Page 8 of The Frozen River

“Where is Dr. Cony?”

“Away. In Boston. I am here in his stead.”

“I don’t think—”

“I assure you, Mistress…?”

“Ballard.”

“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mistress Ballard.” He dips his head, but his voice is dismissive. “I assure you that, as a licensed physician and a recent graduate of Harvard Medical School, I am more than capable of undertaking this examination.”

My grip tightens, but I force myself to loosen my fingers and drop my hands so that they hang my side. “No need, Doctor Page. For I have already completed the assessment.”

He steps forward with a fake smile. “As interesting as your amateur observations might be, I’m sure you won’t mind if I take it from here.”

DR. COLEMAN’S STORE

“I have to run an errand,” I tell James Wall as we stand outside the tavern. “But would you mind doing something for me in the meantime?”

“What’s that?”

“Keep an eye on Dr. Page. I don’t trust him.”

“Aye, Mistress Ballard. I’ll stay until he’s gone,” James says.

The young, new doctor must only verify my findings, then the men of Hallowell can put Joshua Burgess in the ground to rot. But the ground is frozen, and nothing short of a hatchet will break it in this cold. Regardless, there likely isn’t a man in three counties willing to do the job. Which leaves them with a dilemma: what to do with the mangled corpse on their hands? For now, they will have to wrap him in linen, then oiled canvas, and store him in the shed behind the tavern until better arrangements can be made.

It did not escape my attention that Chandler Robbins—in his drunken stupor—had suggested pitching Burgess back into the river. They’d cut a hole, after all, he said. No one had paid Chandler much mind, however, and then they’d all dispersed and gone their separate ways.

I leave James looking more tired than ever and go in search of something that only Samuel Coleman can supply.

Thankfully all I must do is cross the street and turn left.

The sign above the door reads Coleman’s General, and it creaks in the breeze like an old gate on rusted hinges. I worry for a moment that the store is not yet open, but no sooner do I set my hand on the knob than I have to jump back as two trappers—bearded and foul smelling—stomp out.

“Din’t give us much for them furs, did ’e?” one grumbles to the other.

I hold my breath as they pass. I doubt either of them has bathed in a month.

“Get that silver fox and ’e will. Them’s worth twenty dollars easy. More if’n you can keep the head attached when ye skin it.”

“Ain’t no silver fox in these woods,” the second man argues. He steps off the boardwalk and turns left, toward Pollard’s Tavern. “Them’s rare as virgins in a brothel.”

“And just as expensive. But I saw one, anyways. A pretty little vixen. Upriver. Yesterday. Near that mill run by the Welshman.”

I watch as they shuffle across the street, shedding bits of mud and refuse as they go. Soon their voices fade to a hard grumble, and they reach the other side. No doubt to spend whatever coin they’ve just made at the tavern.

The Welshman they speak of is my husband, and the mill belongs to us. But in the eleven years that we have lived there, I have never seen a silver fox. It bothers me that these men think they can kill something on our property and take it just because they want it.

I pull the door open and step into the general store. The little bell rings above my head, and my eyes settle on the pile of new furs stacked beside the counter. Seven in total, mostly beaver, though that’s a stoat near the middle, and there is a single blazing red fox pelt on top. I am struck by sudden concern for the silver fox’s mate.

Coleman’s General was built before we moved to Hallowell, and Ephraim cannot set foot in the place without muttering about how it wasn’t framed square. The roof leaks were fixed last year, however, and the townsfolk no longer need to worry about puddles in the dry goods aisle. For my part, I find the place cheerful. The windows are plentiful, the floorboards creak, and the place smells of lamp oil and dried apples. Coleman is getting older, however, and the store is starting to show signs of neglect. Cobwebs in the corners. Dust piled on every windowsill. It’s a lot for one man to manage on his own.

“Good morning, Mistress Ballard,” he calls out from his perch at the till.

“To you as well,” I answer, then move to join him at the counter.

The store is empty except for the two of us, and he sits on a wooden stool, playing a game of chess by himself, spinning the board around as he takes turns between black and white. I’ve always thought checkers would be easier if the goal were to outsmart oneself, but he insists on the game of kings.