Page 16 of The Frozen River

She looks at me over the rim of her cup, hesitant. “You were in the Hook early today.”

I nod. “I was called to the tavern on business, and I have a bit of news that concerns you.”

“Good or bad? I can’t tell by the tone of your voice.”

“Both, actually.” I turn to the parlor door, noting that Rebecca left it half open. Sally and the boys are still occupied. I can hear footsteps in the room above and the creak of a rocking chair. “Where is Isaac?”

“In his study. Writing another letter to the Congregational Church leaders in Boston to contest his dismissal.”

“Even after the last two failed to reinstate him?”

A wry smile bends the corner of her mouth. “My husband is an eternal optimist.”

I would have said pigheaded had I been the one to describe him. Isaac is currently suing Hallowell for two hundred dollars. His contract with the town as preacher was for five years. And he claims that his firing violated that contract and that he is due the remainder of the money promised. To say that things have grown contentious as a result would be an understatement. He refuses to leave the town, much less the parsonage, until the lawsuit has been resolved. Isaac Foster is a man of books. Of belief. Of rules and fairness. And—for a moment—I consider calling him in to hear this news but decide against it. Rebecca should not have to weigh his reaction when expressing her own.

Despite what happened in August, there is still something in her soft brown eyes—a cheerfulness and curiosity—that reminds me of the daughters I lost so many years ago. It’s what drew me to Rebecca in the first place. Every interaction with her since has made me wonder what my daughters would be doing now had they survived that long, horrid summer.

She cups her tea in both hands and holds it to her lips, letting the steam curl around her cheeks, before taking a sip. “So what is this news you have for me?”

Instead of answering Rebecca’s question, I once again look to the door, listen for a beat, then ask one of my own. “Do you happen to know where Isaac was last night?”

“I don’t. In his study, I suppose. But I wasn’t feeling well, and I went to bed early. Why?”

I can remember a time, when my sons were younger, when they loved throwing stones over the bridge into the river. They loved the splash and the noise. Being boys, they loved the disturbance that it caused. I study Rebecca’s face and take no pleasure in upsetting the still waters of her soul.

“Joshua Burgess is dead. They found his body in the river this morning.”

Rebecca shakes her head, as though unable to comprehend. “Was he…? Did…?” Whatever questions she means to ask won’t form.

“It was not an accident. He didn’t drown,” I tell her. “He was hanged.”

Rebecca goes completely still, except for her hands, which begin a frantic trembling. I watch the amber liquid slosh back and forth in her delicate teacup—this way and that—and I pluck it from her hands before she can dump the contents into her lap. I wait for her to speak.

The reason I believe her account of what happened in August has as much to do with our longstanding friendship as it does with the small, traumatizing details that make up the bedrock of her story.

“Joshua Burgess has a rasp to his voice. You’ve heard it?” she finally asks, then looks at me. But her eyes are glassy and unfocused, and it is clear that she is elsewhere, in the past.

An image of that white, waxy windpipe flashes across my mind. “Yes. He did. But not anymore.”

Rebecca squeezes her eyes shut, blocking out some memory of her own. When she speaks again, her voice wavers. “He ripped off the lace hem of my shift before he started. He tied his hair back. Why do I remember that so clearly?”

“He’s dead now, Rebecca, that’s what I’m trying to tell you. He can’t ever hurt you again.”

“North can.”

I want to deny this. But we both know there are endless ways that Joseph North can continue to wound Rebecca without ever touching her again. Not the least is through his continued denials and subtle attacks on her character and reputation. That has been going on for two months now.

“I’m not going to let that happen. I’m going to Vassalboro next month. I will be right there with you in court. And I will give my testimony. Everyone will know what he did. And you will have your justice.”

When I found Rebecca, after the attack, it took her almost two hours to explain why her face and arms were battered with fading angry bruises, and why her lip had been split. But she has no such hesitation now. Her words come fast and breathless.

“I’m glad Burgess is dead.”

“I am too.”

“And I hope Isaac did kill him.”

It’s my turn to be startled, and a glug of warm tea splashes over the rim of my cup, across my thumb, and into the cuff of my sleeve. “Sshh. You can’t say that.”