A Prayer for the Dying (10 page)

You pull a kitchen chair into the nursery, and the sun inches across the carpet. Marta reads while you try to write the sermon you’ve been avoiding. Your congregation waits. How many now, without Austin? You know the rows, you can see their faces lifted to you. How many are already sick? You should have called for a quarantine; you shouldn’t have listened to Doc.

“You should wear your mask,” you tell Marta, but don’t press when she says no.

The two of you sit there listening for a hitch in Amelia’s breathing. Outside, the oaks sigh, a lone rig passes—probably Chase with Doc along, or Sarah Ramsay carting her boys home. Otherwise, the silence is like night. Though it’s market day, Friendship’s quiet. It’s the end of threshing, you think, and picture the brilliant fields, the glint of reaping scythes. You wish you were riding your bike out along the dusty roads, even in this heat.

Turn to the empty sheet in front of you. The Ramsays sit in the back row. What can you possibly say to comfort them?

You had the same question when you first started apprenticing with Mr. Simmons. You knew about working with the bodies, you were used to that, but what did you say to the families? Tell them the truth, he said. Tell them you’re sorry and that you’ve done your best.

You hope no one comes.

No, that’s not true.

Marta shushes you.

Amelia stirs, whimpering, and Marta picks her out of the crib and sits with her, rocks her in her arms. She kisses her forehead and you think of the masks.

“She’s warm,” Marta says, and you go over to feel her.

Her hair’s damp.

You mention the mask again.

“You’re not wearing yours,” she argues, and it’s true. Neither of you have to ask why.

You sit again, lick the nib. Marta rocks. She doesn’t seem to be reading; the page never turns. The house is cool with the blinds pulled, the rooms gray. The doors are locked, and the rest of Friendship’s far away, baking in the heat. Only the three of you here in your little world. To be with them is enough, and you think of Millie Sullivan trudging up the stairs with her bottle of Paris green, and for an instant—even with the vision of her ruined face insisting you reject her solution—you understand what she did.

You look to Marta, rocking, Amelia asleep in her arms. You wonder how long it took for Elsa to get half the bottle down. After the siege, you piled the bodies on ammunition carts, one layer facing one way, the next across it, like sheaves of wheat. Your mother died of a heart attack while reading. When they finally broke into the house, her hands were folded over her Bible, one finger keeping her place.

That’s it. Yes, especially now.

“Shhh,” Marta says, and you nod, sorry, and pinch your lips together.

You bend to the page and write:
What is the best way to die?

5

Softly, in the dark. Along the far edge of the churchyard, the valise bulky under one arm. The steeple reaches its finger into the night sky. Cyril’s long gone home, the telegraph closed, Fenton’s shuttered up. Still, you keep to the weedy traces, navigate the shadowy alley behind Ritter’s boardinghouse, then slip between the livery and the jail in the steamy reek of horse piss. Take a peek at Main Street, the key sweaty in your hand.

No one, only dust. A dark lump—Austin Phillips’s dog. It’s your job now, all the things no one wants to do. You have to, it’s part of the bargain.

Climb onto the sidewalk and your boots clonk. You fumble with the lock, then push through. Inside, everything sounds loud. Set the valise on your desk and change keys, go open the cellar. You kneel and shield a candle, picture Marta in her rocker, finally quiet, exhausted with sobbing. She didn’t argue with you, told you to go, to come back as fast as you can. She hasn’t slept since Saturday, and when you asked her, you could see she didn’t understand. But she believes in you, she knows you’ll do what’s best for everyone.

Downstairs you notice you don’t have enough cedar, or nothing cut the right size. You can crop the two long ones; it’s a waste, but you can’t use white pine for this. Fashion a lid out of the scrap, a solid bottom.

“It’ll do,” you say.

The draining table’s flat, a mask limp on your workbench. Light another candle, and your blades flash on the wall, your saws. You take your best rip down and inspect the cedar, run your thumb over the whorled grain. Measure the length against your forearm, then check it again. How often do you have to remind yourself to make this your finest work?

It’s seasoned wood, but it cuts tough as red gum, worries your arm like green sycamore. You’re tired; Marta’s not the only one who hasn’t slept. Yesterday, sleepless, you held services for the few who did come. Most from outside town. Cyril. You felt as if you’d tricked them, that you should have given them some sort of warning. Instead you delivered your sermon as written, then met them at the door, exhorting them to be careful.

“It’s not the sickness that frets me,” Emil Bjornson said, “it’s that fire up above us.”

Dull, at first you thought he meant the sun, then understood. You wanted to ask him if he had news of the fire, but just said the Lord would sustain us. He agreed because you’re the preacher, not from any real belief.

Is it true? In all this—
after
all this—will the Lord sustain us?

“It’s not your place to ask that,” you say, and the blade neatly cleaves the cedar in two.

Another, then the end pieces. The cellar’s cool, and the sweat sits on your neck like a clammy hand. You promise when you get done with this you’ll pour yourself a horn of whiskey.

“Just a small one.”

Fish in the drawer for eight straight nails. Start cutting the bottom.

You’re doing things backwards, you think, but it doesn’t stop you. Just get it done. You don’t want to leave Marta alone too long.

You want to carve the top. Her name, and the dates. Maybe if there’s time later. But you know there won’t be.

There’s a spot in the garden the crab apple leans over.

What else do you need? You cast around the room, scourging yourself for being so thick-witted. It’s like a nervous sickness; your thoughts don’t stop long on anything, flit off like a nest of swallows.

Tubing. A cask of fluid. Catgut.

You snap the valise open.

It feels wrong to you, doing it this way. At first you wanted to argue with her, thought she’d lost her mind. No, just grief-stricken; you understand her perfectly. Because that was how you felt. Still feel. And then you saw how it would be easier if the rest of Friendship didn’t know, and you softened, let her go on holding her, rocking, whispering in her ear.

The top and bottom are the hardest to get in. The pieces fit, the cask. You wrap the catgut around the nails so they don’t clink, fold the tubing over and snap the bag shut. Go around and blow the candles out, all but one.

Will there be anything harder than this? No, and that’s almost a comfort. Almost, though honestly you can’t imagine anything ever being a comfort again.

She’s in Heaven, yes. You do still believe. But it’s different now, isn’t it?

Friendship’s empty, Austin’s dog untouched. You drop into the shadows of the alley, the valise heavy under one arm, then cross the back of the churchyard. In His hand, they sleep, all those you’ve served, blessed, tended. You want to believe this is no different, that you’ve loved them like a Christian, all equally.

But practically, your actions prove you wrong. You never took any of them home with you. How do you think this is going to help? What good will it do? And who, a better constable might ask, is this man stealing through the night with a mortician’s kit under his arm? And why is he crying?

*   *   *

Marta refuses to give her to you.

“No,” she says, and won’t explain.

She doesn’t have to. You go pour that horn of whiskey, drink it standing in the kitchen. You wonder how Meyer is right now, and the Ramsays. Folks all around town, Doc says. This morning he put off calling a quarantine for another day, and again you felt it was your job, that as constable you should overrule him. Tomorrow, for certain. You’ll wire down the line and let Bart know. There’s no sense risking Shawano when it can be kept in Friendship.

You wonder if it took Amelia for you to make this decision, if it should have been done well before this point.

“Maybe so.”

You set your glass on the melodeon and reach into the valise, maneuver the top and bottom through, then the rest. You don’t want Marta to hear, so you go out back by the henhouse, where there’s no light. With every blow, the chickens stir. Under the moon you fit the top on, the raw cedar white as bone. You have time to carve her name, but you’ve left your chisels in the cellar.

“Hold on,” you say, and fish for your knife.

It’s heavy, but everything is tonight. Only when you unfold the long blade do you notice that it’s not yours. Maybe a boy’s you confiscated and forgot. But no. It winks, and even in the silvered dimness you can see the perfect virgin edge, the liquid shimmer of the black pearl inlay.

It sits in your hand like evidence, yet you hardly remark on it. “Curious” is all you say.

What are the possibilities? That someone else slipped it in your pocket after church. Immediately you think of Cyril, his shack crammed with discarded pots and flaking newspapers. No, he’s too slow. But none of the others come from town. You don’t remember leaving your jacket anywhere, but you must have. Doc’s maybe. You’ve been so distracted lately that anything’s possible.

You angle the top across your lap so it catches the moon and slowly score her name into the new wood. Patience makes good work, Mr. Simmons used to say, and you still listen to him. When it was time to tend him, you made sure his fingernails were trimmed, that he had his Mason’s ring. Would he be proud of you now, sticking them in the ground helter-skelter?

“Your own blood.”

Calm down. Stop breathing so hard. Start on the letters again.

What are you going to say to Marta?

Here. We should let her rest. It’s only proper.

You should be with her now, you think, but go on carving, finish the lid as the moon rises and hangs and starts to fall, and the chickens sleep.

Dew on the yard. The nursery window’s still lit, and when you step inside, the house smells of the lamp. Your half-full glass on the melodeon surprises you.

Marta’s in the rocker, Amelia in her arms, her face unchanged, only a spot of blood on her jumper. Both of them could be asleep.

Marta coughs, and Amelia’s head falls off her arm, lolls back heavy on her neck. You kneel and fit her against Marta, then stay there, unable to wake her. You rest your head on her knee and close your eyes.

“Is it ready then?” she asks clearly, without a trace of sadness.

You answer her softly, wanting her—perversely—to go back to sleep. Who wants to let go? No one. You want the three of you to be together now, but she rocks forward to stand up, and you have to move.

“Where is it?”

“In the kitchen. I’ll need her a minute. You could get her something to wear.”

“Her christening gown.”

“That would be good.”

“And her necklace from Aunt Bette.” She turns to your room as if to go get it.

“I’ll take her,” you say, arms wide, and she stops and has a long last look, kisses Amelia on the lips.

She hands her to you, and you’re surprised how warm she feels. Marta still doesn’t want to leave her, but you tell her to go, that you’ll only be a little while, and she does, almost gratefully.

In the kitchen, when you lay Amelia on the table and kiss her forehead, you find that only one side of her is warm.

Her fingers are curled. You slip her arms out of her sleeves, undo her dry diaper. Her skin is bright in the lamplight, perfect except her raw nostrils, the lump of a gland. You reach in the valise and the instruments clink.

You’ve forgotten a funnel, and have to use Marta’s. It doesn’t take long, covers just the bottom of the tub. Quick and pitch it in the bushes around the house, rinse it at the creaking pump. Mr. Simmons said some men ask half price for children but that it’s customary to do them for free. Christian and good business too. Their small bodies. You think of Arnie Soderholm, Bitsi Meyer. It takes the little ones first, Lydia Flynn said. Why didn’t you listen to her?

No wax either, so you open Fenton’s knife and slice off the butt of a candle, hold it over her ankle till it seals the wound. A single catgut stitch in each eyelid to hold them open, then gently return everything to the valise. You hide it in the closet before calling Marta.

Yes, you’re sure it’s good work.

“Thank you, Jacob” is all she says. Bitterly. Resigned. Why can’t you say anything to her?

She bends over Amelia and fits her christening gown on, struggling with the cuffs. She can’t fasten the clasp of the necklace, and it falls to the floor.

“Help me,” she says, and you do. Her fingers shake as you take it from her, and you see she’s been gnawing at them.

Fix the clasp and turn it so it’s hidden. Except for one eye drifting in, she could almost be alive. You don’t say this.

“She looks very pretty,” Marta says, but uncertainly, and again you wish you knew what she’s really thinking. “Can she lay out in the parlor, or is it too warm? With the sickness I suppose it’s not a good idea.”

“No,” you reluctantly agree.

“Then let’s do it now while I’m feeling able.”

You go to her and hold her. So often you’re struck dumb, turn helpless in the face of pain. But, you notice, she says nothing and holds you too. Is this enough? It must be.

“Come,” she says, and together, silently, you lay your child to rest.

*   *   *

At breakfast, Marta sneezes and a fine spray of blood dots the tablecloth, spawns islands of pink atop the cream. You both hesitate a second, then she snatches the pitcher and pours it out at the door. You go to hold her but she shoulders you away, clings to the frame. Beyond the stunted pole beans stands Amelia’s grave, unmarked so the neighbors won’t know. It’s another beautiful day.

“How do you feel?” you ask, and lay a palm on her forehead. You can’t tell. “You want to have Doc take a look at you?”