The View from Prince Street

by Mary Ellen Taylor

  “Exchange papers,” I said, ignoring his comment.

  “What?” Debra asked.

  “You tell Samuel your darkest secret, and he’ll tell you his. If you love each other, then you should be able to know the worst and still find acceptance. Long-term relationships require that kind of trust.”

  Neither moved, and a heavy silence settled between them as they exchanged nervous glances until Samuel asked, “What does the past have to do with now? Today is what matters.”

  “The past isn’t separate. It’s part of us,” I said.

  Debra glanced at Samuel, her grin uneasy. Neither budged. “I have to agree with Samuel. We accept each other for who we are now. The past is over and done. Neither one of us wants to dredge up or catalogue yesterday’s news.”

  A grandfather clock in the hallway chimed ten times, indicating our session was over. “When you two can exchange papers, then call me for another session. Otherwise you’re wasting your time and mine.”

  Samuel shoved his paper in his pocket. “We didn’t come here to create a problem where there is none. All we want is a confirmation that we’re a good couple.”

  Arching a brow, I studied him, not with anger or frustration, but with mild interest. “If you’re looking for a yes or a no regarding your relationship, I would have to say, given the current conditions, that my answer would be no.”

  “What?” Samuel asked. “That’s absurd.”

  “I would wager you’ve done more due diligence on prospective corporate mergers than this marriage,” I replied.

  “No?” Debra nearly shouted, glancing at Samuel. “We paid one hundred and fifty dollars for a no?”

  Staring her down, I replied, “You paid for my opinion. I’ve given it.”

  Debra rose, straightening to her full five feet five inches. “We get a lousy no, because we don’t want to open the past? Our future does not earn a no!”

  “I won’t give you a patronizing yes. Past, present, and future are links in a chain. For a chain to hold, all the links must be strong. You can’t simply pick and choose.” I traced the face of the simple wristwatch nestled next to the pearls. “There’s also the fact that Debra didn’t check the box for children on the questionnaire.”

  She turned a bit red-faced. “I missed it. Give me the form and I’ll check it now.”

  “Not until you exchange pages.” I looked at my watch. “Now you must excuse me. I have another appointment.”

  Samuel stood, wrapping a protective arm around Debra. “This was a waste of time. A waste of money.”

  “I disagree,” I said. “I have saved you the cost of an expensive wedding and a more expensive divorce. The one hundred and fifty dollars was well worth it to you.”

  “But we love each other,” Debra said. “That must count.”

  “You’ve been dating three months,” I pointed out. “Yes, you have an affection, but what both of you are feeling is sexual attraction. It’ll fade in less than a year. And then you’ll be left with each other. If the foundation is not solid and the goals are not in alignment, the marriage won’t survive.”

  “This is ridiculous,” she said.

  The front doorbell chimed. “That’s my next appointment.”

  Samuel shook his head. “I’m telling everyone who’ll listen that you’re a fraud.”

  Slowly, I turned back toward him. As a family practice psychologist, I was accustomed to dealing with raw nerves, tears, and anger. This couple’s determined need for my approval was the first red flag. Debra’s worried expression and Samuel’s ire were the next. My approval was an excuse for a deeper reason. “Show Debra the paper in your pocket.”

  His eyes narrowed. He was now opposing counsel, and in his mind’s eye, we were facing each other across the negotiating table. “Fine. I will.” He dug the crumpled piece of paper out of his pocket and handed it to Debra. “Go ahead, read it.”

  She lifted a chin. “I don’t need to read it. I trust him.”

  Whereas he took her words as an act of faith, I saw it for what it was: a diversion. The front doorbell rang again. “Return when you both agree to exchange papers in front of me.”

  The couple looked at each other, but Debra did not look at his paper or share her secret. Samuel’s face lost some of its ire. Instead, he took Debra by the arm and exited through the pocket doors.

  As they marched down the center hallway toward the wide front door, I followed.

  My house was a two-story built in the Federal style and fashioned of red Virginia clay brick. The first floor had four large rooms divided by a wide center hallway that stretched from the front door all the way to the back into a thirty-year-old addition that housed a recently updated kitchen. My office and a dining room occupied the east side, and on the west there was a parlor and a small room where I sometimes watched television or read. Upstairs were four bedrooms and two bathrooms. I used the smallest bedroom, the one that had been mine as a child, because it caught the morning sunlight. After my mother died, I had her room and bathroom updated but had never gotten around to moving into the larger space.

  “You aren’t being fair,” Debra argued. “Not everyone comes into relationships with crippling secrets.”

  “I agree. But for those who do, those secrets, like the tiny seeds of a cancer, grow freely until one day they destroy your life.”

  “That sounds more like personal experience,” Samuel jabbed.

  “That’s not relevant.”

  “So, this is about you?” he countered.

  “No. It’s about you and Debra.”

  As Samuel reached for the front door he turned, his mouth in a grim line. “I suppose you’ve written your darkest secret and shared it with your partner?”

  “I have no partner,” I said.

  His lips curled into a snide snarl. “Because you won’t practice what you preach?”

  I was engaged six years ago and we were given this same exercise. He was happy to discuss what he considered the worst of his past. I, however, sat for a long moment, pencil gripped in my hand, unable to write the first sentence.

  In the end, I couldn’t do it. Recording my past mistake made the boy’s existence far too tangible, and far too threatening. The weight of it grew as we sat in the minister’s office.

  I’d carried this secret for so long, but the additional weight of that single sheet of paper was the straw that broke the camel’s back. I couldn’t share my past with my fiancé for fear that the sharing would resurrect the pain. Within a couple of months, my fiancé and I broke up.

  If there were ever proof positive of the past’s power, that moment was it.

  The doorbell rang again. “I must meet my next appointment.”

  “‘Heart of stone’ sums it up,” Samuel said.

  My well-practiced smile was polite and restrained as I opened the door. “Thank you for visiting today.”

  Hands clasped tightly, the couple stormed out of the front door over the damp slate walkway toward a late-model black Volvo sedan parked in the driveway.

  Without another look in their direction, I shifted my attention to my ten o’clock appointment. Addie Morgan and Margaret McCrae, owners of Shire Architectural Salvage Company, were the contractors who removed my stones six weeks ago. Addie was petite with brown curly hair that graced slim shoulders, and she favored collared short-sleeved shirts and crisp navy shorts that skimmed the top of her knees. Addie’s notable trait wasn’t her professional demeanor but the infant pack strapped to the front of her chest. Tucked inside was her niece, Carrie, now eight weeks old.

  Beside her was Margaret McCrae, a vibrant redhead who barreled through life with no trepidation. She wore her hair in a loose topknot, along with a green T-shirt that read Well-Behaved Women Rarely Make History, faded jeans, and worn leather sandals.

  After Addie and Margaret hauled away the s
tones, I followed their company’s news and learned they were making a name for themselves in the salvage business. From what I gleaned, Addie was saving her family’s business from the brink of ruin.

  Margaret now worked full time with the salvage company but still maintained close ties to the archaeology center. From what I gathered, she had a Ph.D. in history and was a well-qualified expert in local Alexandria history.

  Whereas I sensed a calm, steady energy around Addie, the opposite was true of Margaret. Energy sparked when she entered a room. She was oblivious to it.

  “Ms. Morgan and Ms. McCrae.”

  “Please call us Addie and Margaret,” Ms. Morgan said. “Safe to say you can tell by looking at us that we’re informal.”

  “Please come inside.” Despite Addie’s offer to use first names, I rarely did. The formal address maintained a comfortable distance.

  “Thanks for seeing us,” Margaret said.

  Both women wiped their feet on the doormat and entered.

  To my great relief, the baby made a small sucking sound but otherwise was content to sleep. The idea of hearing a baby wailing today was not ideal.

  “I read about you in the paper,” Margaret said. “I knew you were a psychologist but didn’t know you were a matchmaker. I didn’t think matchmakers, other than on cable television, were real.”

  “I’m not a matchmaker. I’m a trained clinical psychologist.”

  “Right. I get it. How did the reporter find you?” she pressed.

  “She had a friend of a friend whom I assisted with several sessions.”

  “The article said this client and several others found love thanks to you.”

  “Not thanks to me. To themselves.”

  “That ‘heart of stone’ headline was below the belt,” Margaret said. “What was the deal with the writer? Did she have an ax to grind?”

  Addie cleared her throat. “We didn’t come here to talk about the article, Margaret. What was it you wanted to ask Dr. McDonald?”

  “Oh, right. Sorry about that, Rae. We have a bigger purpose.”

  Addie absently patted the baby’s back. “Dr. McDonald, Margaret did some reading on your house after we dismantled the stone hearth. You remember the bottle we found.”

  “Dirty, brown bottle from what I recall.”

  “A witch bottle,” Margaret reiterated.

  “Ah, yes, of course. Please come into my office.”

  Once the women were settled on a Queen Anne sofa, I took a seat on a Chippendale chair across from them. Addie leaned back in her seat, gently rubbing the baby’s back while Margaret sat forward, her body a coiled spring. Bracelets rattled as she tucked a stray curl behind an ear festooned with three hoop earrings. “This witch bottle is an incredible find.”

  Though politeness dictated that I offer them coffee, I wasn’t in the mood to extend the visit. “Again, what exactly is a witch bottle?”

  “Protection spells,” Margaret said without hesitation. She scooted closer to the edge of her seat, as if nerves, electrified with excitement, would not allow her to relax. “They were created hundreds of years ago by people who feared black magic. They were designed to ward off a witch’s spells and evil curses. They were typically made of wine bottles, filled with all kinds of sharp objects.”

  “Why sharp?”

  “To cut or slice into the magic.”

  “Of course.” How had I found myself here listening to such an inane explanation?

  A sly smile tugged at the corner of Margaret’s lips. She had read each of my thoughts. “I try not to judge the past by today’s standards. I report the facts, Rae.”

  “Rae. No one has called me Rae in years. Always Dr. McDonald.”

  “Right,” Margaret said. “Basically, the bottles were buried by the home’s front door or by the hearth, both considered open portals through which evil could enter. One of the bottles we found belonged to Addie’s family. Sarah Shire Goodwin buried that one. Patience McDonald buried the one we found on your property, and Imogen Smyth made the one we found on the Prince Street property. All three women lived in Alexandria around 1750.”

  Margaret wore her love of history on her like a Girl Scout merit badge. “Judging by the tone of your voice, you consider this a remarkable find,” I said.

  “You have no idea how amazing it is to find three intact bottles,” Margaret said. “Before I found the Alexandria bottles, only one has been found in such remarkable condition. That one is in a museum in Maryland.”

  “And now you have three.”

  “Two remain intact.” She nodded toward Addie, her brow raised.

  Addie absorbed Margaret’s excitement and maintained a steady demeanor, regardless of the storms around her. “The Goodwin bottle fell and broke. My bad.” She held up a hand. “We’ve had this discussion a million times. Baby Carrie was weeks old and I wasn’t sleeping much. My nerves were frayed. End of story.”

  “It’s a shame the bottle broke,” Margaret said. “But it gave me a chance to study the contents. Four nails, a lock of hair, a penny, and what must have been herbs.”

  The grandfather clock ticked in the hallway. “Why are you here, ladies? I appreciate your passion for these bottles, but what do they have to do with me? As I remember, I gave my bottle to you.”

  Margaret looked at her associate and drew in a breath, wrangling her excitement. “You’re one of the families who could be considered original settlers of Alexandria. And one of a handful who has continuous ownership of the same land, although a much smaller plot now.”

  “That’s correct,” I said. “For good or bad, we’ve been rooted to this land.”

  Margaret looked beyond the window to the barren patch of earth. “When we were removing the hearth, you mentioned you have lots of family papers.”

  “I’ve a collection of boxes that hold many papers and letters kept over the generations, but I haven’t paid much attention to the family’s past other than what my mother told me as a child.” My association of pain and the past created a general dislike of it. Unearth one part of it and you get the whole lot.

  “I remembered you saying you had letters dating back to the eighteenth century.”

  “And I believe I shared information from the family Bible that helped you with some puzzle you were deciphering.”

  “And I do appreciate those,” Margaret said, “I do. It was a huge help.” Her foot tapped before she stilled it. “But I would love to have all the papers and build a full picture of the three women who made these bottles hundreds of years ago. I think any documentation you have may shed a great deal of light on the lives of these women.”

  “Why do you care about these women and their past?”

  Margaret’s eyes widened, and then blinked. Her mind did not compute such a question. “Why wouldn’t I care?”

  For Margaret, the past was a curiosity to be studied and admired. From my prospective, it was a billowy, dark place filled with demons lurking in the shadows. To tug at one brick threatened the structural integrity of the entire firewall I had built around my heart. “Why does this matter? These women are long gone.”

  “History matters, Rae. You’ve heard the old saying that those who do not study history are doomed to repeat its mistakes.”

  Though I never looked back, I would also never repeat my mistakes. I would never lay one of my children in another woman’s arms again if the price were a life of solitude. “What kind of mistakes are we talking about? These women feared witches and curses. I don’t think you or I are in danger of repeating that kind of mistake.”

  “I have read every document I could find about the Goodwins, McDonalds, and Smyths, and though I have enough historical facts and figures that give me a general look at their lives, I have no information that tells me who they were as people. That’s what I’m hoping the papers will reveal.”

 
“Again, why does it matter?”

  Margaret looked at Addie, searching for a better way to put forth her argument. “What am I missing here?”

  Addie laid her hand on Margaret’s arm. “Since I’m now raising Carrie, I’m far more aware of the past and how it affects us both. Our history is intertwined. I know you don’t have children, Dr. McDonald, but one day you might, and perhaps then you may find Margaret’s research has a great deal of value.”

  I did have a child—or at least I had for the hours I held him. Suddenly the wall dividing past from present shifted as the ground beneath it shuddered. I didn’t care about the past. It could wither in the darkness for all I cared. But the boy could have a very different view of his biological heritage. He might care.

  “What would you do with any information you discover? I have no wish to dig up dirt on your family history.”

  Margaret leaned forward, trying to close the deal. She’d captured the scent of a fox she chased and the kill was close. “Of course I would give you the final approval on what is released to the public.”

  Tugging at a speck of lint on my skirt, I wondered if the boy ever thought about his biological past. “So if you find a fascinating bit of information that I do not want publicly discussed, you would honor my request?”

  “Yes, completely.”

  That might be acceptable. Thanks to my mother arranging all the documents into protective boxes when I was a child, they were preserved. My aversion aside, it made logical sense to inventory the boxes. Especially for the boy. “All right, Margaret. I’ll give you access to the papers, but you’ll have to study them here, on my property. I’m not comfortable lending them out.”

  Margaret clasped her ringed hands together. “That would be amazing. And I won’t get in your way. Put me in a corner or an attic or a dungeon, and I’ll be happy as a clam.”

  “I think I can do better than a dungeon. I have a large farmhouse table in the kitchen. When would you like to start?”

  Margaret nudged Addie. “Now would be awesome. But I’m assuming you might need a day or two.”