by Julie Berry
You lift your head and search the room until you find me. I am here. I see you.
Reverend Frye thumps his cane against the floor like Moses striking the rock. The room is silenced. Five aldermen rise from the benches and take their seats on the platform. Their black robes rustle as they walk. They seem out of place in this late morning sunlight that streams through the south windows.
Horace Bron seizes your chair and turns it around to face the aldermen. He taps your cheeks to rouse you and make you look at the men.
Alderman Brown clears his throat.
“People of Roswell Station,” he begins in a voice made rusty with age, “we are here to examine disturbing charges.” He peers over the rim of his spectacles at you.
This provocative start to such a solemn occasion sends waves throughout the room.
“It was a shock to our village to learn that Ezra Whiting had not died years ago, as was believed, but was living in concealment nearby.”
Abijah Pratt’s jaw won’t stop grinding. He sits in the front pew, near the wall, his body angled so he can stare at you. His thick lower lip thrusts forward and back, and his gnarled hands grip the top of his walking stick.
Alderman Brown shuffles his papers. “It began to shed light on a number of tragedies our village has suffered. It also raised the question of who knew of his whereabouts, who concealed him, and who aided him in pillaging us.”
Mother’s face is unmoving.
Reverend Frye, seated with the panel, interjects, “Our defenses! Our children’s lives, their bodies, their purity!”
Alderman Brown’s mouth tightens. He doesn’t appreciate the interruption.
Strange how my body and its purity have become the town’s sacred possessions, yet they spare me no pity. It’s as if they were the ones wronged, not me.
Alderman Brown continues. “But to be sure of these charges, a party was sent across the river to locate Whiting’s home and see what proofs could be found. Not only did this party find Whiting’s home, but they found Whiting’s son there.”
Well. A rather slanted view of affairs. But factually accurate, all the same.
“He stands accused of willfully concealing Ezra during his lifetime, and assisting him in his crimes, which include theft, rapine, murder, torture, and dismemberment.
“William Salt. Will you state for the assembly here, what other items you found in Whiting’s cabin?”
The miller reads from a list. “Eight kegs and twelve cases of powder. Forty-two assorted pieces of loose arms. Household items: pots, knives, blankets, clothing, some male, some female. A dress”—here he holds up a rumpled and motheaten piece of brown wool—“belonging to the deceased, Charlotte Pratt.”
Charlotte. I never thought of Lottie as Charlotte.
I stare at the dress. I remember her wearing it. I remember her alive in it. I once envied its wide, round collar. Now it hangs like a dishrag, white lace yellowed with age. But something’s odd. That collar, that dress . . . Could my memory be muddled?
“Abijah Pratt, do you swear that this dress belonged to your daughter?”
Finally a use for his restless, wet lips. “I do. It was her mother’s. My wife sewed it herself before our crossing, when she died.”
Some of the older women in town nod their heads. They wouldn’t forget a piece of handiwork like that.
Alderman Brown continues. “Dr. Brands, will you describe for the assembly, the state of the body of Charlotte Pratt when it was found?”
Melvin Brands rises from his seat. “The deceased young woman’s body was badly bruised and waterlogged. It was unclear whether she drowned or was dead when she entered the river.”
I wonder whether Dr. Brands examined Lottie’s body in ways her father wouldn’t have sanctioned.
“And her state of dress?”
Dr. Brands lowers his voice. “She wore no clothes.”
A murmur passes through the congregation. For shame! Cunning exhibitionism. They all knew this already.
The murmurs and whispers in the congregation grow agitated. Alderman Brown bangs a gavel on the table before him.
“We have established beyond doubt that Ezra Whiting was the abductor and murderer of Charlotte Pratt.”
No.
I feel oddly removed from myself, like a sparrow lodged in the rafters, watching with one bright eye while my body stands here and my mind spins elsewhere.
But my mind, what little of it I can muster, doesn’t understand. Why beyond doubt? How does a dress remove doubt? It only adds to my doubt.
You twist your head from side to side, trying to look behind you. Are you looking for me, dear heart?
“Lucas Whiting,” Alderman Brown intones, and all the room falls still. “You are charged with concealing your father’s whereabouts, failing to report him when his crimes were known, and supporting him in activities that threatened our safety. How do you plead?”
It’s an effort for you to speak. “Innocent.” Your voice is tired. “I never knew where my father was.”
Abijah Pratt rises to his feet. “Who knows but what he didn’t assist his father in abducting my Lottie! Taken from me in the flower of her youth!” His voice breaks into racking sobs. His grief, so raw after all these years, moves the assembly. A woman to his left hands him a handkerchief.
That you were part of her disappearance and death! Can anyone support such madness?
Leon Cartwright stands with some difficulty. “Alderman Brown,” he says, “may I speak?”
Alderman Brown nods his head.
Leon wipes his forehead. “Gentlemen,” he begins, “I wish to speak for Lucas Whiting’s character. I can’t believe he would have helped abduct those girls. In all his years here he’s been an upstanding citizen and brother to us.”
You crane your neck around to catch a glimpse of Leon.
He goes on. “A hardworking farmer, a generous neighbor. He led the victory at the gorge that saved us all.” He clutches and releases the hem of his jacket. “We were both little more than lads when the girls went missing. I could never believe that of him.” He turns about and takes note of all the eyes watching him. “I guess that’s it.” He sits down heavily, and Maria weaves her arm through his.
“The victory at the gorge was won with Ezra Whiting’s help,” Reverend Frye says. “Who brought the father there, if not the son?”
No one speaks.
He points a finger at you. “Well, Mr. Whiting? Who brought your father to the battle?”
You say nothing. Oh, my heart. You say nothing.
Alderman Brown half rises from his seat and scans the congregation with his eyes. They rest upon me.
“Miss Judith Finch,” he calls. “Come forward.”
All heads turn to locate me, except yours. And Mother’s.
For a moment, I consider bolting out the door. But I’m too weak, too hungry and tired to get far before they’d overtake me.
I rise to my feet. Somehow they carry me past all those eyes to the front of the church until I’m right behind you. I can smell you. You need a bath. So do I.
Remember, I tell myself. Silence is my power. I fold my hands in front of me and look down at the floor.
“Miss Finch,” Alderman Brown says. “Was it Ezra Whiting who abducted you and cut out your tongue?”
I keep my hands folded and my eyes downcast.
“She can’t speak.” Goody Pruett’s voice makes everyone jump. I turn to look back. She’s so short that even when she rises, her head is barely above those around her. For a woman to speak unbidden in any assembly is forbidden, but Goody Pruett is old enough to defy them.
“She can so!” Abijah Pratt cries. “I heard her! Just the other night! Got spooked and called out, ‘Who’s there?’ She’s been posing as a mute when she ain’t! She says nothing now because she’s guilty!”
Abijah Pratt was the one in our yard? What was he doing there? What did he want? I remember his frightening words on Maria’s wedding day. Adultery, and
confession, and punishment . . .
I spared you twice.
The brown dress they found.
I look back at Abijah Pratt, and he turns away. Not far off I see short, stocky Mr. Robinson, and inwardly I apologize for suspecting him.
I look up at the aldermen, who sit staring at Abijah. “Guilty of what, Pratt?” one of them asks. “Miss Finch is not accused of anything.”
Abijah’s lower lip churns the air. He turns and points at my mother. “Ask her! Miz Finch! Didn’t you testify that when your girl went missing in the night, all those years back, there was no sign of anyone breaking in and taking her? That she would have had to leave the house on her own?”
I turn to watch. My mother does not acknowledge the question. Her face is a flint.
“That’s what she said back then,” Abijah says. “Which means the Finch girl went with Ezra of her own free will.”
I feel punched in the stomach.
“My Lottie was virtuous. Not a man-chaser.”
It’s almost comical. Virtuous Lottie, and man-chasing Judith.
I hear a shuffle of feet. “Excuse me,” says a voice I know too well. “If I may, I have some information that may be pertinent.”
I don’t turn to see. I don’t want to watch Rupert Gillis say whatever he’s about to.
“I fear that Lucas Whiting may indeed be falsely accused,” he begins in words as precise as penmanship. “I do not believe he knew his father’s whereabouts before the battle.”
Hope leaps in my breast. Could Rupert Gillis’s words ever be welcome to my ears?
“On the day of the battle with the homelanders, I saw Judith Finch approach Lucas Whiting and beckon him to come with her. He followed, by all appearance unwillingly, and she led him to Ezra Whiting.”
So smooth, his voice, like singing. Words pour from his lips like water.
“Of course I did not know Mr. Whiting Senior, by sight, but she led Lucas to the man who burned the homelander ships.”
“See?” Abijah Pratt hops from one foot to the other. “She’s in league with young Whiting!”
Rupert Gillis coughs lightly. “I beg pardon,” he says. “Lucas Whiting seemed entirely astonished to see his father. Like one seeing a ghost. To that I’ll swear.”
“So Lucas Whiting is innocent,” says a voice. Whose, I’m not sure. Others murmur their relief.
See, my love? You have some loyal friends after all.
You glance at me, and your eyes are full of worry.
“As to that,” Rupert goes on, clearly enjoying himself, “I do believe Lucas Whiting was ignorant of his father’s continued existence. But there is evidence to suggest that Lucas Whiting and Judith Finch are in a league of some sort.”
My flesh crawls at his precise, impenetrable words.
Rupert’s voice is muted, as the bearer of regrettable news. “I saw them, some weeks ago, lying together in the woods, wrapped in each other’s arms.”
Mrs. Robinson clamps her hands over her younger daughter’s ears.
Your bound arms strain against their ropes. “That’s a lie!”
I want to gag.
The room crackles with titillation.
He was there again, prying, watching? I knew the schoolmaster caught me running home from your house, but I can’t bear that he saw me lying with you in the woods. The lurking fiend! Has he nothing better to do with his time than haunt me?
Alderman Brown bangs his gavel. “Silence!”
An infant whimpers and claws at his mother’s breast.
“That’s a lie,” you repeat. Your voice holds the assurance of one who knows he’s falsely accused. “You slander both me and Miss Finch.”
“Look at her face and tell whether he does,” says one of the aldermen.
Too late, I turn my head away.
You take a deep breath to attack these charges, and then you pause.
Yes.
The blankets.
Now you know.
“What is more,” Rupert Gillis adds, his voice less restrained, “as for Miss Judith Finch’s character, just yesterday, during the students’ dinner break, she offered to come to my house last night.”
You stiffen in your seat.
“If I would pay her.”
Roswell Station has no more room for astonishment. They sit in silent dread of God’s judgment upon them for allowing me to remain in their midst. Mr. Robinson’s pale eyebrows stand out against his crimson face.
Your head hangs low. You look only at your lap.
Rupert Gillis’s throat is long, and white, and soft as cheese.
Please look at me, Lucas.
“That’s not true!” Darrel’s voice rings through the wagging tongues. “She was with me all during dinner break. She’s never spoken a word to Gillis! He’s the one that’s pestered her!”
I seek out his eyes. Thank you, Darrel. But the murmuring in the room shows no one believes a brother defending his sister’s honor.
They are not my concern. Lucas, look in my eyes and see the truth.
I am accused more by you not looking at me than by them glaring. My guilt was firm in their minds the moment my name was called, the moment my tongue was cut. But you might have believed in me.
“Judith Finch,” says Alderman Brown’s voice from miles away. “Do you have anything to say?”
I see the sun in the highest curve of the church’s tall, arched window. Such a bright, clear day. So radiant, this whitewashed room at midday.
Do I have anything to say?
Only to you.
“Judith Finch,” he repeats. “Not only are you now charged with all that Lucas Whiting faced, but you are also charged with fornication and whoredom. How do you plead?”
My mother’s face leaps out from the crowd at me. Her eyes are closed. She is so still, she might almost be asleep.
My defiance annoys them, but the aldermen will not show it with all the village watching.
“Lucas Whiting,” says Alderman Brown, “if you were unaware of your father’s whereabouts, how did you find his cabin last night?”
“My father’s mare led me to it.” The aldermen must lean over their table in order to hear you.
“The horse Judith Finch had brought back from the battle?”
You will not answer this. It doesn’t matter. No one doubts who Phantom is.
The aldermen confer among themselves for a long moment. There is no sound but the shuffling of feet against wood. I watch William Salt bounce up and down on his heels, eyeing me sideways. Go on, tell them you saw me trying to free Lucas last night. But he doesn’t. He doesn’t want to admit that he couldn’t capture a girl.
The aldermen finish their deliberations. “It appears, Lucas Whiting,” Alderman Brown says, “that you were as ignorant of your father’s existence as we were. Therefore the charges of conspiring and concealing him are dropped. However, you stand accused of fornication with Judith Finch. The mute girl. How do you plead?”
The aldermen scowl collectively at the assembly. Someone is chuckling, low.
You’re unsure of what to say. No one would believe you against Gillis’s testimony.
The gavel bangs. “Since you have both refused to answer the charges brought against you, your guilt must be inferred, and your punishment dealt. For fornication you will both spend three hours in the pillory, after which you will be brought to prison. In the morning, Lucas Whiting will be released. Judith Finch, for concealing Ezra Whiting from us, and the knowledge that he had raided the arsenal before destroying it, you are charged with treason and treachery. You are also accused of whoredom. Your sentence will come in the morning.”
The village rises to its feet to the sound of scattered applause and whispers.
Horace Bron’s heavy hands are stronger than chains around my wrist. He looks as if he wishes someone else had his bailiff’s duties at this moment.
He leads me down the aisle. Schoolboys jeer and insult me, and their parents do not stop them. Mother looks
away when I pass. Mrs. Robinson shoots hateful darts my way. I can’t shake the sight of Abijah Pratt’s malevolent eyes. I turn back for a last sight of you in your chair, but the crowd spilling from its seats has swallowed you up.
II.
With a heavy hand against the back of my head, Horace pushes me into the pillory. My wrists lie in two grooves in the wood, my neck in the larger center groove, and the upper board drops into place. My feet stand upon the platform, but my back bends awkwardly. At least it’s a warm day for November, with the sun at its peak in the sky.
If I raise my head I can see the green, the church, the school, the streets and houses. Tall evergreens rim the village, and naked trees whose yellow-brown leaves lie underfoot. Two hundred or so villagers, with children weaving in between their knees, huddle in conversation.
About me.
I let my head drop. The gray boards of the platform fill my vision. The wood beneath my neck constricts my breathing; when I lift my head my back protests.
Horace Bron goes back into the church and returns moments later with you on a lead like a colt. Your face is haggard, unshaven, and bruised. Look at me, Lucas, but don’t see me this way, strung up like a carcass.
You do look at me. Until they stuff you into holes like mine, you look at me, but what is in your eyes, I cannot tell. The upper slab falls down upon you. And now the thick mast that supports the double pillory stands between us. We’re feet apart but we can’t see each other. Only the town can see us, pinned here like hunting trophies.
My wrists grow sore already, and I’ve only been here a quarter of an hour.
Caleb Wills, Dougal’s lanky little brother, grows daring. He scoops up a handful of mud and flings it at me. It splatters on the boards next to me, sprinkling my face. Caleb waits for someone to restrain him, then gleefully scoops another ball. This time his aim is better.
It is some time before I can open my eyes.
I hear the boys’ whoops as they run off. I know they’ll be back.
They return with handfuls of compost. Cabbages and peppers grown weepy with rot. I can smell them before they throw them at me. Foul, corrupted apples and potatoes, still hard enough to sting on impact. Nor are you spared.
They pelt us while their parents gaze on.
