The Haddan School
was built in 1858 on the sloping banks of the Haddan River, a muddy and
precarious location that had proven disastrous from the start. That very
first year, when the whole town smelled of cedar shavings, there was a
storm of enormous proportions, with winds so strong that dozens of fish
were drawn up from the reedy shallows, then lifted above the village in
a shining cloud of scales. Torrents of water fell from the sky, and by
morning the river had overflowed, leaving the school's freshly painted
white clapboard buildings adrift in a murky sea of duckweed and algae.
For weeks, students
were ferried to classes in rowboats; catfish swam through flooded perennial
gardens, observing the disaster with cool, glassy eyes. Every evening,
at twilight, the school cook balanced on a second-story window ledge,
then cast out his rod to catch dozens of silver trout, a species found
only in the currents of the Haddan River, a sweet, fleshy variety that
was especially delectable when fried with shallots and oil. After the
flood subsided, two inches of thick, black silt covered the carpets in
the dormitories; at the headmaster's house, mosquitoes began to hatch
in sinks and commodes. The delightful watery vistas of the site, a landscape
abundant with willows and water lotus, had seduced the foolish trustees
into building much too close to the river, an architectural mistake that
has never been rectified. To this day, frogs can be found in the plumbing;
linens and clothes stored in closets have a distinctly weedy odor, as
if each article had been washed in river water and never thoroughly dried.
After the flood,
houses in town had to be refloored and re-roofed; public buildings were
torn down, then refashioned from cellar to ceiling. Whole chimneys floated
down Main Street, with some of them still issuing forth smoke. Main Street
itself had become a river, with waters more than six feet deep. Iron fences
were loosened and ripped from the earth, leaving metal posts in the shape
of arrows adrift. Horses drowned; mules floated for miles and when rescued,
refused to eat anything but wild celery and duckweed. Poison sumac was
uprooted and deposited in vegetable bins, only to be mistakenly cooked
along with the carrots and cabbages, a recipe that led to several untimely
deaths. Bobcats showed up on back porches, mewing and desperate for milk;
several were found beside babies in their cradles, sucking from bottles
and purring as though they were house cats let in through front doors.
At that time, the
rich fields circling the town of Haddan were owned by prosperous farmers
who cultivated asparagus and onions and a peculiar type of yellow cabbage
known for its large size and delicate fragrance. These farmers put aside
their plows and watched as boys arrived from every corner of the Commonwealth
and beyond to take up residence at the school, but even the wealthiest
among them were unable to afford tuition for their own sons. Local boys
had to make do with the dusty stacks at the library on Main Street and
whatever fundamentals they might learn in their very own parlors and fields.
To this day, people in Haddan retain a rustic knowledge of which they
are proud. Even the children can foretell the weather; they can point
to and name every constellation in the sky.
A dozen years after
the Haddan School was built, a public high school was erected in the neighboring
town of Hamilton, which meant a five-mile trek to classes on days when
the snow was knee-deep and the weather so cold even the badgers kept to
their dens. Each time a Haddan boy walked through a storm to the public
school his animosity toward the Haddan School grew, a small bump on the
skin of ill will ready to rupture at the slightest contact. In this way
a hard bitterness was forged, and the spiteful sentiment increased every
year, until there might as well have been a fence dividing those who came
from the school and the residents of the village. Before long, anyone
who dared to cross that line was judged to be either a martyr or a fool.
There was a time
when it seemed possible for the separate worlds to be united, when Dr.
George Howe, the esteemed headmaster, considered to be the finest in the
Haddan School history, decided to marry Annie Jordan, the most beautiful
girl in the village. Annie's father was a well-respected man who owned
a parcel of farmland out where Route 17 now runs into the interstate,
and he approved of the marriage, but soon after the wedding it became
apparent that Haddan would remain divided. Dr. Howe was jealous and vindictive;
he turned local people away from his door. Even Annie's family was quickly
dispatched. Her father and brothers, good, simple men with mud on their
boots, were struck mute the few times they came to call, as if the bone
china and leather-bound books had robbed them of their tongues. Before
long people in town came to resent Annie, as if she'd somehow betrayed
them. If she thought she was so high and mighty, in that fine house by
the river, then the girls she grew up with felt they had reason to retaliate,
and on the streets they passed her by without a word. Even her own dog,
a lazy hound named Sugar, ran away yelping on those rare occasions when
Annie came to visit her father's farm.
It quickly became
clear that the marriage had been a horrid mistake; anyone more worldly
than Annie would have known this from the start. At his very own wedding,
Dr. Howe had forgotten his hat, always the sign of a man who's bound to
stray. He was the sort of person who wished to own his wife, without belonging
to her in return. There were days when he spoke barely a sentence in his
own home, and nights when he didn't come in until dawn. It was loneliness
that led Annie to begin her work in the gardens at Haddan, which until
her arrival were neglected, ruined patches filled with ivy and nightshade,
dark vines that choked out any wildflowers that might have grown in the
thin soil. As it turned out, Annie's loneliness was the school's good
fortune, for it was she who designed the brick walkways that form an hourglass
and who, with the help of six strong boys, saw to the planting of the
weeping beeches beneath whose branches many girls still receive their
first kiss. Annie brought the original pair of swans to reside at the
bend in the river behind the headmaster's house, ill-tempered, wretched
specimens rescued from a farmer in Hamilton whose wife plucked their bloody
feathers for soft, plump quilts. Each evening, before supper, when the
light above the river washed the air with a green haze, Annie went out
with an apronful of old bread. She held the firm belief that scattering
bread crumbs brought happiness, a condition she herself had not known
since her wedding day.
There are those who
vow that swans are unlucky, and fishermen in particular despise them,
but Annie loved her pets; she could call them to her with a single cry.
At the sound of her sweet voice the birds lined up as politely as gentlemen;
they ate from her hands without ever once drawing blood, favoring crusts
of rye bread and whole-wheat crackers. As a special treat, Annie often
brought whole pies, leftovers from the dining room. In a wicker basket,
she piled up apple cobbler and wild raspberry tart, which the swans gobbled
down nearly whole, so that their beaks were stained crimson and their
bellies took on the shapes of medicine balls.
Even those who were
certain Dr. Howe had made a serious error in judgment in choosing his
bride had to admire Annie's gardens. In no time the perennial borders
were thick with rosy-pink foxglove and cream-colored lilies, each of which
hung like a pendant, collecting dew on its satiny petals. But it was with
her roses that Annie had the best luck of all, and among the more jealous
members of the Haddan garden club, founded that very year in an attempt
to beautify the town, there was speculation that such good fortune was
unnatural. Some people went so far as to suggest that Annie Howe sprinkled
the pulverized bones of cats around the roots of her ramblers, or perhaps
it was her own blood she cast about the shrubs. How else could her garden
bloom in February, when all other yards were nothing more than stonewort
and bare dirt? Massachusetts was known for a short growing season and
its early killing frosts. Nowhere could a gardener find more unpredictable
weather, be it droughts or floods or infestations of beetles, which had
been known to devour entire neighborhoods full of greenery. None of these
plagues ever affected Annie Howe. Under her care, even the most delicate
hybrids lasted past the first frost so that in November there were still
roses blooming at Haddan, although by then, the edge of each petal was
often encased in a layer of ice.
Much of Annie Howe's
handiwork was destroyed the year she died, yet a few samples of the hardiest
varieties remain. A visitor to campus can find sweet, aromatic Prosperity,
as well as Climbing Ophelia and those delicious Egyptian Roses, which
give off the scent of cloves on rainy days, ensuring that a gardener's
hands will smell sweet for hours after pruning the canes. Among all of
these roses, Mrs. Howe's prized white Polars were surely her finest. Cascades
of white flowers lay dormant for a decade, to bloom and envelop the metal
trellis beside the girls' dormitory only once every ten years, as if all
that time was needed to restore the roses their strength. Each September,
when the new students arrived, Annie Howe's roses had an odd effect on
certain girls, the sensitive ones who had never been away from home before
and were easily influenced. When such girls walked past the brittle canes
in the gardens behind St. Anne's, they felt something cold at the base
of their spines, a bad case of pins and needles, as though someone were
issuing a warning: Be careful who you choose to love and who loves you
in return.
Most newcomers are
apprised of Annie's fate as soon as they come to Haddan. Before suitcases
are unpacked and classes are chosen, they know that although the huge
wedding cake of a house that serves as the girls' dormitory is officially
called Hastings House-in honor of some fellow, long forgotten, whose dull-witted
daughter's admission opened the door for female students on the strength
of a huge donation-the dormitory is never referred to by that name. Among
students, the house is called St. Anne's, in honor of Annie Howe, who
hanged herself from the rafters one mild evening in March, only hours
before wild iris began to appear in the woods. There will always be girls
who refuse to go up to the attic at St. Anne's after hearing this story,
and others, whether in search of spiritual renewal or quick thrills, who
are bound to ask if they can take up residence in the room where Annie
ended her life. On days when rosewater preserves are served at breakfast,
with Annie's recipe carefully followed by the kitchen staff, even the
most fearless girls can become light-headed; after spooning this concoction
onto their toast they need to sit with their heads between their knees
and breathe deeply until their metabolisms grow steady again.
At the start of the
term, when members of the faculty return to school, they are reminded
not to grade on a curve and not to repeat Annie's story. It is exactly
such nonsense that gives rise to inflated grade averages and nervous breakdowns,
neither of which are approved of by the Haddan School. Nevertheless, the
story always slips out, and there's nothing the administration can do
to stop it. The particulars of Annie's life are simply common knowledge
among the students, as much an established part of Haddan life as the
route of the warblers who always begin their migration at this time of
year, lighting on shrubbery and treetops, calling to one another across
the open sky.
Often, the weather
is unseasonably warm at the start of the term, one last triumph of summer
come to call. Roses bloom more abundantly, crickets chirp wildly, flies
doze on windowsills, drowsy with sunlight and heat. Even the most serious-minded
educators are known to fall asleep when Dr. Jones gives his welcoming
speech. This year, many in attendance drifted off in the overheated library
during this oration and several teachers secretly wished that the students
would never arrive. Outside, the September air was enticingly fragrant,
yellow with pollen and rich, lemony sunlight. Along the river, near the
canoe shed, weeping willows rustled and dropped catkins on the muddy ground.
The clear sound of slow-moving water could be heard even here in the library,
perhaps because the building itself had been fashioned out of river rock,
gray slabs flecked with mica that had been hauled from the banks by local
boys hired for a dollar a day, laborers whose hands bled from their efforts
and who cursed the Haddan School forever after, even in their sleep.
As usual, people
were far more curious about those who'd been recently hired than those
old, reliable colleagues they already knew. In every small community,
the unknown is always most intriguing, and Haddan was no exception to
this rule. Most people had been to dinner with Bob Thomas, the massive
dean of students, and his pretty wife, Meg, more times than they could
count; they had sat at the bar at the Haddan Inn with Duck Johnson, who
coached crew and soccer and always became tearful after his third beer.
The on-again, off-again romance between Lynn Vining, who taught painting,
and Jack Short, the married chemistry teacher, had already been discussed
and dissected. Their relationship was completely predictable, as were
many of the love affairs begun at Haddan-fumbling in the teachers' lounge,
furtive embraces in idling cars, kisses exchanged in the library, breakups
at the end of the term. Feuds were far more interesting, as in the case
of Eric Herman-ancient history-and Helen Davis-American history and chair
of the department, a woman who'd been teaching at Haddan for more than
fifty years and was said to grow meaner with each passing day, as if she
were a pitcher of milk set out to curdle in the noonday sun.
Despite the heat
and Dr. Jones's dull lecture, the same speech he trotted out every year,
despite the droning of bees beyond the open windows, where a hedge of
twiggy China roses still grew, people took notice of the new photography
instructor, Betsy Chase. It was possible to tell at a glance that Betsy
would be the subject of even more gossip than any ongoing feud. It wasn't
only Betsy's fevered expression that drew stares, or her high cheekbones
and dark, unpredictable hair. People couldn't quite believe how inappropriate
her attire was. There she was, a good-looking woman who apparently had
no common sense, wearing old black slacks and a faded black T-shirt, the
sort of grungy outfit barely tolerated on Haddan students, let alone on
members of the faculty. On her feet were plastic flip-flops of the dime-store
variety, cheap little items that announced every step with a slap. She
actually had a wad of gum in her mouth, and soon enough blew a bubble
when she thought no one was looking; even those in the last row of the
library could hear the sugary pop. Dennis Hardy, geometry, who sat directly
behind her, told people afterward that Betsy gave off the scent of vanilla,
a tincture she used to dispel the odor of darkroom chemicals from her
skin, a concoction so reminiscent of baked goods that people who met her
often had an urge for oatmeal cookies or angel food cake.
It had been only
eight months since Betsy had been hired to take the yearbook photos. She
had disliked the school at first sight, and had written it off as too
prissy, too picture perfect. When Eric Herman asked her out she'd been
surprised by the offer, and wary as well. She'd already had more than
her share of botched relationships, yet she'd agreed to have dinner with
Eric, ever hopeful despite the statistics that promised her an abject
and lonely old age. Eric was so much sturdier than the men she was used
to, all those brooders and artists who couldn't be depended upon to show
up at the door on time let alone have the foresight to plan a retirement
fund. Before Betsy knew what had happened she was accepting an offer of
marriage and applying for a job in the art department. The Willow Room
at the Haddan Inn was already reserved for their reception in June, and
Bob Thomas, the dean of students, had guaranteed them one of the coveted
faculty cottages as soon as they were wed. Until that time, Betsy would
be a houseparent at St. Anne's and Eric would continue on as senior proctor
at Chalk House, a boys' dormitory set so close to the river that the dreadful
Haddan swans often nested on the back porch, nipping at passersby's pant
legs until chased away with a broom.
For the past month,
Betsy had been simultaneously planning both her classes at Haddan and
her wedding. Perfectly rational activities, and yet she often felt certain
she had blundered into an alternate universe, one to which she clearly
did not belong. Today, for instance, the other women present in the auditorium
were all in dresses, the men in summer suits and ties, and there was Betsy
in her T-shirt and slacks, making what was sure to be the first of an
endless series of social miscalculations. She had bad judgment, there
was no way around it; from childhood on, she had jumped into things headfirst,
without looking to see if there was a net to break her fall. Of course,
no one had bothered to inform her that Dr. Jones's addresses were such
formal events; everyone said he was ancient and ailing and that Bob Thomas
was the real man in charge. Hoping to erase her fashion blunder, Betsy
now searched through her backpack for some lipstick and a pair of earrings,
for all the good they would do.
Taking up residence
in a small town had indeed left Betsy disoriented. She was used to city
living, to potholes and purse snatchers, parking tickets and double locks.
Whether it be morning, noon, or night, she simply couldn't get her bearings
here in Haddan. She'd set out for the pharmacy on Main Street or to Selena's
Sandwich Shoppe on the corner of Pine and arrive at the town cemetery
in the field behind town hall. She'd start for the market, in search of
a loaf of bread or some muffins, only to find that she'd strayed onto
the twisting back roads leading to Sixth Commandment Pond, a deep pool
at a bend in the river where horsetails and wild celery grew. Once she'd
wandered off, it would often be hours before she managed to find her way
back to St. Anne's. People in town had already become accustomed to a
pretty, dark woman wandering about, asking for directions from schoolchildren
and crossing guards, and yet still managing to take one wrong turn after
another.
Although Betsy Chase
was confused, the town of Haddan hadn't changed much in the last fifty
years. The village itself was three blocks long, and, for some residents,
contained the whole world. Along with Selena's Sandwich Shoppe, which
served breakfast all day, there was a pharmacy at whose soda fountain
the best raspberry lime rickeys in the Commonwealth could be had, as well
as a hardware store that offered everything from nails to velveteen. One
could also find a shoe store, the 5&10 Cent Bank, and the Lucky Day Florist,
known for its scented garlands and wreaths. There was St. Agatha's, with
its granite facade, and the public library, with its stained-glass windows,
the first to be built in the county. Town hall, which had burned down
twice, had finally been rebuilt with mortar and stone, and was said to
be indestructible, although the statue of the eagle out front was tipped
from its pedestal by local boys year after year.
All along Main Street,
there were large white houses, set back from the road, whose wide lawns
were ringed with black iron fences punctuated by little spikes on top;
pretty, architectural warnings that made it quite clear the grass and
rhododendrons within were private property. On the approach to town, the
white houses grew larger, as though a set of stacking toys had been fashioned
from clapboards and brick. On the far side of town was the train station,
and opposite stood a gas station and mini-mart, along with the dry cleaner's
and a new supermarket. In fact, the town was sliced in two, separated
by Main into an east and a west side. Those who lived on the east side
resided in the white houses; those who worked at the counter at Selena's
or ran the ticket booth at the train station lived in the western part
of town.
Beyond Main Street
the village became sparser, fanning out into new housing developments
and then into farmland. On Evergreen Avenue was the elementary school,
and if a person followed Evergreen due east, in the direction of Route
17, he'd come to the police station. Farther north, at the town line that
separated Haddan from Hamilton, deposited in a no-man's-land neither village
cared to claim, was a bar called the Millstone, which offered live bands
on Friday nights along with five brands of beer on tap and heated arguments
in the parking lot on humid summer nights. There had probably been half
a dozen divorces that had reached a fevered pitch in that very parking
lot and so many alcohol-induced fights had taken place in those confines
that if anyone bothered to search through the laurel bordering the asphalt
he'd surely find handfuls of teeth that were said to give the laurel its
odd milky color, ivory with a pale pink edge, with each blossom forming
the shape of a bitter man's mouth.
Beyond town, there
were still acres of fields and a crisscross of dirt roads where Betsy
had gotten lost one afternoon before the start of the term, late in the
day, when the sky was cobalt and the air was sweet with the scent of hay.
She'd been searching for a vegetable stand Lynn Vining in the art department
had told her sold the best cabbages and potatoes, when she happened upon
a huge meadow, all blue with everlasting and tansy. Betsy had gotten out
of the car with tears in her eyes. She was only three miles from Route
17, but she might as well have been on the moon. She was lost and she
knew it, with no sense whatsoever of how she had managed to wind up in
Haddan, engaged to a man she barely knew.
She might have been
lost to this day if she hadn't thought to follow a newspaper delivery
truck into the neighboring town of Hamilton, a true metropolis compared
to Haddan, with a hospital and a high school and even a multiplex cinema.
From Hamilton, Betsy drove south to the highway, then circled back to
the village via Route 17. Still, for some time afterward, she'd been unable
to forget how lost she'd become. Even when she was beside Eric in bed
all she had to do was close her eyes and she'd continue to see those wildflowers
in the meadow, each and every one the exact color of the sky.
When all was said
and done, what was so wrong with Haddan? It was a lovely town, featured
in several guidebooks, cited for both its excellent trout fishing and
the exceptional show of fall colors that graced the landscape every October.
If Betsy continually lost her way on the streets of such a neat, orderly
village, perhaps it was the pale green light rising from the river each
evening that led her astray. Betsy had taken to carrying a map and a flashlight
in her pocket, hopefully ready for any emergency. She made certain to
keep to the well-worn paths, where the old roses grew, but even the rosebushes
were disturbing when they were encountered in the dark. The twisted black
vines were concealed in the black night, thorns hidden deep within the
dried canes until a passerby had already come close enough to cut herself
unwittingly.
Excerpted from The River King © Copyright 2008 by Alice Hoffman. Reprinted with permission by Riverhead Books. All rights reserved.
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