The Shadow Box(75)

The burial ground.

Jackie’s mind raced, turning over everything she had seen on her own desk, in her own house: Claire’s handwriting, the Facebook page for Anne Crawford. That name alone told her so much. It brought back memories of childhood, of all the times she and Claire had wandered the woods at the end of the beach. Claire had been so close to her dad; he had taught them about the sachem Tantummaheag, and Jackie thought she knew where Claire would hide.

The Pequots had lived on this eastern part of the Connecticut shoreline, Mr. Beaudry had told them. In summer, the Algonquian-speaking tribe would fish in Long Island Sound, find crabs and shellfish in the marsh, and raise corn and squash in the fields. Each winter they would move into longhouses in the dense forest north of Black Hall, sheltered from storms and the cold sea wind.

By the 1740s, English settlements were growing, and the colonists pressured the Pequots to give up their land and ways of life. Many tribal members were driven away. Those who stayed found it more difficult to maintain their traditions; even their graveyards were destroyed by development. The bodies of Pequots buried at Half-Moon Beach, east of Black Hall, were moved to a town cemetery. Throughout the region, many Pequot graves were bulldozed and not even acknowledged.

Claire’s dad talked about the tragedy of what had been done to the tribes. In 1637, the English captain, John Mason, led a massacre on a Pequot village in Mystic, killing over five hundred men, women, and children.

Archeological digs uncovered grave shafts pointing southwest, where bodies were buried in the fetal position, on their right sides. Their bones told a story, Mr. Beaudry had told Claire and Jackie. When the skeletons were examined, they discovered ribs scarred by tuberculosis and evidence of other diseases brought across the Atlantic by the English settlers.

“This is the cemetery of Tantummaheag’s tribe,” Mr. Beaudry had said to the girls, pointing at the hilltop clearing.

“Crawford,” Claire had said. “Why did the settlers call him that?”

“They called him ‘Uncle Crawford.’ It was disrespectful,” Mr. Beaudry said. “Erasing his culture.”

“Will anyone ever disturb the graves?” Jackie asked, heartbroken at the very idea.

“No,” he said. “Never. People did—other cemeteries at other times—it was sacrilegious and evil. But it will never happen here. I’d die before I let it.”

It was late afternoon, and the sun was moving across the sky. He’d told the girls to look over the treetops toward the Sound, where the sun was getting ready to set, creating a path of gold on the water’s surface.

“The grave shafts point that way,” he said. “Because Tantummaheag believed that the spirit travels southwest when it left the body.”

Anne Crawford, Jackie thought, running along the beach. She felt her own spirit rise, heading toward the sacred place. She passed friends and neighbors with umbrellas and blankets set up along the water’s edge, barely seeing them. She hurried as if life depended on it—because maybe Claire’s life did. Claire, who had taken the name bestowed on a great man by people who wanted to control him. Jackie thought of Griffin, how he had dominated Claire, and she saw the dark humor in her friend’s choice.

The sun glinted off the wide blue bay. She squinted, wishing she’d worn a cap to shade her eyes. The brightness nearly blinded her, and she slowed down. The hill path was just up ahead. Once she skirted the marsh and ducked into the trees, she’d be okay. She saw two women walking fast from the stone bench toward the parking lot.

One of them was tall and glamorous looking, striding along with a purpose. The other was familiar and beloved, petite but strong looking, and she was wearing Tom’s blue salt-stained coast guard cap. Jackie would know her anywhere, and she lost her breath.

They had a head start, and by the time Jackie caught up, the other woman was unlocking a silver Renault. Jackie nearly threw herself into Claire’s arms, but she stopped when Claire’s eyes met hers: their expression was just this side of terrified. Her face and neck were bruised, and her hands were covered with cuts.

“Claire?” Jackie said.

“Quick, get in the car,” Claire said, sounding panicked, and Jackie scrambled into the back seat.

“What’s going on?” Jackie asked, watching Claire, up front, duck down as the other woman drove them through Hubbard’s Point, under the trestle, and onto Shore Road.

“You didn’t say you were bringing someone,” the woman said, glancing down at Claire.

“It wasn’t planned,” Claire said. “But Jackie is my best friend.”

“Claire,” Jackie said, reaching forward to squeeze her shoulder. “Where have you been? I’ve been out of my mind. We all have been.”

“There’s a lot to tell you,” Claire said.

“Where are we going?” Jackie asked. “What’s going on?”

“This is Fenwick388,” Claire said. “We just met.”

“Fenwick388 is my screen name. I’m Spencer Graham Fenwick.”

Jackie glanced at Claire and saw a glimmer of recognition in her eyes.

“We’re going to my place,” Spencer said. “Claire will be safe there, and we can talk.”

“Claire, why don’t we just call Conor?” Jackie asked. “Let’s do that now, have him meet us somewhere now.”