Page 46 of Wildwood

Her jaw moves back and forth a moment, considering. I think she’s about to turn me away, when she says, “Sure. Come in,” and she disappears inside the house.

I hesitate a moment, unsure if it was truly an invitation, but then hurry up the front steps. Alice’s house is dimly lit; we pass a few rooms on either side of the hall, a TV room and a small living room with an Afghan covering a love seat and come to the kitchen in the back. It’s painted buttercup yellow and there’s one of those old clocks in the kitchen of the cat with the eyes and tail moving back and forth.

“Water?”

I nod gratefully. “That’d be great.”

She places a glass on a small, worn kitchen table and we both sit down. I catch the faint scent of manure and hay.

“Well. What do you want to know?”

I take a long drink of water and clear my throat, feeling self-conscious as I launch into my rehearsed question. “I know that people say Newfield Village was settled in 1771. I realize this might sound weird, but have you ever heard that it was founded earlier?”

Alice leans back in her chair, arms still folded over her chest. I notice dried blood on her hands and for the first time, I wonder if she slaughters goats here. I see an image of a goat, throat slit, red blood pouring in a steaming curtain to the cold earth below.

“What makes you ask that?”

“I found a small cemetery on our property; it’s in the woods. There are four headstones, and they look really, really old. Most of the inscriptions are faded but these stones look older than the ones in the church cemetery.”

Alice doesn’t say anything. I take another sip of water because my throat now feels awkwardly parched, and my head is really starting to throb.

“There are also these unmarked graves.”

Her face gives nothing away, though she seems to be scrutinizing me. I suddenly worry that she remembers me as a child. Shrieking and laughing before racing back to my uncle’s estate. Did we seem like horrible brats?

“Did your uncle tell you about them?”

“No. I discovered them on my own.”

“So, you don’t know when they are from?”

“No. But they look much older than the ones in the other cemetery. And the women at the historical society didn’t seem all that interested in learning more. Isn’t that a little strange?”

“It depends.”

“On what?”

“On what story the historical society is likely to tell.”

I can hear the metronome of the cat clock, which emphasizes the silence that stretches after Alice’s statement. I think of the list of donors, of the Brook name displayed prominently at the top. I don’t know how direct to be. Nearly everyone in this town seems to love the Brooks. I’d assume Alice does as well.

I look around the room, tapping my fingers on the table, and say, as though the thought just occurred to me, “I see the Brooks donate a lot.”

Alice looks amused. “They sure do.”

“Did you go to their harvest festival the other night?”

Alice smirks. “Not my scene.”

I feel a flutter of excitement in my belly, so I venture on. “I know my family and the Brooks were really close. Madeline’s been so welcoming. She said we are like family.”

“Close?!” Alice lets out a guffaw and slaps the table, outright laughing now. “Lady, your family and the Brooks were not close. Ezra hated the Brooks. In fact, when he died, guess who was first in line to try and buy up his property?”

The flutter turns to a slam, and I feel as though the wind has been knocked out of me. “What do you mean?”

“The Brooks have always wanted Ezra’s property. Apparently, they want to own the entire town of Newfield. Yeah, when Ezra passed and they were having trouble tracking down his heir, Madeline Brook was doing her entitled best to talk her way into snatching up that property.”

“Oh my god, I-I didn’t know any of that,” I stammer. I can’t believe it. Madeline never mentioned anything about wanting to buy the property. I’m also taken aback by Alice’s open display of dislike for Madeline.