Hester(62)

I see the violet haze rise with his words, the same color I saw about him that first day in the dry goods shop.

“Sally lived here in this cottage with her husband and her sister. The man was part Indian, and so they lived out here where no one bothered them. When he choked on a chicken bone and died, her sister became strange—spoke of men and women sneaking through the woods and visiting with the Devil, and in Salem there can be no talk of the Devil without raising a suspicion.”

He stands now, growing animated with the rhythm of the tale. What’s on his face is like the excitement I feel when the colors I’m working and the thread-picture in my mind are the same.

“One night the sister was found on the docks in a torn and bloody shift—she said a man with a long white beard had violated her. There was terrible gossip, no one could believe the widow’s sister would have such bad luck without a stain of her own. Soon the town turned on her, and not long after she was found dead.”

Perhaps it wasn’t Mercy I saw running through the dark—perhaps it was a ghost. Perhaps the cottage and the woods are haunted. Beware the devil in the forest, that’s what the widow herself told me the day we landed here.

“Only the Negroes would have Widow Higgins at their births after that,” Nat says. “No one else wanted anything to do with such a cursed family. Eventually she moved to live among them over on Rice Street.”

It strikes me that I’ve spent my time with the widow noticing only what she wants me to notice, speaking only of what she speaks of. Now I know that she has secrets, too. Ones she’s hidden well.

“The Higgins cottage was empty until you took it.” He looks around now.

“Because they died here?”

“No,” Nat corrects me. “The husband choked at a supper party in town. The sister was found near the almshouse. No one ever died here.”

But still, death is near me, for my pap will be dead soon. In the darkness, with Nat so near, I feel the first real tears since I read his letter.

Men don’t like it when women cry. When the creditors came the first time and I wept in front of Edward, he pushed away from the table and strode out of the room. But Nat’s face is creased with sympathy when he sees my tears.

“I shouldn’t have told you,” he says.

“It’s not the story,” I hurry to explain. “It’s my pap.” A choke catches in my throat, and I wrap my arms around myself. “I had a letter—he’s dying.”

Nat comes close enough to put his hands on my shoulders, and I step into his arms. In the dark and wet muffle of my face against his sleeve, I weep.

“It’s all right.” I haven’t had a man’s arms around me in many weeks, and never so tenderly. “It’s all right.”

We stay this way until my sobs stop. Nat strokes my hair, and it’s comforting: pleasing and forbidden at the same time. I swipe at my face, knowing that it’s red and my nose is running.

“I didn’t mean to do that.” I pull away without looking up at him. “I’ve made a mess of your shirt.”

I step out of his arms, and for one breath I think he will pull me back to him. But he doesn’t.

“You should go now.” I begin wrapping up my tools and putting them away. “Three nights from now your coat will be ready.”

Just as soon as I’ve spoken the words, it seems he’s vanished.



* * *



I FINISH THE final details on my work for Charlotte and close the tiny necklines in the baby’s clothing. I work at Felicity’s gloves and mend Nat’s coat sleeve in tight black stitches that mimic the ones already in the lining.

The first time I lay with Edward, I didn’t know what would be. I wore a white gown and knew to expect his weight on top of me, and blood—that was all. I knew the act gave Edward pleasure, but I didn’t feel any for myself. Night after night I closed my eyes, until one night I kept them open. I watched him moan and puff and saw his face flood with fear, then pain, then relief.

The day Nat took my hand and put the glove on it, I saw that same pained hunger in his features. I watched, mesmerized, as he slid the glove down my fingers one by one like a lady’s stocking. And I felt my tongue flatten. I felt a great thirst.

Now I drag enough water into the cottage to bathe myself head to toe. I read in Edward’s book how to make a pessary with honey, beeswax, and herbs to ward against pregnancy. I have beeswax I’ve not yet used for the pennyroyal ointment; I mix it with honey and crushed fennel seeds until it’s thick as cork, and put it as deeply inside as I can manage. I take the candle from the window and stand outside, watching stars streak across the sky. Somewhere in the distance I hear dogs. Maybe wolves.

My husband stole from me. My husband may never return to me. It’s the last thing I think before Nat slips into the yard.

“There are shooting stars.” I point up at the patch of blazing sky where a shower of white and yellow stars streak through the night. Do they foretell chaos or good fortune? I can’t decipher what the sky is saying. “Come look.”

He is seven, perhaps eight inches taller than me, but it’s a fraction of a distance when we peer up together.

“I’m sorry about your pap,” he says. I see the shape of church bells, the round and deep gong of his words. He leans closer and his shoulder brushes my face. “I hate to see you sad.”