The Evening Spider (7 page)

“They were real nice to my sister, Eddie and Shirley were.”

“Your sister . . . you said her name was Stephanie?”

“Yeah.” Gerard watched Lucy mouth the plastic spoon. I tried not to be self-conscious about letting her suck on something that had been on the floor. She did it all the time at home. With all of its health department codes, Arby's probably kept its floor cleaner than I did mine.

“Maybe she'd want that little cookbook?” I asked.

Gerard scratched at his hairline. “I guess Patty didn't tell you much about my sister. She's, uh, not a sentimental person either. If I gave her the book, she'd probably sell it herself.”

“But do you want to ask her first?”

“Listen.” Gerard slapped both of his hands on the table between us. “I was going to tell you I'd give it to you for, say, thirty bucks. Stephanie doesn't know it exists because she couldn't be bothered to help me clean out our aunt's place when she needed our help.”

I hesitated. “Your sister . . . she still lives close to here?”

“Yeah. East Haven right now. And still she couldn't come by to help. Let me do it all myself. Me and my wife.”

“I'm sorry. Sounds really difficult. Does your sister have kids? A daughter? Who'd maybe want it?”

Gerard shook his head. “Neither of us have kids. We're the dead end on this Barnett family branch.”

Gerard's face seemed even pinker than it had when he'd first sat down. There was an eagerness to his expression that made me think he could really use thirty dollars at this moment in his life. A year ago I probably would've told him to get lost. Now, though, I didn't feel I was up to it. I was one of the nurturers now—not out of righteousness but out of irritating instinct. I saw naked and defenseless babies everywhere.

“Why don't you bring that cookbook in here?” I said. “It sounds kind of interesting.”

“Sure thing.” Gerard started to get up.

“But—before you do,” I hurried to say. “Can you answer one question for me? I know it might sound odd.”

“Okay?” Gerard said.

“Has anyone ever died in the house? That you know of?”

Gerard took in a breath and then released it slowly. “Oooh. So this is one of
those
kinds of conversations. Why? You got a poltergeist coming through the TV or something? I promise the house isn't built on a cemetery or whatever. At least—not that I know of.”

“You mention poltergeists.” I hesitated. “Did your aunt ever complain about anything like that?”

Gerard shook his head. “No. But if you've got something spooky going on, maybe it's just Aunt Shirley paying a visit. She
didn't
want to leave the place, I've gotta be honest about that.”

I stared down at the swirl of Lucy's hair, considering this
answer. “You didn't say whether or not anyone ever died in the house.”

Gerard shrugged. “Not that I know of. Uncle Eddie had a massive heart attack at work. I think my grandparents both died in hospitals. I don't know about anyone before that. Suppose it's possible since people died at home more often back then, right? But there were never any stories. Like of axe murderers or whatever. If that's what you're getting at.”

“And no one besides Shirley ever talked about any . . . odd experiences in the house?”

Gerard watched Lucy for a moment more. I wondered if he might report this conversation back to Patty. And then Patty could get on the phone to DCF to report the crazy mommy on her street.

“Just my sister,” he said slowly. “She said something to me once. But my sister, when she stayed with Eddie and Shirley, she had a lot of problems. She did a lot of drugs. If she saw a ghost, it was probably an acid flashback.”

“Did she say she saw a ghost?”

“No. She just said that their house creeped her out. Stopped showing up for holidays there and gave that as an excuse. But she has a lot of excuses for things.” Gerard got up. “I probably sound like a real jerk, saying this stuff about my sister. I should shut up now because I'm sure you don't want to hear it. You want to look at the cookbook or not?”

I nodded. “Yeah. But can you give me your sister's number?”

“If you want. I can't promise you'll get her, though. She's on-again, off-again with her phone plan. She and I don't talk that much.”

Gerard went outside and returned with a brown leather
book with a red and gold binding. It was small—the size of Gerard's hand—and clearly old—worn down at the bottom of the spine and the hinge of the front cover.
Frances Flinch Barnett
was indeed written on its marbled front endpaper.

Gerard let me hold it in my hands and open it up to its first yellowed page. A tidy but exaggeratedly slanting handwriting said in black ink:
Mother's Cider Loaves
. A recipe was scrawled beneath it.

“Cool,” I whispered, and meant it.

A few minutes later, as he tucked his thirty dollars into his wallet, Gerard said to me, “You know, I'm glad you got my aunt's house. You seem like a nice young lady. You deserve it.”

Northampton Lunatic Hospital

Northampton, Massachusetts

December 20, 1885

I
needn't have worried about Dr. Graham's opinion of me. I should have known that Matthew was too prideful to share his concerns about me with a local doctor of such esteem. To discuss his wife's hysterical difficulties, he turned to the services of someone whose practice was some distance away—in Hartford—and who could therefore be trusted not to turn Matthew's troubles into local gossip.

This doctor—a Dr. Stayer—had a specific treatment in mind for me. He had observed this treatment at a clinic in Philadelphia—practiced by a renowned neurologist there. I believe Matthew had spoken to Dr. Stayer in secret before the evening of the spider and then discussed this treatment more seriously thereafter. From what I gather, there was some talk of sending me to Philadelphia, but either Matthew didn't quite have the means, or Dr. Stayer was eager to try his own version of the method.

I do not know how much Matthew would've told you of this “rest cure” before he decided to take Dr. Stayer's advice and go
forward with it. Nothing? Well. You were so caught up in your laboratory studies, after all.

Approximately a week after Martha's injury, Matthew presented it to me thusly:

He was concerned about my health, so he had arranged one month—perhaps more—of restful treatment for me. He had hired a nurse to help me, and he had enlisted Clara's help for Martha's care. For the entire month, Martha would stay with her and Jonathan.

You cannot be serious, Matthew. A month away from her mother? How can that be good for either of us?

How much nurturing is the child getting with you, Frances? How many evenings have I come home and found you staring into your bubbling stewpots, with Martha squalling in her cradle, or with Tessa trying to comfort her?

Oh, it had happened but once or twice! He was exaggerating.

No matter. Matthew had made up his mind and there would be no changing it.

Dr. Stayer and the hired nurse set up a bed for me in the small room at the top of the stairs. They removed everything from the room except for that bed, a chair, a table, and a tray. The bed was for me, the chair for the nurse.

And what was I to do for a month in this room?

Why,
rest,
of course, Matthew explained. Simply lie on the bed and rest. I was to sit up occasionally to eat rich meals and drink copious amounts of milk. I was to be fattened like a heifer, as apparently I'd grown thin since Martha's birth.

There would be no books, no music, no going outdoors, and no visitors. Matthew would of course drop in to check on me, and Dr. Stayer would come weekly to check my progress and
massage my muscles. The nurse—a sturdy young woman with an incessantly foolish smile—also did this to some degree.

Did you ever think of me, during that month? Did you miss me? Did you know I nearly went mad in the first three days?

I was saved from madness, however, by the incompetence of the hired nurse. It was clear to me, from the early days, that she was instructed not to leave my side unless I was sleeping. It was easy enough to feign sleep to get rid of her. The first few times, I wasn't sure what to do with myself. All I could do was sit up in bed and stretch—I feared she would hear me if I stepped onto the floorboards. The first time or two, I amused myself practicing different fancy plaits on my hair. Of course, I couldn't see the result because I had no mirror, but it kept my hands occupied. When I'd hear the nurse's footsteps, I'd rush to undo my work and slip back onto my pillow. Sometimes the window was open, but from my position on the bed, I could see only the sky. When clouds were visible, I fancied them animals, and whispered stories about them, pretending Martha was with me to hear them. This endeavor became too painful, however, so I ceased. Thinking of Martha made the void of that room ever more vast. Sometimes it was easiest to forget she existed at all.

After a few days in that little room, I would often hear my nurse chattering with Tessa downstairs. Her absences lengthened as their friendship developed.

Twice I stood and plucked tiny yellow moth larvae from the ceiling—cautiously and shakily, as I knew such endeavors had caused this very ordeal. Then I would watch their inching movements atop my hand, or across the hills and valleys of my quilt. I longed to find two at once, so I could race them, but I was never so fortunate.

I listened for birdcalls and attempted to identify the different types, as Father used to do. No matter that I knew nothing of bird species. Their twitterings were most welcome, and I learned to distinguish between the songs of the three types of birds that appeared to frequent the trees surrounding our house.

Two particular birds seemed to call out most often. I named them Archibald and Mercy. They did not have the prettiest songs, but they had the most consistent. Nor did they seem to be calling to each other. I decided they were singing for me, reporting the existence of the world and the day outside the narrowing white of that room.

To this very day, I still often return to thoughts of Archibald and Mercy. After six hours of silent sewing, I close my eyes and listen for their calls coming through the maddening void. Or on a night when sleep eludes me—when the youngest of my three roommates will not stop weeping, or the eldest won't stop sitting up and whispering about the proof of the pudding and the devil in the darkness (her two indecipherably favorite topics, poor exasperating thing)—I put my palms to my ears and listen for those birds singing somewhere beyond the room.

And in that way, in the hollow of night, my mind often still occupies that upstairs room on Miller Avenue. Not because it was a place of comfort, but because it was a time and place whose desolation I survived. That time came to an end. So perhaps this one will yet, as well.

Of course, we'll leave aside the question of the wisdom of attempting to maintain one's sanity with imagined birdsong.

           
Mother's Cider Loaves

           
Molasses Biscuits

           
Saturday Spice Cake

           
Sponge Cake 1

           
Sponge Cake 2

           
1 cup sugar

           
1 cup flour

           
1 tsp. baking soda

           
3 eggs

           
3 tbs. water—warmed

After the first few pages of recipes, the cookbook relaxed into a more personal style—a cooking journal, just as Gerard had promised. Lucy was tired from our outing, which gave me a chance to settle at the kitchen table and read several pages while she napped. All of this baking business was making me hungry for sweets. I started a cup of coffee and rummaged in the cabinets until I found a bag of stale gluten-free ginger snaps.

I smiled at this entry, feeling a little sense of satisfaction at seeing something about Frances's life outside of cooking. I skipped a chunk of pages and read ahead.

My pulse jumped a bit. Still a little less about cooking—and more about life in general. Had Gerard Barnett even read this far? Or had he just assumed this whole thing was about recipes? And of what, exactly, had Frances lost count?

I skipped forward again and read this:

Arsenic?

“Whoa,” I whispered.

I reread the entry, then turned the page. The next entry was short, about cold weather and something called “Baked Apple Pudding.” It sounded good, but Frances only fretted over the egg to milk ratio and didn't actually record a recipe.

Then I took out my laptop.

When I Googled “Hayden” and “Stannard,” quite a few articles and pages came up. The trial to which Frances Flinch Barnett referred was in late 1879 and evidently quite famous—though I'd never heard of it.

Herbert Hayden, a minister, was accused of murdering a young woman named Mary Stannard, who had occasionally worked for him and his wife—helping around the house and looking after their children. Mary thought she was pregnant
with Herbert's child at the time of her murder. She'd asked him for his help—she wanted an abortion—and ended up dead of arsenic poisoning and
simultaneous
throat slitting, it appeared. According to his accusers, Hayden had met her in the woods of Rockland, Connecticut, promising to bring her an abortion tonic. What he gave her instead was arsenic. She'd drunk it, and when she'd begun screaming in pain, he'd hit her with a rock and slit her throat.

One of the more general online articles made reference to the trial's sensationalistic coverage in the
New York Times,
so I went to their site and looked in the archives. I was surprised at the number of articles that came up.

A long one—that appeared right before the trial started—summarized the events that had led up to Herbert Hayden's being tried.

MARY STANNARD'S MURDER
WHAT CAUSED THE ARREST OF REV. MR. HAYDEN.

HIS TRIAL TO BEGIN TO-DAY—A HISTORY OF THE
PROCEEDINGS IN THE CASE—THE CLERGYMAN
ARRESTED, ACQUITTED, AGAIN ARRESTED,
AND THEN INDICTED—SUBSTANCE OF THE
TESTIMONY THAT WILL BE PRESENTED

The article went on to describe a knife of Herbert Hayden's that was taken into evidence and examined under a microscope:

The article included some details of the whereabouts of the reverend on the day of Mary's death—including this one: