Page 85 of The Frozen River

Monday, February 1. A snowstorm…

Thursday, February 4. It snowed…

Saturday, February 6. A very cold day…

Sunday, February 7. Clear and excessive cold…

Monday, February 8. Terrible, cold, and windy…

“God, I hate winter,” I say, closing the journal and massaging my temples with the tips of my fingers. It is both a prayer and a curse, and I don’t feel guilty for either. For nearly two weeks there has been little but cold and snow and a long, brooding oppression.

So, when the letter arrived this morning, summoning me to the Fosters’, I was not annoyed. The fact that it came from a lawyer also piqued my interest.

Dear Mistress Ballard,

If it presents no challenge, would you be kind enough to meet me at the parsonage for tea this afternoon. 1:00 sharp.

Respectfully,

Seth Parker, Esquire

“Tell your father that Mr. Parker has summoned me to the Fosters’,” I say, passing through the kitchen.

Hannah looks to the window where the snow is still piled high, then back to me as though I said I was going to jump off the barn roof. “It’s horrid out there.”

“Staying here won’t make it any less so.”

Rebecca Foster is six months pregnant and finally showing. With her first child it took longer, but with each subsequent child, her body has revealed the secret earlier. I marvel at how this varies woman to woman. Some blossom in the early months, and others wait until the final weeks.

Rebecca does not often leave her house now, and without Sally Pierce to help, the parsonage feels dusty and cluttered. It feels—perhaps not unjustifiably—as if its mistress has given up. Rebecca has made tea for those assembled, however, and there is fresh bread with butter and jam to go with it.

The two young Foster boys—blond like their mother—wander into the sitting room for a piece, then skip out with sticky fingers. I watch them go, wondering if they can sense the heaviness in the room or if they are oblivious to adult concerns.

“Thank you for coming, Mistress Ballard,” Seth Parker tells me. “I hope it wasn’t too difficult getting here.”

“I managed well enough.”

Esquire Parker is one of a handful of lawyers in Hallowell, but like most men in the area, he dabbles in both river trade and farming. There isn’t much need for lawyering in this part of the world, so he isn’t often called upon in that capacity. But now that the hearings are complete and charges—albeit minimal—have been filed, the Fosters need someone to represent them at trial.

“I have already taken Rebecca’s deposition,” he says, pointing to a small stack of papers on the little table in front of him. Beside it rests another blank stack, along with ink pot and quill. “If you will tell me everything you remember, I will write it down. You have only to make your mark at the end.”

“I can write it myself,” I say, voice clipped with irritation. “And sign my name as well.”

“Ah. That’s right. You keep a daybook.”

“Yes. For many years now. I am quite comfortable with a pen.”

“Very well then.” He slides paper and quill across the table so they rest in front of me. “This will be submitted as evidence to the court in Pownalboro.”

As I situate myself in front of the paper, Isaac Foster makes his way into the room.

“Mistress Ballard,” he greets me, then kisses the top of his wife’s head. He stands before the fire, warming his rump. It is winter after all, and none of us are ever truly warm unless butted up to an open flame.

Isaac pours a cup of tea as I begin my deposition. “Henry Sewall visited us yesterday,” he tells Seth.

“Is that so?”

“He brought a letter.”