ProetryPlace Blog 66: Peach Trees and Priscilla’s Porridge
“I can’t believe the low price on this house. Four bedrooms. Five acres. A peach orchard.”
For years we had wanted a little place to call our own but never could afford it.
“Five acres? Must be a misprint.”
“Well, let’s call. Take a look. For fun, at least.”
We closed the deal two weeks later in mid-July, hardly able to believe our good fortune. By the end of the month we had the old, one-time farmhouse cleaned up and ready to move in. Our used and hand-me-down furnishings seemed ready made for the staunch old relic with its worn, wide pine- board floors and high ceilings.
The spacious kitchen with its huge walk-in pantry was our favorite room, the room where we spent most of our time, reading, talking, drinking tea or wine and taking meals, unless we were outside on one of the two wide sitting porches or asleep in one of the four bedrooms.
The dirt road that led from the busy highway to our newly acquired haven passed through several acres of undeveloped woodland before emerging into what had once been the working barnyard. Only a stone and concrete silo remained where the cattle barn, the chicken coup and the machinery shed had stood.
Between the derelict barnyard and the rambling, gray clapboarded house a fenced garden was loaded with un-harvested produce—sweet corn, beans, tomatoes, peppers, okra, squash—our inheritance from the previous owners that we had never met.
On the far side of the house, the orchard of gnarled, antique peach trees, each still bearing fruit but for the largest of them, a single, sturdy O’Henry standing tall surrounded by half a dozen Summer Ladies, its branches wide spread but barren.
“Odd, that big old tree has no fruit. It looks as healthy as the rest.”
We had our first visitors in September, well after the peach harvest, an old couple with the names of Benjamin and Julia Smith. An odd couple they were, she a large, loud woman, he a wiry imp of a man who spoke with the hint of a British accent and had the devil’s twinkle in his eye. They told us they were our nearest neighbors from the other side of the woods. We chatted over cups of Earl Grey tea at our kitchen table.
“Hope you folks decide to stay. Seems like someone just moves into this old place and they’re moved out again.”
“We can assure you that we plan to stay. We love it here.”
We showed them around the place, but they seemed disinterested, as if already familiar with it, more familiar than ourselves. We showed off the new swing we had hung that week on the wide back porch, and we wandered into the orchard. The trees pointed their gray, bare branches toward the gray, autumn sky.
“We had a great peach crop this year, except for that one tree. Next year we will bring you some.”
“Don’t you know about that tree? That is where they hanged the scoundrel, McComber, after he killed his darling young wife. Way back when these trees were young. Strangest thing. They say that tree never bore fruit since.”
Cool autumn breezes scattered the withered peach tree leaves along the fence of the dormant garden. The nights turned cold. We enjoyed our first crackling wood fire in the old stone fireplace.
I wondered if she heard the voices too.
The steaming bowls of porridge looked and smelled inviting. Just the thing for a cold late-October morning. Later, we would carve the Jack O’Lanterns, fit them with fat candles and set them out on the front porch, although visitors in our remote location would be unlikely. But now we both enjoyed the warming, filling, unexpected treat of porridge. Finished, I fixed our coffees, hers black, mine creamed and sugared.
“I didn’t hear you up early making the porridge. What made you think of that? We never have porridge. But it was great.”
“Are you being coy? I don’t know porridge from a pot hole. And I sure didn’t get up early.”
“Don’t tease me. It’s not funny. Someone made the porridge.”
“But . . . I swear, I . . . .”
“Not Funny!”
Later that morning, while we were still not speaking, Benjamin and Julia stopped by for a friendly visit. “Hope we’re not imposing by coming unannounced. We often roam about on Halloween.”
We almost forgot the porridge incident as we sipped our tea and talked about the change in the weather and such. Eventually, I asked, “About this McComber, how did he kill his wife?”
“Poisoned her, they said. Put strychnine in her morning porridge, they said, and went out to the barn to do the morning milking. Her kinfolks came by and found the fair young bride stretched out dead, with a horrible grimace on her beautiful face, still warm. Right here, on this very kitchen floor. They found the foul McComber in the barn, hauled him out, all fussing and protesting, and hanged him from that old peach tree. All the while, him shouting and screaming his innocence.”
The voices came now more clearly and more often. Young voices. Happy voices, speaking of love, speaking of the future. Then a woman’s raucous laugh. Then a sad, profound silence.
And every morning, steaming bowls of porridge.
We packed the last of our things into the overloaded van and locked the house door. A fine white blanket of snow had been deposited the night before. Stubbles and stalks in the dormant garden stood above the cold dusting as if to wish us a forlorn farewell. We drove slowly without speaking past the For Sale sign at the edge of the lawn. As I turned to look upon the deserted silo one last time, the semblance of foot prints appeared in the snow, like someone being dragged toward the vacant old house. I sped toward the woods.
“We’ll just stop to say goodbye. To let them know we are leaving.”
We searched for the mailbox number the Smith’s had given us. Finding it, we pulled into the long driveway. Ahead, the tower of a fine old Victorian rose above the trees. The gingerbread was painted
bright cream, in contrast with the dark mauve of the shingled siding. Children’s toys and bicycles lay abandoned on the broad, somewhat neglected front lawn.
We rang the front door bell, and heard voices from within. A man and woman, younger than ourselves, smiled and greeted us. Children laughed with delight in another room. The woman turned briefly and called out, “Peter, Priscilla. Not so loud!” and returned her attention to us.
“Hello. We just stopped to say goodbye to Benjamin and Julia.”
“Benjamin? Julia?”
“Yes. The Smiths.”
“Oh?” The young husband glanced at his wife, then back at us. He frowned. “There was a couple named Smith that lived here.” He cracked a wry smile. “ About a century ago. Not now.”
“But, we saw them just a few weeks ago. At the old McComber place.”
“Sorry. The Smiths we know of died many years ago. Executed if you want the truth. This was their home. It’s said that they lynched that man you mentioned—uh . . . McComber. They thought he’d killed their daughter, Priscilla. Found out some time later she died of a stroke. Unusual for one so young. Too late for them. Sadly and surely, too late for the poor bloke, McComber. Tragic, all around.”
We stepped back, stunned, confused, unbelieving, “But. How?” We turned to leave.
“Say, can you stay? We would love to have you two join us a while. We were just fixing breakfast. We’re having bangers and nice hot homemade porridge. It’s an old family recipe.”
