Chapter 29 #2
Patty clicks through a series of photos, which present on the screen up front, and my hopes quickly deflate.
Each one is familiar. Each one a photo I’d seen already at Madeline’s.
Is this the historical society’s history or the Brooks’ history?
I wonder bitterly, a little kernel of suspicion taking root.
There is one image, though, that I haven’t seen before. It’s the front page of a newspaper from 1778. It’s called the Green Mountain Herald.
“Could you stop on this?” I ask.
The page is cluttered with dark text, in tiny, antiquated font, divided into four columns.
It takes me a moment to focus my eyes on any one thing, there is so much to take in.
My eye travels across the page, trying to figure out why it’s of importance.
One column contains short descriptions of places “to be let.” A pleasantly situated cottage, two hundred acres of land.
Another advertises various treatments, like oxygenated bitters, which claim to cure dyspepsia, asthma, and general disability.
I’m not sure what oxygenated bitters or dyspepsia are, but I smile at the claim of curing “general disability.”
But then I see a short paragraph titled “Blizzard Claims Lives of Prominent Newfield Family.” The information is concise.
November 9th, surprise blizzard claimed the lives of Josiah Bishop (40) and Nathaniel Brook (35).
Both men were found buried in snow, just a few hundred yards from Bishop’s home, Wildwood.
Josiah leaves behind his father William Bishop, Josiah’s wife Hannah, brother Elias, and several children.
Nathaniel leaves behind father Levi Brook, wife Winnett, sister Francesca, brother Archie, and several children.
“That’s right, I almost forgot,” says Patty. “The eldest sons of William Bishop and Levi Brook perished in a storm. The storm was considered apocalyptic. Dumped nearly two feet of snow in a matter of minutes is what the article said.”
“Is there any more information on those men?” I ask.
Patty considers for a moment. “Not that I know of.”
“Do you have the death records?”
“You’ll have to ask the town clerk,” says Patty apologetically. “But yes, I believe they have the records. Newfield Village should have begun tracking when the village was settled in 1771. And then they certainly would have been tracked when Newfield Village joined with Newfield in 1870.”
“I’ll ask Sarah, who works in the clerk’s office, for you,” says Jean, who has suddenly reappeared in the doorway.
“She’s a dear friend of mine. I know they are pretty backed up and pulling old records will take some time.
But hopefully I can help nudge it along,” she says decisively.
“Patty? I need your help with something?”
Patty stands and smiles at me apologetically.
“Oh, okay, that would be great.” I quickly gather my things, feeling like I’ve worn out my welcome.
I write down my mailing address and thank them both for their time.
On my way out of the building, I pass a floor-length gold plaque in the downstairs lobby.
I pause to inspect it. It’s a list of donors.
Madeline Brook’s name is at the very top.
Of course, I think and realize that I’m irritated by this.
Back out in the drenching rain, I pull up my rain hood and turn left to walk toward Elevated Brews.
I need an indulgence to dull the disappointment I feel over the meeting with Patty and Jean.
Essentially, I learned nothing new. I want someone to tell me why there is a cemetery on my property and that it’s possible there was a settlement before Newfield’s known settlement in 1771.
That’s the only thing that could explain why, if something terrible happened, it wasn’t recorded in any official documents.
That, I suppose, or it was simply covered up. But no one seems to want to help me.
I feel a flutter in my belly and stop walking.
The first of the baby’s kicks. I’d felt one like this a few days ago and thought it was gas.
But here it is again, stronger, more pronounced.
I smile, momentarily lost in the warm magic of pregnancy.
But then I become aware of the rain pelting my hood.
The drops like grains of sand in an hourglass.
Aware of the undeniable fact that I’m being haunted.
That some strange, unexplainable, and fucked-up thing is happening to me.
I’ve never sleepwalked before. I’ve never had dreams like these before.
I’ve never lost half of a day to a hallucination before.
I need to learn what happened at Wildwood.
And I need to figure it out before the baby comes.
I cannot be a mother if I’m consumed by this.
I’m about to start walking when I hear someone calling my name.
“Elinor! Hi, Elinor?” Patty is speed walking to catch up to me, my umbrella in one hand.
“Oh, thank you,” I say. “Sorry, pregnancy brain.”
I expect Patty to turn and hurry back inside; she doesn’t even have a raincoat on. But she stands a moment, shifting from foot to foot. My stomach feels a lurch of excitement.
“If you want to learn more about Newfield Village, you should talk to Alice Clark.”
The name rings a bell, but I can’t place her.
“She’s your neighbor. The house on the right, just before your property begins.
” Patty glances over her shoulder to the historical society door.
I would say she seems nervous, except that she also seems like the type who is constantly in motion.
She has that energy about her, like there’re muscles in her body that never fully release.
The Goat Lady. I almost say this out loud, but thankfully I don’t.
“Has her family been there a long time?”
“Not exactly.” Patty is already turning to walk back inside. “Talk to Alice.”