Half Moon Lake

by Kirsten Alexander

  Without warning, the knot in her throat rose up and unfurled out of her, an agony too enormous for words. She howled, alarming the Pennys, causing the horse to startle. Grace howled without pause all the way back to Penny Farm. Dogs howled back to console her, house lights flickered on and curtains were pulled aside so people could see the source of the noise, men smoking on porches in the gloaming bowed their heads by way of respect. They knew there were only a few things that could call forth such savage sounds.

  When Anna Beth opened the front door of the farm, Grace’s expression told her everything she needed to know. She put her arm around Grace’s waist and guided her straight to where baby Lily slept safely in her cot. Farmer Penny added logs to the fire. Mrs Penny took Anna Beth’s cake from the oven. Outside, light rain fell, spotting the pond. Farmer Penny closed the curtains.

  The Pennys formed a protective circle around Grace, made their house a warm cocoon. They would help her survive this, and whatever came next. And, as Anna Beth whispered to her mother in the kitchen soon after, what came next was rage.

  Mason held the front door open and said he hoped it wasn’t an impertinence to ask Mr Davenport if the trial had gone well. The servants had been worrying.

  John Henry answered it wasn’t impertinent and yes, the jury had done the right thing. It was over, and now they could move forward with their lives.

  Mason said how glad he was, that he would tell the others. Mary watched his face for signs of an undercurrent of doubt, since whatever Esmeralda knew Mason must also. Nanny Pru and Sula, as well.

  ‘I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news, then,’ Mason said, taking John Henry’s hat, Mary’s coat, ‘but there was something of an incident with the boys while you were –’

  ‘Are they hurt?’ Mary asked.

  ‘No one is hurt.’ Mason considered how to tell the story so that the boys’ infraction and his role in correcting the situation were fully understood. Before he could begin, Mary walked towards the stairs.

  John Henry, however, wanted the whole story. ‘Spare me nothing, Mason.’

  Mary had imagined she’d feel happy when the trial was over, joyous, close with her husband after the inevitable shared victory. But it didn’t feel like a victory. John Henry had barely spoken on the way home, and Mary was left to wonder if he was as shaken as she was by Grace Mill, or if he was angry at having been called on a genuine deceit. She rubbed that thought out of her head. If John Henry had done anything others might label untoward, it’d been for the greater good. She would not question him about that.

  And now an ‘incident’. Mary had barely moved past the top of the stairs when Paul came running towards her, Pru not far behind him, her mouth open, about to yell. Mary had never seen such a ferocious look on Pru’s face. Without her usual docile expression she was suddenly frightening. When Mary said her name it was as much in shock as reprimand, but it stopped Pru in her tracks.

  At the sound of her voice, George and the boy came hurrying towards her, too.

  George and Paul yabbered at her at once. This was not how Mary had envisioned her homecoming. She’d wanted to tell them the judge had made the bad people go away. She’d even thought she’d suggest they collect the new kitten the next morning. But this chaos! Pru saying something in French about running on streets and breaking doors, Paul proclaiming unfairness, and George urging his mother not to believe Mason.

  Everyone fell silent at John Henry’s bellow as he stormed past his wife and commanded the boys to get back into their room. He followed them in and slammed the now damaged door.

  After Pru explained to Mary in a rush what had happened in the Davenports’ absence, Mary went to the boys. She found John Henry sitting with Paul facedown on his lap, walloping him.

  ‘Enough!’ Mary shouted. ‘No more beatings in this house.’

  John Henry roughly pushed Paul away from him. The boys ran together into the centre of the room, magnetised into one shaking lump.

  John Henry crouched down and, eyes on the boy, explained some of what had happened in court. ‘So you are officially part of our family. The smartest men of Opelousas have decided. And do you know why?’ He took a deep breath and softened his voice. ‘Because she doesn’t want you.’

  Mary hung her head. It had come to this.

  The boy remained silent, so John Henry continued. ‘The woman who used to be your mother doesn’t want you. But we do. Stop crying now. You have a fine home, brothers and the chance of a bright future.’ He stood. ‘From now on, there’ll be no secret scheming, no running away. There’s no place for you to run where you’d be welcomed. This is where you live. George, Paul, you disappoint me.’

  He turned to Mary. ‘Tomorrow we’ll go to Starry Lake. Tell the nanny to pack their things, and the maid to arrange yours.’

  Mary rang the bell for Sula then sank onto the end of her bed, begging the thousand particles around her to cease their agitated, noisy swirling so she could think. She waved her hand in front of her eyes to clear a path. This wasn’t dust in the bright sunbeam, not a horde of mischievous tiny fairies, but her own mind come into the air, her anguish manifest. She wanted nothing to do with it.

  For her family to pass through this liminal moment to something better, Mary knew she had to be strong, to bury any hope of seeing Sonny again. She had to grieve in lonely secrecy, and rejoice in public. She would try. She’d tried every day since she’d claimed the boy, had endured complicated sadness and encouraged helpful delusions. It required constant vigilance.

  She’d learned to force pleasing thoughts into the foreground of her mind, had sung aloud, walked out of one room into another to escape melancholy or panic, picturing the unwelcome sensations as a pile of rubble left behind a slammed door. Still, terrible thoughts came at her when she was on the edge of sleep, then filled her nightmares.

  So what viciousness for Grace Mill to blurt out the one thing Mary and John Henry could never discuss: Sonny alive and abandoned. Even an instant with that thought was unbearable. And there, in the courthouse, with everyone else wanting the best for the Davenports and the boy, Grace Mill had said the unsayable.

  Mary snatched at clothes and threw them at Sula, annoyed the girl was packing the wrong things. She shouted at her, told her to leave, then demanded she return.

  Of course she’d doubted herself, her choice at the Birds’ house. But she’d been sure at the time. Hadn’t she? Sure enough to say yes, a word she’d spoken not only for herself but for her whole family.

  She’d trapped them. John Henry couldn’t continue to look for Sonny now they’d said he’d been found. The boys were forced to pretend the boy was their brother. But what if John Henry had failed to check in the one place Sonny was, had missed a clue or ignored a key letter? Here they were, living with a child who was not a reward or even a substitute, but a constant reminder of their terrible choice to take him.

  Surely she’d freed them, though, too. Because how could they have kept searching forever? John Henry, the boys, she wouldn’t have survived it.

  The one thought that brought Mary peace – the blackest of ironies – was that Sonny was dead. That was her solace: thinking her dear, sweet child was dead. Every alternative was horrifying.

  Mary forced her thoughts to Starry Lake and the ease she’d feel in those amiable and ordered rooms. The air would sound with tings of crystal and silver, piano music, harmonic murmurings. She’d be given champagne and Oysters Rockefeller, freshly cut lemon, on a polished tray. She’d stand on a candlelit porch, feel the breeze on her neck, pearls cool on her skin. And life – ineffable, overwhelming – would be made beautiful. Bearable.

  But, wait. With a shiver, and too weakened to block the thought, Mary remembered her last visit to the resort. Late October, dropped leaves in heaps beneath naked trees, a crisp, still night. She’d walked outside for a break from the chatter of the Governor’s Ball, stood on spongy, wet grass under a bloated moon. She’d breathed the alyssum-scented air, let her eyes rest on
a line of arches draped in clematis, then gazed out at the lake. The lake, sprinkled with sparkling reflections of the stars, so like the real thing. The same stars would be reflected in Half Moon Lake, and would be shining above the forest, her house, her Opelousas house, her father’s house, Arlington Grove, her sons.

  As Mary had looked up at the vast night sky, clouds had rushed in to shield the stars.

  The night turned on her. Whenever she’d had this feeling before, of the world revealing its consciousness, its ferocious aliveness, she’d been indoors and able to escape with a quick close of the drapes or change of room. But this time she was alone under the grey sky, surrounded by skeletal trees, and though she thought she’d only walked a dozen or so steps, the resort building seemed far away. A breeze had arrived, the sound of music replaced by agitated rustling – dried-up leaves and sticks. She’d watched a long-armed oak tree whack an upstairs window so insistently she was sure it was going to break the glass. With her eyes on the ground, she’d run back towards the building.

  At the door she’d glanced down at a patch of mud beside an azalea bush and had known, without question, she’d once felt mud between her toes. A clear memory of staring at her feet as they pistoned up and down, barefoot, relishing the squelch of wet mud pushing between the gap of her toes. But that was impossible.

  While Mary lay on her bed in Opelousas – now ignoring Sula as the girl packed her mistress’s morning gowns, afternoon dresses, walking dresses, evening dresses, skirts, blouses, corsets, petticoats, drawers, stockings, nightgowns, coats, as Sula placed shoes and hats in individual boxes, slid covers over Mary’s three silk-and-whalebone parasols, lined up jewellery for selection, brushes, ribbons and hair combs, toiletries – Grace screamed. So as not to wake Lily, Grace went into her Penny Farm bedroom, held the goose-feather-filled pillow to her face and screamed. Anna Beth closed the door with a gentle click, and the family sat around the kitchen table, talking quietly, letting grief flame as it must.

  Grace’s fingernails clawed then tore at the pillow covering. Her mouth left a wet ring and teeth marks. When her scream was spent, Grace threw the pillow away from her, knocking a painting off-kilter. What kind of people – Oh, but she knew. She’d known them all her life. She couldn’t remember a time when she hadn’t had to bite her tongue, deny her needs, placate insecure people who held power over her, when she hadn’t had to hide her strength and lower her eyes. Restraint. Passivity. She’d behaved as they’d told her to from the time she was a child: had been grateful, hadn’t fussed or taken more than she deserved. She’d laboured for a pittance, and known none of life’s ease, while others were born on a mountain of gold. And now her son – her son – stolen. Who would design a world of such cruel unfairness? Who had deemed Mary more important than Grace?

  PART FIVE

  THE TRAIL

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  John Henry’s first duty as Republican nominee for the mayoral race of Opelousas was to judge the 1916 Parish Spring Fair pie competition, held on the first of May. Wearing a cream-coloured suit and matching hat, he sauntered on the cut grass past a line of gingham-covered trestle tables, admiring the pies and chatting to the bakers. He was happy to stretch the afternoon out to show his lighter side.

  Mary walked behind him, congratulating each of the women, asking questions about their techniques and promising their secrets were safe with her. They knew that to be true, of course. Mary Davenport would never bake a pie. Her job today was to show she could conduct herself as a mayor’s wife. She’d dressed the part, wearing a fashionable but not ostentatious pale blue day dress with white piping, her raven hair swept up under a wide-brimmed straw hat.

  John Henry could see his wife had taken trouble with her appearance, though he wished she’d put more energy into her conversations. He was the judge of the contest, but food was a topic a woman should be able to discuss with enthusiasm. The fair provided an opportunity for Mary to shine, though it was obvious to John Henry that the local women didn’t like her. He worried they misread her reserve as superiority, and he supposed she still had work to do to vanquish the rumours that had spread during Sonny’s absence. It was work worth doing since these women bakers were envoys to voters. Even the single ones had brothers, fathers, uncles. He was aware of the men hovering about, too, watching them.

  ‘Rhubarb. That’s one of your favourites, isn’t it, Mrs Davenport?’ John Henry leaned towards the women closest to him. ‘My wife grew up eating rhubarb pie. But I won’t let that sway my judgement, I promise you.’ They laughed politely.

  Mary smiled but felt no joy. She felt only numb, again. Lately she’d worried she’d lost her footing in the world. She so often seemed to slide about, flailing, feeling for solid ground. There had been a time when she’d found it easy to traverse social occasions like the fair. She’d been comfortable with the rules, had grown up around them. Her words and actions had been second nature. But since the trial she’d lost her confidence. Sensing people’s uncertainty about her made her uncertain of herself: had she unknowingly said what she’d been thinking, had she not spoken when she thought she had, had she let her face betray her? Ordinary life had become problematic, perilous. And she had no idea how to explain this to John Henry. If she’d been able to speak truthfully with him, she’d have said she wanted to be at home, in their garden, to read her magazine stories and play with the kitten. Instead, she dressed and redressed for endless functions, worked to conduct herself properly, strived to refashion herself as the person she’d once so effortlessly been.

  And to pretend she cared whether he became mayor or not. Because what did it matter? She lived a lie neither of them spoke of, not even to one another. When they were alone, they discussed domestic matters (Mason should order more wine; the boys ought to begin tennis lessons; the new cook would serve turtle soup, crawfish étouffée or lobsters on rice, bread pudding with whiskey sauce, pralines afterwards at Saturday’s dinner party) and informed one another of events to be added to the calendar. Sometimes John Henry asked Mary to listen as he read aloud a speech he was writing. Or would ask her whether he should wear this coat or that. Mary knew about more than her husband realised, but they didn’t discuss the Republican woman in Montana running for a congressional seat. (So strange, and her chances of winning were laughable. If we can’t vote, we certainly can’t be voted in, Mary thought.) They didn’t discuss the Easter Rising in Ireland, the Germans’ relentless attacks on the British. She hid her copy of The Crisis magazine, kept because Mary was transfixed by the cover photograph of the comely white woman holding the black baby. She hid her growing collection of All-Story, Detective Story and Saucy Stories magazines. She wrapped Hop in paper and placed it in a sealed box under her bed.

  Mary smiled at her husband and the women bakers. ‘My goodness, the smell of these pies takes me back to my youth. There’s some kind of witchcraft at work here.’ She’d meant it as a joke but it fell flat, so she went for a more familiar sentiment. ‘I don’t know how you’ll ever choose a winner today. These pies all look like winners to me.’ John Henry beamed, relieved.

  After perusing the pie display, the Davenports wandered around the fair. John Henry shook hands and answered questions. Mary watched her three boys run towards the ice-cream stand. Most times, she found a way to push to a far corner of her mind the hurt that arose when she tried to laugh or play with them, as they clearly didn’t want her company. The silly faces of disapproval they made at one another that they thought she didn’t see. She was their mother, though, not a companion, she told herself, so of course they didn’t want to include her in their games. Or their secrets. And surely other children whispered, made clumsy attempts to hide nonsense nothings when their mother came near.

  Her husband’s stern words had at least put an end to what Mason, once, referred to as the boys’ ‘jailbreak’. John Henry told them Grace Mill had left town.

  When John Henry stopped to speak with yet another stranger, Mary scanned the fairground for
Esmeralda, as she did in every crowd. It had been hard for Mary to lose so many people in such a short space of time: Esmeralda, run off to who-knew-where; her father, not gone but refusing any contact with her (which, in truth, would not have bothered Mary except that a rift could reflect badly on John Henry); and Tom. She’d felt sadder than she could explain, had she anyone to explain it to, when she found out that Tom McCabe had married without inviting her to the wedding. She’d thought they were friends.

  But Mary knew her husband was right: life goes on. What other option did any of them have but to go on with it?

  Later in the day, once the winning pie had been announced, and ribbons for second and third prize placed on the tables, John Henry stood at the podium near the lucky-dip stall. He told the crowd he wouldn’t ruin this exceptional day with a speech, but he couldn’t let the moment pass without telling them how much their support would mean to him, and how tirelessly he would work to represent them.

  ‘I may be the most cost-effective mayor you’ve ever had – I’ll work for pie!’ Everyone laughed and clapped.

  Any outside observer would’ve said this was the year of the Davenports. Life was going their way: their son was returned and their legal troubles were behind them. The couple attended balls and banquets at the Starry Lake Resort, the theatre in New Orleans, and mixed with the best people. They sat in the front row of the Catholic church every Sunday at ten. John Henry drove a Pope-Hartford and his business was thriving. In March, he’d bought the Conroy mills and purchased revolutionary machinery to make the most of them, and had promoted Hank to manage a new factory for modern furniture that was already receiving glowing praise. John Henry had been able to make a sizeable donation to the Westwood Academy, where his sons now attended school. And the week before the fair he’d announced that, inspired by Carnegie’s philanthropy, he’d open a grand municipal library that would put Opelousas on the map. After this, the St. Landry Clarion declared that John Henry’s rival should throw in the towel. The mayoral election was Mr Davenport’s to lose.