The Last Days of Dogtown

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he’d been telling the truth, what difference did that make? Father or son, an act of vengeance might have provided a fitting end to her mother’s tale and her own. But it was out of her hands now. She’d lost the chance to make him tell her what Phoebe looked like, what her voice sounded like, what she cared for. She would never unlock the riddle of the lock of hair, the ring, and the scrap of yellow cloth.

She would wait for death, whenever it came for her.

She would live day to day. She would not wonder anymore.

Ruth closed her eyes and slept.

When Ruth had rushed out of her house in pursuit of Brimfield, Easter sat down by the door to wait. She’d kept her vigil there long after dark, feeding scraps to Brindle so she wouldn’t have to sit alone.

“She should be here by now,” Easter said as the moon started to set. The dog pricked up his ears. “She likes that room upstairs. She’s walked miles in the snow rather than sleep somewheres else. Even if there was a dry barn or a warm kitchen floor, she’d make it back.” Brindle snorted and put his head on his paws.

The following evening, Oliver Younger had stopped by to tell Easter about Henry Brimfield’s visit. One of the old-timers in town had recognized him getting back on the Boston-bound coach, and within hours the taverns were buzzing as though the slave girl’s blood was still fresh. It didn’t take long for word to filter up to the parlors on High Street. “Guilty as sin,” “bold as brass,” and phrases less

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genteel were passed from mouth to ear as news of “young”

Brimfield’s visit made the rounds.

Easter didn’t let on. “The rogue,” she said. After Oliver left, she patted Brindle and muttered, “Good riddance and thank goodness.”

Ruth returned midmorning the next day, wet and

limping. She did not even nod at Easter, still sitting by the door, and made straight for the attic without a word. For the first time in all the years they had shared a roof, Easter followed her up the stairs.

Ruth was on the bed, her face to the wall.

“It’s good that you let him go,” Easter said gently. “Not that he don’t deserve a horse-whipping,” she added. “The Brimfields were a rotten lot. The men, I mean. The women were just ninnies.”

Ruth lifted her head and stared.

“I had a feeling when you first showed your face at my door, all those years back,” Easter said, sitting on the floor in a weary heap. “When Henry poked his head in yesterday, I was sure.”

“Did you know her?” Ruth asked.

“Brimfield’s Phoebe? No, can’t say that I did. Though I caught sight of her, from time to time. But I never had cause to speak to her. A little twig of a girl. Fourteen she was at the time. Far too young for, well, for . . .”

“Was it the son?” Ruth asked.

“No, dearie. You can put your mind at rest on that score. It was the old man, for true. I had the story from Anne Wharf herself. Young Dr. Henry brought the baby to her, all bloody and squalling, poor thing. Anne sent that baby off to her people before anyone tried to sell her. Or

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drown her, more’n likely. If Abraham found out what she’d done, he’d have, well, I don’t know what. He loved his Anne, but he hated the Africans. Don’t know where that poison came from, but lordy, he had it in for ’em all.” Easter shook her head.

“Anne never told a soul until it was her last breath, and it was me nursing her at the end. That secret gnawed on her all them years.