Chapter 27
By the time I knock on Madeline’s door, I’m soaked to the bone. It’s pouring today, and my flimsy umbrella did nothing against the rain that slanted down on the walk over. I should have driven, but somehow felt silly doing so when Madeline lives right across the street.
She opens the door before I even knock, eyes widening at my state. “Let me get you something dry to put on,” she says before disappearing down the hall.
When she reemerges a few minutes later, she hands me an oversize sweater, blood red and buttery soft.
“Here, change into this.”
In the water closet, I peel off my wet T-shirt and pull on the sweater, noting the Cold Brook Cashmere label. Gold thread on black. The sweater feels glorious, I have to admit.
As I follow Madeline back to the kitchen, I chew the inside of my cheek, wondering how much I should confide in her.
Too much weird shit has happened for me to ignore it.
The dreams. The birds. The abandoned cemetery.
But as scared as I am, I also feel resolved.
I love Wildwood. I don’t want to be driven from my home.
I can figure this out. I just need more information.
She leads me to her kitchen table, which is in front of magnificent bay windows looking out over the back property.
Outside, the fields look moody, and the rain is creating rivulets down the large glass panes.
The surface of the table is covered with reddish-brown and black-and-white prints, stacks of old photo albums, and newspaper clippings.
Madeline makes us tea, adding a spoonful of creamy honey to each mug, and brings over a plate of dried fruit, nuts, crackers and cheese.
“So, where should I begin?” she asks, sliding into a chair beside me.
Start big picture, I tell myself. Don’t launch into ghost stories right off the bat.
“Anywhere, really. I couldn’t find much online, so I’d be so curious to know what you know of the founding of Newfield Village, what our families did, any of that.”
She cracks a walnut and pops the flesh into her mouth, nodding.
“I’ll try my best.”
She tells me that Newfield was settled in 1771. Her family, the Brooks, were among the first settlers. They made their early fortune raising sheep for Merino wool, which had only just come to the United States, courtesy of Napoleon’s invasion of Spain.
“The nobility was desperate to raise funds to fight Napoleon, so they sold their prized sheep to merchants in the US.”
Madeline points to a grainy black-and-white photo of a flock of sheep. The animals stand side by side, with thick, dirty white coats, some with curling horns. The frame is a tarnished silver. I wipe crumbs from my hands and pick up the frame.
“That photo is from the 1850s. It’s probably one of the earliest photos in the country.”
I freeze, feeling too clumsy, too grubby to be handling such an heirloom.
“It’s fine, just be careful.” She laughs, seeing my expression.
“The sheep you have now?”
“Descendants of the original flock. Incredible, isn’t it?”
I nod.
“They were very well acclimated to the climate here. They have a cleft lip making it easy for them to graze on just about anything.
“Your family, as I understand it, was into logging. The Bishops owned thousands of acres along the Connecticut River at one point. They cleared great swaths of the property and had a mill that processed the logs. At some point they decided to replant, which I’m grateful for.”
She is passing around more ancient-looking photos. Serious-looking men, axes slung over a shoulder, standing in front of fallen trees, the trunks one, two feet in diameter. A train hauling lumber and a group of men in suits inexplicably standing on top of the engine car.
“I think the Bishops later went into dairy farming, after the lumber craze began to die down. I’m afraid I don’t have pictures of your property. The historical society may have a few.” She pauses.
It’s fascinating, hearing these stories, picturing my ancestors as playing significant roles in the early days of the state.
It’s humbling, imagining the physical toll their daily lives must have taken on them, imagining the gumption required to seize the American dream so handily.
But it also gives me an uncomfortable feeling.
The images of the razed landscape. The images of men with axes, many of whom didn’t take home a fraction of what the Bishops probably did.
Not to mention the fact that this land was not actually for the taking.
“Who was here before?” I ask.
“Our families were the first,” Madeline says in a way that makes me feel stupid.
“No, no, I mean, there must have been Native Americans here before them,” I explain, eager to clarify.
She gives me an awkward smile. “Oh. I believe it was originally Abenaki land.”
This uncomfortable fact hangs heavy in the air. Under every thriving city, every successful American dream, is land that not so long ago was inhabited by very different people.
I think, too, of my father’s lineage. Of the countless, nameless Chinese migrants who built the Transcontinental Railroad, completing the Summit Tunnel at the infamous Donner Pass, that brought so much economic prosperity to the country that took advantage of them.
I don’t know what to make of the complex feelings churning in my stomach.
It’s almost as though Madeline’s reading my thoughts.
She smiles. “My understanding is that your family was doing very well for themselves, but at some point, decided to stop expanding. Perhaps they were content with what they had achieved. Anyway, I know the Bishops sold off some of their land and scaled back the dairy farm.” She takes a sip of tea and looks out the window. “The Brooks were more ruthless.
“So,” she says brightly, as though to lighten the mood. “Is there anything else?”
I purse my lips, thinking. This is my chance.
“Yeah. Uh . . .” I feel suddenly hot and take a sip of the tea that’s cooled.
“I found an old cemetery. In the woods on Ezra’s, I mean my, property.”
Madeline’s gone quiet and I’m not quite certain she heard me.
“Do you know anything about it?”
Her neck flexes, ever so slightly, and she draws her gaze to mine. “A cemetery? Yes, I think I remember hearing about that.”
“The graves look really old. One name was Lavinia Brown, I think. Hester something was another. Is there any chance there were settlers in Newfield before 1771? Before the Brooks and Bishops?”
“No. I don’t think so. There’s no record of that. Here, let me refill your mug.”
She stands to get the kettle and I feel a flicker of confusion. Why has she shot down the idea so easily?
“There are also unmarked graves,” I press, unsure if I’m revealing too much. “Do you know why those would be there?”
Madeline shakes her head. “No idea. I don’t think unmarked graves were all that uncommon back in the day.” She pauses. “Times were different.”
“But they never mean anything good, right?”
She places my mug back in front of me and sits down slowly, eyes slightly narrowed.
“Why are you so fixated on these graves?”
I’m momentarily taken aback.
“I’m not fixated.” I try and make my voice light though I can hear the defensiveness. “I’m just curious. It’s a cemetery on my land. Wouldn’t anyone be curious?”
Madeline laughs. “Yes. Of course they would. Look, the graves are probably for unbaptized babies or something. It’s nothing nefarious. They aren’t cursed or anything like that.”
Her words slam into my chest, winding me.
“What?” Madeline asks, looking at me strangely, head delicately cocked to one side.
“Nothing,” I mumble, brain spinning. I take another glug of tea, which now tastes of overly sweet water.
“Here, there’s one last special photo I want to give you.”
It’s another framed photo, showing four men standing in a river. Their pants are rolled up and unlike the other somber photos, the men are looking at the camera smiling. One is proudly holding a tray and the others dangle picks and hammers by their sides.
“Are they . . . ?”
“Mining for gold? Yes.” Madeline is smiling fondly at the picture. “And they found some! Can you believe it? I think this was in 1855. Most people don’t know there was a Vermont gold rush.” It’s the most humanizing picture. The men look ecstatic, like . . . like they’ve struck gold, I suppose.
“This one is Thomas Brook,” she points to a broad-shouldered man with dark hair, reminiscent of Julian. “And this,” she points to a man, with more of a boyish build, with light hair, “is Elijah Bishop, your ancestor.”
“Oh my god,” I say under my breath, holding the photo more closely.
It should be comforting I think, to see proof that I come from somewhere.
From these people. But it’s also strange, a little unsettling.
All four men look gleeful, like the world is theirs for the taking.
But there’s something else there too. Yes, if you look closely at the eyes, even through the blurriness of such a rudimentary photo, you can see it.
The same look that Madeline wore when she told me her company was going public. There’s a hunger in their eyes.
I hand the photo back to Madeline.
“Keep it. I made a copy for us.”
“Oh. Thank you.”
Madeline smiles and begins gathering up the rest of the materials from the table, which feels like a signal that whatever time she had cleared for me is up.
* * *
Back in The Forest of the Dead, I pace the room, feet moving over creaking floorboards.
Despite the fact it’s August, I feel chilly, and I pull Madeline’s sweater closer around me.
I pause in front of the mirror and am struck by my reflection.
With the deep crimson of the sweater and my dark hair, I stand out against the muted colors of The Forest of the Dead. I look, almost, formidable.
I smile and turn over Madeline’s words once more.
They aren’t cursed or anything like that.
There’s that word again. Cursed. Just like Mathilde had said.
I’m angry at myself for not connecting the dots sooner, but I feel oddly exhilarated that I finally have.
These nightmares, those graves, it’s all connected to why my family fell apart.
Maybe Mathilde was right. Maybe this place is cursed. And I’m going to find out why.