The House With Five Doors

The House With Five Doors

A little over a month ago, while walking my dog, I saw the for-sale sign. I admit, I’ve had my eye on this little Victorian for a while. The two turrets at the front corners just beg for tea and a book. I called the agent at once and waited for her.

The three of us toured the house, but in my mind I had already moved in. I admit that I was surprised to see that one of the small bedrooms in the back, the one overlooking the small civil war era cemetery, was furnished with an antique desk, overstuffed bookcase and well-worn wingback chair.

Mary the realtor, shrugged when I raised my eyebrows. “I’m not a believer, but there are rumors that the place is haunted. Apparently, no one is allowed to remove this furniture.”

That sealed the deal for me. There had to be a story in this house. Even before I moved in, I did whatever research I could and discovered that the house had been built by Captain Charles “Jonah” Heisson in 1874. However, he did not move in till 1900. Captain Heisson passed away in 1919, one of the many victims of the flu.

I'm all moved in, except for a tall stack of boxes, and even though I have a deadline looming and an editor breathing down my neck, I can't resist rummaging through the desk. In the bottom right-hand drawer, I find a well wrapped package with many handwritten pages. I am absorbed at once.

~~~~~

January 1856

On the other side of the river, a good bit upstream from town, is a shabby house along the tow path. Off the front porch are five doors. Next to each door is a hook. The hooks will hold a lantern, which when lit, announces its purpose. Behind each door is a single room, sparsely furnished. In the yard is a kitchen, a well and an outhouse. Otherwise, the house is unremarkable with some peeling paint, a shutter askew, and some patches on the roof.

With a sigh, I push away from the kitchen table. It’s time to get ready. I need to change into the red dress, the one that laces up the front and puts my bosom on display. I roll on my stockings and wiggle my feet into the too tight shoes.

Mickey, Murphys' barkeep, will be here soon. He’ll want to talk first, tell me funny stories about the customers this past week. Gossip disguised as jokes. He’ll tell me how Pastor Sam got drunk on Thursday and started preaching about staying away from this little house. Mickey will talk about how Sarah the butcher’s wife had hauled Harry out by his ear on Saturday.

And then he’ll hug me, try to kiss me, tell me he has missed me. He’ll loosen the buttons on his trousers and expect me to do my job. And I will. I’ll do my job very well, make it good for him, I’ll moan and pant till he swells and bucks. Then I’ll wrap him in a cloth to keep him from soiling his clothes. Mickey is a good kid, but I have rules that I will not break, even for nice kids like Mickey. No kissing, no spilling inside her.

He’ll lean back, while I clean him and straighten his clothes. I’ll tell him how magnificent he is, how considerate and gentle and send him on his way.

January 15, 1856.

My baby, my Jonah,

Today is your third birthday. I remember the first time I felt you turn over inside of me. It was as if a whale had swallowed a tiny fish. So, I named you Jonah. I wanted to keep you. Even then I wanted to hold you, feed you, watch your first tooth come in and absorb your pain. But I couldn’t, can’t. I’m not allowed.

 In my dreams I have given you untold wealth, silver spoons and golden rattlers. This year my dream for you is a pony. With egret plumes in his bridle.

All my love, your mother.

Timothy, the owner of the sawmill, the one just out of town, will walk in after a perfunctory knock, place his money on the little table and sprawl on the bed and leaning back against the worn velvet headboard. He’ll wave his hand imperially, wordlessly indicating that I’m to strip. He always wants the full show. So, I’ll wear my corset, stockings with garter under the red satin dress. 

I’ll smile, place my foot on the little bench, coyly pull up the skirt an inch or so and reach underneath to untie the garter. I’ll slip off the shoe, roll down the silk stocking before turning and repeating the tease. With my back to Timothy, I’ll reach up and pull the pins and combs from my hair, letting the red mass fall down my back. I’ll smile with satisfaction when I hear his groans.

Facing him now, I will slowly loosen the ties until the red fabric slides down my arms. With a saucy bump and grind, I’ll shimmy out of the dress and drape it over the foot end of the bed. Slowly turning my back again, I’ll look over my shoulder and smile through my red curls, while loosening the corset till it too falls to the floor.

Knowing that Timothy will have almost reached the end of his patience and control, I’ll lift the hem of my short chemise and crawl onto the bed to straddle him. I’ll unbutton his fall and rub his length between my thighs. The ride will be short, as always. He’ll lie back for a few minutes before rising, adjusting his clothes and leaving.

January 15, 1859,

My precious Jonah,

You turned six today. You will have started school this year and are making even more friends. You will be playing, running, jumping and laughing. I’m sure you will have already worn out the scooter I wished for you last year and the many-colored ball from the year before. This year, I’ve giving you a hoop. I will imagine you racing down the street challenging all your friends. Cheering for the winner.

But my most precious gift is my love and the hope that you are well and happy.

Your mother. Abigail Forrest.

~~~~~

The room has grown cold, even though it’s a lovely spring day. Sam, who has been dozing at my feet, sits up, looks intently at the faded wingback chair. He doesn’t seem alarmed, but eager almost as if he’s waiting for an invitation to come and collect the ear scratch he’s due. My heart has sped up. Slowly I turn toward the chair.

Appearing at home, knit work in her lap, is a woman, maybe a little older than me. Mid-thirties, I’d say. Her lapis eyes are startling against her pale skin and fiery red hair.

“Abbigail?” I whisper.

She smiles and nods.

“Allow mw to introduce myself. My name is Emma Wright. Do you mind that I’m reading your diary?”

She shakes her head. “Please to meet you, Miss Emma, No, my dear. It’s no secret.”

~~~~~

I am running late. Mary, the new girl, needed help, some pointers, on how to manage Gerry, the young ranch hand from the big spread that straddles the county line. Gerry is a wild one and Mary is so young. She’ll learn, though. Like we’ve all learned.

But now I’m looking forward to seeing William, the baker. He’ll bring sweet rolls, enough to share with all the girls for breakfast tomorrow. He’ll just want to talk. Some evenings he’ll tell me in great detail how to make the crust and filling for the blackberry tarts he brought. Or the crusty bread he’s known for.

On other days he’ll tearfully tell me about Mildred, his wife and how sick she is. I have long since given up trying to point out that Mildred is only sick when nighttime comes, and she can retreat to her own room.

William believes himself to be in love with his wife. He would never cheat on her and is convinced that one day, she’ll feel the same about him and will let him into her bed. He wants a son or two. Someone to whom he can leave his business, his passion. But in the ten years since their wedding, they have yet to consummate their marriage. I don’t expect that it will happen anytime soon.

January 15, 1862,

Dear sweet Jonah,

Today is your ninth birthday. I pray that you and the ones that are taking care of you are safe and well away from the fighting.

Each day I relive the memory of when Josie put you in my arms. You stared up at me with your solemn blue eyes. At that moment you trusted me to do right by you. I hope I have. I knew I only had that one moment with you, and it had to be enough to make me go on. I can still smell the sweetness that was you.

When you were torn away from me, I saw papers on the table. It took every bit of strength I had to crawl from the mattress to the table and read that you will go through life as Charles Heisson. Please know that you were born as Jonah Forrest, son of Abigail Forrest, somewhere along the Ohio River.

I don’t know what you would like for your ninth birthday. I hope that you are running after balls and scoring whatever points you can. Or riding horses and jumping safely over hedges, and climbing trees, reading books and dreaming of faraway places and adventures.

Whatever you dream, wherever you go, my son, be happy.

All my love, Abigail Forrest.

Every Thursday it’s my turn in the bath. I will wash my unmentionables, clean my dress and change the sheets on my bed. Then I’ll have some time to brush my long red hair and make it shine. Earlier today, I consoled young Mary, who had been roughed up by Gerry. Sheriff Tatum, who was with Josie, had to intervene and send him on his way.

But Thursday evenings are not a treat. Mr. Thadeus Murphy comes on Thursdays. He will expect his due, both what we owe him in coin and in services. He does not hesitate to punish if he feels cheated. After all he owns the house and everything in it. He’s not gentle or considerate. He prefers rough play and often brings friends. No, Thursday evenings are nothing to look forward to.

January 15, 1865.

My Darling Jonah,

Today, my love, is your twelfth birthday. With every breath I take, I hope that you are still too young and well away from the fighting. I hope you and those who are taking care of you are well and unscathed. Surely this madness cannot continue much longer.

I imagine you are in secondary school and hope you are learning everything you can. Recognizing that not everybody has that privilege.

Today I want to give you my love. I want to tell you that you are precious, worthwhile and loved. You felt my arms for only a minute, but you are part of me. Someday I might be free and able to see you. You won’t know me, and I will try to be at peace with that.

Your mother, Abigail Forrest.

Soon Frederick will knock, a bunch of wildflowers in hand. Just a few he probably picked at the side of the road on his way. He’s older, well into his fifties. Still lean and strong from herding riding, roping and branding. He’ll take off his hat, slap it nervously against his thigh and look everywhere but at me. It’ll take him a few minutes to find his courage and ask me to touch him.

Even at his age, Frederick still has little control. The least touch will finish him. I’ll have to soothe, reassure and distract him. I’ll talk and tell him a story from a book I’ve read.

Some rare evening he’ll tell me about Celeste, his bride. He’ll talk of his guilt, how he had killed her with his lust. Forced himself on her, when he was seventeen on their wedding night. He’ll tell me how Celeste had died, along with the infant when labor came too early, too swiftly, no midwife in sight. How he had come home too late.

He nearly drank himself into an early grave. Lost his small farm. Now almost forty years after the tragedy, he’s working at the same ranch where Wild Gerry works. Marking time, till he can’t work anymore.

January 15, 1868,

My son, my Jonah.

Today you are fifteen. I want to give you so much. I want to give you what I hope your other parents have given you. A sense of pride, a sense of self. Knowing that you are free and are no less that anyone else

I want to give you the world. In my dreams I have already done so.

All my love, Abigail Forrest

Like all Saturdays, tonight will be tedious. I sigh as I reach for the black woolen dress. The one with the high neck and long sleeves. I always wait till the last minute to close the top button. I’ll scrape my offending red hair back into a bun and cover it with the black prairie bonnet. The one with the broad brim that obscures most of my face.

I know I will spend most of the evening on my knees, listening to Pastor Samuel quote chapter and verse from Sodom and Gomorrah. Railing against the sins of the flesh, the sins of temptation, the sins of weakness and beauty.

At his urging, I will fondle him, first through the fabric of his trousers, then holding his member till he swells and grows and finally spills all over my hands while he calls me Jezebell and Harlot

He'll then sink to his knees and cry in my arms. Begging forgiveness from me, knowing he can’t ask it from his God. The One he believes to be vengeful and unforgiving.

I will forgive him before he leaves, cleansed, ready to preach hell and damnation, and instill the fear of God into his flock tomorrow.

January 15, 1871.

My dearest son,

Eighteen years ago, you were born. You are truly a man now. Today I will give you the truth. I will send all my letters, all the ones I have written to you and pray that you will not judge me too harshly for letting others tear you away from me.

I was eleven when our parents died. My brother Timothy, fifteen at the time, and I came to live with my mother’s sister, Sarah, and her husband Tobias Framer. I was twelve the first time Uncle Tobias took me. I cried every time he did. I was in awe when I realized you were growing inside of me but cried when he accused me of seducing him. I cried when he sold me to the man who now owns me, Mr. Thadeus Murphy. I did not cry when you were born. Yes, my life these past eighteen years has not been pleasant, but some have it worse.

Knowing that you have had a chance to grow up healthy and happy has made each day bearable.

Never doubt that you have been loved by your mother.

Abigail Forrest.

~~~~

I set aside the last page and turn back to the wingback chair. Sam, the traitor, is leaning against the chair, enjoying having his ear scratched.

“When did you and Captain Heisson meet?” I ask her.

“He had gone to sea when he was seventeen and did not return to his home for four years. By that time, he was first mate, purely because all those who were senior had died at sea. His mother had kept the package I had sent and gave it to Jonah, Charles.” She smiles ruefully.

“It wasn’t long after that, the summer of 1874, that he arrived here.

He offered to buy the little house with five doors from Mr. Murphy but was refused. Mr. Murphy was shot that same night.”

The room grows even colder than it was. Abigail looks toward the door. There, leaning against the frame, one boot-clad foot crossed over the other, arms folded across his chest is a tall, lean man. He scowls at me. Though Sam is a good watch dog and protects me from threats like the postman, Fed Ex and UPS drivers, he doesn't flinch at seeing the captain.

“Captain Heisson, I presume.” My heart is pounding, my goosebumps have goosebumps. I try not to show fear.

He nods, waves me back down in the desk chair when I start to rise.

“Can you tell me what happened that night, sir?” I go straight for an answer.

He smiles briefly and shakes his head. “I have a hunch, Miss Wright, but no. I wasn't there. I had left Mr. Murphy in the alley, maybe in somewhat worse shape than I had had found him but breathing. I was back inside the saloon, when the shot rang. I do not believe that he was mourned deeply. Even by his family."

I will confess that it has taken me a while, longer than it took Sam, to get used to having two housemates. But now I quite enjoy their company and it almost feels normal to slip into sweaters and jackets when coming inside.