Page 33 of Stay Buried

Uncle Thomas shook his head. “No one should have been out in that storm last night. You could hardly make out your hand in front of your face. I think it’s even worse this morning.”

I looked out at the snow and understood there was no getting out of the valley to get any additional help or send word of the goings-on in town.

“Frankie,” said Uncle Thomas, “why don’t you go check on Pearl and the tea? And bring me back some warm water and cloths. We’ll put some hot compresses on Mrs. Stoddard’s arm, see if we can draw out the infection.”

I found Pearl in the kitchen, putting tea and honey onto an ornate gold tray. I stood quietly behind her, just watching, my breath taken away by the very sight of her. Pearl turned and looked at me. Shelooked at me like I was just anyone. Like we hadn’t spent hours naked together in the Ayers house, unable to pull ourselves away. Like I hadn’t loved her since I was ten years old.

“How is she?” Pearl’s tone was somber and tired.

“She has a fever. We’ll clean the wound, put compresses on it. My uncle will do everything he can.”

Pearl gave me a weak smile.

I stepped closer, lowered my voice. “Pearl,” I began, “I need to know—”

Pearl looked around, eyes frantic. “Shh! Not here,” she whispered.

I grabbed Pearl’s arm, pulled her into the pantry. There were shelves full of canned goods, bottles of wine and ale, sacks of flour and cornmeal.

“What are you doing?” Pearl asked incredulously.

“We need to talk.”

“I don’t think now is the time, Frankie.”

“About Chauncey Banks.” I spat the name out.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Pearl said, not meeting my eyes.

“Like hell you don’t,” I said, holding tight to Pearl’s arm. “Look me in the eye and tell me the truth. You owe me that much at least, don’t you think?” My voice trembled and tears blurred my vision.

“Ouch! You’re hurting me,” Pearl said, looking up, locking eyes with me.

Dear God, was I becoming a monster too?

I let go of her, stepped back, wiped my eyes with the back of my hand. “I’m sorry,” I whispered, voice hoarse.

Pearl rubbed at her arm, bit her lip. “Frankie,” she said, looking at me with tenderness, but also with such sorrow.

“Tell me,” I said through gritted teeth. “No more lies.”

“I’ve never lied to you,” she said.

“Sometimes a lie isn’t what you say, it’s all the things you aren’t saying.”

She sighed. Looked down at the floorboards. “Father wants me tomarry him.”

I felt the weight of Pearl’s words hit me like a sledgehammer to the stomach. I reeled back, made myself take in a slow, deep breath. I had a flash of Pearl in a wedding dress, Chauncey beside her in his finest suit, holding tightly to her arm, his ring on her finger. I thought of the duckling in the jar he used to taunt me with, how the poor little thing had suffocated there while he watched, delighted. How he kept it for weeks, then months, the corpse shriveling, shrinking into itself until it was no more than a mummified bit of feathers, bones, tendons, and bill, twisted and wretched at the bottom of the jar.

She could be his duckling.

I forced myself to ask Pearl the question. I said the words slowly, calmly, then braced myself for her answer. “And is that what you want? To marry Chauncey?”

Pearl frowned. “What I want?” She looked at me, eyes glossy with tears. She gave a disgusted chuckle. “What I want doesn’t matter much, does it?”

I took her hand gently. “It matters very much. To me at least.”

“Well, it doesn’t matter to my father. And to go against him—”