The Sabbathday River (2 page)
Read The Sabbathday River Online
Authors: Jean Hanff Korelitz
The Famine Child
OH, OF COURSE SHE KNEWâSHE KNEW, SOMEWHERE back there in the part of her brain where she kept all rational thought, all sense, everything but this inscrutable fact of the baby in the riverâthat she was not supposed to touch the body. Every mystery she had ever read, every bad Hollywood thriller she had endured, had featured some gruff policeman who growled at you not to disturb a single blade of grass or shred of clothing, but Naomi hadn't been able to help herself. Her arms had followed a command so deeply etched as to feel nearly genetic, the ingrained rhythm of scooping an infant into the crook of the elbow, and once she held the child a rush of pityâof almost loveâhad come over her, weakening her and obliterating everything else. The infant was grotesque, but even with her wound bled out and the unreal whiteness that remained, there was a gut-clenching sweetness to her unmarked face. Naomi crouched in the icy water for what seemed a long time, cradling the tiny body as if the child were hers, the toes and fingers hers to count and the slate-gray eyes hers to speculate about. She held the child so long that, in the
end, it was not the child at all that brought her back but the awareness that she could no longer quite feel her own calves and feet. You can't step in the same river twice, she thought then, recalling and perhaps mangling the meaning of some shard of philosophic wisdom. But couldn't you step in it once and never get out again? It was time to get out now.
end, it was not the child at all that brought her back but the awareness that she could no longer quite feel her own calves and feet. You can't step in the same river twice, she thought then, recalling and perhaps mangling the meaning of some shard of philosophic wisdom. But couldn't you step in it once and never get out again? It was time to get out now.
Shifting the body to her shoulder, where it barely registered weight, Naomi picked a path back across the boulders to the riverbank, made her way out to the road and her car in a kind of blank daze, and drove into Goddard. There, everything was the sameâan immaculate town, suspended in the not-knowing of what she knew, and this suddenly enraged her. She despised the nonchalance of those women on the Laundromat stoop, waiting as their loads churned inside, those lingering summer people or early leaf-peepers perched on the steps at Tom and Whit's with takeout coffee and
The Boston Globe,
the trio of classically solemn Greek Revival buildings: Meeting House, First Methodist Church, town office. The bank was closing up its Saturday hours, and there was a half-full parking lot at the sports center. The normality of it seemed to hover before her car with its load of tragedy, then part around her as she drove by, then close behind her again: everything would change now. Goddard, intent on hoisting itself out of the forest to hail the tourists up from the lake region and west from the Old Man of the Mountains, would hardly be pleased by this jolt of change, but it was in Naomi's arms and out of her hands. She shook her head and swung into the parking lot of the cement-bunker police station, then looked again at her tiny, ruined passenger. Shock and repulsion assaulted her with a devastating clarity, and the nausea that had sent her reeling into the river when she had first turned the baby's body gripped her again. She could not bring her in this way, Naomi thought. She had a compulsion to swaddle the infant, but there was nothing to wrap her in, no receiving blanket to receive a corpse, only one stiff and blackened chamois cloth for wiping the windshield. She scanned the back seat and saw only Heather's most recent order there: an alphabet sampler stitched on old linen. Naomi had picked it up mid-week, but for some reason it was still there, not yet processed and sent on. Uncharacteristically inefficient, she thought, pausing even in crisis to scold herself. She snatched the cloth from the back seat and wrapped the baby, besting her instinct to frame its face and instead enfolding it completely. Like
the children of the Ethiopian famine, she thought, flashed around the world to the accompaniment of that summer's global rock concert-wrapped for burial in gauze, tumbling into the mass graves as if they were little chrysalises. The cloth was pale yellow and covered with spidery thread in lush crimson, and the lettering was more ornate than Heather was wont to favor, a wildly swirling mesh of letters that covered half the baby's chest and disappeared behind its shoulderâthe client must have provided a picture of what she wanted. She could not send it now, Naomi thought, letting this bit of irrelevance lead her again away from the horror, however briefly. She could not send her customer a sampler that had been used to wrap a dead baby, and wasn't it a shame that Heather, who'd obviously given the assignment her customary attention and extravagant skill, would only have to do it again, and soon, before the customer had a fit.
As you know
, she imagined writing to the aggrieved party,
“Handmade in New England” is not only our slogan but a commitment to a traditional way of life. By eschewing machinery to provide the quality work we offer our customers, we must rely instead upon far less reliable human beings. In this particular case, the arrival of a new baby resulted in the delay of your order.
The Boston Globe,
the trio of classically solemn Greek Revival buildings: Meeting House, First Methodist Church, town office. The bank was closing up its Saturday hours, and there was a half-full parking lot at the sports center. The normality of it seemed to hover before her car with its load of tragedy, then part around her as she drove by, then close behind her again: everything would change now. Goddard, intent on hoisting itself out of the forest to hail the tourists up from the lake region and west from the Old Man of the Mountains, would hardly be pleased by this jolt of change, but it was in Naomi's arms and out of her hands. She shook her head and swung into the parking lot of the cement-bunker police station, then looked again at her tiny, ruined passenger. Shock and repulsion assaulted her with a devastating clarity, and the nausea that had sent her reeling into the river when she had first turned the baby's body gripped her again. She could not bring her in this way, Naomi thought. She had a compulsion to swaddle the infant, but there was nothing to wrap her in, no receiving blanket to receive a corpse, only one stiff and blackened chamois cloth for wiping the windshield. She scanned the back seat and saw only Heather's most recent order there: an alphabet sampler stitched on old linen. Naomi had picked it up mid-week, but for some reason it was still there, not yet processed and sent on. Uncharacteristically inefficient, she thought, pausing even in crisis to scold herself. She snatched the cloth from the back seat and wrapped the baby, besting her instinct to frame its face and instead enfolding it completely. Like
the children of the Ethiopian famine, she thought, flashed around the world to the accompaniment of that summer's global rock concert-wrapped for burial in gauze, tumbling into the mass graves as if they were little chrysalises. The cloth was pale yellow and covered with spidery thread in lush crimson, and the lettering was more ornate than Heather was wont to favor, a wildly swirling mesh of letters that covered half the baby's chest and disappeared behind its shoulderâthe client must have provided a picture of what she wanted. She could not send it now, Naomi thought, letting this bit of irrelevance lead her again away from the horror, however briefly. She could not send her customer a sampler that had been used to wrap a dead baby, and wasn't it a shame that Heather, who'd obviously given the assignment her customary attention and extravagant skill, would only have to do it again, and soon, before the customer had a fit.
As you know
, she imagined writing to the aggrieved party,
“Handmade in New England” is not only our slogan but a commitment to a traditional way of life. By eschewing machinery to provide the quality work we offer our customers, we must rely instead upon far less reliable human beings. In this particular case, the arrival of a new baby resulted in the delay of your order.
A new baby. Naomi felt herself shake. The car began to fill with sound, something really strange that she couldn't exactly place, but terribly insistent, and so awful that her only thought was to aid the person or animal in such agony. Either rain had come down from the bright clear midday sky to blur the windshield or Naomi was crying. She clawed for the door and ran for the station, moving only to the staccato of her own noises.
“Where's Nelson?” she choked out to the deputy behind the receptionist's desk. In response, he frowned at her. Naomi swiped the back of her hand across her face.
“Where's Nelson?”
she tried again, feeling the edge of hysteria in her throat, pushing her.
“Nelson, I need
⦔
“Where's Nelson?”
she tried again, feeling the edge of hysteria in her throat, pushing her.
“Nelson, I need
⦔
“You need help?” he said, somewhat bafflingly.
“Please.” She thought she might faint. She thought the cloth in her arms might suddenly unfurl like a carpet at the deputy's feet, tumbling the infant onto his scuffed black shoes. She didn't know the deputy. Suddenly that seemed terribly significant.
“Ma'am”âhe cleared his throatâ“now ⦔
“Oh fuck
this,”
Naomi cried, hearing the intonation of her childhoodâher mother on Central Park West, every other mother of
every other child in the Ethical Culture school system. The deputy winced.
this,”
Naomi cried, hearing the intonation of her childhoodâher mother on Central Park West, every other mother of
every other child in the Ethical Culture school system. The deputy winced.
“Ma'am.”
She plunged past him. She had never been inside the police station before, but the geography wasn't hard to figure out. Along the narrow corridor were arrayed a small room with an unwieldy Xerox, a conference area, and a supply closet. The walls were charmless cement block painted beige, plastered with posters. The dropped ceiling muffled the slap of Naomi's feet so that she could barely make out the sound of her own motion. Nelson's office was at the end of the hall, its door ajar, its occupant on the phone.
She stopped in the doorway, feet apart, her bundle before her. In the small mirror behind his desk she caught sight of herself: wild woman, her hair in damp waves about her face, her face with its central ridge: a nose her mother had termed “strong” and everyone else merely “large.” She noted the desperation in her own face with extraordinary detachment, even letting the image of a long-remembered painting flash before her, dredged from freshman art history like a fistful of mud from the water: Victorian, unfinished, the portrait of a crazed woman extending a swaddled infant to its reluctant sire, its title a sneerâ
Take
Your
Son, Sir.
Take
Your
Son, Sir.
Nelson Erroll was in his seat, leaning forward, each muscled forearm planted atop a stack of papers. His hair had a glint of gold thin over the glint of skin, downgrading to silver with age. The clench of her lungs was noted and promptly, responsibly, ignored. He looked up and frowned.
“Naomi? Can you give me a minute?”
She could hear her own breath. She thought she might breathe fire.
Nelson harrumphed into the phone. He hung up.
“Naomi? What can I doâ”
She placed the baby on the table before him. She hated to let it out of her arms. She couldn't take it back now, undiscover it, or silence whatever din its existence was going to unleash. It would never be only hers again either, which at that particular moment seemed almost the worst thing of all.
“I found her,” Naomi said calmly. “I was jogging, up above Nate's Landing. On the path. I found her in the river.” Nelson was blankly still; his face and body, even the papery softness around his eyes, gave
no pulse of movement. He merely, sluggishly, turned one wrist, so that a single blue vein was etched against the white. His vacancy made her smile, ridiculously, but then she felt her body break into sobs. The white doll in the icy currents, the weightless infant over her shoulder, the famine child in its dark communal grave. For the first time, Naomi conjured the hand that had lifted the weapon and brought it down, tearing flesh from flesh and death from life, and so, for the first time, she wept with bitterness and rage.
no pulse of movement. He merely, sluggishly, turned one wrist, so that a single blue vein was etched against the white. His vacancy made her smile, ridiculously, but then she felt her body break into sobs. The white doll in the icy currents, the weightless infant over her shoulder, the famine child in its dark communal grave. For the first time, Naomi conjured the hand that had lifted the weapon and brought it down, tearing flesh from flesh and death from life, and so, for the first time, she wept with bitterness and rage.
What We Don't Know We Know
“YOU MOVED THE BODY.”
“It wasn't a body,” Naomi said stiffly. “It was a baby.”
“It
was
a baby. By the time you got to it, it was a body. And you moved the body.”
was
a baby. By the time you got to it, it was a body. And you moved the body.”
Naomi let out a ragged sigh. She barely knew what time it was anymore. The Indian summer on the other side of the small window and the long hours in the cinder-block bunker had wrenched her internal clock out of whack. The man was called Robert Charter, and despite the charged and frenetic talk that had swirled about them all afternoon, these were the first words he'd directed to her in private.
“Look, I'm very tired. It's been a rough day and I'd like to go home, if you don't mind.”
“But I do mind.” Charter took the seat on the other side of the institutionally nondescript table. “That is, I'd prefer your hanging on a little bit longer. We haven't had much of a chance to talk.”
She focused on him. He was angular and lean, with gray hair trained in a kind of arched wave over the top of his head from one ear to
another, and his cheeks were ruddy. She had only known him a few hours, Naomi thought, but their interlocked glares already had the creak and drone of ingrained adversity. “I don't see what I can add to what I've already said,” she told him carefully. “I mean I don't
know
anything. I only found her, you know.”
another, and his cheeks were ruddy. She had only known him a few hours, Naomi thought, but their interlocked glares already had the creak and drone of ingrained adversity. “I don't see what I can add to what I've already said,” she told him carefully. “I mean I don't
know
anything. I only found her, you know.”
He remained silent. He held his palms together atop the legal pad in a position of vaguely contortionist prayer. Naomi blinked. It occurred to her to wonder where Nelson had got to. He'd been right behind her when they'd returned from the river, where the little knot of men had huddled, murmuring officially as she stood forlornly on the bank. He'd been behind her in the reception area a few moments before, taking her elbow and offering coffee. But now there was no coffee and she was alone with this Charter, the district attorney up from Peytonville, and the room was smallâbarely big enough for the two of them and the table and the extra chairs, empty and left at odd angles. The interrogation room, she understood, somewhat belatedly. She was being interrogated.
“Am I being interrogated?” Naomi sat up in her chair. “I mean, what the hell's going on here? I can't just hang out here forever. I have a ⦔ What? Naomi thought. A child? A life? A limited capacity for horror? Something more important to do? She hated the fact that he was waiting for her to go on. Then, when she couldn't, he began again.
“You aren't from Goddard, is that right?”
“Only for the past nine years,” she said stiffly.
“And your home therefore is ⦔ He lifted his pen.
Like the punch line it was, she gave it a pause: “I grew up in New York City.” This meant, in New Hampshire dialect,
I am a Jew.
“My husband and I came as VISTA workers in â76.”
I am a Jew.
“My husband and I came as VISTA workers in â76.”
“VISTA workers,” he pondered, writing.
“Domestic Peace Corps.”
He glared, briefly. “Digging wells? Schools for the little children? Something like that?”
Yes, Naomi wanted to say.
“Of course not,” she said.
“I wasn't aware that we were considered quite that backward.”
But you were, she thought.
“My husband ran a maple sugar co-op,” Naomi said pleasantly. “I
worked with women who were quilting and making crafts. After our term was up we decided to stay on.”
worked with women who were quilting and making crafts. After our term was up we decided to stay on.”
He nodded. “Do the ⦠homesteading-in-the-wilderness routine, yes?”
“Yes,” she said, not giving him the satisfaction.
“And your work is ⦔
Satisfying, thank you, she wanted to say, but she also wanted to get out of here. “I helped found a collective business in Goddard, called Flourish. We sell handmade goods, by catalogue mostly. Quilts and samplers. Also hooked rugs.”
Charter smiled a disingenuous smile. “And your husband is still teaching the natives how to make maple sugar.”
“My husband lives in upstate New York. Woodstock. You know,” she said affably, “like the concert? I'm not sure what he's doing, but I doubt it involves maple sugar.”
“Ah,” Charter said. “You are divorced.”
“We were divorced several months ago.” He was writing again. Naomi eyed the brassy wedding ring, thick around his thin finger, the dark cracked leather of a watchband.
“Children?”
She said no. “Mr ⦠. Charter?”
“Hm?” He finished his note and looked up.
“Do you have the time?”
“Why?” he said, his voice even. “Are you late?”
“I might be. That's why I want to know what time it is.”
“Mrs. Roth,” he said heavily, “why don't we move ahead. If we finish everything in the next little while, I see no reason why you can't be home in time for dinner.”
“
Dinner
? Mr. Charter, I understand that you've got a big problem here, but I don't
know
anything. I just went out jogging this morning, and that's all. I brought the baby here, I went back and showed you where I found her, and this ends my entire possible contribution to solving your problem. Now please, I'm very upset about all this and I'd like to get out of here.”
Dinner
? Mr. Charter, I understand that you've got a big problem here, but I don't
know
anything. I just went out jogging this morning, and that's all. I brought the baby here, I went back and showed you where I found her, and this ends my entire possible contribution to solving your problem. Now please, I'm very upset about all this and I'd like to get out of here.”
“Why are you so upset?” Charter said. “I mean, if you are, as you seem to suggest, merely in the role of the good and responsible citizen, then why are you so upset?”
She stopped, abruptly dumb, and noted with scientific detachment
the heat climbing steadily to her face. “I am upset,” she said with care, “because it is upsetting. That's all. Stabbed infants might be commonplace in your line of work, but I've never seen one before. It's ⦔ She groped. “It's upsetting. All right?” To his silence she added, “After all, she was somebody's child, right?”
the heat climbing steadily to her face. “I am upset,” she said with care, “because it is upsetting. That's all. Stabbed infants might be commonplace in your line of work, but I've never seen one before. It's ⦔ She groped. “It's upsetting. All right?” To his silence she added, “After all, she was somebody's child, right?”
Slowly, he leaned forward, resting weight on his forearms. “Was she
your
child?”
your
child?”
Breath failed her. She shook her head wildly.
“You see why I must at least wonder.”
“I ⦠absolutely not. I'm ⦔
Incapable. Unthinkable.
“How could you even suggest that Iâ”
“How could you even suggest that Iâ”
“I did not suggest.” He shrugged. “I merely inquired. If the answer is no, then it is no,” he said. “You don't have to take it so personally. Unless,” he added, “it is personal.” Naomi shook her head again. “Now, you found the body. This is what you tell us and I happen to believe you.”
“Fine,” she sputtered. “Thanks for that.”
“But look at it from my perspective for a minute. And ask yourself why it should be you who found this body, and not someone else.”
“Well”âshe said carefullyâ“because I was there. It
might
have been someone else.”
might
have been someone else.”
“But it
wasn't
someone else, Mrs. Roth. It was you. Now, by your own account, you moved the body, whichâif I may say soâwas an extraordinarily stupid thing for such an obviously intelligent woman to have done. And once the body is moved, its relation to the place where you say it was found must necessarily be subjected to some doubt. So what do we have in the end? We have the fact of the body and we have your account of its discovery. Now,” he mused, taking in Naomi's horror-struck expression without comment, “Sheriff Erroll knows you, Mrs. Roth, but what if Sheriff Erroll hadn't been at the desk down the hall”âhe gestured with his thin wristâ“when you brought that baby in this morning? What if it had been some person you don't know, and who didn't know you?”
wasn't
someone else, Mrs. Roth. It was you. Now, by your own account, you moved the body, whichâif I may say soâwas an extraordinarily stupid thing for such an obviously intelligent woman to have done. And once the body is moved, its relation to the place where you say it was found must necessarily be subjected to some doubt. So what do we have in the end? We have the fact of the body and we have your account of its discovery. Now,” he mused, taking in Naomi's horror-struck expression without comment, “Sheriff Erroll knows you, Mrs. Roth, but what if Sheriff Erroll hadn't been at the desk down the hall”âhe gestured with his thin wristâ“when you brought that baby in this morning? What if it had been some person you don't know, and who didn't know you?”
Amazed, she felt herself nod. “Yes?”
“Well, like me, for example. What if you'd come scurrying in this morning with that body in your arms, and it was me, for example. I wouldn't have seen my neighbor Naomi coming through the door, would I?”
“I ⦠I guess ⦔
“Can I tell you what I'd have seen?” He didn't pause. “I'd have seen a woman of obviously fertile years bringing in the body of a murdered newborn infant. A body, I should add, that's wrapped up in the very kind of product that this woman's company offers for sale. And the woman's upset, too. âHysterical,' somebody called her. Took a good half hour to get her to calm down and make sense.” He frowned, then flipped back a few pages on his legal pad and appeared to study the writing. “Yes, half an hour.” Charter looked up at Naomi and shrugged. “That's what my notes say, anyway.”
“Mr. Charter.” Naomi's voice was steely. “I don't think I should have to defend my response. Yes, I was upset. I'm
still
upset. But the rest of this is bullshit. Christ, do I look to you like I've just given birth?”
still
upset. But the rest of this is bullshit. Christ, do I look to you like I've just given birth?”
“Mrs. Roth”âCharter grinnedâ“I'm hardly qualified to answer that on medical grounds, and I wouldn't think of offending you with inappropriate comments about your appearance.”
In her fury, she flushed. At thirty-five, Naomi was not a slender woman.
“Let me understand this, please,” Naomi said, pulling herself together somewhat. “Am I being asked to prove that I am not the mother of that baby out there?” She pointed vaguely at the door to the interrogation room, though she knew that the baby's body was gone, taken to Peytonville by the medical examiner.
His white brows raised, as if he had just heard a compelling suggestion, one to be given weighty consideration. “It seems to me that it would be helpful to establish that, yes.”
“Well then,” Naomi said caustically, “I suggest you call my gynecologist. He saw me three weeks ago, for a pap smear. If I was pregnant at the time, neither one of us noticed.” She gave him the name and he wrote it down.
“Fine,” Charter said, nodding. “Thank you.”
“And this concludes our conversation?”
The man sat back in his chair, studying her. There was the smallest ridge of a scar, she noticed now, tracing a faint half circle from the corner of his left eye, the size of a dime. Fingernail? Front tooth?
“It's a small town,” Charter observed.
“Excuse me?”
“It's a small town, Goddard.”
“Yes.” She was snide. “And yet there are those who love it.”
“A dead baby turns up in a small town, somebody knows whose baby it is.”
“And hence who murdered it, you mean. You naturally suspect the mother.”
“I would like to know who the mother is,” he corrected her, his voice tight.
“So that you can charge her with murder,” Naomi said. “I understand.”
“So that I can be very much closer than I am now to knowing who
should
be charged with murder. Surely you see that.” He sat up a little, then sighed. “Mrs. Roth, someone who lives here was pregnant and gave birth, but has no baby. Do you know that person?”
should
be charged with murder. Surely you see that.” He sat up a little, then sighed. “Mrs. Roth, someone who lives here was pregnant and gave birth, but has no baby. Do you know that person?”
“Oh, I
see,”
Naomi sneered. “If it wasn't me, then I must know who did it.”
see,”
Naomi sneered. “If it wasn't me, then I must know who did it.”
“You
might
know.” He was intent.
might
know.” He was intent.
“Well, I don't,” she said, getting to her feet. He didn't move to stop her and she made for the door.
“Mrs. Roth,” Charter said. He was still in his seat. “May I tell you one thing before you leave?”
Naomi paused, her hand on the doorknob. At least he had said she was leaving. She nodded.
“I had a murder once. At a mall down near Winnipesaukee. The victim left her job at Sears and got hacked to death in the parking lot, the week before Christmas. One of the busiest shopping days of the year, and nobody saw a damned thing. Isn't that crazy?”
Perplexed, Naomi nodded.
“We went to an automatic teller machine in the middle of the parking lot and we got the name of a lady who made a transaction at the time of the murder, but when we contacted her she said she hadn't seen a thing. Knew about the murder, of course. Everyone did, it was all over the papers. And this lady even knew that she'd been in the parking lot at the time of the crime. Felt terrible about it, but couldn't give us any information.” He paused, Naomi shifted. “Still, this lady knew we had nothing, and she wanted to help. So she agreed to be hypnotized, though naturally she didn't believe in such hooey. And do you know what, Mrs. Roth?”
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