Chapter 37
At the bottom of Cold Brook Drive, I don’t cross back over to Wildwood, but veer right toward Alice’s.
She’s got to be home. She’s got to be home.
I repeat these words over and over, willing them to be true.
And when I arrive in front of Alice’s driveway and take in the old green truck, I almost can’t believe it. She’s home. Finally.
I run a hand through my hair and straighten my sleeves, an unnecessary and futile effort to look presentable.
Then I walk determinedly down the dirt driveway, feeling a bit like I’m returning to the scene of a crime.
On the left side is a large pen with five goats milling around, chewing grass and standing on platforms. They aren’t cute goats.
They aren’t little baby goats who do yoga, or the ones with long, silky ears.
They certainly aren’t cashmere goats. Alice’s goats are large, with scraggly coats and long, curling horns.
They look like they could knock you out with a hoof or gore you with a horn.
I’m glad there’s a fence between us, as they bleat at me, their strange eyes unfocused.
Alice must have heard the commotion because she comes out the front door of her modest Cape-style farmhouse.
She is a broad-shouldered woman, a T-shirt from the local general store stretched across her chest and arms. Her long hair is still pulled back in a braid down her back. She folds her arms over her chest.
“Can I help you?”
I realize that I’m not sure I ever heard her talk before. Her voice is how I imagined it would sound. Low and direct. Alice also looks more or less exactly how I remembered her, only her hair is now gray instead of brown.
“Hi, my name’s Elinor. I just moved in next door. I’m—”
“Ezra Bishop’s niece. Yes, I know who you are.” It feels like a scene from a movie.
“Right. Hi. I’m so sorry to intrude, but I was wondering if I could talk to you for a bit. I’m trying to learn more about the history of the area, and the woman at the historical society said I should contact you.” I really hope she agrees. I feel another headache building.
Her jaw moves back and forth a moment, considering. I think she’s about to turn me away, when she says, “Sure. Come in,” and she disappears inside the house.
I hesitate a moment, unsure if it was truly an invitation, but then hurry up the front steps.
Alice’s house is dimly lit; we pass a few rooms on either side of the hall, a TV room and a small living room with an Afghan covering a love seat and come to the kitchen in the back.
It’s painted buttercup yellow and there’s one of those old clocks in the kitchen of the cat with the eyes and tail moving back and forth.
“Water?”
I nod gratefully. “That’d be great.”
She places a glass on a small, worn kitchen table and we both sit down. I catch the faint scent of manure and hay.
“Well. What do you want to know?”
I take a long drink of water and clear my throat, feeling self-conscious as I launch into my rehearsed question. “I know that people say Newfield Village was settled in 1771. I realize this might sound weird, but have you ever heard that it was founded earlier?”
Alice leans back in her chair, arms still folded over her chest. I notice dried blood on her hands and for the first time, I wonder if she slaughters goats here. I see an image of a goat, throat slit, red blood pouring in a steaming curtain to the cold earth below.
“What makes you ask that?”
“I found a small cemetery on our property; it’s in the woods. There are four headstones, and they look really, really old. Most of the inscriptions are faded but these stones look older than the ones in the church cemetery.”
Alice doesn’t say anything. I take another sip of water because my throat now feels awkwardly parched, and my head is really starting to throb.
“There are also these unmarked graves.”
Her face gives nothing away, though she seems to be scrutinizing me. I suddenly worry that she remembers me as a child. Shrieking and laughing before racing back to my uncle’s estate. Did we seem like horrible brats?
“Did your uncle tell you about them?”
“No. I discovered them on my own.”
“So, you don’t know when they are from?”
“No. But they look much older than the ones in the other cemetery. And the women at the historical society didn’t seem all that interested in learning more. Isn’t that a little strange?”
“It depends.”
“On what?”
“On what story the historical society is likely to tell.”
I can hear the metronome of the cat clock, which emphasizes the silence that stretches after Alice’s statement.
I think of the list of donors, of the Brook name displayed prominently at the top.
I don’t know how direct to be. Nearly everyone in this town seems to love the Brooks. I’d assume Alice does as well.
I look around the room, tapping my fingers on the table, and say, as though the thought just occurred to me, “I see the Brooks donate a lot.”
Alice looks amused. “They sure do.”
“Did you go to their harvest festival the other night?”
Alice smirks. “Not my scene.”
I feel a flutter of excitement in my belly, so I venture on. “I know my family and the Brooks were really close. Madeline’s been so welcoming. She said we are like family.”
“Close?!” Alice lets out a guffaw and slaps the table, outright laughing now. “Lady, your family and the Brooks were not close. Ezra hated the Brooks. In fact, when he died, guess who was first in line to try and buy up his property?”
The flutter turns to a slam, and I feel as though the wind has been knocked out of me. “What do you mean?”
“The Brooks have always wanted Ezra’s property. Apparently, they want to own the entire town of Newfield. Yeah, when Ezra passed and they were having trouble tracking down his heir, Madeline Brook was doing her entitled best to talk her way into snatching up that property.”
“Oh my god, I-I didn’t know any of that,” I stammer. I can’t believe it. Madeline never mentioned anything about wanting to buy the property. I’m also taken aback by Alice’s open display of dislike for Madeline.
“Why did Ezra hate them though?”
“I don’t suppose the historical society told you about the old lore that says once upon a time there was a company called Bishop Brook Wool?”
It takes me a moment to process what she’s saying.
“You mean they were in business together?”
“That’s how the story goes. The Brooks produced the wool, the Bishops processed it at their mill.”
“So what happened?”
“Well, given Cold Brook Wool and Cashmere”—Alice rolls her eyes—“what do you think happened?”
“The Brooks kicked the Bishops out?”
Alice shrugs. “That’s how the legend goes.”
“But . . . but . . . “ I look around helplessly, trying to keep up with the conversation. “Why would they want Wildwood now? They have so much already.”
Up until now, Alice has looked almost amused by the conversation, giddy to be the one to break the rose-colored glasses I’ve been wearing. But now her face darkens, and she sounds almost pensive.
“They always want more, don’t they? You’d think they’d be happy with what they have. Instead, they always want more.”
The information feels like a lot to take in. I rub at my temples.
“Are you okay? You look white as a ghost.”
“It’s fine. It’s just these migraines. I’m pregnant so I can’t just take ibuprofen.”
Alice grunts, gets up, and walks out of the room. I take a few more drinks of water, my mind reeling.
“Here.” She drops a plastic baggie in front of me. Inside is something that looks like a dried, brown turd.
“It’s a Chaga mushroom. I harvested it myself. It’s great for pain. Boil it in water and drink the tea. You can boil the same mushroom like fifty times.”
I can’t imagine drinking that thing, but I don’t want to be rude.
“Thank you, that’s really kind of you. I should be going.
Thank you for talking to me, and it is nice to meet you .
. . er . . . again.” I wonder if I should apologize for how my cousins and I behaved as children but decide against it.
Maybe it’s a cop-out, but I think Alice is the type of person who would rather not acknowledge the past.
We walk slowly to the front door. I should really get home and lie down, but there’s one last question I need to ask.
“Sorry, one more thing, I know this might also sound crazy, but given you seem to know the area lore, have you ever heard any stories about a witch trial here?”
I expect her to laugh. But she doesn’t. Instead, she holds the door open for me, a clear indication that our time together is over.
But then, as I’m walking down the front steps, Alice calls out to me.
“The only witch around here is that bitch on the hill.” With that she shuts the door and leaves me standing in her driveway.
As I walk home, I replay the conversation in my head, and I realize that Alice never answered my first question. The question on whether Newfield could have been founded earlier than 1771. Interestingly, she hardly seemed surprised by the question at all.