The Last Days of Dogtown (23 page)

As their first summer together ended, Martha began to read from a well-known series of books written by a distant kinswoman of hers, Sarah Maria Hastings. Mrs. Hastings’s volumes contained all manner of writing: poems, letters, essays, and heartrending stories about the outrages and difficulties of women’s lives. One particular tale of a wife in a loveless and childless marriage set Martha to such a fit of weeping that Judy began to cast a wondering eye at the judge. Martha never spoke ill of her husband and Judy had no other reason to think him anything but an exemplary man. He was mostly unknown to her since he traveled a good deal, and when he was in town he never took his midday meal at home. But now, these facts fed her growing suspicion that there was something amiss, and Martha’s conjugal situation was often in her mind as she followed the roads in and out of Dogtown.

On the Saturdays when Judy remained up-country, she would take long walks to clear her mind. Following overgrown trails and shortcuts that she knew as well as the inside of her own house, she reveled in the solitude and peace of the woods. But in truth, nearly every path was strewn with memories, some trivial, some momentous. There was the fallen tree where she’d once seen a she-skunk leading a litter of seven tiny babies, their striped tails bobbing in a merry row. A hollow tree marked the spot where Sammy Stanley had stopped her once, to ask if she’d had a dollar to change for ten dimes. Such a strange child, she remembered. “How is your grandmother’s health?” she’d asked, unable to think of any other question for a boy who lived in a brothel. He’d stared like she had grown an extra eye, and bolted from her.

There were changes in Dogtown’s landscape from season to season, and from year to year: trees downed, mushrooms plentiful, or squirrels scarce. And yet, the forest was always the same. Perhaps that was why Judy could never fix the sequence of her out-of-doors memories: Had she met Sammy before or after the day she’d spotted the two poor doxies who lived at the Stanley house, too? She recalled that they were sitting on the big cracked grindstone beside one of the old abandoned houses. Easter had told her a few things about them she’d just as soon never have heard, so she’d pretended not to see Molly and Sally. But the picture of the tall dark head and the pale little blonde whispering together in the sunlight was still vivid in her mind’s eye.

As was the day she came across Oliver and Polly kissing beside the natural edifice called Peter’s Pulpit, among the tallest of the famous Dogtown boulders. When the young people saw her, they had let go of each other with a quick flutter, like a pair of birds flushed out of the brush.

“Hello, Judy,” Oliver said, a little too loudly.

Polly put her hands behind her and dropped a silent curtsy.

Judy felt tongue-tied but managed to say, “Good afternoon, Oliver. Hello, Polly.” She’d wanted to reassure Polly that her reputation was in no danger from her, but said only, “I’d best be going,” and hurried away, confused by a sudden burst of anguish and longing. Why on earth should their happiness upset her?

Judy considered herself a reconciled old maid, but in her bed that night, she realized that she was still smarting from the image of the young lovers. Judy pulled the dog up from her usual place behind her knees and pressed her nose into the musty warmth. “Woe is me,” she said, mocking her own moodiness. “Woe is me.”

When Judy next saw Easter Carter, she said, “I think Oliver Younger may be keeping company with Polly.”

Easter grinned. “Yes, dearie. John Wharf used to come up here to give them a chance at each other. He was counting on the boy taking care of her once he passed away. I used to tell him there wasn’t a safer wager on land or sea.”

“You knew that?” Judy said. “And you didn’t tell me?”

“I figured you’d find out soon enough. Besides, I’m not that sort of a gossip.”

“But Easter, it’s me. It’s Judy.”

“I never told tales on you, neither,” said Easter, softly but firmly.

The two women, usually so companionable, fell into an awkward silence that lasted until Judy suddenly remembered a pot left on the fire and departed, wasting a freshly poured cup of tea.

They had reconciled the very next day, as neither woman would permit anything to damage the bond between them, not even their secrets.

Wherever she walked, Judy was careful to steer her thoughts away from Cornelius. She never took the path where she’d first laid eyes on him, crouched over a squirrel trap. Their eyes had met just as he snapped the animal’s neck. Judy smiled at him. She was no hypocrite: she ate squirrels and knew how they died. “Enjoy your dinner,” she had said and walked off. When she arrived home, the animal was laying on her doorstep, gutted and skinned, the first of many gifts.

One night, alone in her Dogtown bed, Judy finally admitted to herself that she had been in love with Cornelius. “In love” precisely as it was described in the novels and poems she had read with Martha; love as a kind of sweet madness that colored everything. Judy had been shocked that strangers across the ocean could describe the workings of her Yankee heart: the preoccupation and yearning, the soaring happiness and keen appreciation of a man’s hidden qualities, the sublime meeting of souls. And yet, there was never a mention of the sort of union she’d shared with Cornelius, the longing and fulfillment of the flesh that could transform two bodies into one.

In the books, love was expressed in sidelong glances and witty banter. Judy could recall only a few conversations with Cornelius. For them, love had been expressed in the interplay of tongues and fingers, the absolute conviction that their bodies belonged to each other, waking and sleeping. And if he never gave her testimonials, Judy remembered a thousand physical proofs of his tenderness and affection.

Judy wondered whether the literary silence about such matters might have had something to do with Cornelius’s race, or with the British pedigree of the authoresses. Or perhaps there was something unnatural about her, to have welcomed him into her bed, and to have responded to his touch so freely.

With the years, her body had become drier and cooler and the memory of Cornelius’s great legs astride her, his flesh pressed into hers, became strange and even repellent. Finally, Judy did not long for him anymore, and with the benefit of time came to believe that his disappearance had been for the best. He had proven himself untrustworthy and cruel, leaving her feeling cheapened and cheated. Since then, she had attached her heart to gentler and more constant subjects: Oliver and Polly, and their Natty. Easter. And poor Martha Cook.

After nearly two years as Martha’s companion, Judy had come to feel like a member of her family. Martha encouraged her to borrow freely from the library and to bring treats from the kitchen whenever she visited with Oliver, Polly, and Natty. Martha had not only told Judy to consider the house her own, she had made it so by dismissing a housemaid who’d muttered something about “that Dogtown witch and that cursed animal of hers.” She even gave away the cat so that Greyling could come indoors freely, hoping to sway Judy to move into town.

“I don’t like to think of you all alone in that wilderness,” fretted Martha.

“I’m not alone,” said Judy. “Easter’s nearby, and Greyling watches over me. If I lived here, I fear you would discover just how simple I am and grow tired of me.”

But the two of them became more and more like sisters, and when Martha’s complaints took a turn for the worse, Judy nursed her as tenderly as any blood relation.

Chest pains kept Martha in bed for a week, and then what had been vague aches in her legs turned into hot daggers. Dr. Beech became a daily visitor, prescribing various potions, but to little effect. One sleeping draught gave Martha a headache that left her whimpering and begging for death.

After she recovered from that medicine, Dr. Beech said, “I have avoided this for as long as I dared, but there is no other course.” He set out a vial of calomel. “We must treat the poisonous phlegm, which may be the cause of all your afflictions.”

Judy knew about the dreadful effects of the purge, which was prescribed for all kinds of ailments. Martha would suffer mouth sores, loosened teeth, and racking heaves. Before the doctor left, she stopped him and said, “Mrs. Cook is already so weak, I fear this cure will be worse than the disease.”

“Is that your medical opinion?” Dr. Beech said, his hand on the doorknob.

But Judy did not back down. “I will bring the matter up with Judge Cook. He should know of the danger, at least.”

To her surprise, Dr. Beech removed his hat and said, “I want a word with you.” He led her to the library and stood by the window, facing away from her as he spoke.

“I had no intention of mentioning this to you,” he said. “But since you insist on pushing your way into the matter, and as you are to be Mrs. Cook’s nurse, I am going to confide a terrible secret to you. Mrs. Cook is suffering from the French pox, for which only mercury has any effect.

“God protect all women against respectable husbands,” Dr. Beech added, bitterly. He glanced at her and added, “I assume that you will do nothing to damage this unfortunate lady’s reputation?”

“You have nothing to fear from me,” Judy said, insulted at the suggestion.

“You may not tell Mrs. Cook the nature of her illness,” said the doctor. “I have seen such news kill a woman of her sensibilities. I will measure the mercury in the smallest doses and pray that it will do her more good than harm. There is nothing else I can do for her, God help us.”

Judy rarely left Martha’s side after that, and spent most nights in a chair at her bedside. She fed her, washed her, and held the basin as her friend retched. She tidied the room and read aloud from the Gospels, which seemed to provide Martha with a little comfort.

After two miserable months, Martha recovered enough to keep down some toast and tea, and insisted that she be carried to the garden, to enjoy the flowers and the afternoon sun.

“The calomel has had a good effect, then,” Judy said to Dr. Beech.

“Perhaps,” he said. “But this malady is as unpredictable as the weather, and just as changeable. We may see a long spell of sunny days; there may be many good weeks or even months. But the storms are bound to return eventually, and it will be worse than ever.”

His prediction gave Judy the shivers.

After the doctor left, Martha took Judy’s hand and said, “You look terrible, my dear. It hurts me to see you so pale and so tired. Why don’t you go up to your cottage for a few days and have a little holiday.”

Judy’s eyes watered at her friend’s kindness. “You see, it is just as I warned. I have outstayed my welcome, and you are tired of me.”

“Not at all,” said Martha. “I am being selfish. I wish to have you smiling and blooming entirely for my own purposes. So take your Greyling and come back to me as soon as you can bear it. The judge has hired an extra girl, and he will be in residence for the rest of the month. I’ve even had the cook fill a basket for you.”

Judy smiled. “You have thought of everything. I am banished.”

On her way home, she stopped at the Youngers’ and covered Natty with kisses. “Look how much he has grown behind my back! How dare he?” Since she’d last visited, Polly had taken in a puppy, too, a squat, white creature with a feathery tail that Natty had named Poppa. The pup wagged at Greyling and stretched his paws away from his body, inviting her to play. But the old dog took no notice at all, curling up on the cool hearthstone while Poppa sniffed for crumbs.