The Evening Spider (29 page)

Northampton Lunatic Hospital

Northampton, Massachusetts

December 21, 1885

I
t was a mild night in the early summer of 1878. Two or three days after the night I'd dropped—or thrown—that goblet at Matthew's feet.

I don't know why I woke up. I probably would have gone promptly back to sleep—or not even awoken fully—had I not noticed that Matthew was no longer beside me. We had retired together, but now he was gone. I sat up to verify his absence and noticed, with that swift movement, that my head ached. I'd forgotten, in my slumber, how ill I'd felt of late. I stood up and felt the full brunt of it. Yes, it was true, still. I'd forgotten the fact of it in deep sleep: I was with child.

There was no escaping that physical fact. In this moment, I had a choice—I could climb back into bed, curl into a ball, and hope sleep would hide my condition from my mind for a few hours more. Or I could creep down to the kitchen, feed this dizzying hunger with a piece of bread, and hope for the blessing of a satisfied sense of optimism.

Perhaps I would see Matthew down there—where
had
he
gone? Perhaps I would even tell him about the child. I would have to soon, after all, and maybe his happiness for it would comfort me? Wasn't that possible? Even if I could not yet muster any gladness at it, perhaps I could be swayed? Matthew was skilled at swaying, if nothing else.

As I started down the stairs, I heard a sigh from the kitchen—and then a slight moan. Was Matthew in pain? I didn't cry out to assist him, though—for the sound felt like something forbidden—something not meant for my ears. At the bottom of the stairs, I lightened my step as I moved through the front room. The kitchen gaslight was lit. I peered in through the crack in the door. Another soft moan.

I stared across the kitchen and could see no one. I wondered about a ghost, or perhaps an exceedingly dramatic mouse. A whimper came from the direction of the floor, and then a sigh—perhaps, it sounded to me, a sigh of relief. I looked down and there was Matthew. His back was to me. Beside him was his hunting knife. Beneath its tip were two red drips. He was hunched over my best cake pan. From where I was standing, I could see the tips of his toes. His leg was naked up to his knee. He was gripping his calf, squeezing and sighing—once, and then again. The wound I'd recently inflicted was widening and bleeding under his knife.

I turned away and inched back toward the stairs. I rushed up them as fast as I could without making noise. When I reached the top, those pink and orange lights appeared behind my eyes again. Was it my hurried movement up the stairs or the scene in the kitchen that made me so dizzy?

I fell back into bed. I shut my eyes. Either way, I was grateful for the softness of the bed and the anesthetic darkness.

I kept my eyes shut but willed my body to stay awake until Matthew returned. My body, I should have known, no longer took cues from my mind. It had a task of its own, and that task required rest. I must have succumbed to sleep because when I opened my eyes, the sun had risen, and Matthew lay beside me.

Rowan College

Rowan, Vermont

February 27, 1998

A
h. Mr. Cromley,” Professor Duran was saying to the guy in the dopey brown-and-red stocking cap. “Before we can take issue, or disagree, or object, we must first
understand.
And to
understand
what Wollstonecraft was trying to say, we must first
understand
what Burke said, with which she took issue. And, for that matter, what Thomas Paine said before him. And to
understand
all of that, it might help if we return to our texts.”

I feared and loathed Duran in a way I secretly found delicious. He was exactly how I'd imagined a college professor was supposed to be—crabby and derisive and unsympathetic in a way high school teachers were never allowed to be. To endure his contempt felt like a novel form of maturity.

In that particular moment—a week after Wendy's death, and my first day back in class—I craved his disdain. I breathed it in like oxygen, wishing it were me he was humiliating instead of the Cromley kid. I wanted Duran to stare me down and announce to this class—to the world—how very little I knew.

“Let us take out our
Rights of Man
for a moment, shall we? I'd like to read this one portion again.”

I picked up my Dover paperback.

Swish.

The paper slid out of the front cover of the book, grazed the little white Formica square of desk in front of me, and landed in my lap. A folded square of white paper, with
Abby
written across it on both sides, in thick pencil.

At first I thought of my friend Kristin, who was always drawing unflattering pictures of people we knew, their worst features exaggerated and grotesque: crooked teeth, limp hair, oversized glasses. She would be just cruel enough to draw a picture of Professor Duran, eyebrows shooting out like porcupine quills, to make me giggle in his class and draw his caustic attention.

When Duran's face was buried in Thomas Paine, I opened the paper. The only picture inside was of a nautilus shell, curled in the top right-hand corner. I recognized the stationary before I did the handwriting. It wasn't Kristin's.

I had spoken to Wendy when she was already dead.

And now her ghost had written back.

Haverton, Connecticut

December 20, 2014

A
fter I parked at the Candlelight Inn, I turned and stared at Lucy's mirror for a while. I couldn't remember driving back here. The guy in the stocking cap. Duran.
Rights of Man.
That was all as clear as if it had happened this morning, but all I remembered from the trip back from Gerard's was that somewhere along the way I'd been behind a dirty white sedan with Mylar balloons in the back.

My cell phone rang.

“Abby?”

Chad. Chad in Chicago, which might as well have been the moon.

“I've been trying the land line all day,” he said. “You're out with Lucy in the snow? I didn't realize till today that you guys have snow out there.”

“The snow wasn't that bad, actually.”

“That's what I'd heard. But still, I was surprised. What've you two been up to?”

“Well . . . we didn't spend the night at home.”

“What?”

“It's a long story.” I paused. I didn't want to tell the same lie
I'd told to Wallace. If I was crazy, I'd have to let Chad know eventually. For Lucy's sake. “I had to break a window. In the living room.”

“What? Why?”

“There was this issue with the keys, when I ran out to get something. The door locked on me, and Lucy was inside crying. I panicked. I had to get in to her quickly.”

“Wow.” Chad made a sucking noise. “Sounds rough.”

“It was.”

“Are you okay? Where did you stay?”

“The Candlelight Inn.”

“Ooh. For real? That sounds like an adventure. You'll be back at the house tonight, though, right? Do you want me to call someone to help you with the window?”

“I'll take care of it. Don't worry.”

Chad was silent for a moment. “How's Lucy liking the fleabag motel?”

“It's not so bad.”

“When do you have to check out, anyhow?”

“Umm . . .”

“What about Monty?” Chad asked before I could answer.

“Oh . . .” I said softly. “Monty.”

“He's still at the house?”

No wonder Monty hated me now. He sensed how easily I could forget about him.

“Listen. I'll go back to the house soon. I'll check on him.”

“Well. I hope he's not freezing his little kitty ass off.” I could tell that Chad was trying hard to sound nonchalant.

“He's probably fine if he's upstairs,” I said. “But I'll check on him. In fact, I'm just headed back to the house now.”

“Do you want me to try to come home early, Abby?”

I considered this question. What was he really asking?
Are you crazy, Abby?

Was I? Or did I just need someone to help me face the house?

Probably. But that someone likely wasn't Chad. The house didn't seem to take much notice of Chad, nor he it.

“I don't think that'll be necessary, no. It's not like we don't miss you, but . . . Look. Now that you mention Monty, I'm kind of worried about him. I should go. Love you.”

I watched Lucy in the mirror again for a moment. Her delicate eyelids fluttered, opened, and then closed again. She sensed the motionlessness of the car. I picked up my phone and dialed Fonda's number. She didn't answer, but I left her a message asking if she could meet me at my house.

“Monty?” I called.

His kitchen bowl still had some food in it, but I poured more in, hoping he'd hear it. He didn't come running. But Monty had never been that sort of cat. I decided to set to work on patching the window, figuring he'd make himself known when he felt like it.

The living room was freezing, of course. I carried Lucy in with me, and kept on my coat while I swept up all of the glass I'd left. As I finished, Lucy began to wriggle and squawk in her carrier.

“Let's just get the hole in the house fixed, sweet pea,” I said, picking her up and carrying her to the kitchen. I strapped her into her high chair and dropped a bunch of amusements on its tray: a washcloth, a squeaky toy, plastic spoons, and a cereal bowl.

I knelt at the recycling bin and selected a large piece of cardboard for covering the hole in the window.

Then, gripping the back of the high chair, I pushed Lucy into the living room. It was colder there, but at least we'd be in the same room.

I plugged in the Christmas tree lights to make us feel cozier, and then duct-taped the cardboard over the window—adding a few extra crisscrosses. The effect was no more secure—just extra derelict-looking. It wasn't much, but it would keep some of the heat in, and keep Monty out of the cold for one more night.

“Nice work, huh?” I said to Lucy.

Before she could reply, there was a knock at the side door in the kitchen.

“I bet that's Fonda!” My voice was high-pitched and overenthusiastic, as if anticipating a hired clown.

I rushed to the door and let Fonda in. She was wearing a fluffy charcoal beret pulled over her ears, covering her feathery hair and giving her a more mysterious look than she'd had the previous day.

“You might not want to take your coat off,” I called behind me as I led her into the living room. “It's kind of cold in here. We had a little incident with the window.”

Fonda gazed at the duct-taped window, then looked down at Lucy—playing with her colored spoons in her snowsuit and hat.

“Hello, pumpkin,” Fonda said.

Lucy was too busy trying to insert a spoon into her mouth to notice Fonda.

“What happened to the window, Abby?” Fonda asked quietly.

“I'm not sure.” I shrugged. “It happened during the storm last night. The wind . . . something with the wind?”

This version of the story didn't sound as good as it had when I'd told it to Wallace. Fonda nodded anyway.

“You mentioned on the phone that you didn't spend last night in your house?”

“No,” I said.

Fonda stepped closer to the window and put her hand on the duct-taped crisscross. “Replacing a window can be a pain in the ass. You gonna have someone come fix it? Or are you or your husband handy with this sort of thing?”

“We'll figure it out, I'm sure.”

“You also said that you had some other questions for me?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Bee beeee,” Lucy chimed in, and Fonda smiled at her.

“Busy baby,” Fonda said, mimicking Lucy's singsong tone.

I waved my hand toward the sofa. “Why don't we sit down?”

Fonda pulled off her hat and joined me on the sofa. I dragged Lucy's high chair over so she'd be close to us.

“What do you think the word ‘innocent' means?” I asked.

Fonda shrugged with one shoulder. “I don't have any more insight into the meaning of the word than you do.”

“But you said that there was something heavy down here . . . something oppressive. Heavy with what, exactly? ‘Heavy' doesn't tell me anything.”

“That's a good question,” Fonda admitted after a moment's thought.

She sat silently for little while. Lucy said, “Meh meh mah,” and I reached over and stroked her hair.

“Guilt,” Fonda said. “Does that make sense?”

“Not exactly,” I answered. “But . . . does it need to?”

“I guess not. I just thought . . . the feeling doesn't match the word. But there you have it.”

“There we have it,” I repeated.

I smoothed Lucy's hair across her forehead and behind her ears. There was a bit of banana puree dried on one temple, but her hair still felt silky smooth. It was amazing how well a baby held up without much bathing—compared to an adult.

Fonda squinted into the Christmas lights. “Guilt and fear make a powerful mix.”

“Were we talking about fear?”

“Weren't we? Yesterday, I mean? Without saying the word?”

“When was that?”

“The whole conversation. That's why I'm here, isn't it? Because you're afraid of something in the house?”

Lucy lifted her head up slightly so I was now touching her eyebrow. She smiled at me, and in that moment I didn't want to admit to being afraid of anything.

“Is it possible I brought something—or someone—with me into the house?” I asked. “Something that wasn't here before I moved in?”

“Of course . . .” Fonda puckered her lips and bobbed her head, considering. “I have no reason to say no. It's
possible.
”

“Because just yesterday you were saying that something sort of opened a window, and let something in. And maybe one of us . . . my husband or I . . . let it in?”

Fonda put her hands in her hat—probably to warm them. “Well . . . that was a metaphor, about the window.”

“I understand that, but . . . maybe my moving in . . . or my husband and I moving in . . . let it in?”

“Tell me . . .” Fonda burrowed her hands deeper into her hat. “What is it you think followed you into this house?”

Lucy's attention had strayed from my hand to the Christmas tree, so I pulled my hands into my lap. I was silent. I didn't wish to give Fonda any material.

For a minute or two, we both listened to Lucy murmur, “Nam nam nam
.
”

Fonda leaned closer to Lucy and said, “Can you hand me one of those spoons, pumpkin?”

Lucy didn't oblige. She looked at me, picked up a spoon, put it in her mouth, and smiled beatifically.

“Did she mean to hurt her?” I heard myself say, blinking hard. “I need to know. Did she
want
to hurt her?”

Fonda turned back to me and stared at me for a moment. Then she stood up, paced the room a couple of times, and sniffled.

“Does the smell of the Christmas tree bother you at all?” I asked. “I forgot to ask you that last—”

“Shhhhh,” said Fonda and sniffled again—louder this time.

She stood in the middle of the room and stared at me for so long that I wondered if I was supposed to get up and do something. Offer her a drink? Turn off the Christmas lights? Run?

“You are focused so much on a few words on a page,” she murmured. “Why so much on that? Don't you know they were written by a phantom hand?”

“What?” I said, and felt my mouth fall open

“Does that mean something to you?” Fonda asked.

“Can you say more? What phantom?”

“I don't know, Abby.” Fonda sat on the couch and clutched her hat again. “I can't explain everything I say. It just comes to me that way.”

Tears stung me eyes.

“Did she
want
to hurt her?” I asked, my voice nearly breaking. “
Tell
me.”

“I don't know.” Fonda slid an inch or two away from me. “I don't . . . Who are we talking about here?”

I shook my head. “I shouldn't have to tell you. If you're for real, you should know.”

And then I heard a jangle of collar and tags—Monty padding down the stairs. He appeared in the kitchen doorway then angled sideways to rub my calf. He appraised Fonda's leg for a moment, then crept into the kitchen.

We both listened to him crunching his food for a few moments.

“You already know which ghost you have to live with,” Fonda said after a while. “Don't you?”

I shook my head but said nothing.

“You can break all the windows you want, Abby. And still you won't let the ghosts out.”

Fonda cocked her head and studied me. I hadn't told her I'd broken the window. But anyone with half a brain and half a heart could probably figure out I was crazy enough to do so.

“We have to learn to live with our ghosts,” she said. “To some extent, anyway.”

“How convenient,” I said softly.

I buried my face in my hands. After a moment, I felt Fonda's
thick fingers tighten painfully around my elbow. She was silent for a few seconds. Her nails sank into the flesh of my upper arm. I wondered if Lucy was watching us but didn't want to remove my hands from my face and have Fonda see my tears.

“You can allow yourself to be blinded,” Fonda said. Her voice was so low now that it might've been at a frequency audible to only the two of us. Lucy babbled obliviously in her high chair.

“Or to see in such sharp focus that you might as well go crazy.” Fonda loosened her grip. “The trick is to find the delusional space in between.”

I let my hands fall from my face. Fonda's eyes were the bright alien blue of fake contact color, but still fierce and hard.

A sob escaped my lips, but no words.

“Exactly,” Fonda whispered.

I snuffled and wiped my eyes with my sleeves, then searched my pockets for tissues and found none. Fonda handed me a wad of them from her jacket pocket.

“Are you all right now?” she asked after a couple of minutes.

I took a breath. “I don't have a choice.”

“No.” Fonda's lips formed a very slight smile. “No, you don't.”

Next to us, in the living room, Lucy was saying, “Ma ma ma,” her voice rising with glee and confidence. She was talking to the Christmas lights as if they were old familiar friends.

“Isn't that just the sweetest sound?” Fonda said, her voice returning to the cheerful tenor it had had when she first walked in.

With shaking hands, I unbuckled Lucy from her high chair. I held her to my chest for a moment, patting her warm back. I wanted Fonda to leave now so I could nurse Lucy.

“Thanks for coming out one more time,” I said. “What's your gas fee, again?”

“Twenty-five,” Fonda said. “Cash, please.”

I nodded without looking at her and touched my lips to Lucy's hair.