Page 131 of The Frozen River

I’d watched him strip the lowest, finest feathers, then place the shafts into the ashes of the wood stove to harden.

He’d looked at me. Winked. Laughed and said, “I wouldn’t mind if you hardened my shaft tonight.”

I had no intention of waiting until nightfall but didn’t mention it then or the quills would be ruined. I’d simply returned his leer and watched as he took the feathers and laid them on his worktable. He flattened the shafts slightly, until they took on an oval shape, then rounded the tips with his fingers. It didn’t take long for them to cool, only moments. Then he shaved off the points at an angle with his knife, followed by a slit at the top so that the ink will draw into the shaft.

Such simple things, paper, quill, and ink. But I cannot imagine more tangible symbols of my husband’s love. I miss him and there is much I want to tell him, but no ability to do so yet.

I spread my journal open on the worktable, mix the ink, and dip my quill instead.

Monday, April 19—Clear morn. Cloudy afternoon, the wind very chilly. Mr. Ballard is still in Boston. My girls are at the Hook. My boys also.

I cannot say why it is so important that I make this daily record. Perhaps because I have been doing so for years on end? Or maybe—if I am being honest—it is because these markings of ink and paper will one day be the only proof that I have existed in this world. That I lived and breathed. That I loved a man and the many children he gave me. It is not that I want to be remembered, per se. I have done nothing remarkable. Not by the standards of history, at least. But I am here. And these words are the mark I will leave behind. So yes, it matters that I continue this ritual.

The ink is still wet on the page, and I leave it open on the table to dry. I’ll collect everything later, when I get home. For now, my conscience burns, and I must go see Lidia North.

The tonic is in my medical bag. It weighs but a few ounces. Yet to me it may as well be an anchor, for it feels as though I am dragging the full weight of my conscience up the front steps to Joseph North’s house.

Still, I knock.

Once.

Twice.

Three times I pound the knuckles of my right hand against the wooden door. Finally, after several minutes, it is answered by Lidia. I can see I’ve woken the woman. Her hair is mussed, her eyes watering, and there are pillow creases along her right cheek.

“Martha,” she says, wary, “what are you doing here?”

“I have come to bring your tonic.”

“But I thought—”

“I was wrong,” I tell her. “And I am sorry for being cruel. Will you let me in?”

The house is dark, all the shades drawn, when Lidia leads me through the front door and into the parlor. It is not a manor home, far from it, but as one of the largest houses in the Hook, that is what it’s called. North Manor. It sits against a large sweep of hill on the west side of Water Street, overlooking the river. Four full bedrooms upstairs. A kitchen, study, sitting room, and dining room downstairs. There are glass windows and velvet curtains and wood floors. But I can think only of the fact that Joseph North purchased this house with bounties paid on the heads of his enemies. I wonder if Lidia knows. Or if she cares.

“Do sit down,” Lidia tells me. “I can build the fire.”

“No need. I won’t stay long.” I lower myself onto the sofa beside her. “Where is Joseph this evening?”

Lidia shrugs. “Out for an evening walk.”

It’s best that way. I haven’t seen him since the trial and certainly don’t want to run into him now. “How have you been?”

“Worse. I wish it wasn’t so, but…”

“The headaches?”

“Every day. Sometimes for hours at a time. Joseph is so patient with me, but I know they wear on him as well.”

“I should have come sooner. I am sorry for that.”

Lidia looks at her fingers. They are long and thin, like twigs. She flexes them several times before answering. “It hasn’t been fair. For a lot of us.”

The medical bag sits at my feet, and I lean down to sift through the contents. Each item is as familiar to me as the faces of those I love, and I let my fingers roam, looking for the right one.

There.

It is small, with a slender neck and a wooden cork. The bottle feels cool against my palm when I pluck it out of the bag and set it in Lidia’s hand.