with him. Anyone who did was always found out in the end, exposed by his or her own bad fortune or the dreadful luck of those close by.
When a husband and wife were unable to have a child, the husband placed a pearl beneath his wife's pillow, and if she still failed to conceive, there'd be talk about her, and concern about the true nature of her character. If all the strawberries in every patch were eaten by earwigs, suddenly and overnight, then the old woman down the road, who was cross-eyed and drank until she was as unmovable as a stone, was brought into the town hall for questioning. Even after a woman proved herself innocent of any wrongdoing—if she managed to walk through water and not dissolve into smoke and ashes or if it was discovered that the strawberries in the entire Commonwealth had been affected—that still didn't mean she'd be welcome in town or that anyone believed she wasn't guilty of something.
These were the prevailing attitudes when Maria Owens first came to Massachusetts with only a small satchel of belongings, her baby daughter, and a packet of diamonds sewn into the hem of her dress. Maria was young and pretty, but she dressed all in black and didn't have a husband. In spite of this, she possessed enough money to hire the twelve carpenters who built the house on Magnolia Street, and she was so sure of herself and what she wanted that she went on to advise these men in such matters as what wood to use for the mantel in the dining room and how many windows were needed to present the best view of the back garden. People became suspicious, and why shouldn't they be? Maria Owens's baby girl never cried, not even when she was bitten by a spider or stung by a bee. Maria's garden was never infested with earwigs or mice. When a hurricane struck, every house on Magnolia Street was damaged, except for the one built by the twelve carpenters; not one of the shutters was blown away, and even the laundry forgotten out on the line stayed in place, not a single stocking was lost.
If Maria Owens chose to speak to you, she looked you straight in the eye, even if you were her elder or better. She was known to do as she pleased, without stopping to deliberate what the consequences might be. Men who shouldn't have fell in love with her and were convinced that she came to them in the middle of the night, igniting their carnal appetites. Women found themselves drawn to her and wanted to confess their own secrets in the shadows of her porch, where the wisteria had begun to grow and was already winding itself around the black- painted railings.
Maria Owens paid attention to no one but herself and her daughter and a man over in Newburyport who none of her neighbors even knew existed, although he was well known and quite well respected in his own town. Three times every month, Maria bundled up her sleeping baby, then she put on her long wool coat and walked across the fields, past the orchards and the ponds filled with geese. Drawn by desire, she traveled quickly, no matter what the weather might be. On some nights, people thought they saw her, her coat billowing out behind her, running so fast it seemed she was no longer touching the ground. There might be ice and snow, there might be white flowers on every apple tree; it was impossible to tell when Maria might walk through the fields. Some people never even knew she was passing right by their houses; they would simply hear something out beyond where they lived, out where the raspberries grew, where the horses were sleeping, and a wash of desire would filter over their own skins, the women in their nightgowns, the men exhausted from the hard work and boredom of their lives. Whenever they did see Maria in daylight, on the road or in a shop, they looked at her carefully, and they didn't trust what was before them—the pretty face, the cool gray eyes, the black coat, the scent of some flower no one in their town could name.
And then one day, a farmer winged a crow in his cornfield, a creature that had been stealing from him shamelessly for months. When Maria Owens appeared the very next morning with her arm in a sling and her right hand wound up in a white bandage, people felt certain they knew the reason why. They were polite enough when she came into their stores, to buy coffee or molasses or tea, but as soon as her back was turned they made the sign of the fox, raising pinky and forefinger in the air, since this motion was known to unravel a spell. They watched the night sky for anything strange; they hung horseshoes over their doors, hammered in with three strong nails, and some people kept bunches of mistletoe in their kitchens and parlors, to protect their loved ones from evil.
Every Owens woman since Maria has inherited those clear gray eyes and the knowledge that there is no real defense against evil. Maria was no crow interested in harassing farmers and their fields. It was love that had wounded her. The man who was the father of her child, whom Maria had followed to Massachusetts in the first place, had decided he'd had enough. His ardor had cooled, at least for Maria, and he'd sent her a large sum of money to keep her quiet and out of the way. Maria refused to believe he would treat her this way; still he had failed to meet her three times, and she just couldn't wait any longer. She went to his house in Newburyport, something he'd absolutely forbidden, and she'd bruised her own arm and broken a bone in her right hand by pounding on his door. The man she loved would not answer her cries; instead he shouted at her to go away, with a voice so distant anyone would have guessed they were little more than strangers. But Maria would not go away, she knocked and she knocked, and she didn't even notice that her knuckles were bloody; welts had already begun to appear on her skin.
Finally, the man Maria loved sent his wife to the door, and when Maria saw this plain woman in her flannel nightgown, she turned and ran all the way home, across the fields in the moonlight, fast as a deer, faster even, entering into people's dreams. The next morning most people in town awoke out of breath, with their legs shaking from exertion, so tired it seemed as though they hadn't slept a wink. Maria didn't even realize what she'd done to herself until she tried to move her right hand and couldn't, and she thought it only fitting that she'd been marked this way. From then on, she kept her hands to herself.
Of course, bad fortune should be avoided whenever possible, and Maria was always prudent when it came to matters of luck. She planted fruit trees in the dark of the moon, and some of the hardier perennials she tended continue to sprout among the rows in the aunts' garden; the onions are still so fiery and strong it's easy to understand why they were thought to be the best cure for dog bites and toothaches. Maria always made certain to wear something blue, even when she was an old lady and couldn't get out of bed. The shawl across her shoulders was blue as paradise, and when she sat on the porch in her rocking chair it was difficult to tell where she ended and where the sky began.
Until the day she died, Maria wore a sapphire the man she'd loved had given her, just to remind herself of what was important and what was not. For a very long time after she was gone, some people insisted they saw an icy blue figure in the fields, late at night, when the air was cold and still. They swore that she walked past the orchards, traveling north, and that if you were very quiet, if you didn't move at all, but stayed down on one knee beside the old apple trees, her dress would brush against you, and from that day forward you'd be lucky in all matters, as would your children after you, and their children as well.
In the small portrait the aunts have sent Kylie for her birthday, which arrives in a packing crate two weeks late, Maria is wearing her favorite blue dress and her dark hair is pulled back with a blue satin ribbon. This oil painting hung on the staircase in the Owens house for one hundred and ninety-two years, in the darkest corner of the landing, beside the damask drapes. Gillian and Sally passed by it a thousand times on their way up to bed, without giving it a second look. Antonia and Kylie played games of Parcheesi on the landing during their August vacations and never even noticed that there was anything on the wall, other than spiderwebs and dust.
They notice now. Maria Owens is hanging above Kylie's bed. She is so alive on the canvas, it's obvious that the painter was in love with her by the time he had finished this portrait. When the hour is late and the night very quiet, it's almost possible to see her breathing in and out. If a ghost were to consider climbing in the window, or seeping through the plaster, he might think twice about facing Maria. You can tell just by looking at her that she never backed down or valued anyone's opinion above her own. She always believed that experience was not simply the best teacher, it was the only one, which is why she insisted the painter include the bump on her right hand, where it had never quite healed.
The day the painting arrived, Gillian came home from work smelling of french fries and sugar. Since Sally had chopped down the lilacs, every day was better than the one before. The sky was bluer, the butter set out on the table was sweeter, and it was possible to sleep through the night without nightmares or fears of the dark. Gillian sang while she wiped off the counters at the Hamburger Shack; she whistled on her way to the post office or the bank. But when she went upstairs and opened the door to Kylie's room to find herself face to face with Maria, she let out a screech that frightened all the sparrows in the neighbors' yards and set the dogs howling.
'What a dreadful surprise,' she said to Kylie.
Gillian' went as close to Maria Owens as she dared. She had the urge to drape a towel over the portrait, or to replace it with something cheerful and ordinary, a brightly toned painting of puppies playing tug of war, or
