Читать онлайн «The Red Tree»

I have visited the old Wight Farm and its “red tree,” there where the house squats ancient and neglected below the bogs that lie at the southern edge of Ramswool Pond. So, I have been. I have seen it for myself, but just once. Having accepted the task of editing The Red Tree for posthumous publication, it seemed, somehow, like a necessary pilgrimage. A sort of duty, required of me if I were to gain any insight at all into Sarah Crowe’s state of mind in those last months of her life. So, I went, and I even went alone.

I made the drive up from Manhattan in the spring, many months after receiving the typescript. The day was bright and crisp, a cider day in late April, the sky laid out wide and blue, and the land just beginning to go green with the first signs of spring. There was nothing the least bit foreboding about that day, but already my expectations had been colored by the pages of a suicide’s long ordeal and confession, and by the “secret history” of the Wight place that Sarah had discovered in yet another manuscript, this one having purportedly been left behind by the farmhouse’s previous tenant, a man who, as it happens, had also died there, half a decade before her arrival. The day of my visit fell, almost precisely, one year subsequent to Sarah’s arrival at the farm in April of 2008.

I will endeavor to keep this brief, as it is not my story being told here. I am, at most, that story’s reluctant caretaker.

After an early lunch in Providence with a college acquaintance I’d not seen in some time, I took Route 6 west out of the city, past North Scituate, then, at the intersection with State 102, I turned south, through Chopmist and Rockland, crossing the Ponaganset River where it spills into the great gullet of the Scituate Reservoir, then drove on to Clayville and the Plainfield Pike. At the Providence- Kent county line, I turned northwest onto Moosup Valley Road. I was unfamiliar with this part of the state — I largely still am — and allowed myself to spend an hour or so looking about a couple of cemeteries in Moosup and the old church (ca 1864–1865) now claimed by a congregation of the United Church of Christ.

The road is kept up moderately well, as there are many homes and farms spread out along its length, but it does change over from asphalt to “tar-and-chip” almost immediately. The turnoff to the Wight Farm is located just past a small pond, no more than a sixth of a mile from the north end of Barbs Hill Road. Surprisingly, unlike many of the assorted side roads, driveways, and footpaths, it isn’t gated. I’d rented a Jeep Cherokee for the trip; otherwise, I’d never have made it much farther than the Blanchard place. The Blanchard family has owned the Wight Farm since 1979, and I’d cleared my visit with them the week before, explaining that I was editing Sarah Crowe’s final book and needed to see the house where she’d lived while writing it, which also happened to be the house where she’d died. Mr. Samson Blanchard, her former landlord, was neither as curious nor as suspicious as I’d expected from my scant, secondhand knowledge of the Yankees of western Rhode Island. I gave him my publisher’s contact information, but, later, I’d discover that he never even made the call. I credit this, in part, to the fact that the Blanchards suffered virtually no media attention following Sarah’s death. And, oddly (or so it seems to me), there is little evidence that local teens and other curiosity seekers have targeted the Wight Farm for nightly visitations, vandalism, or, to employ the vernacular of folklorists, “legend-tripping. ^[1]”Indeed, given local traditions of ghosts, witches, and even vampires^[2],I find the general absence of “urban myth” surrounding the farm nothing short of remarkable.