The Visionist: A Novel (11 page)

You are my friend,
she thought in wonder.
And I cannot lose you.

She took a deep breath. “Now show me where we are going,” she said. “I have yet to learn the nooks and crannies of this place.”

“Then I shall guide you,” Sister Charity answered, pulling at Polly’s hand once again and leading her towards the sisters’ workhouse.

It was a dull-colored building on the outside, plain and severe in its lines. But inside, everything seemed to glow in the light that poured through the windows and illuminated the bright-yellow walls. They entered a spacious room furnished with chests full of drawers, some tiny, others wide and thin, and more still that looked large enough to hide a small child.

Polly’s thoughts flashed on Ben, and for a moment all color and light faded as she felt her heart plummet into her stomach. The smallest glimpse of him at Meeting the night before, the sight of him in clean clothes, under the care of the young Brother Andrew, had been of little comfort.
It should have been me looking after him,
she thought. But instead, Ben had looked on in terror as she slipped into a state over which she had no control. Her
Vision.

She looked up and caught Sister Charity watching her. “You are thinking of young Benjamin,” the sister said. “I can read it on your face.” She took up Polly’s hands in her own. “I promise he is being watched over by a kind soul. I wish that I had better comfort to offer than that.”

Polly looked down, squared her shoulders, and drew in another breath. She would need to accustom herself to such stabs of memory—at least, where her souvenirs of Ben were concerned. That the pain would never abate was as certain as the fact that she could not let it keep her from embracing this new life. Her survival here would depend upon her ability to shift emotions as easily as a curtain billows and falls in a changeable breeze.
Hasn’t it always been like that?
she wondered. How else could she have moved from night into day?

She shook off her dark thoughts and looked up. The two girls had caught the young seamstress by surprise. One minute, she was sewing quietly in a chair near the window, the next leaping from her place so suddenly that her basket of thimbles, needles, pins, hooks, and buttons fell to the floor.

“I’m sorry,” she said, dropping to her knees to gather up her dainty tools. “I did not expect to see the…” She looked fearfully at Polly, who had knelt down to help her. “I did not know you would be coming to the shop today. It was silly of me. I should have…”

“How could you have expected us?” Polly asked. “Sister Charity has had time to do nothing besides keep me from making mistakes in every instance possible.” She was surprised by the ease with which she carried on. Indeed, so new to her was this side of her character, she felt she was watching an actor in a street play.

Still, Polly spoke the truth. She’d even had to rely on Sister Charity to educate her on the matter of dressing properly. To brush and fasten the right side of her hair before the left, to attend to the right side of her gown before the left, to pull on her right shoe before her left. For the left was, in all things, the Devil’s domain, and righteousness must always be tended before evil.

The seamstress smiled and looked down. “Oh, I doubt that you can have required as much correction as all that, Sister.”

“The new believer is being modest,” Sister Charity chimed in. “As she is in all things. Now, should she not take off her dress and stand in her petticoat on this stool so that you can pin the form properly?”

“Of course!” the young girl exclaimed, jumping to her feet and setting her thimble a-tumble once more. Polly watched it roll under a chair. “I have the muslin cut already,” the sister continued breathlessly. “All that needs doing is the fitting. Would you mind? Could the Visionist step…?”

“Please,” Polly said. “What is your name?”

“I am called Sister Eugenia,” the girl said softly.

“Sister Eugenia, then. Please, call me Polly. I should recognize myself much better that way. Or—if you must—
Sister
Polly.” She knelt and swept up the thimble. Smiling, she held out the finger cup to the young girl. “If you are to pin me, you shall no doubt have need of this.”

“Thank you, Sister,” the seamstress stammered. “Sister
Polly,
I mean. The stool, yes, if you could stand… That’s right. Oh, the sun makes this so much easier! You must have blessed the day.”

Polly looked round at Sister Charity, who appeared not the least bit surprised by the young girl’s enthusiasm. Turning back to the seamstress, she said, “Sister Eugenia, I have no say in the travels of the sun. Indeed, I have no say in any of the events that happen here.”

The seamstress was quiet now, bent at Polly’s feet, her mouth a pursed line of pins. “Mmmm. Mmm, mmm,” she mumbled as forcefully as she was able.

At this, even Sister Charity broke out giggling. The room was peaceful. With only the three of them present—not a cluster of believers—there lacked the bustle of industry Polly had noticed while going about her kitchen chores. It was quiet, save for the rustling of the muslin and Sister Eugenia’s soft, regular breathing as she pinned the dress form to fit the lines of Polly’s body.

When did I last feel so at ease?
Polly wondered. In this single moment, she feared nothing, neither watched nor braced herself for his tread upon the boards. She was free. With her arms held out, staring through the window in front of her, she felt as though she might be flying. Her mind’s eye took in the rooftops of all the buildings in The City of Hope, and the straight stone pathways that connected them, and the backs of the brethren bent over in the brown fields, and the bell tower and great barns, all of it surrounded by the neatest walls she could ever imagine. Only the mill ponds expanded beyond the boundaries of the settlement, feeding one into the next, dotting the land as far as she could see. Polly realized that the believers sought to make a miracle of the earth around them, and every inch was as tidy and well tended as the insides of their houses—indeed, as perfect as their very souls.

“If you would turn just a bit towards the door, Sister Polly,” said the seamstress meekly, awakening Polly from her reverie. Having run out of pins, the girl had rediscovered her capacity for speech and she gave a nervous laugh. “I shan’t stick you, I promise. There’s just the bodice left, then you can rest your tired arms.”

At the sound of the girl’s voice, Polly’s thoughts returned to the room in which she stood, her gaze alighting on Sister Charity. She had not asked about the vinelike marks that twisted around her new friend’s hands and arms.
How did she come by them?
Polly wondered.
And why, when they are so beautiful, is she ashamed?
Even in her short time in The City of Hope, Polly had witnessed the pains the other young sisters took to move awkwardly round Sister Charity for fear of brushing against her. She had seen them staring, and noticed the shame it caused her new friend.

Subtle though their cruelty may have been, Polly bristled at the fact of it. She thought back on the moans and wails she had uttered in Meeting and could not fathom why such miserable sounds would be held in reverence here while such a wondrous manifestation as Sister Charity’s markings could be despised—especially in one who was so obviously good.
I shall take her into my embrace and show her that I am not afraid,
she thought to herself.
I shall see her for who she is.
For Polly realized suddenly that earlier, in the pale gray dawn, Sister Charity had performed no other miracle than to bathe her in love. Such a small thing, yet how it had changed the world.

Looking around her, she noticed a set of darning needles stuck into the heel of a thick wool stocking that lay on a table nearby. An image flashed before her eyes—her father’s threadbare socks—and it was then that the truth struck her. Love? What did she know of love? What was she, after all, if not the embodiment of its opposite? Had she not been born of violence? Was she not raised on secrets, lies, shame? Unless Polly confessed everything about her past, her friendship with Sister Charity could be born only of duplicity. Yet the impossibility of confession… It was enough to make Polly teeter and sway.

“You’ve gone pale,” Sister Charity said, walking quickly to Polly’s side and catching her by the waist. “Are you all right? Do you need water?”

She steadied herself, stepped down, and breathed her fear away, concentrating on the weight of her feet on solid ground, conscious of her heart’s thrum. “Yes,” she answered faintly. “A glass of water would make me feel better. I’m sorry. I must have been shaken by standing for so long at such a height.” She watched as Sister Charity moved quickly across the room and filled a cup from the pitcher that stood in the corner.

Then she looked up and willed the angels to her aid.
Please,
she pleaded silently.
Please deliver me from my past that I might deserve this one person.
Eyes closed, she waited, and to her amazement, they came. Ten, twenty, she could not count the soft caresses of their wings as she stood with her face raised to the Heavens. They sang and filled her with hope. They told her nothing for certain. Their gift was to transport her soul, and now, as she felt their delicate presence, her mind was cleared of doubt. Faith infused her so powerfully that she began to smile as she opened her eyes.

“Look!” Sister Eugenia exclaimed. “Look at the Visionist now!”

Turning towards the fitting mirror that the young girl held before her, Polly felt overcome with amazement. For there, with the light from the window shining through the whiteness of the muslin dress form, she glowed from within, the lines of her petticoat ringed with what seemed a gown made of gold.

“Surely now,” said Sister Charity, “you can see your gift. It is just as Sister Margaret said in Meeting. You are cloaked in raiment made from the sun. You have only to gaze upon your reflection to know that what we say is true—that you are a Visionist.
Our
Visionist.”

And in the stillness of the moment, Polly found herself unable to speak. For if ever grace had made its presence known to her, it did so now.

Simon Pryor

NO MATTER HOW
many times I reread my notes in the days after my visit to the Ashland farm, I knew in my bones that a crime had been committed—one I had been hired to hide. Though not a situation unfamiliar to me, it rankled, and I resisted writing the false report. True, I wanted to claim my full fee as soon as possible—in such lean times, there was my living to consider—but the nagging sense of shame at being paid to tell a lie was the stone tied to one leg; the need to protect that lie by tracking down May and Polly Kimball (Silas’s wife and daughter, as noted in the town records) was the other. A well-doctored arson scene is difficult enough to achieve. Combing the countryside to save the arsonist from herself—and thus, preserve my findings—was an extra effort I vaguely resented.

In his letter, James Hurlbut had demanded that, once written, my report be withheld from county authorities so that he could submit it for approval by Mister Scales, my former mentor, the solicitor who served as both front and rear guard when it came to Hurlbut’s business dealings. He wanted me to declare the fire an accident because he knew that the criminal investigation following a finding of arson would be a drawn-out affair, and he hoped to buy the property quickly and cheaply when it came up for auction.

He also knew that he would not be the only interested party, and he needed time to position his pieces. Aside from the odd poster seeking information as to May Kimball’s whereabouts, there was little evidence of any serious investigation. Doubtless, Hurlbut had paid the law to ignore the law—this was how things usually worked. As far as proper society was concerned, the family was a marginal one, a family for which the hamlet likely had little use. Taxes on the farm had not been paid in full since Benjamin Briggs had owned it, and the municipality stood to earn whatever monies came from the auction. Debtors would be paid and coffers would be filled. Financially, everyone stood to win—save for May Kimball and her daughter.

Why did I assume that the woman would not fight to save her farm from being taken away? The family did not—as I discovered in a pro forma inquiry—have insurance on the property, so there was no obvious monetary incentive. Furthermore, if I had found it so easy to suspect her of setting the fire, I was certain that a less knowledgeable official would come to the same conclusion; it made little sense for May Kimball to voluntarily involve herself in an investigation that would likely incriminate her for arson as well as murder. Indeed, she would be a fool to return to the scene of her crime. Barring the appearance of a distant relation—Ashland’s town records had yet to provide information regarding the chain of inheritance, but I’d not finished searching—the land was ripe for the plucking.

Still, crime is a heavy burden on those not accustomed to committing it. Who knew how May and Polly Kimball would respond to being questioned by the law, should they be tracked down by the Straight Arrow—that imaginary figure who made complete my crookedness. I could not count on them to be capable liars, and if their versions of the truth veered even slightly from my own, we would all pay dearly for the discrepancy—me with my purse and reputation; them, quite possibly, with their lives.

I have yet to divulge how my investigation ended. Having determined for myself what I thought to be the real cause of the incendiary, I was left to juggle the facts to suit my master’s interests. I have said that my motive was born of the need for payment in full, but that is not the whole story. When executing a job as distasteful to me as those I perform for James Hurlbut, the desire to relieve him of as much money as possible is never far from my mind. I’ve neither the time nor the inclination to explain myself at present, but the truth will come out in the end. It almost always does. For now, I offer only this small but closely held belief: A guilty conscience should be as expensive to the man who perpetrates it as to the one who must live with it.

What to do with Silas Kimball’s body?
I wondered. Within hours of my leaving, animals would pick clean and scatter his bones, rendering his disappearance a mystery to be solved should anyone decide to check my work. I have learned over time that I must be thorough in my craft, allowing for that rarest of men: the honest constable, my Straight Arrow.

If the fire was to be declared an accident, clean and simple—with no obvious heir to claim possession of the land—there was but one course of action to take. I wrapped Kimball’s charred skeleton in the blanket I keep rolled at the back of my saddle and carried it to where his bed had once been. Laying him in the ashes, I took a candleholder from the kitchen and placed it on the floor close by. Once I had gathered up the fine glass shards of the lamp shade and returned them—along with the wooden base—to the parlor from whence I was certain the lamp had been taken, the dirty work inside the house was nearly done. Another bottle neck from the kitchen, a few more pieces of coarse, thick glass, and the picture of a drunken man who had left his candle burning and set himself alight was complete.

A few handfuls of water splashed upon the banks of the pond erased all traces of Kimball’s body. I took care to pick the ends of the singed leaves from the cornstalks and imposed a more random trampling through the field. I did not worry about my footprints—my job as inspector explained them away easily enough. I had been delicate in my placement of the corpse, but even there I needn’t have troubled myself too much. The ash would dust and blow when the wind picked up, and before long no one would be able to discern the layout of the rooms, much less the bed of a dead drunk.

I had done my job well and, by placing Silas Kimball in plain sight, had ensured that a critical detail was resolved beyond doubt. An accident. That is how my report would read. No arson. No murder. Just tragedy in the middle of the night, an occurrence commonplace enough to go unquestioned. I had simply to put it into writing for my version of the truth to be complete.

My
version. That was the only sticker in the pot. I am not such a beast as to have mounted my steed and trotted away from the Kimball farm with a clear conscience.
Would the lies never cease?
I wondered. My life had been built on deception for so many years that I no longer trusted in truth. After all, one cannot say that it partners easily with compassion—to wit, I have found the relationship to be quite the opposite. I often wrestle with the question: Who is the better man? He who seeks truth or he who seeks understanding? I had a history of meddling in the fates of others when it would have been so much safer to turn my back and allow life to follow its heartless course.

Had I not learned a single lesson from the ice at Biddle Pond, the frozen shards that made me who I am?