by Rodney Jones
I had arrived at the bank a few minutes before it opened. The moment the front door was unlocked, I entered, stepped up to a teller window, and asked to see Mr. Walker.
A tall skinny guy wearing a plaid vest and black bowtie directed me to a back room. “Have a seat.” He pointed at a chair. “He’ll be right with you.”
I sat before the massive wooden desk. Sunlight from a tall arched window fell across the top, lighting a stack of papers held down by a glass dome the size of my fist. The paperweight contained an intricate geometric pattern of flower-like forms and tiny stars of every color in the rainbow. I reached out and gently tilted the thing for a better look.
“Ain’t that the purdiest thing you ever saw?”
I jumped. A round-faced man with bizarre-looking sideburns, which hooked across his cheeks and connected to his mustache, had stepped in through the door behind me.
“A gift from the missus,” he said, stepping around to the other side of the desk and taking a seat. “I’m Mr. Walker.” He smiled. “What can we do for you, Miss…?”
“Fletcher.” I handed him a bar of silver and explained that I wanted to open an account. I told him I wanted a dollar thirty per ounce for the silver—five percent below the current value.
He examined the bar, peering at it through his thick wire-rimmed glasses. Then he shook his head. “I’m sorry, Miss Fletcher, but we can’t trade in raw metals like this. It’d have to be certified quality silver, ninety-six percent or better, before we’d consider any kind of exchange.” He studied the stamping on the bar—just a simple logo, along with the weight and purity. “Where’d you get this?”
“I bought it.”
He glanced at me from over the top of his glasses. “I hope you didn’t pay much. My guess is that it was originally a pair of candle holders, likely sterling, ninety-two percent, at best. The rascal who poured it might’ve dumped a bit of lead and nickel in there, too. You just never can know.”
“It’s ninety-nine point nine percent pure,” I said.
“Oh, like it says here?” He indicated the stamp. “Well, Miss Fletcher, we could have it checked at the jewelry shop up the street, but Mr. Wrigley will want a half-dollar for his services. I don’t think you want to waste any more of your money.”
I took the bar to Wrigley Jewelers and then, an hour later, returned to the bank with a signed assessment of “100% pure.” I handed the evaluation to Mr. Walker.
He looked it over and rubbed his chin. “Huh. Well… all right, fair enough. Let’s get you set up with an account. A dollar thirty times”—he looked at the note from the jeweler—“fifty ounces exactly. Now that there makes for a handsome savings account, Miss Fletcher.”
“Sixty-five dollars per bar.”
He gave me a puzzled look. “You have more than one?”
“I have forty with me, and another sixty-four coming later.”
He straightened. “Same as this?”
I nodded. “Precisely like that.”
Mr. Walker’s jaw dropped.
When the teller asked how I wanted the fifty in cash, I told him coins. I wound up with several five-dollar gold coins, each about the size of a nickel, a couple of silver dollars, some half-dollars, quarters, dimes, nickels, pennies—the guy even included a few two- and three-cent coins.
“Would you like a poke for that, Miss Fletcher?”
“Do what?”
“Something to carry it in?”
“Oh, no. I’ve got pockets.”
I kept underestimating the weight of money. I left the bank, gripping the waistband of my pants on both sides. I quickly transferred most of the coins to a saddlebag then walked to the bakery and bought a pastry and a butternut cookie. I spent a whopping two cents.
As Victoria trotted down the road, the change jingled in my bags, giving my confidence a boost. Between Clarendon and Wallingford, I encountered maybe a dozen people. I stopped and chatted with a few, further refining my story—who I was, where I was from. I’d often get questions about Victoria, or my saddle and tack, which apparently showed details of workmanship not available in 1875. I improvised a story about a master craftsman from Spain who’d set up shop in Boston. “Antonio Banderas,” I said, which seemed to satisfy them.
During my last meeting with Abigail, I had shared my strategy for bringing Sheriff McNeil to justice, which I had altered to include the upcoming barn dance in Weston and an encounter with Hugh Stewart.
She didn’t exhibit as much confidence as I would’ve preferred. “Do you know what he looks like?”
“Does he have like a round face with a short chin and kind of puffy eyes, like his girlfriend popped him one?” I threw out my fist to demonstrate. “Ka-wham-o.”
“Uh.” She appeared uncertain.
“I hope he remembers me.”
“I can’t imagine he’d ever forget you.”
“Was I that bad?”
Abigail smiled and shook her head. “You’ll be passing through Greendale, you know. Be careful. Other than Mrs. Paulson, I’m not sure who you can trust there. But you really ought to stop and see her if you can. She is such a gracious lady.”
“I’ll try.”
“I’ve heard she’s living in her barn.” Her eyes dropped to her hands.
“Oh, that’s awful.”
“Just tell her your concerns. She’ll understand.”
I didn’t say so, but I was worried that John’s aunt might be harboring bad feelings toward me.
I stopped on the mountain ridge above Greendale, checked on my stash of silver, then replaced the stones I’d previously removed from my grave. As I set the last rocks in place, I thought about the butterfly effect and how my doing one thing versus another could be altering the course of history in unimaginable ways. I wondered if my going to the dance tonight and seeing Hugh Stewart would have repercussions for the future and considered whether or not he was really that important to my plan. At first, I’d thought he was, but as the hour grew near, doubts began sneaking in. He was just one tiny piece of the plan, I’d tell myself, an insignificant detail—but then maybe not. My second-guessing myself, losing my nerve, backing down an inch, changing horses in midstream or whatever, could mean the difference between life and death.
“Okay, okay. Come on, Vicky. Let’s go to a dance.”
About an hour later, I came upon the charred ruins of Greendale: four burned-out cavities along the river and a couple to the right of the road. Three kids were playing a game of keep-away with a knotted rag. A dog darted back and forth, barking at whoever happened to be in possession of the rag.
One of the children, a boy in a filthy long-sleeved shirt, the usual short pants, and suspenders, started toward me. Seeing what he was up to, the other two, a boy and a young girl, looking every bit as grubby, took off after him, yelping and hooting.
I pulled on Victoria’s reins. “Whoa.”
Off to the right side of the road, partially hidden by a tall, singed maple, was a house—the only one to have survived the fire, apparently. Beneath the limbs of the tree, seated in chairs, on barrels, and on rocks and stumps, was a gathering of a dozen adults, each with a fork in hand and a plate of food. Their forks were paused as they gawked at the stranger on the horse—me.
The yelping kids were nearly upon me when someone yelled, “Albert, James, Luella, get over here before I whoop your behinds.”
The three kids slid to a stop and peered up at me.
“Hi,” I said.
“Hi.” From the mystified look on the boy’s face, I could only assume he’d expected someone else.
The lady who’d yelled at the kids got to her feet, set her plate down behind her, then started toward me. Her long gray hair hung loose and snarly past her shoulders. She bore the craggy face of a witch—angry wrinkles, eyes that may have never witnessed anything to smile about, and perha
ps a heart with little regard for humor. “What’d I say, Albert?” she snapped. “Get back here, all of you. Now.”
“Yes, ma’am,” the boy said as he ran off toward the house with his playmates in tow.
I raised my hand and greeted her with a well-practiced “Howdy do.”
The lady stopped and studied me as though I might be the missing ingredient for her stew. “That’s some fancy mare ya got there. Where ya from?”
“Springfield. My name’s Charlotte Fletcher, ma’am.” I clamped my knees to Victoria to stop them from shaking.
“Charlotte?” She squinted up at me. “Oh, my Lord, I thought… That’s a right pretty name. You’re a good ways from home, ain’t ya?”
I shrugged. “I’m looking for Lil Paulson. Do you know where I might find her?”
She turned and glanced behind her. “She ain’t here.”
I followed her gaze toward the crowd. Six pairs of eyes shifted away. “She lives nearby, doesn’t she?”
“Where is it ya said you was from?”
“Originally Connecticut, ma’am, but my family moved to Springfield a few years back.” I pointed in the direction I thought Springfield would be.
“You kin of Lil’s?”
I was too young to be a friend of Lil’s, and if I admitted to knowing John, she might put two and two together. “I’m her cousin Harriet’s daughter,” I said.
“Ah, yes.” She nodded. “Ya wanna hitch your horse a-yonder? We’re just finishing up supper here—chicken and dumplin’s. There’s a little left, if I ain’t mistaken.” She tipped her head to the side. “You’re more than welcome to join us.”
“Uh, well—”
“Mighty long way to come, only to turn shy once you git there.”
“Oh, okay.” I directed Victoria to a hitch near the barn, dismounted, and removed my daypack. My hands shook as I hung it over the saddle horn and continued shaking as I wrapped and tied the reins around the post.
If all went as planned, the people under that tree would soon be my neighbors. I needed their trust and respect, which I suspected might not come easy since every other word I spoke was a lie.
I approached the group and greeted everyone with smile. Several nodded, and some acknowledged me by raising their fingers to the tips of their hats. No one showed any sign of recognizing me. I didn’t know what I’d do if they did, other than lie like a devil and pray like a saint.
An old man stood with a plate in his left hand, his right extended toward me. “Heming… George Heming.”
I placed my hand in his, daintily, the way I’d seen other women shake hands in town. “Nice to meet you, sir. Charlotte Fletcher.” A bead of sweat ran down my side.
“Fine-looking mare you’ve got yourself.” He tipped his head toward Victoria. “She a good ride?”
Victoria had her head down, her black tail swishing from side to side, shooing flies. “She is,” I said.
“A Morgan?”
“Haflinger,” I said.
“Half of what?”
“Haf-lin-ger.”
He turned to a guy in his early twenties. “Zach, you ever hear of such?”
Zack stared toward my horse. “She’s too squat for a Morgan.”
“She’s a Haflinger,” I repeated.
Mr. Heming gave me a puzzled look then shrugged. “This here, by the way, is my oldest, Zach, and my daughter, Martha.” He tipped his head toward an awkward-looking girl then pointed at a plain young woman with a brown braid looped and pinned to the back of her head, like a crown about to slip off. “And Polly,” he said. “I’ll let the rest of ’em introduce themselves, if need be.” Polly glanced up at me—her dress dirty with soot, the same as the others.
A lady in a grimy green dress, her white hair tied atop her head, shuffled toward me. She, too, scrutinized me as though I might be part duck and part rutabaga. “Rose tells me ya ain’t had no supper yet.”
“Uh, no, I guess I—”
“Well, come on in the kitchen, hon. We’ll git ya fixed up with a plate of Aunt Fanny’s chicken ’n’ dumplin’s.”
I followed her inside, and a few minutes later, I returned to the crowd with a plate full of food. Zach gave up the seat next to his sister, Martha, who I’d guessed was my age, then wandered off with his father toward the charred home on the other side of the barn.
Avoiding my eyes, Martha said, “It’s a pretty horse.”
I chewed on a chunk of gravy-soaked dumpling. “Thank you. This is really yummy.”
She gave me a quick smile. “You traveling alone?”
“Yeah, I was visiting a friend in Rutland, but I’m on my way home now. I was hoping to say hi to my mom’s cousin Lil. Is she around?”
“Oh.” Martha hesitated. “She left this last Saturday for Woodstock.” She glanced behind her. “Surely you’ve heard the news.”
“Her nephew?”
“It’s just awful, isn’t it?”
“Hmm…” I nodded. “Did he do it?”
Her eyebrows squeezed together, forming an M of crinkled flesh between them. “He’d be the last person on this earth. I plain can’t figure the Stewarts, why they’re so dead set on his guilt.”
I scanned the faces of the few people remaining around us. “Are they here?”
“No. Do you know them?”
“Oh, no,” I said. “Do you know the Blisses in Weston?”
Her eyebrows arched upward. “I do.”
“I promised I’d look them up if I was ever this way, but I’m not sure how to find them.”
“Well, it just so happens they’re having a dancin’ tonight.”
“Oh? Really? A Friday night?”
“Isn’t it most peculiar?”
I nodded. “Very.”
“I heard that Mr. Stewart arranged the whole thing. He’s the pastor. They’re all related, you know, through his wife. His son, Hugh, is gonna court his niece, is what I hear.” She lifted her shoulders. “I suspect it’s all about that.”
“His niece?”
“The pastor’s niece, Zella Shaw.”
“They’re cousins?”
“Yeah.”
“And where do they live?”
“The Stewarts?”
“The Blisses.”
“Oh.” She shook her head and rolled her eyes. “It’s the farm with the three big sugar maples out front, a little ways up Moses Pond Road, on the left.”
“Is everyone going?”
“Oh, no.” She lowered her voice. “No one has said the first word about going. Most are surprised they’re even havin’ the dancin’, given all we’ve been through here. It strikes some as disrespectful, as you might imagine.”
After eating, Martha strolled around the ruins of the village with me, pointing out who lived where. She informed me that her neighbors, the Jacksons, were already talking about selling their land for whatever they could get and moving west, perhaps to Ohio or Indiana.
“Some,” she said, “have sided with the pastor in his belief that we’re being punished for allowing immorality to fester within the community. That’s how he put it. He claims the land here is now cursed.”
She explained that, days before the fire, neighbors were whispering about the strange girl who’d appeared in town. No one could agree on who she was, where she’d come from, or even what she looked like. But most everyone agreed that her fate was unjustified.
As we walked along the river, I asked Martha about the small barn on the other side of the road. An open lean-to was attached to the side facing us, and an old-fashioned cook stove stood near the rear of it. Wooden crates, rusty tin cans, barrels, and other junk were stacked up against the side of the barn. A horse, two cows, and a few other farm animals were fenced in behind it.
“Oh, that’s Mrs. Paulson’s place,” she said.
“Zach and Polly’ve been minding the animals while she’s gone.”
“She’s been living there?”
“She was offered a bed in town, but she didn’t want to leave, this being her home for half her life.”
Just before the sun slipped behind the mountaintop, I mounted up and headed into Weston. I stopped at the inn on the north end of town, a short ways up the road from the Farrar-Mansur house, where it seemed this craziness had started. After securing a room, I told the proprietor, Mr. Bellwether, that I’d be attending the dance at the Bliss farm and would be back in a couple hours. The proprietor—who I wanted to call Gandalf because he just looked like the wizard—seemed like a nice guy. He told me a joke, and I laughed though it really wasn’t funny. Then he gave me directions to the farm and wished me a good time.
As I rode up Lawrence Hill Road, I whispered, “It’s just a dance, just a dance.”
I pulled up to a white two-story colonial. Wagons, buggies, and several saddled horses were parked around the barn. The sun had set an hour before, leaving a touch of green, yellow, and pink showing along the ridge to the west. The moon was not up yet. A small group of men and women—appearing as dark silhouettes from where I stood—loitered around a fire about fifty feet from the north side of the barn. I heard a fiddle squawking and the dull thumps of stomping feet accompanied by hoots and hollers and whistles, along with the muffled chanting of someone calling the dance.
My heart sped up. Up to that point, my plan had seemed mostly reasonable—all very simple, no problem, safely hypothetical. But I was about to go on stage, and if my performance wasn’t convincing… “Jesus.” I sucked in a deep breath. No one is expecting you, Tess. Just get in there, do it, and get out before they know what hit them.
I dismounted and walked Victoria around to the far side of the house, where we’d be hidden in darkness. I removed the dirty, blood-stained dress from my saddlebag and slipped it on over my shirt and pants. Before leaving the inn, I’d applied some makeup—enough to give me a kind of dead, anemic look—and mussed up my hair.
