The Evening Spider (23 page)

I nodded. “I'll probably call you soon.”

Fonda took out a tissue and dabbed at each nostril. “Don't hesitate. But listen. I'd better get going. I want to get to the store while they still have bread on the shelves. You understand, right?”

“Umm . . . yeah?” I said. I
didn't
quite understand, but I didn't want to appear anxious.

“You can call me anytime.
Any
time. I'm used to getting called at night. But I ought to get home.”

I nodded again and led Fonda to the door. Before she opened it, I asked, “Just one more quick question?”

Please don't leave me alone in this house.

Fonda's hand tightened over the doorknob. “Yeah?”

“Did you notice my daughter's bruise at all?”

Fonda squinted at Lucy. “Only a little. Why?”

“Does it look like a seashell to you?”

Fonda's hand dropped from the doorknob as she studied me wordlessly.

“I was just curious,” I said quickly. “Someone told me they thought it looked like a spiral seashell, and I was just wondering if they were out of their minds.”

“It looks to me like a week-old bruise. Is that about right?”

“About,” I managed to say.

Fonda nodded and opened the door. “Stay warm tonight.”

Northampton Lunatic Hospital

Northampton, Massachusetts

December 20, 1885

A
nd so I went home to Haverton.

And there I discovered that my kitchen smelled of blood.

Corpuscles? No. As much as I might have wished to put it that way, I couldn't say that my kitchen smelled of corpuscles—anymore. For how does a corpuscle smell? I don't presume to know. It wasn't as if someone had slaughtered something in my home while I was gone. No. Now I
recognized
a smell that had been there all along.

And so I scrubbed. I had Tessa scrub as well. For as long as I could and still seem sane, and then a little bit more.

I believe it is sparkling, ma'am. I think we have done a good and thorough job.

The smell remained.

As I set about returning to my cooking duties and my hobbyist baking, I thought still of Mrs. Hayden. I thought of her on the stand, struggling not to break her wifely façade. Did she believe her husband guilty? Or did she believe him innocent? The
other women in the courtroom seemed to sympathize with her situation regardless of his status.

What I could not help but observe—and can I help it that I am more observant than sentimental?—was that the mind sees what it wishes to see and remembers what it wishes to remember.

Mrs. Hayden's husband
had
perhaps spent a few minutes speaking privately with Mary Stannard in his barn. Even so, it was perhaps only a few minutes. There are fourteen hundred and forty minutes per day. It would be easy to forget a few minutes. If one wished to forget.

And Mrs. Hayden could remember a long-ago discussion with her husband about vermin, but not notice the oddity of him purchasing and hiding in their barn a lethal substance without mentioning it to her, regardless of the potential danger to their children. If she
wished
not to notice it as odd.

It was easy for a woman to refuse to acknowledge a darkness residing in her home, in the interest of maintaining—or attempting to maintain—light.

I understood how easy it might be. Perhaps I understood even more than all of those tiresome weeping women in the courtroom on that December day. Yes. Perhaps I did.

Recognizing this, I had to make a decision. I could continue to try to scrub the blood from my kitchen. I could continue to try to forget Mrs. Hayden's words, and the familiar intricacies of her selective memory. I could collect pudding recipes and sew Martha a green velvet dress and hold on to Christmas as one would a piece of driftwood in a swirling storm at sea. I could hope the aroma of warming cinnamon and cloves could mask that smell in my kitchen.

Or I could endeavor to be quite different from Rosa Hayden—to be a cold and analytical investigator of my own memory, and my own heart.

Oh dear! Do you see that nurse hovering in the doorframe? She is going to tell us that our visiting time is over. The supper bell will be ringing soon. I should have known from the diminishing sunlight and the grumble of my stomach that suppertime was coming. Because I met my shirt quota this week, there will be a piece of fruit with my supper tonight.

What do we do in the evenings?

Once a week, we line up for an ice-cold bath. As for the other nights, you might be surprised, Harry. For those of us who can sit relatively still and silent for an hour, there is sometimes entertainment provided. Dr. Earl believes in stimulating the patients' minds. There are Bible readings and poetry readings and sometimes lectures. Some weeks ago, we had a lecture on astronomy. Some months before that, one on architecture. Every two or three months, we are treated to a show from the oxyhydrogen lantern. There is a man in Northampton named Dr. Meekins—perhaps a friend of Dr. Earl's—who is an expert in optics. Every so often he comes and shows magnified pictures with his oxyhydrogen lantern. The “magic lantern,” some of the patients call it. Yes? You've heard of it? Outdated, you say? Well, Harry. Even the most scientifically minded lunatics cannot be particular about technology.

The most recent of Dr. Meekins's showing was insects—though I wonder if he'll dare show
those
again, as a few patients woke up in the night screaming about large eyes and sharp mandibles and hairy antennae. I do not always attend those nights
with the oxyhydrogen lantern. They sadden me sometimes—for they make me think of you.

I have, besides, already seen many things up close. Perhaps that is what is wrong with many of us here. Once we have seen things up too close—or too far away—we cannot restore our vision to its proper and conventional function. Perhaps mine is a simplified explanation, but I challenge you to devise a better one.

In any case, the entertainment is always short, and we go to bed early—so we can rise with the sun for a full day's work.

Oh. You are right. I was so engaged in my story that I didn't notice the snow starting to fall. I am glad of it. My easiest days here are when I look out the window and see nothing but white. Those are the days when I feel most separate from the world—as if I died on the day of Martha's birth, after all. As if I am in purgatory and have no choice in the matter any longer.

You must go now? You mean you are going to simply walk out into the snow? Where will you go? And when will you come back? Harry!

Goodness. My heart nearly burst just now. I hadn't realized I had enough heart left to worry about. Oh, that is a relief, Harry. I am so glad to hear that you have taken a room at an inn and that you will return tomorrow. I am not sure what your business is in Northampton, but I am happy it has brought you here. We have more to talk about tomorrow, indeed.

Haverton, Connecticut

December 19, 2014

T
he house was definitely getting colder. Too cold. Our thermostat was still on the pre-baby settings of last winter, and the sixty-degree nights were no longer going to fly.

Lucy was sleeping soundly, but her hands were chilly. I cursed myself for not remembering to reset the thermostat before I'd headed up the stairs. Why had it taken me this long to notice how cold it had been getting at night? Had Chad been overriding the settings on particularly cold nights?

I had all the upstairs lights on, and last night's
Tonight Show
practically blasting on my laptop—as much as one could blast with an infant four feet away. The idea was to drown some of Fonda's words out of my brain—at least until Lucy was asleep. Now that she was down, I felt too cold to climb under our feather duvet in good conscience. I'd be warm enough, but Lucy wouldn't. She had on flannel pajamas, but her sleep sack was nothing more than a light blanket, essentially. Her face and hands were going to be freezing.

It dwells downstairs.

“Shut UP!” I growled.

I couldn't think too much about Fonda's opinion about the house—as it was just an opinion—at best—after all. I needed to put the matter aside until morning, when I would be able to consider it more intelligently. For now, Lucy and I both needed rest.

But it was so terribly cold.

Throwing a blanket over Lucy was out of the question. That was maybe what the house wanted me to do. Babies her age often tangled themselves—or worse—with their blankets.

I would just have to run downstairs for a quick few seconds—and keep an eye on Lucy with the video monitor. Yes—I'd set up the monitor on the bureau by the portable crib, and take the receiving end with me while I popped down to adjust the thermostat.

Once I had it set up, I kept my eyes on Lucy as I shuffled down the stairs.

When I got down to the living room, I hit the
override
button and quickly tapped the temperature up to 68 this time.

I turned my gaze back to the monitor.

Something flitted over Lucy. A shadow or a change in the light.

Swish.
Right over her. Right over Lucy's bed.

I dropped the monitor and ran.

Up the stairs so quick and clumsy that I tripped over my foot when I got to the top, stepping on it sideways. I ran into the bedroom, feeling but ignoring a sharp pain along the side of my ankle, and swooped over the portable crib, grabbing Lucy and lifting her to my shoulder. She flopped into my upper arm, sucking her pacifier noisily. I took a deep breath.

We couldn't stay up here. Not with the “she” who liked to pass through here. Frances?

A few of Fonda's words flooded my head:
A window was recently opened. I don't think she's all that concerned about the baby.

That was probably an understatement. How different was
unconcerned
from
spiteful toward
? Not enough for me. Not now. Why hadn't I packed up my and Lucy's things the moment Fonda left?

I clasped Lucy against my chest and headed for the stairs.

Two steps down and my ankle smarted. My socked foot slipped. I wobbled and clutched Lucy tight.

It dwells downstairs.

I took a deep breath, then sat on the third step. Moving farther down the stairs seemed too terrifying—too risky.

Innocent. Innocent. Innocent. Innocent.

Did I hear it? Did I hear that word repeated four times? Or was my brain saying it because it was so scared?
Innocent. Innocent . . .

Shut
up.

Shut up, please.

Should we sleep upstairs or downstairs tonight? I wondered.

Neither. How could I
sleep
?

But I
needed
to. I understood now. The house was keeping me from sleeping. It wanted me to slip and fall down the stairs, or drop Lucy, or worse. Let her poison herself while my eyes were closed.

It wouldn't be the first time, would it? Or—really—the second.

“Shut up. PLEASE.”

Or else it
wanted
me to sleep, so it could tend to Lucy.

Shhhhh.

“Shut up!” I screamed.

One way or the other. Upstairs or downstairs. I was trapped.

I hugged Lucy to my chest. My eyes stung. With tears? Or just exhaustion? I couldn't tell. It didn't seem to matter. Lucy blurred in front of me, so I gripped her little pajamas tighter.

“I'm tired,” I whispered. “I'm so tired.”

As soon as I let the words come out of my mouth, I thought of the dummy behind the upstairs wall. What was her name again? Split down the middle and across the waist. A broken and faceless mother, just waiting.

Lucy murmured, then opened her eyes. I stared down at them. They were big and brown—so brown I didn't know where they came from. Darker than Chad's or mine. Almost black, and exquisitely so. As beautiful and as foreign as the day she was born. For a second I thought I saw a sadness in them. It was a sadness that said,
You're really going to give up that easily?

“No,” I whispered to her. “Of course not.”

I stared down the stairs. If I went down there and I heard the word
“
innocent,” how badly could that hurt me? It hadn't seemed to hurt Fonda.

How long would it take me to get Lucy's things ready and get out of the house?

There were enough of her clothes in the dryer that I could just stuff those in a bag. I didn't need to go upstairs. Her diaper bag was on the counter by the door. Besides, things like diapers and baby food were available at the all-night CVS.

I took a deep breath and carried Lucy down the remaining stairs. After I'd turned on all the lights in my path, I brought her to her portable car carrier in the kitchen and buckled her in. Opening the dryer, I realized I was holding my breath. I let it out and held it again. I shoved all the onesies and pajamas—along
with Chad's white undershirts and a few of my things, as there was no time to sort—into a black garbage bag. I tossed that in front of the kitchen side door, along with the diaper bag. Then I looked for the keys.

The keys.

“Shit!”

When had I last left the house? It was a couple of days ago. I'd had the habit of leaving them in the ignition in my rush to get Lucy out sometimes—especially if she was crying when we arrived home. My crappy old Ford didn't have any fancy mechanism that screamed at you if you left the keys in, and I always left the doors unlocked for ease of loading Lucy and all of her accoutrements. The car was parked right in view of the kitchen—right next to its door on our narrow driveway. Really just a few steps away. I'd go and check, and while I was there, warm up the car. I slid on the mules I'd left in front of the door.

When I opened the door, I was stunned by the cold and by the bright white. There was an inch of snow already on the ground, and a flurry swirling around the doorstep. As the snowflakes flew into my face, I remembered Fonda's words:
I want to get to the store while they still have bread on the shelves.
And Wallace saying,
We'll meet soon, I'm sure. Tomorrow might be out of the question, of course, but . . .
I had been too distracted to allow those words to really register. They'd been talking about a snowstorm. I didn't follow the news or the weather much these days. What was the point when I rarely left the baby bubble?

I shivered in my pajamas, then stepped down, careful not to slip. Then three steps to the car door and then opened it—
BANG!

The door slammed behind me. The wind must have taken it.
Rather than run back up to open it, I sat in the car and reached for the ignition. But the keys weren't there. I ran back up the steps. Lucy was crying now—right behind the door. The slam must've wakened her.

“Damn,” I said, and reached for the doorknob. It was freezing cold. And it was locked.

I jiggled it.

“No!” I whispered.

Lucy's screaming grew louder, more urgent. Could she see me through the glass? I pushed all of my weight against the door but knew it wouldn't be enough.

Could she see me through the glass? Or was she screaming for another reason? A reason I could not see from here?

Another reason.

Shhhhh!

“Shut up!” I screamed, realizing now how hard my heart was pounding.

I ran around to the front door even though I knew it was locked. I bounded up the steps and tried it anyway, pushing and pounding. From there, I could still hear Lucy screaming—just at a distance. The sound of it—muffled by the house and the snow—made my whole chest throb. I turned from the door and looked out onto the white street. The white sidewalk. The white lawn and front steps. A light wind blew snow into one of my ears.
Swish.

White began to close in on me. For a moment, I thought it might blind me. I closed my eyes. In the dark behind my eyelids, the muffled screams went on and on into an aching infinity.