The House of Closed Doors

by Jane Steen

  The undergrowth to my right had become very dense, a jumble of tall goldenrod and sunflowers flanking the path and a stand of young serviceberry bushes beyond. A spindly ash tree by the river held out an inviting branch, just right for tying up a horse. I sighed and spoke to the animal, pulling on the reins. He stopped obediently, and I clambered down in a stiff, ungainly manner that would have had Martin in fits of laughter. Blast the man‌—‌why could he not have arranged a meeting place closer to home? I hastily tied the horse’s reins around the branch, hoping that I knew what I was doing. I lifted out Sarah’s crib but did not dare take it into the woods with me, thinking of biting insects, nettles, and poison ivy. I nestled it well away from the river and the horse’s hooves and practically ran for the bushes.

  The position necessitated by my, shall we say, activities made it impossible for me to see Sarah, but I could hear her complaining wail. She would have to wait until I had drunk some water and found a patch of grass to sit on, I thought hard-heartedly. I was sore in every muscle and as dry as a coal-scuttle.

  I pushed through the dense patch of bushes, noting that Sarah sounded a little happier. Good. Perhaps she had seen something that would keep her amused until I was ready to feed her.

  And then I nearly fainted.

  FORTY-SEVEN

  It was Hiram, of course. The prickling sensation on my back that had been with me during the entire journey had not been my imagination. How, in the name of all of Bet’s saints, did he come to be right behind me? There was something so demonic about his sudden appearance that for a moment I was paralyzed.

  His back was to me, but I knew it was he. And he was holding Sarah. And the whip‌—‌I had left it on the bench of the cart. Oh, God.

  I found the strength to move forward, and my boots crunched on the dried leaves. Hiram turned slowly to face me and smiled.

  I swallowed hard as fear plummeted into my belly. I kept my voice as even as I could. “Why don’t you give her to me, Stepfather? She will need changing and nursing.” Sarah, used to seeing Hiram in the parlor, was cooing and gurgling happily into his face, her hunger apparently forgotten.

  Hiram’s smile did not reach his eyes. “She’s so very small, isn’t she, Nell? So very small.” He walked a few steps backward, bouncing Sarah in his arms and looking the very picture of a doting grandfather. He was getting very close to the river.

  I think I tried to say something, but it came out in a kind of squeak. I took two or three steps forward, and Hiram took the corresponding number of steps back‌—‌toward the river. I stopped.

  “How did you find me?” The thin, wavering voice that came out of my parched mouth and tight vocal cords barely sounded like mine. I had to keep him talking, had to hope for a miracle‌—‌someone to come by, perhaps. This road was used regularly this time of year. Perhaps Martin was nearer than I thought. Perhaps I should scream. Did I even have the strength to scream? I felt as if all my limbs had melted.

  “I saw you leaving Victory.” Hiram hushed Sarah, who began to grizzle a little. “I came back just in time, it seems. Not very skilled at driving a cart, are you, Eleanor?”

  I saw movement out of the corner of my left eye and whirled around in desperate hope. But it was a horse, saddled and bridled, slowly making its way out of the woods. It lifted its nose to whicker at us and then returned its attention to a patch of dried grass by the side of the path.

  “My horse,” Hiram confirmed. “Did you know,” he continued quite conversationally, rocking Sarah from side to side, “that when I was in the Militia during the War, we used these woods to practice our maneuvers? I know every trail and every marker. There are many, if you know where to look. We used to practice stalking each other; an amusing game, and the fellows said I was rather good at it.” He smirked almost as if he were expecting praise.

  I drew myself up and faced Hiram squarely. “Just give me Sarah, please, Stepfather. Then we can talk.”

  “You are a strong woman.” There was a tinge of respect in Hiram’s voice. “Red Jack’s daughter in every respect‌—‌except for the ability to handle a horse.” He actually giggled. “I admire your strength, even though I do not find it particularly becoming in a woman. Not a bit like your dear Mama.”

  “Mama loved Sarah very much, Stepfather. You will not harm her, will you, for the sake of my mother’s memory?” I tried not to sound as though I were pleading.

  Hiram continued as if I had not spoken. “But strong women, you see, can be controlled. And how? By love, my dear Nell, by love.”

  “What are you going to do?” My voice was a hoarse whisper. I took another step toward him, knowing it was useless but drawn helplessly on by the presence of my child in his arms. We were very near the riverbank now, and I could see the water, low in relation to the bank’s muddy sides, rushing and gurgling on some small rocks near the river’s edge.

  Hiram’s reply was to tense his whole body and then whip round viciously in the direction of the river. I saw his shoulders bunch, and then my baby‌—‌my Sarah‌—‌was soaring through the air in a perfect arc, aimed right at the center where the water flowed swiftest.

  FORTY-EIGHT

  I didn’t hesitate, didn’t think, didn’t care about Hiram or the river or the stones. Some kind of noise came out of me as I took the three steps to the very edge‌—‌a scream, perhaps, or a yelp, or a howl. Then I hit the water feet first, and my shins were scraping against rocks and the water felt so cold and I propelled myself forward with all my might, my arms flailing as Sarah’s had as she soared through the hot breeze.

  One final push, and suddenly there was no more riverbed under my feet. I was out in the middle, and underneath the cold upper layer of water I could feel a deeper layer, colder still, that tugged at my petticoats. My calves stung, cut by the rocks no doubt, and my clothing was wrapping around my legs and made it hard to stay on the surface. I went under a couple of times and came up gasping and choking, spitting out river water that tasted pure and fresh.

  I could swim‌—‌had learned as a child‌—‌but with my skirts pulling me downward the only thing that kept my head above water that day was the sight of my baby’s red head a hundred yards ahead of me. Her clothing had ballooned up around her and was keeping her afloat, but I knew that could not last for long. I kicked desperately at my petticoats until they finally floated away from my body, returning occasionally to wrap lovingly around my legs in an attempt to pull me deeper into the river’s embrace.

  I could feel at my waist the weight of Mama’s purse, doing nothing to keep me afloat. I had forborne to put on a corset that morning, rebelling against the idea of making myself uncomfortable for nearly a whole day’s journey. And I was only wearing two thin petticoats and very light drawers under my plain cotton dress. If I had been arrayed in the traveling costume of a society lady, I would have drowned for sure.

  I did not seem to be getting any nearer to Sarah. She was not making any sound, and I was horrified that she might be dead. This thought made me kick out like a madwoman determined to escape her keepers and thrash my arms wildly in an attempt to make faster progress forward. Somewhere ahead I could hear the weir; so I was near the portage landing? I wished I could spare the energy to scream. Martin, I thought. Martin, please be there.

  “Stay afloat, stay afloat, stay afloat.” I realized that I was whimpering through chattering teeth as I pushed forward. I had gained a yard‌—‌two yards‌—‌ten‌—‌on Sarah and could see one of her arms waving as the current bore her swiftly onward. She was still alive, then.

  A crashing sound to my right made me whip my head around as I kicked frantically onward. Far away on the riverbank I could see the tall form of my stepfather flinging himself against two trees as he searched the water for evidence of our distress. Oh, God, oh, God, he was not leaving until he made sure we were dead, was he? When he killed Jo and Blackie he had simply left the final outcome to fate, but he would not stop now until he had ground Sarah and me into the du
st with the heel of his boot.

  I looked forward again and realized I could not see Sarah. My whimpering shaped itself into a prayer: “Please, God, let me find her. Please, God, let her be alive.” I could barely see a thing with the water swirling around my chin, but I whipped my head round from the right to the left and back again, wiping the water off my face whenever I could spare an arm from the task of staying afloat.

  I could not believe my eyes when I saw a white blur not five yards to my left. A tree, which must have once grown where the river now ran, was sticking a single branch out of the water‌—‌and Sarah was caught on it. I could even hear her wailing feebly.

  I agitated my arms and legs in a fury of desperation, and in just a few moments had a hold of Sarah with my right hand, my left wrapped around the miraculous tree.

  I took stock of the situation. Ahead of me I could see the line of the weir, maybe two hundred yards from where we clung desperately to life. The opposite bank was far away, too far to swim to. But the nearer bank‌—‌where Hiram must surely be, although I could not see him‌—‌was close, and I could see small branches and pieces of flotsam being directed toward it by some quirk of the current. That same current must somehow have taken both of us away from the deepest water, although I had been concentrating so hard on my baby that I hadn’t noticed.

  I scanned the bank but still saw no Hiram. The trees were dense at this spot, and it was possible that the trail swung away from the riverbank as it approached the portage landing‌—‌where was the portage landing? The current had scooped out a sandy pool at the water’s edge, a small haven before the river swung round to crash over the weir.

  Sarah moved feebly in my arm, and I realized how tired and cold I was. It was now or never. I planted a cold kiss on my baby’s wet red hair and let go of the branch.

  FORTY-NINE

  Reaching the bank was easier than I thought it would be. The current that swung us away from the center of the river was strong, and I only had to aim at the place where I had seen some floating twigs being pulled out of the main race toward the bank. I kicked hard again, and then I suddenly felt solid ground under my feet. There were no rocks here, only sucking mud that overlay a firmer layer. I flung myself forward and grasped a tuft of grass with my free left hand.

  It came away from the bank, leaving my arm in midair. I spat muddy water, glanced at Sarah to ensure that I was keeping her mouth above the flow, and took another step forward.

  The most horrible scream sounded above and to the right of us, and I looked up to see Hiram coming toward us at a flat sprint. His face was purple and distorted, and in a split second’s thought I wondered how I had ever been so foolish as to trust this man, even for a heartbeat, even with Mama in the same room.

  He was upon us, and I braced myself for the push or blow that I knew would come. Shielding Sarah as best I could, I set my jaw and looked him straight in his cold blue eyes, which stood out horribly in his darkly flushed countenance.

  Then suddenly the nightmare face had gone, and something shot past me into the river. At the same time a loud thud resounded across the water, audible even above the noise of the weir. There was a soft splash, and a dark shape slid along the surface behind us and headed for the center of the river.

  I had absolutely no idea what had happened, but I instinctively knew that one threat to our lives was gone. Time to deal with the other. I was having trouble keeping my footing in the eddying water and had fallen again, bringing Sarah perilously close to the water’s surface. I grabbed her with both hands and pushed my feet through the mud, holding her high above my head. A frightened wail reassured me that she was still alive, and then my whole body fell against the bank, and I could feel that Sarah was on level ground. I let go.

  With two hands free, I was able to dig my long fingers like talons into the muddy bank and haul myself painfully upward. My arms and legs felt like India-rubber, and I could feel scratches and scrapes over every inch of exposed skin, but somehow I managed to drag myself forward and up onto the rank, weedy growth of the riverbank. I grabbed Sarah and pulled myself forward another few feet, gasping and sobbing.

  I did not have the strength to stand or even sit. I lay with Sarah clutched to my chest, and I could feel her tiny lungs heaving as she screamed loudly at first, then subsided into shivering sobs. My own breath was coming out in shudders, and I was oblivious to everything around us. So when a hand touched my shoulder, I fainted.

  Someone patted my hand and my cheek. Someone called my name. I knew the voice, but my eyes didn’t want to open.

  Then I remembered Sarah. I could not hear her. My eyelids flew apart.

  Martin was kneeling on the ground beside me, doing irreparable damage to a rather good suit of clothes. The damage was being compounded by my muddy, gravelly, but wonderfully alive daughter, who had one hand firmly on Martin’s chest while the other grasped a thick stick of rock candy, the end of which was firmly plugged into her mouth. An expression of surprised bliss was in her eyes.

  I was aware of a point of acute discomfort somewhere around my waistline. With the help of Martin’s free arm, I hauled myself into a sitting position, my wet skirts impeding every movement. I checked the sore place with my hand and encountered Mama’s purse of silver dollars, still firmly sewn into my dress.

  Hiram. “What happened to Hiram?” I asked, my voice a mere thread of sound.

  Martin put Sarah into my arms and shrugged off his ruined jacket, wrapping it around both of us. He gestured toward the bank, which sloped slightly and was covered with sparse growth. The surface was scored by a mark about a foot long, ending at the riverbank.

  “He slipped.” His voice was flat. “As simple as that. I saw him running full tilt toward you, and then suddenly his legs seemed to go out from under him. I saw his head hit that”‌—‌he indicated a half-fallen tree that overhung the riverbank‌—‌”as he went in.”

  As simple as that. My fate and Sarah’s had been determined by a patch of loose, dry grass. I closed my eyes, and for the first time in my life, I believed in a providential God. Not Providence in Hiram’s arrogant terms, but a God of justice.

  Martin stood up and moved carefully to the muddy edge where I had dragged myself out, scanning the river. I found the strength to stand and tottered over the uneven ground to join him. Martin raised his right hand and pointed.

  About fifty yards beyond the weir was a collection of large rocks, sticking out of the water like a mouthful of teeth. They were a landmark to travelers, marking the beginning of forty miles of smooth sailing. They called the place Durand’s Point after some long-ago fur trader.

  Caught in the rocks, bobbing up and down as the foaming current caught and released it, was a dark shape about six foot long. My stepfather had made one last gamble with fate, and this time he had lost.

  I heard shouts and the sound of footsteps crunching on dried leaves. Two men made their way toward us. One of them was perhaps in his forties, with the carefully plain suit and hat of a pastor, and the other was a muscular young man of about twenty, dressed for a day’s labor. Their long, thin faces and scanty blond hair indicated that they were related. The younger man had Martin’s horse by its bridle.

  “Are you hurt? What happened?” asked the older man, clearly trying to take in the meaning of my soaked condition and Martin’s comparatively dry clothes.

  “My stepfather.” I pointed in the direction of the rocks.

  “Dear heaven!” The pastor’s eyes grew round as he saw the body. He swung to face the young man, who was stolidly contemplating the black shape in the water. “Stephen, my boy, as quick as you can. Get back to the farm and call for Nathaniel and Jacob to come back with you. We cannot leave… he will be torn …” He was clearly trying to avoid having to explain the need for urgency in removing the body, but I understood. If they did not get Hiram out whole, pieces of him would eventually wash up by the crossing. I shuddered, and Martin pressed his jacket more closely around my shoulders.<
br />
  “We will be most grateful for your help.” Martin’s voice was curt.

  The pastor stared at us with, I thought, rather a strange expression and then turned to his son. “Go now. Quickly.” The younger man threw the bridle at Martin and set off at a fast clip away from the river.

  I shrugged my way out of Martin’s grasp and shoved Sarah at him. Stumbling away as far as I could, I vomited a large quantity of river water into the bushes.

  When I returned, Martin and the pastor were still watching Hiram’s body tumble against the rocks. The pastor made a tut-tutting noise as I approached, wiping my mouth feebly. “You are most fortunate your husband was here to help you,” he said, a hint of uncertainty in his voice.

  “He is not my husband.” Seeing the pastor’s eyes narrow, I hastened to add, “He is a family friend. My husband is‌—‌is dead.”

  The minister screwed up his face, apparently thinking hard, but then seemed to relinquish the effort and addressed me with a small bow. “A deplorable situation in any event. But,” he added, seeming to recall where we were, “you are cold; let us take you to a warm fire and give you whatever aid we can offer. My son, Stephen, works on a farm close to here, and they can certainly make you and your‌—‌oh my, yes, your child,” his eyes focused on Sarah, a limp, wet bundle in Martin’s arms, “clean and comfortable. Perhaps, sir,” his eyes lifted to Martin’s face, “I could prevail upon you to take the young lady on your horse?”