A Fountain Filled With Blood

They drove back across the river and onto Old Route 100, turning away from Millers Kill and heading north into the mountains. The trees crowded in against the edges of the road, which swooped, twisted, and climbed steeply enough to make Clare’s ears pop. It would be a great place for a long, hard run, cool in the shade of the trees and undisturbed by much traffic. Of course, if she were to twist her ankle, she’d have a long way to go for help. There wasn’t even the occasional dirt drive or mailbox signaling human habitation. She was beginning to think Russ’s mother must be either a hermit or a squirrel, but then the forest cover broke apart, and they were at an intersection that might have passed for a tiny town. Strung along the two-lane highway were several sagging Victorian cottages that escaped dilapidation through creative paintwork and an abundance of flower baskets. There was one road leading off to the left, squared by a two-pump gas station, a general store, an antique shop, and an art gallery.

Russ turned. The battered green sign read OLD SACANDAGA ROAD, and Clare wondered if any of the roads in northeastern New York State were new. Less than a hundred feet down the road, Russ turned right into what was either a very small dirt parking lot or a very wide grassy driveway. She pulled in beside his cruiser and got out.

“Good heavens,” she said. “Someone shrank Tara!” They were parked next to a perfect Greek Revival mansion in miniature, deeply shaded by towering pines. Tiny second-story windows peeped from underneath a pediment upheld by square columns. More windows ran along the white clapboarded side of the house, each one framed with forest green shutters. “This looks like an oversized playhouse. Is this where you grew up?”

“Nah, my old house is a museum now.” She rolled her eyes at him. “No, really!” He laughed. “The people who bought it from my mom sold it to an enterprising couple who turned it into a museum of Indian art. With a gift shop. Actually, the gift shop is bigger than the museum part.”

A former school bus, now painted purple and topped with several large rubber rafts, rattled past. HUDSON RAFTING EXPEDITIONS, its hand-painted sign read. The dogs flailed their way out of Clare’s car and went into high alert, racing around in circles and barking.

“Bob! Gal! No! Bad dogs!” Clare lunged after them, but they stopped at the sidewalk of their own accord. Across the street was another antique store and a small Presbyterian church that appeared to have been made out of river boulders. The town ended there, sheared off by a leafy-treed gorge. The Old Sacandaga Road crossed a bridge and disappeared into dense forest.

“That’s the Hudson down there,” Russ said, joining her. “Fast and shallow at this point. There’re a lot of rafting companies putting in around here.”

“Is it going to be safe for the dogs?”

“Sure.” He pointed to the edge of the drive. “Behind those lilac bushes, there’s a good strong chain-link fence. I helped Mom put it up myself. And if it turns out these two like chasing cars, she’s got a nice fenced yard out back. Mom’s used to taking in strays—of every sort. C’mon, I’ll introduce you.”

He walked toward a white-and-green carriage house set well back from the drive, then vanished between two pines. “Mom?” He reappeared. “She’s not out back.” He gestured to Clare. “Come on in.” He stepped up to a green kitchen door set near the rear of the house and held it open. She climbed the steps, solid blocks of dense gray stone, and went in at his heels.

“Mom?”

Clare could hear a muffled voice from upstairs. “Is that you, sweetie? I’ll be right down.” The kitchen was cluttered with cooking utensils and shopping bags, and a basket of laundry sat atop a washing machine jammed in the corner. Signs demanding STOP THE DREDGING! jostled library books and stacks of papers on an oilcloth-covered table. An Amnesty International calendar was tacked to a door, and the ancient refrigerator was plastered with bumper stickers exhorting readers to work for peace, seek economic justice, and vote for Hillary Clinton.

“Mom’s an old lefty peacenik,” Russ explained. “A real tax-and-spend Democrat, just like you.”

“I heard that.” Russ’s mother appeared in the doorway, looking even more like a fireplug this time in baggy red shorts and a red T-shirt. She reached up and tugged her son’s ears, bringing his face down close enough to kiss. “Remember, my taxes pay your salary, sonny boy.”

“Then I want a raise. Mom, this is Clare Fergusson. Clare, this is my mom.”

Russ’s mother had a firm, no-nonsense handshake. Clare wasn’t surprised. “How do you do, Mrs. Van Alstyne.”

“Call me Margy.” She waved in the direction of Clare’s collar. “Now, what’s that? You a minister?”

“A priest. I’m the rector of St. Alban’s Episcopal Church in Millers Kill.”

“Well!” Margy Van Alstyne smiled, revealing teeth so uniform, they must have been dentures. “It’s about time! A woman priest. Are there many of you?”