The Evening Spider (25 page)

Northampton Lunatic Hospital

Northampton, Massachusetts

December 21, 1885

I
had several stops planned in this investigation of my memory.

A visit to Dr. Graham was easily arranged. I simply requested a consultation about Martha's vomiting. And Martha
did
vomit frequently. During my “rest,” my milk had dried up while Clara fed her Mellin's baby food. The substitution never seemed to agree with her stomach—nor did cow's milk, which I had tried recently as an alternative. I wasn't alarmed for Martha's health as she was growing steadily enough despite the occasional problems. Still, it seemed a reasonable excuse for a consultation.

After we discussed the possibility of goat milk, I made strategic small talk as I bundled Martha for the walk home.

“Her scar has healed nicely, hasn't it?”

“Oh. Oh, yes. I wasn't worried about it. It didn't require many stitches. Good to be cautious, though, with a young girl's face.”

“Of course. Matthew was certainly more cautious with her than he was with himself.”

“With himself?”

“When his leg was so badly cut . . . from that broken goblet.”

“I don't recall that.”

“Around the same time I asked you to confirm my pregnancy. So, now, some time ago. Quite well over a year.”

“I believe Matthew may have seen another doctor for that. Maybe he saw someone in New Haven. That was the time of the McFarlene business, wasn't it?”

“Oh . . . I'm not sure. My memory is so hazy when it comes to things before the birth. But I was fairly certain he saw
you.
Not right after he got cut, but some days later. That's why it hurt him so much.”

“I've never given sutures to your Matthew.”

“Oh. Are you
sure
?”

“My dear, I've known Matthew for nearly his whole life. Why wouldn't I be sure?”

“Of course, Dr. Graham. Excuse me.”

“Do try to follow my instructions for Martha. And come for another consultation if she doesn't improve in a week.”

“Thank you, Doctor.”

You see, Harry—I was afraid to mention it to the doctor before that point. I suspected, from the mess I'd seen on my husband's leg, that he never made it to any doctor—though he had told me he had seen Dr. Graham. But he had not seen him—or probably any doctor—because he did not wish to implicate or embarrass me. That was the harsh truth I'd been avoiding when I'd avoided the question in the past.

My husband was simultaneously ashamed and protective of me, his crazy wife. He spoke of me—and treated me in
public—as one would the wife of my journal. The effusive one, who loved cakes.

He knew, though, that I was not that wife.

I knew, too, what I was not.

I was not afraid of the truth.

Haverton, Connecticut

December 20, 2014

L
ucy slept late—through most of the chirpy morning shows I kept on low volume as I huddled under the covers and longed for coffee.

When she finally woke up, she nursed for a good long time. As Lucy sucked, I tried to recall when my last decent meal had been and wondered from where she was drawing her nutrition. Probably the fatty parts of my brain, I decided. A few more days and it would be wizened down to just my lizard brain.

I found a package of banana baby food in my diaper bag, propped Lucy up on some pillows, and started feeding it to her. After two spoonfuls, my cell phone rang.

“Well!” said Wallace after I muttered a lethargic hello. “Since that storm wasn't all they were making it out to be, any chance you'll be out and about today? Any chance you'll stop by the historical society? If it's more convenient for you, I could stop by your place to pick up Dr. Graham's journal. I'm about to get coffee myself.”

“I'm not at my house,” I mumbled. “I'm at the Candlelight Inn.”

“
What?
Is everything okay?” Wallace hesitated. “Where is your husband?”

“He's in Chicago on business this week.”

“And that somehow led you to . . . the Candlelight Inn?”

Lucy yelped for more banana.

“No.” I kept spooning the puree into Lucy's mouth. “Not exactly. There was an incident with a . . . broken window. Last night. At my house.”

“You and Lucy are all right, I hope.”

I took a hungry half-spoonful of the banana myself. “Yes.”

“What happened?”

“I'm not sure,” I said. “I heard the glass breaking in the middle of the night. I wasn't sure if it was something from the storm or . . .”

“There wasn't a terribly strong wind, I didn't think.”

“Exactly. So I was worried it might be some intruder, trying to get in . . . someone throwing something. With Chad's car gone, maybe they thought . . .”

“Oh, dear.”

“Yeah, so . . . I didn't feel safe staying there alone with Lucy, in any case. I know this isn't the nicest place, but it was between here and driving out of town in the snow.”

“How terrible for you! Well, in that case, you
must
let me bring you some coffee. You're just a mile from where I get my morning fix, anyhow. A doughnut or a muffin? Lucy is too small for doughnuts yet, right?”

“Did you find this place comfortable?” Wallace asked, handing me a large coffee. “Sugar? Cream? I got some extras for you since I don't know what you like.”

“Thanks,” I said, deciding I'd ignore his original question unless he repeated it. I'd tidied up to make the whole setup look less desperate than it was—straightened the bedcovers and shoved the garbage bag full of baby laundry in the closet.

I placed my coffee on the tippy motel table in front of him and poured two sugars into it. After a long sip, I felt my brain shuddering back to life.

“This place has been around since I was in high school,” Wallace said. “It wasn't called the Candlelight Inn, then. It was called Sweetly's Motel, and my mother always claimed that only prostitutes stayed here.”

“Was it true? Haverton prostitutes?”

“I don't know. I wasn't an enterprising enough young man to verify it for myself.”

“Uh huh.” I took another sip of coffee.

“But the Candlelight folks cleaned the place up a bit when they bought it twenty some-odd years ago.”

I nodded.

“It's a shame you had to leave your house.” Wallace arranged a few doughnuts on a couple of napkins on the table. “I hope you called the police—if you really think there was some kind of potential intruder.”

I shrugged and drank some more coffee. “Oh, I don't know.”

“Don't know what? Don't know if you called the police?”

“I didn't,” I admitted. “I think it was something to do with the storm outside—something hitting the window. I was just spooked, is all. I needed to be somewhere Lucy and I could rest.”

“Which you couldn't do with a broken hole in your house and snow flying in.”

“Exactly.” I took a bite of doughnut, staring at his hands, clasped in a neat bridge between his knees. I couldn't read his expression. We both watched Lucy, who was lying on her tummy on a couple of blankets, gnawing on a board book.

“I had a medium come to my house yesterday,” I said.

Maybe if I'd managed a few more sips of coffee before this moment, I'd have had the presence of mind
not
to make this confession. But part of me felt compelled to share this with someone.

Wallace stiffened in his chair and put down his coffee cup. “Oh?”

“Yeah,” I said.

“Where did you find this medium? Someone you know?”

“No. I found her online.”

Wallace looked away, rearranging the position of the napkinful of doughnuts on the table. “Did she have any insights for you?”

“Yes. Several. She seemed to think my house has a ghostly presence. Or maybe two.”

“That's what they're paid to do. And two gives you something to choose from, based on your preconceived idea.”

“She doesn't charge anything. She does it to help people.”

“Do you feel she helped you?”

“Um. Wallace, I really appreciate your concern. But this conversation is getting a little too Socratic for me a little too quickly.”

Lucy began to fuss on the floor. I put down my doughnut.

“Why don't you let me pick her up?” Wallace said. “So you can finish your coffee. Would that be agreeable to her, you think?”

“Sure,” I said, shrugging. “Try it.”

Wallace scooped up Lucy and settled her on his knee, opening the board book for her to look at the first page.

“Why, that's a caterpillar,” he informed Lucy. “I have a granddaughter that's just about a year older than you. How about that?”

“I didn't know that,” I said. “What's her name?”

“Scarlet. I don't see her that much. She lives near Philadelphia.”

I nodded.

“So,” Wallace said, turning a page of Lucy's book. “Since you brought it up, is there anything this medium said that you wished to talk about?”

“What she said confirmed what I've been experiencing in the house. I'll say that much.”

Wallace sighed. Lucy stared at him, then began to cough out brief, uncertain little sobs. I took her from Wallace and gave her a pacifier. She probably wanted milk, but I didn't want to make Wallace any more uncomfortable than he clearly already was.

“How much did you tell her about what you're . . . experiencing?” Wallace asked. “Before she confirmed it?”

“Nothing,” I said. “I was very careful.”

“I see,” Wallace said quietly.

Lucy and I gazed at each other for a minute or two. I loved those black alien eyes. When she was sixteen and spoke to me in full sentences and sentiments, would they seem any less enigmatic?

“You can't stay here with Lucy for long.” Wallace paused. “I wouldn't think.”

“Of course not,” I said. “I just needed to rest.”

Wallace stood up with another sigh that I couldn't interpret. I thought for a moment that he might be getting ready to leave.

“Weren't you going to show me Frances's journal?” he asked. “The business about the missing pages?”

“I don't have it with me.”

“I don't suppose you have Dr. Graham's log, either.”

“No.”

“Hmm. Well, do I recall correctly that you said these missing pages were right before that final entry?”

“Yes.”

“Shame you don't have it with you. I didn't think much of it at the time, but now that you mention this . . . that last page where she wrote those rather cryptic things about arsenic amounts. Did you notice anything odd about it?”

“Umm . . . aside from the fact that it was flat-out
diabolical
in its tone?”

“Yes. Something more mundane than that. Did you notice anything?”

After a moment's thought, I told Wallace about how, in her final entry, Frances stopped using titles like
Reverend
and
Mr.

Wallace sucked in his lower lip. “Huh. I hadn't noticed that. But
that's
interesting, too. No, what I noticed was so subtle I hesitate to bring it up. I didn't think much of it until you mentioned on the phone about the missing page. I thought the ink on the final page was just
slightly
darker than on the ones before it. Maybe Frances had gotten a new fountain pen and ink for Christmas? I don't know. Maybe the page before it—she messed up the page, ripped it out, and started over?”

“Or wrote something terrible about her intentions, thought
better of it, ripped it out, and wrote it a little more cryptically,” I suggested.

“Why on earth would she do that? That assumes she thought someone was reading her journal. And even if she did, she didn't do a great job of covering her intentions. She still did, as you say, sound a tad diabolical.”

“At least I've gotten you to admit
that.
”

“Have you contacted Gerard Barnett yet?” Wallace asked. “Asked him if he knows anything of the missing pages?”

“No,” I admitted. “I doubt he'll have anything to say about it, but I'll call him today.”

“Hmmph. If I believed more firmly in these things, I'd say you should ask your psychic about those pages. Maybe she'd have a theory.”

“Fonda and I didn't talk about the journal.”

“Fonda? That's her name?”

“Yes.”

Wallace rubbed one of his eyes vigorously. “Did you talk to her about Frances at all?”

I stood up with Lucy and brought her to the mirror at the back of the room, by the sink. She grinned at her reflection while I watched Wallace. He kept his hands on his kneecaps, jouncing them slightly.

“No,” I said. “I waited to see if she came up with anything that sounded like Frances.”

“And did she?”

“Vaguely. She said that there was a female presence upstairs. Sometimes. That she comes in and out.”

“Ooh.” Wallace reached for his coffee. “At her own bidding? Like through a sort of ghostly cat flap, or some such?”

“She didn't specify about the exact apparatus at all, no.”

“Does she go downstairs?”

“I don't think so. There's a different energy downstairs, she said.” I continued to watch Wallace in the mirror. From where I was standing, I couldn't tell if his little smile was amused or nervous. “It just keeps saying the same word four times over.”

“Did she say
what
word?”

“Of course she did.
Innocent.
”

“Innocent?”

“
Innocent innocent innocent innocent,
” I said.

Wallace's eyes snapped, studying me more intently. The smile fell from his face.

“What is it, Wallace?”

Wallace crossed his arms. “You're joking.”

“Uh . . . no.” I whirled around and looked at Wallace directly. Lucy gasped in protest. “If I were joking, I'd have told you a funnier word. Like
carbuncle.
”

Wallace shook his head. “Who is this woman? Is she from Haverton?”

“She's local. But she lives in Hamden.”

“She's scamming you. What does she look like?”

“Does it matter? You don't know her, do you? Fonda Manning?”

“No, I don't know her. But . . . Can you come to the society house? I'd like to show you something.”