Read Online Poison to Purge Melancholy by Elena Santangelo - Free Book Online
Authors: Elena Santangelo
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Sure, that must be the explanation.
We traipsed down the hall and imagined Elizabeth in the room behind the parlor, which Glad said might have been used for some of the lodgers Elizabeth had taken in to make ends meet during the war. Beth Ann’s suitcase was here, on a double sofa bed that had already been made up for the night with a faded, multicolored star quilt. Beside the door, a vanity lamp sat on a bureau. Between the two windows was a pyramid of cardboard moving boxes, with labels like “summer clothes” and “photo albums.”
Next we climbed the stairs, imagining Elizabeth doing so to lovingly tuck her children into bed, even while Williamsburg was occupied by Cornwallis’s Redcoats. The wood of the treads was two-tone, nearly black with aged varnish on the edges, but worn down into a tan depression in the middle where centuries of feet had stepped.
Glad led us past a small stair that branched off at the landing, dismissing it with a wave. “Leads back to the kitchen wing. Would have been a solid wall there during the war.”
We were entering the first room at the top of the stairs when I had what I can only describe as a panic attack. So nasty was the feeling of anxiety that came over me, that I looked around the room for something to be afraid of, real or imagined. Martha Stewart might have been horrified by the mismatched double bed and bureau, 1960s Early American and Danish Modern, but I had no such decor sensitivities.
I controlled my fight-or-flight urge by leaning back against the door, ensuring that no bogeyman could get behind me, but I must have looked pretty wide-eyed, because Horse asked if I felt okay. For the first time, he was frowning.
“Just a headache,” I muttered truthfully enough, because the blood pounding in my ears felt like a pneumatic nail gun against my cranium.
“Let’s find that aspirin.” He wheeled around and I followed him across the top landing to the bathroom—a tiny chamber with tile and fixtures from the early twentieth century, the porcelain chipped and rust-stained.
Horse flicked on the light—a single bulb in a metal wall sconce—and tipped down the toilet seat cover, gesturing that I should sit. When I did, he took my head in his large hands, turning my face toward the light, gently pulling at my lower lids to examine my eyes. The panic departed, along with my headache.
Meanwhile, Glad poked her head into the room and continued her lecture. “My grandparents turned this room into a bath in 1918, but of course, originally, it was no such thing. Since it’s so small, Ev says it was probably used for storage. The odd thing is, we found screw holes in an eighteenth century paint layer on the door jamb of the room we were just in, which suggests it may have been kept locked at one time. But if that was the storage room, then what was this? A mystery, you see.”
“Ma, please,” Horse said impatiently, opening the wooden, egg-shell-white medicine chest over the sink and taking down the container of Ecotrin that rested between a tall bottle of store-brand antacid and a box of Band-Aids.
Glad blinked, at a loss for words. Hurt by his brusqueness? Or couldn’t she imagine Elizabeth taking aspirin?
“Hey,” Beth Ann called from the next room. “A cab pulled up out front.”
“Who could that be?” Glad headed for the stairs.
Horse glanced through the bathroom window as he reached for a Dixie Cup from the short stack that rested upside down in a little dish on one end of the sill. The other end was occupied by a blue nylon shaving kit and another small bottle of antacid, Mylanta this time. Was Glad’s cooking that bad?
“Foot’s here,” Hugh said. “I wonder where his car is. And his wife, for that matter.”
Standing, I craned my neck for a peek out the window. The man getting out of the taxi was tall like his brothers, but thin and dark. A black turtleneck was visible under a long, black overcoat. Black pants and shoes beneath. With one
We traipsed down the hall and imagined Elizabeth in the room behind the parlor, which Glad said might have been used for some of the lodgers Elizabeth had taken in to make ends meet during the war. Beth Ann’s suitcase was here, on a double sofa bed that had already been made up for the night with a faded, multicolored star quilt. Beside the door, a vanity lamp sat on a bureau. Between the two windows was a pyramid of cardboard moving boxes, with labels like “summer clothes” and “photo albums.”
Next we climbed the stairs, imagining Elizabeth doing so to lovingly tuck her children into bed, even while Williamsburg was occupied by Cornwallis’s Redcoats. The wood of the treads was two-tone, nearly black with aged varnish on the edges, but worn down into a tan depression in the middle where centuries of feet had stepped.
Glad led us past a small stair that branched off at the landing, dismissing it with a wave. “Leads back to the kitchen wing. Would have been a solid wall there during the war.”
We were entering the first room at the top of the stairs when I had what I can only describe as a panic attack. So nasty was the feeling of anxiety that came over me, that I looked around the room for something to be afraid of, real or imagined. Martha Stewart might have been horrified by the mismatched double bed and bureau, 1960s Early American and Danish Modern, but I had no such decor sensitivities.
I controlled my fight-or-flight urge by leaning back against the door, ensuring that no bogeyman could get behind me, but I must have looked pretty wide-eyed, because Horse asked if I felt okay. For the first time, he was frowning.
“Just a headache,” I muttered truthfully enough, because the blood pounding in my ears felt like a pneumatic nail gun against my cranium.
“Let’s find that aspirin.” He wheeled around and I followed him across the top landing to the bathroom—a tiny chamber with tile and fixtures from the early twentieth century, the porcelain chipped and rust-stained.
Horse flicked on the light—a single bulb in a metal wall sconce—and tipped down the toilet seat cover, gesturing that I should sit. When I did, he took my head in his large hands, turning my face toward the light, gently pulling at my lower lids to examine my eyes. The panic departed, along with my headache.
Meanwhile, Glad poked her head into the room and continued her lecture. “My grandparents turned this room into a bath in 1918, but of course, originally, it was no such thing. Since it’s so small, Ev says it was probably used for storage. The odd thing is, we found screw holes in an eighteenth century paint layer on the door jamb of the room we were just in, which suggests it may have been kept locked at one time. But if that was the storage room, then what was this? A mystery, you see.”
“Ma, please,” Horse said impatiently, opening the wooden, egg-shell-white medicine chest over the sink and taking down the container of Ecotrin that rested between a tall bottle of store-brand antacid and a box of Band-Aids.
Glad blinked, at a loss for words. Hurt by his brusqueness? Or couldn’t she imagine Elizabeth taking aspirin?
“Hey,” Beth Ann called from the next room. “A cab pulled up out front.”
“Who could that be?” Glad headed for the stairs.
Horse glanced through the bathroom window as he reached for a Dixie Cup from the short stack that rested upside down in a little dish on one end of the sill. The other end was occupied by a blue nylon shaving kit and another small bottle of antacid, Mylanta this time. Was Glad’s cooking that bad?
“Foot’s here,” Hugh said. “I wonder where his car is. And his wife, for that matter.”
Standing, I craned my neck for a peek out the window. The man getting out of the taxi was tall like his brothers, but thin and dark. A black turtleneck was visible under a long, black overcoat. Black pants and shoes beneath. With one
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