Maplecroft

by Cherie Priest

  Over the winter we’ve settled into these awful patterns, these anxious routines, and they’re beginning to show outside the cellar laboratory. The laboratory itself is easy enough to hide: You shut and lock the door, and it’s sorted.

  But the usual books on our shelves upstairs are joined by tomes more directly alarming; and we’ve made changes to the house which cannot altogether be written off to winter modifications.

  In the kitchen hang racks of drying herbs that cannot be used for cooking. Around the yard, small stakes and barriers have been installed, to say nothing of the alarms and traps at the outer reaches of the property. And then there’s Liz’s recent fascination with the nails. Scores of them, pounded unevenly into the doorways, along windowsills, and across every threshold.

  I made her take some of them out, because some of the doors refused to open or close properly, courtesy of her inexpert attempts to wield a hammer. Of course, the moment my back was turned, she went and reapplied them all. More tidily, I’ll grant you. But still.

  It was almost a real embarrassment, for when Doctor Seabury came to call yesterday afternoon, I found myself at a loss as to explain the exposed nailheads, after he tripped over one, and therefore noticed them all. I made some excuse about the house’s foundation shifting and settling during the last hard freeze, and he nodded politely.

  I doubt he believed me.

  The doctor had come on my behalf, as he’s made a habit of visiting once per month or so, depending. Sometimes we see him more, sometimes less. It all depends on my health.

  Really, I find his appointments to be quite pleasant. We see so few other people, except in passing; and though his visits are not social in nature, they are nonetheless appreciated. He is patient and kind. He is a thoughtful, clever man.

  When Lizzie was on trial, he defended her. He told the jury again and again that the stains on her dress were consistent with her story, that she had only found our father and his wife, and fretted over them. He vowed on the Bible and on his life that she could have never killed them, and certainly the murders were the work of a stranger.

  He lied, and lied, and lied. I know he did.

  But whatever he believed then, or believes now, he’s never treated us with disdain or suspicion. It speaks well of him, though I think his amiability comes partly because he is lonely, and that’s why he indulges us. His wife passed a year ago. No? Eighteen months, at least. It was after the trial, but not long after it.

  Obviously I have noticed that he is still a strong, handsome fellow. And he might be old enough to be Liz’s father, but probably not mine.

  Now I’m only being silly, and girlish. I’m only tired and alone, except for my sister.

  Many days, I’m at peace with the lot we’ve received, or chosen, or the fate which has befallen us. It is a hard burden to carry, all the more so with a back as feeble as mine. But it is ours, and it is noble, what we’re doing. What we’re trying to do. What we will do, eventually—for these people who would not spit on us, were someone to light us on fire.

  But Doctor Seabury.

  He came, and I waited for him in the parlor. Lizzie helped pin my hair, and she dressed me in something nice. She took me down the stairs and fashioned me like a heavy old doll.

  The doctor and I made small talk while my sister made tea. And here was one more piece in the mosaic of our routine . . . I only just noticed it, how he’s become a familiar part of our time, marking its passage from month to month. This is a happy realization, and I wish we could make our appointments less formal. But to do so would incur the wrath of his other patients—who already express whispered concern for his well-being, given his involvement with the pair of us.

  As if Maplecroft were some den of roaring lions, seeking whom we may devour.

  I think the town still “permits” him to come our way because I’ve never been implicated in any wrongdoing. I am only an invalid, at the mercy of my sister. Her sins apparently do not stain me as thoroughly as they could.

  These appointments might best be viewed as some charity, then, on his part. I do not care for that thought, and I hope it’s not the case.

  • • •

  Regardless, he came, and we chatted, and Lizzie left us with the tea.

  “Tell me about your lungs. How have they been feeling?” he asked, as he gently manipulated my wrist, all the better to feel the beat of my heart running through it, between the bones and back from the tips of my fingers.

  “About the same. No worse, at any rate.”

  He finished with my wrists or perhaps he gave up on them, or finding any feeble pulse. Instead he chose the scope from his bag. “Then we’ll count it a blessing, shall we?” He warmed the scope’s amplifier between his hands, and then inserted the other end into his ear. “Could you lean forward for me? That’s far enough, thank you.”

  He placed the scope on my back, and I felt its round hardness through the fabric of my dress.

  “Now breathe deeply—as deeply as you find comfortable.”

  I did my best to comply, but any inhalation harder than a light wheeze was enough to make my throat close and my chest convulse. I strived to hold my body in check, to force my lungs to remain calm, and still, and refrain from seizing, or flinging bloody mucus into the air.

  Indeed, my body betrayed me within twenty or thirty seconds—but the doctor’s hand upon my shoulder gave me some steadiness, some of the calmness I could not manufacture on my own accord. I finished coughing and went quiet, except for the rasping tone of air wrestling in and out through my mouth and nose.

  He added a gentle pat to the comforting gesture. “Are they always this bad?”

  I rallied enough strength to respond, though I did so through my handkerchief. “No. But sometimes . . . it’s worse.”

  When I withdrew the handkerchief, it was stained with pink, but not much red. I went to hide it away, to cram it quickly in some pocket or corner where he would not see it—and this was preposterous, I know. I should’ve held it up for display and scrutiny, but I couldn’t bring myself to do so.

  He saw it anyway, and waved his hand, urging me to pass it to him for inspection.

  “See? Not so bad,” I attempted with a note of cheer, but his expression of solemn contemplation did not bend.

  He said, “Not so bad, but not so good.” And then his demeanor became more quiet; he stared at the scrap of fabric as if it held an extra measure of meaning—or that was my first impression. But then I realized that he was looking through it, toward his knees, past the floor. Staring at nothing, and using the dirty cloth as an excuse to think.

  “Doctor?”

  “Miss Borden,” he said quickly in response, as if catching himself half asleep. Then just as quickly he added, “Might I ask you something of a . . . related nature, perhaps? It might be relevant to your condition, but it’s a delicate subject all the same.”

  “Of course.”

  He glanced about the room, checking to see that we were alone, which piqued my curiosity. “It’s about Matthew Granger,” he began slowly, organizing his words with caution.

  Whatever subject I’d expected, this was not it. “Young Matthew? Down at the shore?”

  “Yes, that’s him. His godmother asked me out to see him; she had some concerns about his behavior, and wondered if he might be falling ill.”

  “I certainly hope the poor boy’s well,” I said with a frown.

  “As do I,” he assured me. “But this is why the matter is delicate, and I do pray you’ll take no offense that I broach it here: Matthew’s behavior, his appearance, his demeanor . . . it . . . what I mean to say is, it reminds me of something. It reminds me of someone—your stepmother, if I’m to be honest. Shortly before she and your father . . . died.”

  That last word hung in the air, lingering between us like the miasma from a cigarette.

  I was stunned, but not quite to silence. And not for the reasons he must’ve assumed.

  I stammered, “Doctor Seabury, tha
t’s . . . that isn’t . . . I’m not quite certain what you mean.” Which was not quite true. I could make an excellent estimation, but I didn’t want to contaminate his story. That’s how Lizzie would put it. And she was in another room, perhaps even down in that laboratory, doing her scientific work with her scientific processes. I would conduct those same processes upstairs, then, and report in such a fashion as to please her.

  “I’m very sorry, I didn’t intend any offense or concern, it’s only that in those last days, before their deaths, I had seen little of Abigail and less of your father—but . . . but when I crossed their paths, I . . . I could only fear for their constitutions. They seemed terribly sick, if you don’t mind my suggesting it.” He was speaking too fast again, my stammers feeding his stammers, spiraling us into social worry and sensitive concerns.

  “No, please. No offense taken. It’s only that you’ve caught me by surprise. You’d think such a common subject of gossip would rear its head more often in this parlor, but”—and I paused to cough, not quite so hard, with not quite so much mucus—“our visitors are few and far between. Please, could you explain what you mean? We were all feeling . . . strange. Back in those dark days,” I added. I might have concluded, “Before they became darker still,” but that crept too close to the secret Lizzie and I hold close, so I did not utter it.

  “You must understand, I cannot divulge too much of another patient’s condition,” he said by way of retreat.

  “Naturally.” I nodded, allowing him to withdraw as far as he felt he needed. “But share what you can, and I’ll see if I can help.”

  He fidgeted with my handkerchief, and then it occurred to him to return it. As he did so, he said, “There’s a faraway look to him, as if he’s not quite present. A vacant appearance, combined with a certain . . . slowness of his motion. As if his motor skills are deteriorating, but he hasn’t noticed, or doesn’t care. I watched him . . . ,” he said, his own gaze becoming far away, but he was looking for some way to explain himself. Hunting for the right words. “I watched him, and he moved clumsily, and at such a tedious pace. All the while, his head was cocked toward the ocean, like a child holding a shell to his ear. But there were no shells,” he said, coming back to the moment. To me. “Nothing beyond him but the water.”

  I considered this, and recalled with some displeasure the weeks leading up to my father’s and stepmother’s deaths. What the doctor described was not dissimilar from the changes that had overtaken them. “My father and Mrs. Borden had fallen ill, that’s true,” I said carefully. “We wondered about it ourselves, my sister and I—we worried that we might come down with the same affliction. It was a source of tension between us, toward the end.”

  Eagerly, if unhappily, he leaned forward. “So you know the changes I’m referring to? The blank eyes, the paleness, the doughy flesh?”

  “Indeed, though at the time we would not have put it that way. It came upon us gradually, you know; and by the time we noticed something was amiss, it was all that we could see. And all we could do was wonder how we’d successfully ignored it up to that point.” The words were tumbling out. I wanted to rein them in, but I nattered onward, haltingly, stopping myself when I feared I might go too far.

  “Truly, and often—I have thought the same thing.”

  “At first we thought it might be a problem with the family diet. But the family was also . . . in distress over other matters. There were arguments, as I’m sure you know. The whole neighborhood must’ve heard them. So after a while, Lizzie and I took up residence in a separate part of the house. We had our own apartment, with its own washing room and kitchen, so we saw our parents less and less. Virtually never, for four people who lived in the same home. From then on, my condition—and Lizzie’s—improved . . . even as our parents’ worsened.”

  “You separated yourselves. Separate meals, separate living quarters, and that’s when you recovered?”

  “Insofar as I ever recovered, I’m afraid.” I sighed. “Maybe I consumed too much of the tainted food, if tainted food was ever at fault. Maybe my constitution was weaker all along, and less able to resist.”

  Even as I spoke the words, I was growing tired. This was more than I typically spoke in a week, and the toll felt heavy in my chest.

  Doctor Seabury noticed. “I apologize,” he said, and wound his stethoscope around his hand, twisting it into a coil. “I’ve asked too much of you, for the afternoon.”

  “No,” I objected.

  “Yes, and we both know it. My apologies again; it was a tender subject, one that is no business of mine.”

  “Your business is the health of Fall River. I’d say the subject is well within your business. It’s true,” I said. I put my hand on his medical bag, so that he might not close it shut and usher himself out the door with quite so much nervous alacrity. “A lengthy discussion of the matter is hard for me. Which is why I think . . . that you should speak to Lizzie.”

  He flushed and shook his head. “No, Miss Borden—I couldn’t. It would be unseemly, or impolite, or . . . I wouldn’t want her to think I meant any accusation.”

  “Ask her,” I pleaded, removing my hand and allowing him to resume packing his equipment.

  He hesitated, then asked, “Is there any chance . . . that you could have a word with her, first?”

  Oh, I had every intention of doing so. “Of course.” I smiled at him with sincere, if morbid, pleasure. “And next time you come, we’ll sit down together. All of us.”

  At the ring of the bell beside my seat, Lizzie appeared from the basement to show the doctor out.

  And I fell asleep before the fire before I could tell her any of what had transpired, even though the conversation had frankly invigorated me. My strength is finite, even if my interest is not.

  I dreamed of my father, bloated and white, and hungry. I dreamed of him in my room, staring out my window, listening to the ocean.

  AND IF YOU HAVE A HORSE WITH ONE WHITE LEG . . .

  Phillip Zollicoffer, Professor of Biology, Miskatonic University

  OCTOBER 29, 1893

  The university thinks it might be done with me, but I’m beyond the point of caring. Right now, their reprimand feels positively uninteresting—as if it’s something I should be aware of, yes, but not a source of concern. They’ve put me on leave, and it’s a vacation of sorts. I’m sick of the students, as I told them quite frankly.

  (They requested frankness, and they received it in abundance.)

  Dr. Greer suggested I’m sick with something other than the tedium of teaching, but he’s a fool. It’s difficult to take his accusations personally.

  The one concession I wrangled from their uniform displeasure with my performance was this: I am still allowed access to my office and the lab rooms, where my specimens and samples are stored. They are mine, and not property of the university in the first place; and in the second place, I’m working on an article for Marine Biology Quarterly with regard to the siphonophore specimen sent to me by Doctor Jackson earlier this year.

  What little study I’ve had time to perform has raised fascinating questions about the nature of a single organism versus a colony that performs in a singular fashion, and where the line between those two might lie. A siphonophore by definition is just such a paradox: many small things that function as one large thing. But how paradoxical is it, after all? A collection of like-minded things, operating under the direction of a sole authority . . . or an individual, individually inclined. Just two ways of saying the same thing, perhaps. From a distance.

  • • •

  (Contrary to the president’s opinion, my study has been minimal—pitiably insufficient, really, and it has not “eaten up all of my time for students, papers, or grades.” Far from it. I still had time to attend their stupid little meeting to reprimand me, did I not? Well, then. I’m not so disconnected as they claim.)

  • • •

  Is the specimen a whole, or a portion of a larger whole? It’s nothing so simple as a Physalia
physalis, that’s certain—and I’m beginning to wonder if I don’t have, in my own personal possession, an instance of Marrus orthocanna . . . which isn’t ordinarily seen anywhere near the shore. It’s a deep-sea varietal, and all but mythical until the most recent years, when fishermen turned up portions of one within a net. But I think that’s unlikely. No, I think we’re looking at a whole new animal (or a portion of one, as above noted).

  If so, this could be a boon for the school.

  Alumni might be persuaded to open their pockets, or the billfolds of grant donors might become loosened were there to be a new species coined after the university. Physalia miskatonis! Or Physalia zollicoffris—I haven’t decided yet.

  Right now it’s merely “the siphonophore,” and it awaits its formal analysis and nomenclature. And no one is allowed to touch it but me.

  I was a little surprised to get this slight concession on Greer’s part, but in the midst of the meeting I was seized with a terror that the specimen might be taken from me, and I could not bear the thought of losing it. Immediately, and from the depths of whence I cannot say, I informed them that the siphonophore was my personal property and I would consider it outright theft if the school tried to lay any claim to it. A lawsuit would undoubtedly ensue, thereby stripping the school of any honor by association, should the creature be proven unique or new. It was donated to me, courtesy of Doctor E. A. Jackson of Fall River, Massachusetts, and there was a trail of paperwork to support the transfer. Doctor Jackson would no doubt lend his considerable aid if anyone, anywhere, were to try to commandeer my work—or my materials—as his own.

  At the reference to Doctor Jackson, they capitulated on the spot.

  His reputation as a scholar and researcher is well-known, even among relative laymen like those who populate the school’s board of directors. They’re only marginally informed of scientific advances; theirs is to administrate, not educate—but even men unschooled in the finer biological arts had heard of him and his work.