Her Loving Husband's Curse

by Meredith Allard

  The medicine man stands. He stares at me over the heads of the seated men. “Listen,” he says. “We are praying to you, our Creator, Unetanv, the Great Spirit. Who are we without our lakes and valleys? Our rivers and forests? The copious rain and the good soil?

  “Chief John Ross fought our removal in the United States Congress, in the United States Supreme Court. Do not the liberties of the American Declaration of Independence apply to us? ‘We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty, and the pursuit of Happiness.’ Does that not apply to us as well? But no one in the government would hear him.”

  The men nod as they stare at the orange flames, at the crackling cinders, at the ground beneath them, at the half-hidden moon, or at whatever phantom images their blank stares show them. The medicine man watches me, a knowing gleam in his eyes. I sense his words are meant for me.

  “Listen. This is the creation story of our people. In the beginning, there was no land. Only water and sky. All living things dwelled above the sky. In this time, all beings lived and talked in common. Then the sky vault became crowded with the people and animals. To find more room, Dayuni’si, the water beetle, flew down to see what was there. It dove to the bottom of the ocean and brought up mud that grew and grew and grew until the earth was born. This was so long ago even the oldest medicine man cannot remember. Even I cannot remember, and I am the oldest of them all. Then the earth dried and man was created. A brother and a sister. And we have grown from there.

  “They have wanted our land from the moment they arrived. They have the right of discovery over the land, they say. But how do they discover what is already here? We were already here. Did we only begin to exist when they arrived?” The medicine man looks at me as though he knows I was here all those many years before. “They have taken our land as though it was theirs all along. For years they have chipped away at it, pocketing this piece here, stealing that piece there. After they decimated our people with their diseases they wanted more. Now they want it all. But we know the land was meant for us. For all of us. Many of our people converted to the Americans’ religion. Were not Adam and Eve expelled from their Paradise because they were not content? Here we are content. We know the wind is our brother. The trees are our sisters.

  “Great Creator, hear our cry. We want to be invisible so we can fly away like the birds and then the soldiers will not find us as they have already found others. We do not want to lose our ancestors. They are everywhere here. Where the soldiers want to take us, they are not there. This is what I have said to you.”

  He sits, his head slumping under the weight of his fears. Everyone is silent, the singing crickets the only sound in the forest night. Then, the medicine man lifts his face and nods at me. He sees I understand.

  CHAPTER 8

  James learned about the new blog post when Jocelyn called him. He heard Billy crying in the background, the baby giving vent to his mother’s fears.

  “Hempel’s doing it,” Jocelyn said. “He’s naming names. He must know about me since he mentioned dentists.”

  Steve came home, and James heard him trying to comfort his wife and son. When Jocelyn excused herself to be with her family, James heard the dread in her voice.

  “What are we going to do, James?”

  “It’ll be all right,” James said.

  He pulled up Hempel’s blog on his laptop, but he couldn’t bring himself to read it. He paced the ten short steps of his office, remembered the day just eight months before when Hempel sat in that very chair, flipping through these very books, waiting for some sign that James was the undead professor he thought he was. But James had fooled the reporter and sent him scurrying away. Now, if Hempel was ready to do what he hadn’t done before—name names—then James didn’t know what would happen. If other vampires were made public, how much longer could he stay hidden? When he was too agitated to ignore it any longer, he sat near the computer and read:

  As most of you know, after ten years of service to the community, I have been released from my duties at The Salem News. But I have so much more to share. I am beginning this blog with the belief that, with the more proof I am able to provide, the more followers I will have. The more followers I have, the more people will be on the lookout for these insidious creatures that go bump in the night.

  In the interest of full disclosure, I admit the reports of my having been institutionalized as a teenager are correct. For three weeks at the ages of sixteen, and for another five weeks at seventeen, I was hospitalized because my psychiatrist was convinced I was hallucinating after I explained how my father was murdered by a vampire. I was declared delusional and admitted to the institution though I was quite sane. For those naysayers who insist that I am on psychedelic drugs or mad, I will allow them their foolish beliefs. Those who choose to believe me will find themselves vindicated, and, ultimately, safe. We cannot be too cautious when dealing with animals who hunt and kill at will.

  I can prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that those I will name are not living but dead though they walk among us, mocking us, making us believe they belong among respectable society. You may believe me or not, but allow me to ask you this: if you knew your family’s safety was at stake, if you knew your next door neighbor was a bloodsucking deviant who would murder without regard for the sanctity of human life, would you allow that neighbor to stay close to those you love most in the world? Would you, like a 1960s placard-wielding hippie, say, “Vampire rights!” and allow them to go on their way in the night, drinking from whomever they please?

  Do you know why your dentist keeps late night hours instead of a normal nine-to-five day like everyone else? Do you know who’s behind the counter at your local donut shop? Do you know who your night-shift doctors are at the ER? If you notice that those around you at night are unusually pale with an odd contrast of dark eyes, you may want to shake their hands. Colder than you expected? Keep your distance.

  I realize I’m making these declarations at a danger to myself, but I believe I was given the knowledge of vampires for a reason: to alert humanity to the dangers in the night. Sometimes we must be willing to take chances to change what must be changed.

  James couldn’t shut the computer down quickly enough. He stood, kicking his feet, stretching his arms behind him, trying to wake the numbness. Again, he wondered if he should tell Sarah. Again, he decided she didn’t need to know. Not now. Mrs. Jackson had pushed their paperwork through in record time, and they rushed to get everything done so they could bring their child home. They took the next available parenting classes (fortunately they had night hours). Their salaries were verified and they had letters of recommendation from their supervisors, James from Goodwin, Sarah from Jennifer. James remembered Sarah’s face when she realized they needed to do a criminal record check, along with fingerprints and a doctor’s note.

  “Do you have fingerprints?” she asked. She pulled his hand close to her face and studied the tips of his fingers.

  “No fingerprints, just like I don’t have a reflection in the mirror.” Sarah didn’t hear the sarcasm in his voice. “Of course I have fingerprints, Sarah. I used to be human.”

  “But what about the background check and the doctor’s note?”

  “I have current paperwork, honey. How do you think I was hired at the college? I don’t think they’d take too kindly to my original diplomas. My degrees are a little old.”

  “Then how do you have current paperwork?”

  “You can buy anything over the Internet these days.”

  “And the doctor’s note?”

  “Howard’s cousin is a doctor.”

  They were approved in record time, thanks to Mrs. Jackson. They were ready to find a child to foster, and then, if all went well, to adopt. They were going to speak to Mrs. Jackson the next night about finding a good match. That was what Sarah kept saying.

  “We’re going to find
a good match, James. I can feel it.”

  And they would. And they would be safe, secure, and want for nothing. They would have their little family, and they would be happy. Even Kenneth Hempel wouldn’t stop them. James had decided.

  The next night James and Sarah walked into Children’s Home. Even a cursory glance through a thesaurus couldn’t yield a word to describe the sight of children of all ages, from infants to teenagers, who want a home, James thought. Sarah walked the halls with her shoulders bent forward, her eyes watching her feet, one step after another, as though she were afraid to see the worried young faces that had already seen more than others do in a lifetime, wondering what they had done to deserve a life without a family. How do you explain to someone so young, with such a limited understanding of the world, that they themselves had not done anything wrong? That their parents were foolish or impaired somehow. That some parents gave them away because they thought it was the best decision, that adoptive parents could give the child a better life. But James didn’t know if that mattered to a three-year-old without a family.

  This wasn’t an orphanage like the one Oliver Twist would have endured in Dickens’s day. Children’s Home was brightly lit, the fluorescent lights casting an unnatural white glow all around, and they passed playrooms with large windows letting in the street lamps and moonlight. The walls were painted primary colors, blue, yellow, and red, and along the sides were short shelves with buckets of toys. It looked like a preschool, with whiteboards with ABCs written in block letters, and watercolor and tempura paintings were hung on a clothesline stretching across the ceiling. The social workers, though tired, were positive, smiling. James could see the compassion in their eyes, though he guessed that no matter how hard they worked there would always be more children, and more children. And then they would work harder for less pay. They nodded at James and Sarah as they walked past. James nodded back while Sarah continued to study the formica floor. James knew she was afraid she wouldn’t know what to do, who to choose, why one child was better than another, why this one should have a home and that one shouldn’t. How do you walk into a place of children to choose your child and leave the others behind?

  James and Sarah were escorted into an office at the end of the long hallway. Mrs. Jackson stood and extended her arms towards them like they were old friends. She hugged Sarah, then pointed to another lady behind a desk.

  “This is Sarah Wentworth, Mrs. Mills. She works in the library at the university. And this is Doctor Wentworth. He’s my son’s professor.”

  “Just James, please,” he said.

  The other woman stood. She had short gray hair, eyes hidden behind round owl-frame glasses, and she looked James and Sarah up and down, a staff sergeant checking her recruits before a marching parade. Were the Wentworths suitable parent material? Responsible? Caring? She must have decided they were all right because she stepped out from behind her desk and shook Sarah’s hand.

  “Very nice to meet you,” Mrs. Mills said.

  “Mrs. Mills is the supervisor here,” said Mrs. Jackson.

  “Thank you for staying late tonight,” James said. “We’re having midterms and I couldn’t get away.”

  “I told you, he’s very dedicated to his students,” Mrs. Jackson said.

  “Good to hear. Good evening, Mrs. Wentworth.”

  “Good evening.”

  Mrs. Mills went to her desk, pulled out a manila folder, and checked the papers inside. “Everything seems to be in order. Mrs. Jackson went out of her way to make sure everything was done in a timely manner, which is impressive. If Mrs. Jackson thinks highly of you, you must be doing something right. We’re going to get this done as quickly as possible.”

  “Thank you,” Sarah said.

  “So what were you thinking?” asked Mrs. Mills. “Boy? Girl? Infant? School age? The infants go first because everyone who adopts wants an infant. Toddler? There are a lot of toddlers here now. Perhaps you’d prefer an older child? They’re always the hardest to place. People think the older ones are too damaged and won’t form the same attachments to them. It’s not true, but it’s not easy to sway people from their opinions.”

  Sarah shook her head. “We want a child who needs a loving home.”

  “Mrs. Wentworth, all of our children need a loving home.”

  James put his arm around his wife, brushed a dark curl from her face, kissed her temple. She looked so sad. James knew she would have adopted every child in the place if she could have. My wife has a heart as big as the sky, he thought.

  “Whoever we find will be perfect,” he whispered.

  The door was pushed open and a younger woman in blue jeans and a Boston Red Sox jersey stuck her head into the office. “Mrs. Mills, we had a drop off,” she said.

  “When?”

  “Just a few minutes ago.”

  “How old?”

  “The nurse says about six months.”

  “Six months? Dear me.”

  Mrs. Jackson rushed out of the room. Mrs. Mills stayed in her chair and covered her eyes with her hand, well chapped from repeated sanitizing, and took a moment to herself.

  “What’s a drop off?” Sarah asked.

  Mrs. Mills wrung her hands as though she could squeeze everything that was wrong for the children of this world out through an imaginary dish towel, their problems nothing more than excess water.

  “Hospitals, police stations, and manned fire houses are places where parents can leave their newborns without fear of prosecution. Then there are times when people drop off children of any age. It’s not covered under the safe haven law, but often we can’t find the parents since they leave no trace so they walk away without consequences.”

  “Other than eternal guilt,” James said.

  “We hope they have at least that. But the safe places are the only other alternative some parents have.”

  “Other alternative?” Sarah asked.

  “Times are hard, Mrs. Wentworth. Many don’t realize how desperate the situation is for so many children.”

  James wondered about the new wave of lost children. Not lost boys like those in the Peter Pan story where they went to the magical Never-Never-Land. There they would never age, never worry, never fear. There they would have the frivolity of eternal childhood, an immortality of sorts. But these children were all too mortal, James knew, all too familiar with the wicked, wicked world, left abandoned in a fire station, or a social worker’s arms.

  Mrs. Jackson reappeared, crumpling into the chair across from Mrs. Mills. The lines in her forehead were deeper, the creases around her mouth craggier, her exhaustion aging her ten years.

  “It’s a baby girl,” Mrs. Jackson said. “She looks to be about six months old, maybe a little hungry, but otherwise in good health. No one saw who left her. She was left in a basket outside the door.”

  “A baby abandoned in a basket. That’s an old one, isn’t it?” Mrs. Mills said. “Was there a note?”

  “For what it’s worth.”

  “What did it say?”

  Mrs. Jackson pulled the crumpled paper from her pocket and flattened it. “It says, ‘This is the Grace you have been missing.’” Mrs. Jackson shook her head. “Poor thing won’t stop crying. She’s holding her arms out, like she knows her mother’s close by and won’t stop until her mother comes for her. I’ve been doing this for twenty years, and this might be the most heartbreaking thing I’ve ever seen.”

  James nodded. He heard the baby as soon as she was brought in, the painful screams, the short spasmic breath.

  “Abandoned by someone who likes crossword puzzles,” Mrs. Mills said. “The note doesn’t make sense.”

  Suddenly, Sarah sat up straight, her eyes wide, her mouth moving with words she couldn’t quite say. Finally, she asked, “May I see that?” She pointed to the crumpled note.

  “Maybe you can make sense of it,” Mrs. Jackson said.

  Sarah flattened the note on the desk. The words were large, an odd combination of elegant calligraphy a
nd child-like scrawl. She read aloud: “This is the Grace you have been missing.” She said it again, slowly, as though she were making sense of the message one word at a time. “This-is-the-Grace-you-have-been-missing.” She took Mrs. Jackson’s plump hand in hers and squeezed. “Can I see her? Can I see the baby?”

  “Why don’t you bring Mrs. Wentworth to see the baby, Lannie?” Mrs. Jackson said. She opened the door and stepped aside. “This way, Mrs. Wentworth.”

  When Sarah heard the baby cry her hand went to her throat, then her heart. James followed Sarah and Lannie down the hall, Mrs. Mills and Mrs. Jackson behind them. At the end of the hallway a door was propped open by a short stool, and inside was another young woman in a Boston University t-shirt rocking the screaming baby. The young woman looked ready to cry herself.

  “I’ve tried feeding her,” she said. “I’ve tried giving her a pacifier. I’ve tried singing to her and changing her diaper. She won’t stop crying.”

  “Give her here.” But even in Mrs. Jackson’s motherly arms the baby wouldn’t settle.

  Sarah stood outside the door, one foot past the threshold, watching, waiting. Then she walked to Mrs. Jackson.

  “Can I see her?”

  As soon as Sarah’s hands touched the blond-haired baby she stopped crying. The baby looked up with round blue eyes with white flecks around the irises, held out her six-month-old hands, and smiled. Sarah pulled her close, and the little girl laughed. Sarah turned to James, tears on her cheeks.

  “This is the Grace we’ve been missing,” she said.

  James squeezed his eyes shut, unable to cry in front of the social workers. Sarah sat in the rocking chair, holding the baby close, singing to her, oblivious to anyone else.

  “What does she mean?” Mrs. Mills asked.