Page 23 of The Frozen River

He shrugs. “It’s not a bad one.”

It is nearing midnight. I can feel it, the way my muscles seem to hang limp on my bones. The way my eyes have gone dry and my neck aches. But I’ve resumed my place at the dressing table regardless, running the boar-bristle brush through my hair. I do this every night, two hundred strokes. Brushing, brushing until my hair crackles with static electricity. I love the way my scalp tingles, the way my hair slips smooth through my fingers afterward. It is the only way to tame my curls.

Ephraim is stretched out in bed, watching me. After a moment he sighs. He wears nothing now, waiting for me to come to bed. I turn around, match him leer for leer.

“I’m glad you chose me,” he says.

“As I recall, you did the choosing.”

“No. I did the courting. But it wouldn’t have mattered a bit if you hadn’t wanted me in return. Any man worth his salt knows it’s a woman who does the choosing. And anyone who thinks differently is a fool.”

A small mirror, chipped and distorted with age, sits on the table. I turn back to it—laughing as I see his grin in the reflection—and move a section of hair above my right ear to inspect a thick streak of silver hidden beneath the part. I lift it, coiling the hair around my finger, marveling at this single patch of silver.

Ephraim shifts on the bed, and I hear the soft pad of feet on the floorboards.

“I like it,” he says lifting the streak from my hand. He slides it through his fingers.

“It is one thing to be old,” I tell him, “and another to feel old. That makes me feel old.”

“Well, it makes me feel like a king.” He smiles at my curious look. “Only a fool would be upset to find a vein of silver running through his beloved territory.”

Well, is it any surprise that we had nine children? Not to me. Not with a man who whispers such things in my ear as he stands an inch away, warm and naked.

Ephraim drops my hair and reaches for my hand. “Come to bed, love.”

Some things change in thirty-five years of marriage—the silver hair, the softness of my belly, the lines around my eyes—but some things do not, and I am still eager for the warmth of my husband’s touch. I go with him gladly and smile as he blows out the candle.

POLLARD’S TAVERN FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 27

A large crowd has gathered in the Hook. The Court of General Sessions draws any number of busybodies eager for distraction and a morsel of gossip to Pollard’s Tavern. They sit in clusters, elbows propped on the heavy wooden tables, flagons in hand. Or they lean against the wall, whispering and picking mud from their boots. Ours is a community of first-, second-, and third-generation immigrants, and the conversations reflect this diversity. Those gathered speak primarily in English, with varied accents, but jocular bursts of German, French, and Spanish rise above the din as well.

Abigail Pollard sits perched on a three-legged stool beside the blazing hearth, a kerchief tucked into her cleavage. As the room fills and the temperature rises, she plucks it out, mops it across her brow, and returns it to her bodice. Amos Pollard takes advantage of the uptick in patronage, buzzing through the tavern serving rum and ale, beer, and cider to his customers. He laughs at a joke. Slaps a friend on the shoulder. Greets this patron and that. There is good reason that Amos has never insisted the court hold session elsewhere. Court days increase his monthly profits by a wide margin.

Joseph North—Colonel North on most days—has donned the moniker of judge for this occasion, and he enjoys the power and dignity that come with the role. The state of Massachusetts gave him the title twenty years ago for his service during the war against the French and Indians. And while I have always found him insufferable in court, today has the added complication of being the first time I’ve come before North since Rebecca Foster went public with her accusation.

As is tradition, the fourth Friday of each month is set aside to deal with petty local issues: complaints of Sabbath-breaking, use of profanity, charges of fornication, small grievances and domestic issues. Twice a year North gathers with the other circuit judges assigned to Lincoln County for the Court of Common Pleas. These sessions take place thirteen miles to the north in Vassalboro and cover more serious crimes such as theft, slander, tax liens, and assault. Likewise, the Supreme Judicial Court also meets twice a year and draws a great deal more attention as it presides over murder trials and any appeals from the Court of Common Pleas. These cases are tried to the south, in Pownalboro—the only town nearby with a proper courthouse and jail—and are presided over by a set of esteemed lawyers who travel from Boston. It is a haphazard and somewhat lax judicial system, but our need is slight, and we are grateful to have whatever justice we can get.

Judge North, however, treats all sessions with the same sense of pomp and pageantry. He wears the required wig and red silk robe, buttoned to the top, and a ruffled collar that has turned yellow with age. It hangs against his throat like a limp rag.

I shift closer to the front of the room, ready to give my testimony and be gone. There is an open spot on a long bench near the fire, and I take a seat. I don’t see Ephraim until he removes his hat. He stands, leaning against a column in the shadows by the door, arms crossed over his chest. Anyone else would take the look he gives me as disinterest, possibly boredom, but I know my husband well enough to detect the curious tightening around his eyes and the clenching of his jaw. After so many years together, his every movement, word, and hesitation are as clear to me as the lines drawn on one of his maps. Ephraim is uneasy. He wouldn’t be here otherwise.

A smattering of women sit behind me, gossiping, waiting for their men to lodge complaints or defend themselves from the same. William Pierce is at a table with his daughter Sally, whispering intently. I can see three of the men who helped pull Burgess from the ice. They’ve all found seats near one another, and they pass furtive glances back and forth. Henry Sewall—the town clerk—slides into his seat beside North, ready to take notes and keep account of any fines assigned or paid. Other men drift in and out. A baby cries somewhere, and two children bicker over the last apple on one of the tables.

“The Court of General Sessions is now open,” North says with authority, then whacks the table once with his gavel.

I’d planned to wait until the end of the session, give my statement just before the court dismisses. But North has other plans. He saw me enter, has been watching me ever since.

“You have business, Mistress Ballard?” He looks directly at me, challenging.

Then everyone else does as well.

I stand. Clear my throat. “I have evidence to give in a legal cause.”

“What manner?”

This is a formality. A show put on for the benefit of those present. There is typically only one reason that I attend court meetings, and the citizens of Hallowell know this quite well. When an unwed woman gives birth, it is my duty before the law to ask and record the name of the father while the woman is in travail. The legal presumption is that, under such physical duress, a woman cannot lie. Clearly the writers of the law know little about women and nothing about childbirth. I could give them endless examples of the lies that have been spoken to me through gritted teeth as women heave their children into the world. Regardless, the law, passed four years ago by the Massachusetts General Assembly, is bluntly titled “An Act for the Punishment of Fornication, and for the Maintenance of Bastard Children.” It was designed to make sure that unwed mothers had a means of providing for their children, but in practice it is little more than a ritual of public shaming. Of all the responsibilities required by my profession, this is my least favorite. Should a girl refuse to name her child’s father, she will be fined and possibly jailed for twenty-four hours. Should she cooperate, the girl will still be fined but will not face the indignity of a night spent in the clink. Repeat offenders find themselves subject to higher fines and longer sentences. Yet the men involved in these cases escape both forms of punishment—there is no law pertaining to male fornication—unless one considers being forced to provide for one’s own child a punishment.

Had the tavern been empty, North would have gotten directly to the point, but since he has a large audience, he drags out the proceedings. I indulge his showmanship, knowing the assumption every other person in this room has already made. Another illegitimate birth. Another declaration of paternity. A bit of juicy gossip for the neighborhood to gnaw on for a few days.