

  “Is this Winslow Falls?”

  “Yes. I’m doing some research for the historical society. Ethel Smalley asked me to volunteer for a presentation about the building at a fundraiser to repair the clock tower.” He scowled at me when I mentioned Ethel’s name.

  “I guess you share most people’s opinion of Mrs. Smalley,” I said.

  “I hate her. My family, we hate her.”

  “That’s pretty sad, don’t you think, that so many people don’t like her?”

  “Whose fault is it that no one like her?”

  “I’d have to say it was hers.”

  “Then she get what she wanted. Why is that sad?”

  “Good point. Do you always look for shoveling jobs when it snows?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why haven’t I ever seen you on my street before?”

  “Usually I find jobs near to my house. This morning no one wanted to hire me so I keep trying until I got here.”

  “Do people usually hire you more easily than that?”

  “Yes, but they think my family is making the fires, so they don’t want me near their houses.” He took another tug at the coffee.

  “Are you?”

  “Would I tell you if we were?”

  “Probably not, but I thought it was worth a try. One of my sons went through a pyromania phase. It wouldn’t surprise me if most men on the fire department are volunteering to make up for something they lit on fire as a kid. But I don’t think any of you were involved with what happened to the clock tower or with Beulah, and to prove it, how’d you like a shoveling contract?”