At the Corner of King Street (10 page)

With Penny at my side, I ventured to the small market in the town center. There I saw Patience McDonald and her husband. They own a small tobacco farm a few miles west of town. I inquired about storm damage and Mistress McDonald told me she and her husband and their indentured man harvested most of their tobacco crops before the skies opened. What remained in the fields was crushed. If the storm arrived weeks earlier, many would have seen their livelihoods ruined. I was tempted to ask Mistress McDonald about Faith but feared my interest would arouse suspicion about my own connection to Faith.

T
he first rays of light cut through the blinds into my room and reached into a restless sleep, pulling me toward consciousness. I didn't want to wake up. I wanted the sun to go away and the silence around me to last forever. Pushing a strand of hair out of my eyes, I imagined Scott's body nestled close to mine, his unshaven chin teasing my shoulder. I conjured the scent of his aftershave mingling with the scent of grapes and sunshine. Curled on my side, I smiled.

The nightmare of yesterday with Janet and the baby was just that, a nightmare. I wasn't back at the warehouse in Alexandria. I wasn't hot, sweaty, and too tired to eat. It was over, and I was back to my life.

The sun brightened and coaxed my itching eyes open. The worn ceiling and the room's fading white walls were not mine. I sat up and swallowed. Saw the portrait of the dour lady staring at me. The steady tick-tock of a clock echoed.
Tick-tock. Tick-tock. Tick-tock.

Grace's clock. I wasn't wrapped in my large queen bed back home,
but in a twin, twisted up in faded pink sheets embossed with roses and vines. Alexandria. The city.

The nightmare continued.

Ticking clock. The pink sheets. Silence.

Where was the baby? I rose and tiptoed across the floor to the dresser drawer lined with blankets. Inside, Baby Carrie slept on her back, her eyes shut tight and her small lips moving as if she were mumbling.

I stared at the steady rise and fall of her chest. One. Two. Three. Alive.

Rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I pinched the bridge of my nose. Carrie had been up half the night crying, and now, as the sun rose, she slept hard. Holding my breath, I backed up a step and tiptoed out of my room. Floorboards creaked at the threshold and I paused. The baby shifted, yawned, but didn't wake. I hurried toward the kitchen, determined to have coffee before she awoke.

Standing over the old farmhouse sink, I stared out the window at Union Street and, beyond it, the Potomac. The city streets were empty but, on the river, a sailboat skimmed along the early morning waters, enjoying the breeze yet to warm under the summer sun. A couple of joggers passed by on a trail by the river. The city wasn't really awake and the peace reminded me of the country, where life meandered at a quieter pace. I missed Scott and our life desperately.

“Soon,” I whispered. “I'll be home soon.”

I opened the coffee jar and nearly wept when I discovered Grace had refilled it last night. Jamming as much coffee as I could in the filter, I closed the lid and filled the carafe with water. Soon, the machine was loaded and gurgling.

From a wooden breadbox hand painted with strawberries and
vines, I found a bag of cinnamon raisin bagels. My stomach grumbled. Did I last eat yesterday morning?

As the coffee dripped, I pulled butter and milk from the refrigerator. I dragged the knife over the butter and then covered the bagel in a thick coating. Normally, I'd have skipped the extra fat calories, but today I deserved them.

As I leaned over the sink and ate the bagel, the faint scent of formula wafted over. A glance at my stained shirt and I realized I still wore yesterday's shirt. Pride should have made me care that I looked one step away from homeless but I kept eating. Chewing, I rolled my head from side to side, working the kinks from the stiff muscles.

Sipping coffee, I moved through the kitchen into the living room. A thick marble mantel inlaid with angels sported a collection of silver frames filled with black-and-white photos and paintings. The first dated back to the nineteen twenties. A woman with a pageboy haircut wearing trousers and a safari-style jacket stood on the plains of Africa. She wore a wide-brimmed hat, sunglasses, and a long dark scarf curled around her neck. Another small painting dated back to the late eighteenth century, perhaps the seventeen nineties. The unsmiling woman stood next to a mantel much like this one, and wore her dark hair coiled in a tight bun. Next to this frame was a plain glass bottle no more than eight or nine inches high.

The bottle's long neck was corked and sealed with red wax, which dripped blood red down the forest-green glass. Thick and sturdy, the bottle clearly once held wine. I held it up to the light and could see objects inside, but the wavy, hand-blown glass was thick enough to obscure my view. Shaking the bottle, I heard the faint click of metal.

Footsteps creaked behind me and I replaced the bottle on the mantel. Turning, I found Grace standing there with a full mug of coffee.
She was dressed in clean clothes, and her hair was brushed and in place.

“Been a long time since I woke to the smell of coffee.”

“The baby didn't sleep well.”

Grace sipped her coffee. “When did she finally fall asleep?”

“About three
A.M.
, I think.” I savored the coffee's bitter taste, hoping it would compensate for no sleep.

“What's the plan for today?”

“I need to check in with Scott, and then I'll meet with the social worker. She's supposed to update me on a foster family.”

Grace's lips flattened into a frown. “It's important that it's a good family. You or me might not want to be a mother. Janet might not ever be able, but Carrie deserves a strong mother. She's gonna need one if she's cursed.”

Staring into the milky depths of my coffee cup, I pushed back resentment. “I never said I didn't want to be a mother. I said I never wanted to pass mental illness on to a child.”

“I guess those that really want to be a mother are willing to take the risk. I wasn't. And you weren't. I'd call us smart.”

“If I'm so smart, what am I doing here? Why aren't I back in the country, living my life?”

“It isn't always about what we want, but what we got to do.”

“I've never been able to fix this family. At best, I'm a Band-Aid that slows the hemorrhaging but never really stops the bleeding.”

“Maybe you buy enough time until the real fix arrives.”

As much as I wanted to believe a new family could save Carrie, I feared the baby would be traveling a hard path most of her life, and whoever walked the path with her would suffer right along beside her.

I reached for the bottle, needing a distraction. “Grace, what is this?”

She turned and studied the jar. “Just a little curiosity I found in your grandmother's belongings.”

Morning light bounced off the impenetrable glass as restrained energy seemed to vibrate through the bottle. “What is it?”

Grace let a sigh trickle over her lips. “A witch bottle.”

“A witch bottle? Like to cast evil spells?” It didn't feel full of magic, but rather fear.

“No, to protect against a witch's spell.”

Just when I thought my family couldn't get any weirder. “We have witches in the family.”

“No witches. We feared witches and curses.”

My fingers tightened around the bottle as the energy seemed to grow stronger. “We all talk about curses in the Shire family, but the bottom line is we have bad genetics.”

“It started somewhere.”

I gently shook the glass, hoping to disrupt the odd sensations. “What's inside?”

“Metal pins or nails, likely some hair, and maybe a bit of blood.” Bent fingers grasped her warm mug, clearly welcoming the heat into the swollen joints. “It's to ward off evil energy. Keep away what we fear most.” She studied the jar. “Can't say it worked so well.”

“Why pins?”

“Not really sure. I suppose whoever made it knew the answer.”

“How old is it?”

“Close to three hundred years old.”

Hearing its age, I wrapped a second hand around it. “Seventeen hundreds.”

“As I've been told, it dates back to when the city was first founded. Around 1750.”

“Shouldn't this be in a museum?”

“It belongs to our family, not a museum.”

I moved toward the direct sunlight and held up the bottle. “You said there's hair and blood inside?”

A smile tweaked the very edges of her mouth. “I like to think it's blood. Some of those protection bottles used urine instead of blood.”

“Two days ago the mention of urine would have grossed me out, but considering I smell like spit-up and baby pee I can't criticize.” I rattled the bottle again, suddenly annoyed. “If it's a protection bottle, it's not working well.”

“You would be right.”

I replaced the bottle on the mantel next to a black-and-white picture of a woman dressed in a long dark dress. For a moment my fingers hummed and I flexed them several times before they relaxed. “We've been in Alexandria for a long time.”

“Since the 1740s. Our first man in town was a doctor who came from Scotland with his new wife, Sarah, to set up a practice. I believe the portrait in your room is of Sarah Goodwin.”

“Not a happy-looking woman.”

“No.”

A glance at the clock and I realized it was quarter after seven. “I don't know how long the kid is going to sleep. Might be minutes or hours or seconds, but I need a shower and to make a few calls.”

“You got that bag of T-shirts I picked up. Not fancy. Just plain black, but they'll do the trick.”

“Thanks.” I plucked at the fabric of my shirt. “Maybe in some cultures baby throw-up is considered chic.”

“No.”

“Right.” I plucked at the sleeve of my very ripe T-shirt.

“Get into the shower. I'll make a couple of bottles of formula and put them in the refrigerator.”

“You know how to do that?”

“If I don't have a baby screaming, I can read instructions as well as the next person.”

“Tick-tock. She'll awaken soon.” I swallowed the last of the coffee. “And thanks.”

“Addie?”

“Yes.”

Ice blue eyes bore into me. “It's going to be all right.”

Unexpectedly, her words soothed. “Why do you say that?”

“It has to be, doesn't it?”

The grandfather clock ticked steady and even in the hallway. “I don't know what we did to offend the cosmos, but somewhere along the way, we really stepped in it, and now we're getting paid back.”

*   *   *

The shower washed away enough fatigue so that my eyes didn't itch and the ache in my muscles faded a fraction. The T-shirt Grace bought me was an off shade of black and a glance at the red-stickered price tag told me she found it on the clearance rack. It was a size too big, but it was clean and would be serviceable enough for my meeting with the social worker. I'd toss it in the trash before I returned to the country.

I ran a comb through my hair and was just brushing my teeth when the baby stirred. She barked out a cry, a testing of the waters, and for a moment was silent. I stopped brushing and stood, silently praying for fifteen more minutes. Fifteen minutes. No, I'll take ten. Five.

But the kid's cries returned, growing loud and insistent very quickly. I finished brushing my teeth and went into my bedroom where Carrie kicked and screamed, her fists balled and her face turning as red as a tomato.

“Hold your horses,” I said. I fumbled in the grocery bag for a fresh
diaper and wipes and a changing towel. I spread them out on my bed. Last night, she woke me sometime after midnight and I stumbled around in the dark as I searched for the bag with the diapers, stubbing my toe. Not today. Today, I would be more organized and figure this out just as I'd learned the vineyard business step by step. If I could manage three hundred acres of land and fifteen workers, I sure as hell could keep a kid clean and fed for a few days.

I picked up Carrie, cradling her head in one palm and her bottom in the other. “God, I feel sorry for you, kid,” I whispered.

She cried louder.

It took me an hour to get her changed, fed, and cleaned up enough to put her in fresh clothes. I grabbed one of the outfits from the white plastic bag without really inspecting it. It was a baby blue jogging suit trimmed with gray and bunched at the baby's ankles and wrists. I laid Carrie on my bed and as she kicked and cried, I unsnapped the outfit's midsection and yanked off the clearance tab. “Hey, don't blame me. I didn't pick a boy outfit for you. That would be your Aunt Grace. Take it up with her.”

She squirmed and fussed as I struggled to get her into the outfit. I started counting the minutes, seconds, moments, until I could return home to the country.

With her finally dressed, I tugged a pair of socks onto her feet. I didn't have a diaper bag so I stuffed an unopened can of formula, a bottle, and a couple of diapers into my purse. My hope was that we would arrive at Social Services and, though it was only Wednesday, the nice social worker lady would have a great home lined up for Carrie.

After snapping her in the car seat, we headed down the stairs, her cries echoing along the stairwell and through the warehouse. I clicked her seat into the attachment and closed the car door. Sliding behind the wheel, I turned the ignition and glanced in the rearview mirror,
which offered a great view of the back of her seat. “Please, fall asleep. Aren't you tired?”