The Evening Spider (19 page)
Read The Evening Spider Online
Authors: Emily Arsenault
Northampton Lunatic Hospital
Northampton, Massachusetts
December 20, 1885
A
ccompanying my grim thoughts was a familiar physical sensationâbut not comfortingly familiar. It should have been recognizable to me immediately, but it was not. I denied its familiarity for daysâperhaps even weeks. It was a hunger combined, frustratingly, with nausea. An unease at being on one's feet, followed by an unease with sitting. For a time, I thought my body was simply attempting to chase away my mind's troubling thoughts.
One cold nightâafter Thanksgiving but before Christmasâwhen Matthew was sleeping, I lay awake and faced the hard truth. My body was not fighting with my mind. My body was doing something familiar and functional. Without my mind's permission. Without any regard for whether my mind could endure it. My body was a cruel and demanding master.
I could not sleep. I tried not to weep but could not stop myself. I did so as quietly as I couldâswallowing my sobs and soaking my pillow. The only thing that comforted me, finally, was my resolve to go see Louise on the following day. Whatever
the weather, I'd go see her. I might not confess every detail of my predicament. I'd decide how much to say when I arrived. Regardless, I'd draw comfort from seeing her. The anticipation of that comfortâhowever small, however briefâhelped me endure my worries until dawn.
Haverton, Connecticut
December 16, 2014
I
was nursing Lucy when my e-mail dinged.
          Â
From:
Wallace Bradley
          Â
Subject:
Clocks, Coins, Broken Hearts
          Â
Hi Abby,
              Â
Can you meet with me and Ralph Greer at the public library tomorrow at 11
A
.
M
.? It might be possible to adjust the time if it doesn't work for you. We will meet by the periodicals.
              Â
As promised, here is some information about a criminal case Matthew Barnett tried in 1885. The Connecticut library system gives access to some, though not all, historical CT newspapers from the late 18th century to the present. I've included a link to a relevant article from a short-lived New Haven weekly.
              Â
It was a simple case of theft at first, but a little bit of sex
and scandal apparently caught the attention of some of the newspapers near the end of the trial.
              Â
I couldn't find any more mentions of Matthew Barnett trying criminal cases after this one, so maybe there is a grain of truth to Stephanie Barnett's family story.
              Â
Kind regards,
              Â
Wallace
I switched Lucy to my other side and read the link.
STUNNING FINAL EVIDENCE IN HAVERTON'S “CLOCK AND COIN” THEFT CASE
ANDREW PARSONS ACQUITTED
              Â
Oct. 29, 1885âA promising case for the prosecution turned sour yesterday in the trial of Andrew Parsons, accused of stealing the savings of a Haverton widow.
              Â
A box of legal tender amounting to $1,300, a collection of silver coins, as well as a century-old clock of significant value, were taken from the home of Anna Darlington on the evening of September fourth, while Mrs. Darlington was visiting a friend for supper. These items were the life savings of the elderly widow. Her neighbor, Andrew Parsons, whom Anna occasionally employed for home repair projects, was said to be one of the few peopleâaside from Anna's three childrenâwho knew of the savings kept in a locked dresser drawer in the widow's bedroom.
              Â
Last week, prosecutor Matthew Barnett presented the jury with a letter penned by Parsons, and sent to an acquaintance, Robert Maddox, also of Haverton, to whom Parsons owed a debt. The letter claimed that he had recently “come into money” and suggested arranging a clandestine meeting for payment to occur. Maddox turned the letter over to the constable soon after Parsons had come under suspicion. The letter provided the prosecution with some tangible evidence in a difficult caseâfor the stolen items have never been found.
              Â
Two surprise witnesses for the defense testified on the final day of proceedings. The first was an alibi for Parsonsânot on the evening of the theft, but on the day of the postmark of the letter. Gregory Hadley of Hamden, who occasionally employed Parsons, testified that Parsons was with him for nearly the entire first week of September, picking peaches in his orchard. Parsons, he said, lodged in his barn. He testified that he did not believe Parsons could have posted the damning letter.
              Â
The second witness was Charles Whitehead, who admitted to having unlawful relations with Parsons's wife, Roberta. A collective gasp echoed through the courtroom as Whitehead confessed that Roberta had often expressed her wish to “be done with” her husband and marry anew.
              Â
In his final argument, defense lawyer William Boyd posited that Roberta had likely forged the letter in hopes of framing her husband for the theft.
              Â
The jury apparently found that to be a plausible possibility. They deliberated for two hours before issuing a verdict of not guilty.
I clicked
reply
on Wallace's e-mail, positioning my arms over Lucy as she continued to nuzzle and gurgle against my chest.
          Â
Hi Wallace,
              Â
Eleven works fine for me. Looking forward to it.
              Â
Thanks for the article. Interesting. Maybe the wires got crossed, and this was the thing that “broke Matthew's heart”? A woman betraying her own husband, and making Matthew look like a fool in the process?
I stopped typing for a moment, trying to decide whether or not to write to him about my suspicion that pages had been pulled out of Frances's diary. Although I wanted to contribute something more to our conversation, that piece seemed best saved for when I could show him the book again in person.
              Â
By the way, I meant to show you this
New York Times
editorial when you came to my house. (Link below.) I've struggled to understand why Frances Barnett was so obsessed with the Herbert Hayden case, but seeing it in this context helps. Still doesn't answer any questions about her final days in Haverton, but maybe before that she was just following the zeitgeist?
“SCIENCE IN COURT”
          Â
October 26, 1879
              Â
The trial of Rev. Mr. Hayden, at New Haven, on a charge of murder, is likely to be placed in the category of celebrated cases, chiefly on account of the original investigation into the peculiarities of arsenic of which it has been made the occasion. It is probable that, at the close of the expert testimony of Prof. Dana, the jury will be better informed in regard to that particular poison than most professional chemists were before. The witness did not rely on his previous knowledge of the subject or the information to be found in the books, but was sent to England at the expense of the prosecution, for the purpose of visiting the principal establishments for the manufacture of the drug and making fresh inquiries. The result will be an actual addition to our knowledge, having a real scientific value . . .
I skimmed the rest of the article for the second time. The writer summed up Dana's testimonyâthe very same “octahedron” testimony that had Frances Flinch Barnett so up in her diary, and then summed by marveling again at the potential for criminal cases to “extend the borders of scientific knowledge.”
My phone rang just as I hit
send
.
It was my neighbor, Patty.
“Abby? I thought you might want to know there's someone
parked in front of your house. Person's been sitting in their car there for a half hour. Can't tell if it's a man or a woman.”
Setting Lucy on the carpet, I peeked through the blinds to see an old dark blue sedan. In the driver's seat was a person whose face was not visibleâbut whose short black hairdo was familiar. “Oh, I know who that is. Thank you.”
“Why're they just sitting out there, though?” Patty demanded.
“Umm. I think she doesn't want to wake the baby. Thank you, Patty.”
I zipped Lucy into her full-body pink fleece with lamb ears, pulled her onto my hip, and walked outside. Stephanie saw me coming and lowered her window. Her hair was less tidy todayâmore troll doll than pixieâand she wasn't wearing any makeup.
“I was about to call you,” she said. “Thought that might be better than knocking on your door. But I was having a cigarette first. Sorry.”
“Did you want to come in?” I asked.
“No,” she said quickly. “I just decided I should tell you something.”
“Here? I can't really . . . um . . .” I pointed to my daughter's head, hoping she'd understand. “I guess I could go in and get my coat.”
“Just sit in the car with me, how about?” Stephanie said. “I'll put the heat on.”
I hesitated.
“Come on,” said Stephanie. “I just want to talk to you for minute, but I don't want to bother you and I don't want to invade your house.”
“You wouldn't be invadingâ”
“Look. I'm just going to say a couple of things and be on my way, okay? I'm not crazy. I've just got places to be.”
I opened the car door and lowered myself in. I figured that Patty was watching with her big all-seeing Liza Minnelli eyes and would take quick action if she saw anything untoward happening.
“Good,” Stephanie said as I slammed the door shut. And then she turned the key and turned the heat on, as she'd promised. “I think I want you to know the whole story. It would be one thing if I came after you to tell it. But you came after
me.
So that's different. Isn't it?”
Her breath was yeasty and sourâbeer breath, maybe.
“Uh . . . I guess so.”
“I went back and forth on this,” Stephanie said. She pulled the Christmas treeâshaped air freshener from her rearview mirror, sniffed it, and then tossed it into the cluttered backseat. “No smell left.”
“Back and forth on what?” I asked, trying my best to settle Lucy in my lap.
“Whether I should tell you. But as I said. You came to me. You
want
to know. And it's your house. So you have a right. Or at least,
I
have an obligation. Or maybe I don't. But I feel I should, so here I am.”
“Okay,” I said as patiently as I could. I tried bouncing Lucy on my knee, but it was difficult in such a tight space.
“You want to know exactly what happened to me in that house, then?”
“Yes,” I said. “I do.”
Stephanie nodded, rubbing the lap of her jeans with her knuckles.
“Okay, then. So, I stayed in that room when I was sixteen. Right up there.” Stephanie pointed up to the single window of Lucy's small room. “You want to know why I came here to stay with Shirley and Eddie?”
“Because . . . you weren't getting along with your parents? Is that correct?”
“Correct. But that's only part of it. I had to get away from their house because I couldn't face them. I couldn't look at them. Only Shirley knew the real reason. Not even Eddie. She was going to tell Eddie, eventually. I was pregnant.”
I stopped bouncing Lucy. “Oh.”
Stephanie seemed to be studying me, waiting for more of a reaction. “I'm not the sort of person who goes around telling strangers this sort of thing. But you asked, remember?”
“Of course,” I said.
Stephanie sighed. “Shirley said I should keep the kid. That I could live with her and Eddie and they would help me. I remember saying, âAunt Shirley, I don't think Uncle Eddie is going to go for all of this.' And she said, âOh, he will. He loves children. Just give me time to talk to him. You'll see.' Thinking back, it was probably a fantasy. Would he have gone for it? I don't know. She just wanted a child around so, so bad. She didn't care where it came from. Some women are like that, right? Poor lady. She could never have any of her own. Not much you could do in those days.”
“Uh huh,” I murmured.
“So that was the dream scenario. Us all raising that baby here
in this house. Middle-aged Shirley and Eddie and fucked-up teenaged me. We'd tell my parents when we got Eddie to agree to it. Shirley kept saying she was waiting for the right night to ask him. And then one night, after they had gone to bed . . . I was lying in my own bed up in that room. I was trying to listen for their voices down the hall, praying that Shirley was finally talking to Eddie, and he was saying yes. And I think I was still praying like that as I was falling asleep, thinking
Please please please.
I knew the plan was a little crazy, but I was young enough to hope anyway.”
I stared up at the house as Stephanie spoke. I imagined the cheerful green door opening, and Gerard Barnett emerging, walking a brittle old woman down the stone steps.
Please don't take me away. Who is going to take care of the baby?
“Here was someone wanting to
help
me,” Stephanie continued, “which was better than I'd have gotten from my parents, who already hated me for picking bad boyfriends and smoking too much weed. After a while I felt someone was hearing my
please please please.
And then after a few minutes, they were answering it. They were patting me on the back and saying,
Shhhhh. Shhhhh. Shhhhh.
I was so sleepy I thought it was Shirley, and she'd come to tell me that she'd talked to Eddie, and everything was going to be all right. But I sort of woke up and saw no one was there. And when I fell asleep again, I heard it again.
Shhhhh.
It put me to sleep.”
Stephanie's gaze was fixed on her steering wheel. My heart was pounding.
“And when I woke up, I was bleeding.”
“Oh.” I was stunned for a moment. I watched Lucy notice the change in my face. “Oh, I'm sorry.”
“Poor Shirley.” Stephanie glanced at the front door of the house, then at me. “She was so sad when I told her.”
I nodded. Shirley's final words about the houseâ
Who is going to take care of the baby?
âwere perhaps understandable now in light of this story. An old lady lost in a wish that had almost come true.
Lucy looked from me to Stephanie and released a high-pitched but happy scream.
“Sorry,” I said. “She's, uh, exploring the range of her voice, I guess.”
“She's fine,” Stephanie said, smiling weakly. “So, I went back to my parents. And they never knew. It was the lesser of two evils. My parents' house.”
