Minerva crossed her arms over her chest.
“I have always admired your intelligence, Minerva. I —”
“Oh please stop flattering me,” she said, “and arrive at your point.”
Sutton cleared his throat. “It’s just—it has been intimated by your father that our enterprise is not as financially successful as we had hoped. At his suggestion, I assumed responsibility over the care and raising of the hogs because they’re crucial to our survival. The loss of that forty dollars may, in the final summation, decide whether we are still here this time next fall.”
“Are you suggesting someone might intentionally want to ruin us?”
“Not intentionally, perhaps. But I can tell you from personal experience that Bonaventure attracts its share of eccentrics. It may also attract worse.” He turned his gaze toward the road leading to the far side of the property.
There was no answer when Minerva knocked on the front door of the stone house, just as there had been none when she had rapped a week earlier. The note was still pinned to the wood, though now its corners were curled, warning the reader that the occupant within was ill with fever, and that visitors were best advised to observe his self-imposed quarantine. That first time a week ago, alarmed that Lyman had not kept their usual rendezvous for their forest walk, Minerva had called through the door, hoping Lyman would hear, and when there was only silence, she returned daily with a basket of food left on the threshold. The empty basket that awaited her the next day suggested the patient was on the mend. And yet no one had laid eyes on the man during that time. How lonely and awful it must be, Minerva thought, to lay in one’s bed, sweat-soaked and delirious, a half-mile from any assistance, all for the sake of selflessly protecting others from infection.
Out of habit Minerva tried the latch, expecting it to be locked. It always was. But to her surprise the door creaked open.
“Tom?”
She stepped into the house, waving a hand in front of her face to dispel the musty air. Immediately she crossed to the closest window and raised the sash, letting the coolness spill inside. “Tom? It’s Minerva.”
Nothing. She wondered if he was even at home.
“Tom?”
“The basement.”
“The basement?” Minerva had no notion why he would be down there. “Where are you?” Perhaps he had fallen or was hurt; his voice sounded weak, barely rising above a husky whisper. She wandered toward the kitchen, opening the few doors she found and discovering only shallow closets, until she undid the bolt and found herself staring down a stairway into gloom.
She couldn’t see him. “Tom? Are you there?”
“The basement.”
A breeze blew upon her cheeks, warmer than the air outside. Carefully, not wanting to misstep and tumble into the unknown, she set the toes of her right foot upon the top stair.
Something gripped her arm, hauling her back. The door slammed inches from her nose and a hand threw home the bar.
His face was a melted candle of purple, black, and yellow, one eye swollen into a squint, his lips bloated like grubs beneath the coppery beard. Minerva shoved a knuckle into her mouth to stifle a scream.
“I know,” said Lyman, “I’ve seen myself in the glass. It’s better than it was, believe me.”
“Tom—what? You said you were in the basement—” Her head tilted toward the door, but her eyes remained locked on him, unable to look away.
“No, no. You misheard. I was saying, My face is on the mend. I didn’t want you to be shocked by my appearance.”
For half a moment Minerva said nothing, unsure. Then she reached up to softly brush his cheek. “No fever could do this. You look as if you’ve been beaten.”
Lyman pulled away. “I hadn’t the courage to tell you. I—I fell off the roof.”
“You’ve fallen before.”
“Yes, but this time I broke my fall by landing on a rock. I was so embarrassed; I didn’t have the heart to come up to the house and admit it to all of you.”
“Oh, Tom.” Impulsively she grabbed him, thrust her head against his chest. “I’ve been so anxious.” After a moment she stood, wiping wetness from the corners of her eyes. “I’m relieved to hear you’re not actually sick. Still, you must stop going on roofs.”
“Yes, well, I think I almost have the hole over the summer kitchen fixed.”
Minerva pushed at the pleats of her dress with her palms, resolute and yet unsure. “That’s part of why I came. Other than my concern for your health, of course.”
Lyman regarded her.
“Tom, I think you should know that some people at the farm—not many, mind you—but some people are worried that perhaps you aren’t holding your own. That is, by not contributing enough to the community.”
“I see.”
“They suggest that you should have completed the restoration of the stone house by now. They even suggest you might be a poor carpenter, or perhaps have never been a carpenter at all. You mustn’t think I believe this. I’m just repeating what’s been said to me. They said that because everyone pays an equal amount to join, and through his or her labor each is allowed an equal share of—”
“But I haven’t paid the same as everyone else,” said Lyman. “I’ve paid more.”
Her thoughts came to a halt. “What do you mean?”
“Didn’t your father tell you? Quite recently I decided that I like the
