The Vanishing Point (11 page)

He planted no tobacco but spent days in the forest where the tree trunks bore his name. The Gabriel woods. Then it seemed that he had always lived this way. His father, May, Adele, and the Irishmen shrank to tiny motes. They receded to the land of distant dreams. He never went to the graves he had dug for his father, his wife, and her baby. The property was vast enough that he had no need to go there.

And then she came. His dead wife's sister.

H
ANNAH COULD HARDLY
look at the young man who carried the other end of her trunk, bearing most of its weight as they trundled up the path. She found it hard to think of him as Gabriel, simply by his Christian name, as if he were familiar to her.
Mr. Washbrook.
That was what she would call him. Her sister's widower was stranger to her than any soul she had ever met. Even Mr. Banham and his daughters had seemed less alien. She had half a mind to corner him, take him by the shoulders and shake him.
How did my sister die? Did she suffer long? How did the infant die?
The deaths in and of themselves were nothing out of the ordinary—new mothers and babies died in droves. But that May had died! It seemed impossible. May had been the strong one, the fearless one, the one who had always laughed. If she questioned him again, she would fall apart into nothingness. She would be lost.

A break in the trees afforded her a view of a harvested maize field. Rotting tree stumps rose like warts among the brittle wasted stalks. Beyond this lay a fallow tobacco field, thick with weeds. The forest closed around the land like a living thing with a will of its own. Left to its own devices, the wilderness would soon reclaim the cleared land. Deer would eat next summer's corn. Snakes would make their home in the old tobacco barn. The plantation house would collapse into a pile of rotting wood. How quickly a home could disappear.

They neared the house. A porch ran down the side, and under its roof, animal skins were pegged to the outside walls. Her eyes rested on one enormous pelt of thick black fur. With a shiver, she remembered the bear she had seen that morning. It was only eight hours ago or so, yet it seemed like days and weeks had passed since the morning boat ride, when she had been full of happy anticipation, thinking her sister still lived.

Gabriel hefted the trunk over the threshold. "Come in," he said.

Kneeling at the hearth, he added fuel to the dying fire until the flames leapt high, casting an unsteady glow. Hannah made out the sparse furnishings in the dim room. Two backless benches, one carved chair, a trestle table, a dresser, and a chest of drawers. Two curtained beds were pushed against the far wall. A ladder led to a trapdoor in the ceiling, and a door beside the hearth indicated there was another ground-floor room. Heaped in one corner lay a pile of animal skins. On the trestle table lay a gutted fish.

"I was cleaning the fish when you came." He gestured toward one of the benches. "Sit down."

She watched him rise, an iron skillet in his hand. A jar on the table contained some kind of fat with which he greased the pan. In went the fish. He rested the skillet on a grate in the hearth. The fat snapped and crackled, and soon the smell of frying fish filled the room. Outside, his dogs whined and scratched at the door, but he ignored them. Hannah turned to the only window, facing west and stained with sunset. If she closed her eyes, she could pretend she was back home with Joan.

He hung another pot on a hook over the fire. It began to simmer with the homey scent of cabbage and onions. Hannah coughed from the smoke, which brought tears to her eyes. She began to weep again, just couldn't seem to stop. How kind he was, treating her as though she were a dignified guest and not some bawling stranger who had fallen in a fit, thrashing around like a madwoman.

Once it had been May who knelt at the hearth and prepared the food. Hannah pressed her kerchief to her mouth and stifled a sob. Father's death, at least, she had been able to prepare for, but this was so unjust. How could her beautiful sister be dead?

"Hannah." How curious her name sounded when he spoke it. "You grieve sorely, I know it. Grieving was nearly the end of me, too. First my father, then the baby, then her."

Hannah lifted her head. "Was it a boy or a girl?"

He was silent for a moment. "A girlchild. She only lived a few days. Your sister named her Hannah."

She covered her face.

"You mustn't," he said. "You'll drive yourself mad." His voice broke. "Come now. You must eat."

She shook her head. "I don't think I could."

"You are thin as a starveling."

She thought of May's rich and abundant body, her curves. What would May say if she saw her sniveling like this?

"Here, Hannah." He placed a wooden trencher in her lap and handed her a spoon carved of horn and a dull knife.

The fish was golden brown. Heaped around it was a thick stew of carrots, cabbage, and onions—the last vegetables from the autumn garden. He gave her a piece of dry cornbread and hovered near her until she cut a piece of the flaky white fish, speared it on her knife. The fish was tender in her mouth. This meal was better than the venison in Anne Arundel Town, better than the feast of pheasant, sweetmeats, and oysters served at the Gardiner Plantation. This was the finest food, made sweet by her hunger and her loss, made sweetest of all by the one who had cooked it for her. She stole glances at him when she thought he wouldn't notice. May's widower was the only family she had left. She sensed the cloud of sadness hanging over him. His grief locked into hers like a twin spoon.

At least I do not mourn alone,
she thought, cleaning her plate with cornbread.

After the meal, Gabriel went out to feed the dogs. He returned with a bucket of water and one of sand. She watched him gather the trenchers, spoons and knives, skillet, and iron pot.

"Let me do that." Hannah went to the table, where Gabriel poured the water into a wooden bowl. It seemed ages since she had last washed crockery and pans. Taking the rag from him, she went to work. First the trenchers, then the spoons and knives, then the skillet, which she scoured with sand to remove the last traces of grease. She filled the cooking pot with water and hung it over the flames again until the water was lukewarm. Then she tossed in the sand and scrubbed away. At home, Joan used to scour the pots with rushes.

She worked by firelight. Gabriel didn't light any candles. They must be precious out here in the wilderness. Perhaps Gabriel hadn't mastered the art of candlemaking. That would have been May's job. Hannah bit her lip to keep herself from crying as she wrung out the rag one last time and wiped down the trestle table.

He took the bowl from her and dumped the water outside. Frosty night air flooded in through the open doorway. Her eyes dropped to the pile of pelts on the far side of the hearth. Bearskins, with deerskins on top. For a moment she thought of the living animals, then of a sharpened knife skinning the hide off the flesh.

Gabriel returned with a fresh bucket of water. "If you need to wash or drink," he said, "here is a dipper." He headed across the room to the wall opposite the hearth and pulled back the curtains on one of the two beds. "You can sleep here." He dragged her trunk across the floor to the bed.

Outside, it was quite dark. Stars shone in the window.

"Anon I go to bed," Gabriel told her. "I rise and retire with the sun."

In the firelight she caught his eye, then looked away in embarrassment. He wanted to undress, she thought. "Where's the privy?" she asked.

He found a candle stub in a brass holder, then opened the door and pointed. "The dogs sleep. I hope they will leave you in peace. But fear them not. They are friendly."

***

When she returned to the house, candle in hand, she found the fire already banked. Scooping water from the bucket with the dipper, she drank. It was so cold, it hurt her teeth, but it tasted pure. After pouring water into the wooden bowl, she plunged her kerchief in and washed her face and hands. Gabriel had already turned in for the night—not to the other bed but to the pile of animal skins on the floor. The firelight caught his long black hair. He lay with his back to her, his face to the wall, his buckskin shirt still on him. Judging from the way his flank rose and fell with steady breathing, he was already asleep.

Taking the candle, she crossed the room to her bed, kicked off her shoes, drew back the bedclothes, hoisted herself on the high mattress, and drew the curtains shut. She stripped down to her shift, then whispered her sister's name and lay herself down.

***

Hours after darkness had fallen, Hannah lay rigid and awake. The night was too loud for sleep. Outside, the owls made as much racket as tavern revelers at home. She buried her head in the musty pillow and listened to her brother-in-law toss in his bed of fur, the floorboards groaning beneath him.

Why did he have to sleep in those skins? Hannah decided that the other bed must have been his marriage bed, where May had borne their child who had not lived, where May herself had drawn her last breath. That meant that the bed where she lay must have belonged to Gabriel's father. This was where Cousin Nathan had died of the flux. The thought made Hannah writhe in the bedclothes. Maybe that explained why she couldn't sleep. Gabriel was right for making his bed on the floor.

If Father only knew how this had turned out, he would die all over again. He would go down on his knees and beg her pardon for sending May across the water. But Father was in heaven with May and her baby. She pictured him with his arms around her sister while she held her infant.
No more pain or earthly toil for them. Only we on earth were meant to suffer and grieve.

When she finally slept, she dreamt of her sister. May was as lovely as ever, but she no longer laughed. Her skin had a silvery cast. She had on her wedding gown of green lawn that she and Hannah had embroidered with rosebuds and soft-breasted doves. Sitting beneath the hawthorn tree in Father's garden, May cradled a bundle of bloodstained rags. The bundle became a limp baby with a withered blue face. May's mouth trembled. She threw back her head and wailed. Hannah reached out to embrace her, but her hands sliced through empty air. May rocked the lifeless infant and sang lullabies.
I gave my true love a golden ring, and this he loved above all things.
The rest of her song was lost as her words ran together into a madwoman's keening. A flurry of brown autumn leaves swept past, obscuring Hannah's view of her sister. When the wind died down, May was gone and the hawthorn was stripped of its leaves. Only blood-red berries remained where the foamy white flowers had been. On the grass beneath the tree were two wooden crosses and two mourning doves.

S
HE AWOKE TO THE SMELL
of frying eggs. Dressing behind the closed bed curtains, she made herself as decent as possible, combing her hair with her fingers. But she couldn't coil her hair and cover it, having lost her linen cap the day before. Her hair tumbled loose, spilling over her shoulders and down her back. She imagined she must look like a ghoul with her eyes swollen from too much crying. Opening the curtains, she stuck her feet into her shoes and made her way to the trestle table.

Gabriel's face was taut and drained, his eyes shadowed. He, too, must have had a hellish night. Without speaking, he passed her a trencher of fried eggs and cornbread, and a cup of milk. At least he still had hens and a cow, she thought, until she tasted the milk, which was so strong and musky it could only have come from a goat. She made an effort to empty her cup. Even goat's milk was too precious to waste.

This was her husband,
Hannah thought as they ate in silence.
This was the table where they supped together.
She looked down at her own hands and saw May's hands. Finally she spoke.

"Will you take me to the graves?"

***

After feeding the dogs, he led Hannah down a narrow path through the trees. There was only room for them to walk single file. He spoke in a hollow voice with his back to her.

"My father thought he was clever, coming here to start his own plantation. But the land was too wild for him. Killed him, it did. Just like it killed your sister and the child."

His pace accelerated to a march. Hannah struggled to keep up. Then he stopped so abruptly that she bumped into his back.

"There you see them." He pointed.

On a grassy knoll near the river were three weedy mounds, each with its own wooden cross. The first cross was the biggest, made of two sanded oak planks neatly nailed together.

H
ERE LYETH
N
ATHAN
W
ASHBROOK,
E
SQUIRE
P
LANTER
1639–1690
R.I.P.

Each letter had been carved with precision. Hannah imagined Gabriel patiently working the wood with chisel and hammer. By contrast, the other two crosses were made of rough planks lashed together with rawhide. The epitaphs were scratched in the horizontal plank, as crudely executed as paupers' graves at home.

Here lyes Hannah Washbrook, aged 7 days
1690
R.I.P.

Plainest of all was May's grave.

Here lyes May Washbrook

Hannah dropped to her knees in the long grass. Tears stung her eyes. When she found her voice, it came out like acid. "This does not look like the grave of a cherished wife." She swung around and looked Gabriel in the eye, not caring if she offended him. She thought of her parents' tabletop grave at home, the marker as enduring as the stone from which it had been hewn. These two flimsy crosses looked as if they could barely last through one more winter.

Gabriel recoiled. The muscles in his throat twitched. "It is true I am a poor engraver, but I did my best."

She looked at him in confusion. "But your father's grave..."

"Not my handiwork." He turned away. "One of the servants did carve his marker. A lad called James. My father favored him." Something in his voice sounded devastated. Three deaths in the space of a year.