Monstrous Beauty (15 page)

As Hester approached the desk, Ms. Cook swiveled her chair with a smile and said, “May I help you?”

“Yes, please. I need to fill in the missing pieces of this chart.”

Ms. Cook studied it for only a moment before she said, “What a clever way to present the data. Did all the generations die in Plymouth?”

“I think so.”

“Very doable then. This could be just a few hours of work if you’re lucky. And most of it in this very room.”

She pointed to the bottom row of Hester’s chart. “In genealogy the correct way to begin researching one’s family is with oneself, or in this case the most recent generation on your table—Susan Crowell Goodwin—and work backward. It’s more efficient, and you’re more likely to link correctly to the next generation. Working backward also applies to the individual: you begin to research a person starting with their death. The death record, obituary, or gravestone information provides loads of clues about where to look for marriage and birth records.”

“Okay,” Hester said.

“So in the case of Susan, here…” Ms. Cook got up and walked to the shelves at the opposite end of the room, with Hester following. “You can look up the record of her death in the
Annual Reports of the Town of Plymouth 1993
.” She pulled the volume from the shelf. “This has all births, marriages, and deaths for 1993. The whole series runs from 1856 until the present.”

Hester watched as she flipped quickly to deaths and scrolled her finger down the list of names.

“Here she is.” She tapped the page, showing Hester the entry.

Apr. 25., Plymouth, Susan F. (Crowell) Goodwin, female, 27 y 5 m 16 d; wife of Malcolm E. Goodwin; child of Christopher and Carolyn (Keep).

Hester took the book from her. It was only three lines: the skeletal demographic remains of an entire life. And it was so final. She slid her fingers over the typeface.

“Is Susan a relative?” Ms. Cook asked quietly.

Hester nodded. “My mom.”

Ms. Cook did the perfect thing, which was to wait—for just a moment—and then move on to the next step. “Now, you see? You have her maiden name here, her parents’ names, including her mother’s maiden name, and if you needed to you could figure her exact birth date from her age at death—although you probably know it already because she’s your mom, but for earlier generations you’ll need that calculation. And then you’d go to the annual report of the year of her birth to check out her birth record, which will in turn give her parents’ ages—which are very useful. You can also hunt for the marriage records of Christopher and Carolyn in the years preceding the birth of Susan. Do you see? It’s easy as pie—but only because they’re all from Plymouth.”

“Great,” Hester said. “This actually sounds fun.”

“Oh, there’s one thing, though. Only the oldest annual reports have the cause of death listed. Once you find the date of death, in many cases you’ll have to either look up an obituary in the
Old Colony Memorial
newspaper, which you can access through our microform archives, or get copies of the death certificates from the clerk at Town Hall.”

“Got it.”

Ms. Cook smiled. “You’re a quick study.”

Within an hour and a half Hester had the entire chart filled and had jotted this note to bring to Ezra:

Marijn Crotty, age 19, 1892, lethargy

Nellie Burroughs, age 24, 1916, enervation

Grace Keep, age 25, 1941, exhaustion

Carolyn Crowell, age 25, 1966, undetermined

Susan Crowell Goodwin, age 27, 1993, undetermined

The score was five for five.

Chapter 23

A
S
H
ESTER WAS PACKING UP
, Ms. Cook brought a book over to her and put it on the table.

“You might find this fun, since you have so many ancestors in Plymouth.” It was a reserve-only volume called
Burial Hill in the 1990s—Plymouth, Massachusetts: A six-year cemetery mapping project with descriptions, conditions, and some photographs
. Hester smiled to herself. Her nerdiness must have been showing.

There was an index of names in the back. She looked up Nellie Burroughs and Grace Keep and discovered that they had both been laid to rest in Burial Hill. She drew a crude map for herself on a scrap of paper so she could visit the graves and clapped the volume shut.

On an inspiration she said to Ms. Cook, “Do you know if the library has any books about tales of sea folk in Plymouth Bay?” If she was going to go to the graveyard anyway, she thought, she’d like to pop into the church and see if that kooky old pastor was there.

“There are mermaid books in the children’s section, of course.”

“Mm … not fairy tales, but something historical, like a nonfiction account of sea creatures that local fishermen have claimed to see over the years. Is there anything like that?”

Ms. Cook searched the computer for a minute and shook her head no. Then she said, “Wait,” and started typing again. “It’s a long shot, but I’ll check the locked cabinet. We have some handwritten manuscripts there that are not cross-listed with our public catalog. Lots of diaries, an ancient guest register from the Pilgrim Inn, merchant logs, that sort of thing…” Her voice trailed off.

The locked cabinet. It sounded mysterious and wonderful to Hester.

The librarian raised her eyebrows. “Well, I’ll be.”

“What?”

“We own the journal of a local naturalist by the name of E. A. Doyle, from 1872. It seems to be about myths and legends of the bay.”

Hester had to see it.

“Am I allowed to read books in the locked cabinet?”

Ms. Cook smiled at her enthusiasm. “I’ll take you there.”

The so-called locked cabinet was in the drably modern Rare Manuscripts Room on the third floor, but the cabinet itself was just as lovely as it sounded: an antique armoire, with wood that had been darkened by age and sunlight. It had an iron skeleton lock with a tiny, sliding dustcover over the keyhole. Hester had to smile at the charming juxtaposition of the sturdy hardware with the glass doors, which a mere tap would probably shatter, exposing the contents of the armoire to any book-loving thief.

The librarian in charge of the locked cabinet was a small, sturdy woman named Ms. Lopes. She had black curly hair, stylish reading glasses perched on the top of her head, and the same contented demeanor that Ms. Cook had—born, Hester decided, of the satisfaction of doing what they loved to do every day.

“What’s your name, dear?”

“Hester.”

“First things first, Esther: go to the restroom and wash your hands. Lots of lather, lots of rinsing,
warm
water, not cold. Turn the doorknobs with a paper towel. You can leave your bag over here by your chair.”

When Hester returned, Ms. Lopes took a skeleton key out of her desk drawer and opened the cabinet. Hester looked at the shelves inside. Every book was unusual in some way: there were leather-bound volumes with gilded decorations on their spines, cloth-covered books, books covered with handmade marbleized paper, and one small child’s diary bound again and again with twine, undoubtedly as a crude privacy device.

Ms. Lopes pulled out a white box the size and shape of a book, tied like a gift with a white ribbon. She locked the cabinet again, put the key in her drawer, and took the box over to a table facing her desk. When she tugged on the ribbon, all four sides of the box unfolded to reveal a weathered book with a cracked leather cover and no markings. She gently took the book out and set it on the table for Hester.

“Ah, this one is a work of art,” Ms. Lopes said lovingly. “It’s the quirkiest manuscript we own. The person who wrote it was passionate about fantasy.” She opened randomly to the middle of the book. The page was crammed with old-fashioned handwriting and sketches of what looked to be porpoise or dolphin tails, but with rough scales.

“See how this page is worked corner to corner, edge to edge, almost obsessively?” She turned the page. “And then, for no apparent reason the very next page is entirely empty. The author actually trails off in mid-sentence. Look…” She chose another section of the book. “Inexplicably blank pages, followed by overfilled pages! He had an unusual mind, this one.”

“How do you know that E. A. Doyle wasn’t a woman?”

“I was just assuming, because it’s from 1872. We’re understaffed here, and our handwritten manuscripts haven’t all been fully cataloged yet, but I can look to see what further information we have about it while you’re reading, if you’d like.”

“That’s not necessary, thanks.” Hester sat in the chair and reached for the book, but then stopped. “Don’t I need to put on white gloves or something?”

“Only in the movies,” Ms. Lopes clucked. “Cotton gloves actually damage rare manuscripts more, because they make your fingers clumsy and dull while you’re turning the brittle pages. A good hand-washing is all we require.”

And with that, Ms. Lopes left the room.

Hester turned the pages slowly, straining to read the old penmanship, marveling at the drawings. There were pages and pages of the most beautiful sketches she had ever seen. Most were of fantastic sea creatures—all women, all drawn with pale hair and clear eyes. There was tightly spaced scientific text about the structure of the fins, the color and thickness of the scales—which E. A. Doyle called “scutes”—and the shape of the teeth. There were lists of food sources and diagrams of their varieties and locations. There were complicated historical accounts of tribal wars that had killed the males of the species. The journal was unique and wonderful—and irresistibly passionate.

She came upon the page with the tail sketches that Ms. Lopes had initially opened to and turned the page. There was a magnificent portrait of the face of one of the sea creatures. Hester looked into her eyes as if the creature were staring back. She was lovely, and intense. Hester examined every facet of her face, and then she snapped to.

“Wait,” she said out loud. The page after the tail sketches had been blank before, hadn’t it? There had been no portrait.

She turned back to the tail page, to make sure that she hadn’t mistakenly turned two pages together. She looked carefully at the edge, saw and felt that it was a single page, and turned the page back. This time she thought she saw the drawing of the face materialize, like reappearing ink. She pulled her hands away from the book in surprise, as if it had given her a shock. The portrait page went blank.

Her heart pounded. She was imagining it; she had to be. She held her breath and swallowed, trying to get a grip. She lifted the pages of the book in her right hand and gently let them fall into her left hand. The book was filled, cover to cover, with information and illustrations.
There were no blank pages.
At least not while she was touching it. It was as if some parts were only there for her to see. That is, unless she was hallucinating—which might be a more plausible explanation than “the journal is magic.”

She tried to regain her composure.

This journal was special. It was meant for her.

Even as she made the decision to steal the book, she couldn’t believe it. She glanced at her watch; her lunch break was running out, and Ms. Lopes would be back soon. An urgency built inside her, trampling the last bits of her conscience.

She leaned over and rifled through her messenger bag. Not finding what she needed, she looked around the room. She scooted out of her chair and went to the open shelves behind Ms. Lopes’s desk, which appeared to contain the librarian’s personal books. She tried to quash the panic that was rising in her chest. The door to the Rare Manuscripts Room was mostly glass. If anyone walked by, they would see her.

She slid her hand down the row of spines until she found a book that was about the same size, shape, and weight as the journal—a hardcover version of Strunk and White’s
The Elements of Style
. She plucked it off the shelf and adjusted the books next to it so that there was no gap to indicate it was missing. Then she went back to her seat, carefully put the Doyle journal in her bag, and placed
The Elements of Style
in the archival folding box. Ms. Lopes appeared beyond the glass door, chatting with another librarian. Hester’s hands shook as she tied the white ribbon around the box to close it, trying to mimic the original bow as well as she could so the librarian wouldn’t see a need to fix it.

Hester took a deep, cleansing breath as Ms. Lopes opened the door. She bent down to pick up her bag. She put it on her lap and clipped the buckles closed.

“Done so soon?” Ms. Lopes asked.

“Yes, thank you. It wasn’t quite what I needed. For my research I need to find something that documents the history of these sorts of sea-creature legends.” She picked up the manuscript box, hoping that if she referred to it as if the book were inside, Ms. Lopes would subliminally believe that it was. “This is more of a fantasy diary, I’d say.”

Ms. Lopes took it from her. “I agree, it’s not historical, other than being old.” She began to straighten the bow.

Hester slung her bag over her shoulder and said, “I’ve got to run. Thank you so much for helping me today.”

“You’re welcome…” Ms. Lopes said. “It’s Esther, isn’t it?”

“That’s right,” Hester lied. “Esther…” She reached for the first name that popped into her head, “… Angeln.” She clenched her jaw. Why couldn’t she have said Brown, or Davis, or some other completely ubiquitous name?

She forced a cheerful smile. “Well, thanks again!” She opened the door, clutching the bag and its treasure against her hip, walking too quickly, but being too frightened to slow down or turn to see if she was being followed.

Chapter 24

1873

T
HE OLD PASTOR NEEDED
absolute proof that Sarah was possessed before he would speak of performing an exorcism.