Page 94 of The Frozen River

Lidia removes her cloak and her gloves. Hands them to Ephraim. Then, with a cautious bob of her head, makes her way to where I sit before the fire and gingerly lowers herself into the opposite chair.

“Martha.”

“Lidia.”

Oh, this miserable dance. Pleasantries and politics. I want no part of it. So I am blunt, crueler than I intend, in my approach.

“You have run out of tonic?” I ask.

“Yes. Months ago. I can barely think most days. My head throbs as though someone is pounding on it with a hammer. I cannot sleep. I can barely eat. Please”—Lidia sets a leather purse on the small table between us, and I can hear the metallic clink of coins—“I will pay you anything.”

Though we have been neighbors for many years, Lidia and I have never been close. Certainly not friends. We have always been cordial, however, each respecting the other’s station. What bothers me most about the woman—apart from her unyielding loyalty to a man I despise—is that Lidia North is a weak woman. Timid. Milquetoast. She has no metal in her spine, no opinions of her own. I need my friends to be interesting. To have vim and vigor.

I try to keep the judgment out of my voice. “May I ask you a question?”

“Of course.”

“It has to do with your husband.”

Lidia narrows her eyes but says, “All right.”

“Major Henry Warren?”

“What of him?”

“Did he dine with you on August tenth?”

Her eyes narrow. “Yes.”

“You remember it? That night specifically?”

“I do not keep a guestbook if that is what you’re asking.”

She has no recollection of that night, I think. She’s only saying what North told her to say.

“Were you awake, Lidia? You told the court that Joseph was home with you the entire time. But were you actually awake to see him there?”

“Of course he was home.”

“That is not what I asked.”

Lidia pulls her bottom lip into her mouth and chews on it with the edges of her teeth. “My husband does not cavort about. And I do not need to stay awake an entire night to know that for the truth.”

“So you lied?”

“Of course not!” Her voice cracks. “He cannot have done the thing he is accused of.”

I lean forward, press with my words. “Were you awake?”

It takes several long seconds for her to admit the truth. Lidia shakes her head.

“And will you admit to that at trial?”

She shakes her head harder this time. “I will not. And no one can force me to do so. I am a judge’s wife, after all, and I know the law. I cannot be compelled to implicate my husband.”

“Then I do not want your coin,” I say, as I push the small leather purse back toward her, “because I will not make your tonic.”

The woman is stricken. “How can you say that? How can you be so cruel?”