The Evening Spider (22 page)

“Found your binkie down there?” I said, changing her diaper quickly. She smiled playfully and put her hand to her chin, missing her mouth. “Very clever.”

I laid her gently on the floor again while I put on my yoga pants and then scooped her back up to cuddle with me on the bed.

Lucy tightened her fist around her pacifier. I positioned her head in the crook of my arm, sat back, and closed my eyes for a moment.

“Ooohh,” Lucy said.

When I opened my eyes, a blue liquid was running down Lucy's hand and onto my sweatshirt.

“Oh!” I screamed, and rushed to wipe her hand with my pillowcase. I pried open her hand and found the remains of a detergent pod.

“Jesus!” I jumped off the bed and ran Lucy to the bathroom, holding her hand away from her mouth.

I rinsed her hand and tossed the pod in the toilet.

“Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God,” I whispered. I held Lucy up to my face and examined her mouth. It was as clean as when I'd wiped it after the peas. “You didn't eat any of that, Lucy, did you?”

I was shaking so badly, I was afraid I'd drop her. She didn't seem to notice. She turned to the bathroom mirror and grinned at her reflection.

“I'm so sorry, Lucy. I thought it was your pacifier. I swear I thought it was your pacifier.”

I repositioned us on the bed and wondered if I should call a poison control number or a doctor. But I knew that none of it had made it into her mouth. It had broken in the moment I had closed my eyes.

How had the detergent pod ended up on the floor? I
knew
they were dangerous. I'd even read about a kid dying after eating one. The detergent in them was highly concentrated, the story had said, and I'd vowed to stop using them once Lucy could crawl—or once my giant tub of them from Costco ran out. Whichever came first.

What an idiot. Why hadn't I thrown them all out as soon as I'd read about it? What was wrong with me?

I remembered going up and down the stairs as I gathered laundry and talked on the phone with Wallace. I'd been tired and distracted even then. But enough to drop one of those pods on the
floor
? Maybe I had placed it on the bed and it had fallen off.

Just fallen off? Maybe. But somehow that didn't feel plausible.

Maybe something had moved it.

No. Stop thinking that and call Chad so he can put some normal thoughts into your head.

But I didn't want to talk to Chad. I'd have to tell him how close I had come to letting Lucy poison herself. And then I'd have to try to explain to him that I didn't think it was
me,
exactly, who had almost let it happen.

The house—or something in it—was keeping me awake. It was making me tired and careless. Maybe that was all part of its plan. To make me so exhausted that I'd slip up eventually.
Eventually, Lucy would fall or choke or eat poison—because I couldn't protect her.

I began to sing “Down in the Valley” softly. Not so much to put Lucy to sleep—her eyelids were already drooping—but to keep myself focused on something besides my own fear. Halfway through, I realized I couldn't remember all the lyrics. I switched to “Twinkle Twinkle,” then “The Itsy-Bitsy Spider.” I held on to Lucy for an hour, switching back and forth between those two songs. Then I held her a little longer—until I was so tired I was afraid I'd drift off and drop her.

I put her into her crib and watched old David Letterman clips until the sun came up. Then I crawled beneath my covers, and slept for an hour until Lucy woke up.

Northampton Lunatic Hospital

Northampton, Massachusetts

December 20, 1885

T
here was a sizable crowd outside of the courthouse, and it was buzzing with excitement. Eavesdropping on two women who were discussing the previous day's events, I gathered that the wife of Reverend Herbert Hayden had testified but wasn't finished yet.

According to these women, Mary Stannard had visited the Hayden home a couple of times in the days before her death. Once to borrow a rake and once to borrow a pitchfork. She'd visited with Mrs. Hayden, held the newborn baby, and played with the older Hayden children. The way Mrs. Hayden told it, Mary had never been alone with Mr. Hayden long enough for much private discussion to take place. These ladies noted that this account conflicted with neighbors' claims of seeing Mary and Mr. Hayden entering the Haydens' barn together.

In any case, Mrs. Hayden would be on the stand again today. She would face cross-examination.

And that is what I witnessed that day. The prosecuting attorney, Mr. Waller, questioned her about arsenic. Rosa Hayden and her husband had, in the weeks preceding the murder, discussed
the problem of rats and the possibility of purchasing arsenic. She admitted that she did not know of his actual purchase of it until after the murder.

As Mrs. Hayden spoke of these things, I studied her dark eyes and her delicate frown. For a moment, I felt deep pain for her. She was still recovering from the recent birth of a child when her husband was arrested for Mary's murder, leaving her all alone to care for and support her children. Whatever the truth was, her experience was surely agonizing.

Soon after the arsenic questions, the cross-examination took a dramatic turn.

Waller asked a series of questions about Mrs. Hayden's relationship to her husband.

“Now, madam, you stated to the jury that you are the wife of the accused?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And that you have been married for eight years?”

“Yes, sir; between eight and nine years.”

“And that he is the father of your three children?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And that he always treated you well?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And that you continue to have affection for him and confidence in him?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And that if he suffers ignominious punishment, it will be an unjust punishment?”

“Yes, sir.”

“The question comes in now, and it is the only question I have
to ask. You need not answer this question, madam. Wait and give the counsel time to object.

“As Mr. Hayden, the accused, is your husband, father of your three children, a devoted husband to a loving wife, and as you have always, and do now, maintain the pleasantest relations with him, as you have implicit confidence in his innocence, as you believe that, if he suffers the ignominious punishment that must befall him in case he is found guilty, it will be unjust, would you, madam, under such circumstances and under oath, make a misstatement to save him, whom you love better than your life, from punishment?”

Mrs. Hayden's dark eyes glistened, and then, all at once, her face crumpled, and she wept. Several women in the gallery began sobbing sympathetic tears. Looking about the room, I could not see another woman besides myself who wasn't crying.

After a few moments, the defense attorneys burst into action:

“Don't answer the question!”

“It is an insult to the witness!”

As these words were spoken, something froze inside of me. The sensation from the previous night returned to me—that there was something distinct and defective about my heart.

The prosecuting attorney, Mr. Waller, began to defend his question:

“I heard the counsel for the defense say in an undertone ‘It's an insult to the witness.' I deny that accusation. I would not say an unkind word to this poor woman under any circumstances. Her devotion challenges the admiration and respect of all, and that she would exaggerate, prevaricate, or commit perjury implies no censure upon her or upon womanhood.”

And on and on he went with his bombastic speech, saying
that he'd expect his own beloved wife, a mother of his six beloved children, to do the very same thing—to be loyal to him under such circumstances. He would expect any good and loving wife to do the same. And was he not wrong to remind the court of that?

Some of the women in the gallery benches continued to sob through this flatulent speech. My heart, however, grew cold. My whole chest grew cold, in fact. I grew so icy and stiff I wondered how I would ever extract myself from that courthouse seat.

As the lawyers bloviated at each other for several minutes, I attempted to understand the other women's tears. They felt for Rosa Hayden as a wife and a mother. They imagined themselves under similar circumstances—trying to maintain the health and happiness of her family with her husband torn away from her by overzealous prosecutors.

Everyone felt such sadness for poor, long-suffering Rosa Hayden. Whether her husband was guilty or innocent, her life was agony.

And yet—I hated her tears.

I hated the tears of the women crying over something they thought they understood.

I hated Waller for his speech about loving wives and mothers.

My heart was frozen with a hatred of all of these things. I feared what vile substance might melt out if I allowed it to do so.

That is why I did not cry like the other women in that courtroom.

Haverton, Connecticut

December 19, 2014

I
was holding Lucy up to the living room window when the cute red hatchback slowed down in front of my house. “Happy Highways Driving School” was written in swirling letters across the side. The driver executed a perfect parallel parking job in front the house. A yellow Baby-on-Board style sign in the back window cautioned:
Student Driver.

After locking her car door, Fonda glanced into her window and tidied the feathery yellow hair that framed her face. She was wearing jeans, red wellies, and a brown bomber jacket that looked several sizes too large.

I answered the door with Lucy in my arms.

“You must be Abby,” Fonda said, extending her arm to me and cocking her head at Lucy. “Hey, pumpkin.”

“Ay,” Lucy said, stunning me with her imitative tone.

Fonda smiled broadly.

“Hey!” she repeated.

Lucy gasped, laughed, and then buried her head against my shirt.

“Nice little place,” Fonda said as she followed me into the kitchen.

“Thank you,” I said. “Do you want to sit down? Can I get you something to drink?”

“I'm fine for now. Mind if I walk around a little?”

As we stepped into the living room, Fonda took long, sniffling inward breaths. I wondered if she had a cold and if I should keep Lucy at a safe distance. Then I remembered the whole thing about air fresheners and scented candles. Maybe Fonda was primarily a smell-psychic? What would that be called? A clairolfactant?

Fonda took a miniature package of Kleenex out of her purse, blew her nose, and then turned to me.

“I often find it's better to talk
after
I've had some time to take things in. That way, we don't have to wonder later if we've . . . led each other in some way. Usually I find a room where the energy is strongest—if I feel any energy at all—and then sit for a while.”

“So I should take you into every room?”

“That'd be great.”

I led her slowly around the downstairs rooms, then said, “Okay to go upstairs?”

She nodded. I watched her carefully when we reached the top of the stairs. She sniffled, stepped into Lucy's room, and said, “Cute nursery. I love giraffes. They have the sweetest faces.”

She closed her eyes for a moment, then looked at me expectantly.

“Keep moving?”

Fonda nodded. We went down the hall and stood in the bathroom for a while, then Chad's and my bedroom. Fonda paused at the bedroom door, then walked over to a window and looked out for a moment.

“Hmm,” she said softly, turning to me. “I'd like to go back downstairs if that's okay with you.”

“Sure,” I said.

When we reached the bottom of the stairs, Fonda gave Lucy another toothy smile. Lucy gasped with delight.

“Your living room,” Fonda said. “That's where I'd like to sit for a while. Is that okay?”

Once she was settled on the couch and had refused another drink offer, Fonda said, “It's usually best if you leave me. I don't mind if you peek in or whatever. But if you go about your business for about fifteen-twenty minutes, that would work well for me.”

As she said this, Fonda pulled a pen and a book of Sudoku puzzles out of her purse.

“Okay,” I agreed, and went into the kitchen to feed Lucy pureed sweet potato and empty the dishwasher. Fonda didn't make a sound for twenty minutes.

I chewed over the Sudoku. What was that about?
Ghosts are lurking. Look busy.

After that, I gave in to my curiosity and stuck my head in.

Fonda's hands were folded across the open Sudoku book. She was squinting down at the carpet, biting her lip.

Lucy, nestled against my hip, said “Nnh . . . nnh . . . nnh.”

Fonda looked up, her face momentarily blank before answering Lucy's sounds with another exaggerated smile.

“Hello there,” she said. “Why don't we talk now?”

I settled Lucy on the floor with a quilt and some of her favorite toys.

“As you might have guessed,” Fonda said, “I'm feeling much more of a presence downstairs.”

“Oh?” I said.

“Although ‘presence' might not be the right word. Whatever you would call it, it dwells mostly downstairs.”

“It?” I repeated.

“I'm not sure if there's much intelligence to it. I feel like it's more of a residual haunting than anything. Do you know what that means? A residual haunting?”

“Uh . . . where a ghost takes up residence?”

“No.” Fonda blew her feathery bangs out of her face. “‘Residual' means, like, leftover. An aftereffect, you know? A residual haunting is when there's leftover energy from something that happened in a place. Like, if a traumatic event happened in a house, and there's still leftover . . . tension or stress, shall we say. It might interfere with the electricity. It might replay movements or actions from that time, or make noises. It's not an intelligent spirit doing it to scare the living residents of the place. It's just leftover energy.
Residual
energy. Make sense?”

I nodded. “Yes.”

“I'm not saying there's anything really dramatic happening here, like an axe murderer lived here or whatever. People are always jumping to that sort of conclusion when I mention ‘traumatic.' There doesn't
necessarily
have to be a history of a really unfortunate event for there to be residual energy. And even if there is, it doesn't mean you, the current, living resident, don't have any tools to deal with it. Okay?”

Tools.
Hmm. Like garlic necklace and lit torches sort of tools? Or breathing exercises sort of tools?

“Okay?” I said slowly, hoping for something closer to the former than the latter.

“So. Having said that, I will say that I find the energy in this room a bit oppressive. Here and in the kitchen.”

“Oppressive?”

“Yes. There's a heaviness to it. I felt it lift as I went up the stairs.”

“Oh.”

“Now, this has never happened to me before, but I keep receiving a word.”

“A word?”

“Innocent. The word ‘innocent
.
'”

I glanced at Lucy. She was gnawing a board book so hard that the whole corner of the cover was gummy. Spit dripped out of her mouth.

“You've never heard words before? In a haunted place, I mean?”

“Well, I didn't
hear
them exactly, but that's beside the point. Certainly I sense certain words or phrases sometimes, along with the energy. But it's the nature of the repetition of the word here that's unusual. I keep sensing it in increments of four.
Innocent, innocent, innocent, innocent.
Like counting. Or like a mantra.”

Lucy coughed and then gagged. I knelt down and pulled the book away from her lips to discover that a small chunk of it had come off in her mouth.

“Lucy, no!” I yelped, and fished it out.

I looked at the purple cardboard in my palm, then at Fonda.

“It's scary,” Fonda said. “At that age. Even the smallest things are dangerous.”

I nodded. “Do you have kids?”

“Just one. My son. It's his first year at college. Southern.”

“Oh.” I don't know why this surprised me. I suppose I'd thought of psychics as eccentric, single dramatic-scarf-and-dangly-earrings types. “Congratulations.”

“You know . . . to be functional as a mother is essentially to operate in a sort of delusional state. Well . . . maybe not delusional. Self-deceptive, I guess?”

I hesitated—not wanting to be rude, but eager for us to get back to the subject of my residual ghost. “Yeah, I guess.”

“One gets to know this in my line of work. Driving school, I mean. You have to have at least a small dose of deluded optimism to give a sixteen-year-old keys to a car.”

I was trying to pay attention to what Fonda was saying, but philosophies of adolescent parenting seemed a couple of light-years away from my situation at the moment.

“Are you sure of the word?
Innocent?
” I asked.

“Yes,” Fonda said. “Absolutely.”

I clasped my hand over the gummed cardboard, unsure what to do with it. “And you didn't have the same experience upstairs?”

Fonda gazed down at my hands and smiled slightly. “Well . . . upstairs . . .”

She seemed to be deciding what to say. While we all waited, Lucy grinned at Fonda and grunted.

“What's up, pumpkin?” Fonda purred at her, then turned to me. “Why don't we all go up there again for a minute or two. Do you mind?”

“Not at all,” I said, scooping up Lucy.

Once upstairs, we strolled through the rooms again—slowly, noncommittally, as if in a real estate open house. Once again, Fonda didn't seem particularly affected by Lucy's room.

We finished in the bedroom. Fonda walked all the way across the room, tapped on Chad's dresser, and blew her nose.

“It's different up here,” she said. “The energy isn't as heavy. I feel something here, but just fleetingly. It doesn't
reside
here the way the downstairs energy does.”

“Okay,” I prompted.

“What I'm feeling here has more intelligence to it, more of a consciousness. It's female. I'm not sure what the age. When I say it doesn't
reside
here, I mean that it just flits through, like a breeze comes through when the windows are open. That's why I can't get a firm grasp on her.”

I was now grasping Lucy so tightly that I had to take a deep breath and try to relax my hands.

Fonda continued. “I feel like a window was, in a sense, recently opened for this energy to start passing through. There's some new element in the house that invited it in.”

“My daughter was born five months ago,” I blurted. I'd vowed not to give Fonda material to take advantage of—but then, this piece of information was obvious.

Fonda studied me, then pushed a piece of her hair behind her ear.

“I had that thought, when I first noticed it. But . . . I'm not so sure. I suppose it doesn't matter what
started
it coming through . . . does it?”

“It does if I want to
close
the window.” I tried not to sound like I was pleading.

Fonda sucked in a breath. “Now, I know that that's the knee-jerk reaction . . .”

She motioned for me to follow her and wandered down the hall to Lucy's room. She walked by the crib, sliding her hand
along its dark coffee-colored rim. Then she stepped closer to the window and touched one of Lucy's giraffe curtains. She inhaled noisily and then shut her eyes.

When she opened them, she said softly, “I don't think she's all that concerned about the baby.”

Her use of the word “she” made my arms prickle.
She.
Not an “energy,” as Fonda seemed so fond of saying. An “energy” was vague and invisible and woo-woo, and therefore easily brushed off. But a
she
was different. A
she
was undeniably present. However fleetingly or flittingly or whatever euphemistic way Fonda wanted to put it.

I could feel Fonda's gaze on me. I turned away from her for a moment and kissed Lucy's head.

“Abby,” she said.

I turned back to Fonda, surprised to hear her say my name with a tone of such familiarity. “Hmm?”

“I think it's important to remember that none of this can hurt you. It can be hard to remember that when we first hear these things.”

I wanted to tell her that I could not
remember
something that I had not necessarily thought or believed. Why would I have bothered to call her if I'd held the belief that
none of this can hurt you
?

“Now, I'm not saying that this is
exactly
what is happening here. But right after I had my son, I found I was more . . . sensitive. And I don't mean, like, hormonal. I mean that I picked up on certain energies more than I even had before. For a while. Just a thought.”

“Right,” I said.
Energies
somehow wasn't a more satisfactory word than
hormones.

“Anyway.” Fonda exhaled. “You asked about ‘closing the window,' so to speak. I've found that the simplest approach is often the best. Just acknowledge the presence. Say, ‘I know you're here.' Sometimes that's all that's needed to neutralize it. Or even a simple, ‘You can go now.' I think that's all you might need for this presence upstairs.”

“And downstairs?”

“That might be a little more complicated. That feels more like just . . . part of the house. I find sometimes it's best to think of the residual stuff that way. Like a refrigerator humming, or the heater turning on when the temperature drops. It's automatic. It doesn't have anything to do with you. Unless you
let
it bother you. Now, I didn't ask you much about your experience with the house when I first arrived, but can I ask now?”

I wasn't sure yet if I wanted to confide in Fonda Manning. Maybe this was her strategy. Scare the pants off a client, and then have her spill. Use garnered information to scare her some more.

“I don't really want to talk about it. I have a lot to think about, for now,” I said. “Do you think you might be able to come back another time, though?”

Fonda didn't look surprised. “Certainly I can. If you think that would help you.”

I led Fonda back down the stairs. “I'm wondering if you can gather more . . . information. If you come again.”

“I can certainly try,” Fonda replied.

“So . . .” Fonda zipped her bomber jacket up to her chin. “I don't charge for a first visit at all. But for multiple visits I do ask for help with gas. Does that sound fair to you?”

“Oh. Of course. Any particular amount, or . . .”

“Let's say twenty-five dollars or so. If you decide to have me back. I think you're smart to take a few days to think about it. You may feel that you've learned all you need to . . . or want to.”