His third visit had been just that past autumn. Molly had woken Sam early one morning. He’d leapt out of bed, furious that she’d come in daylight, fumbling for his money so she’d leave before anyone saw her. But, she had not come to beg.
“Mrs. Stanley died last night,” said Molly. “We woke up this morning to the smell of it and you need to come get her for the funeral. Sally and me can’t fetch her in. Besides, we figured you’d want to set it up with that minister chum of yours.”
Sam was horrified that Molly knew of his friendship with Reverend Jewett and feared that if he didn’t agree to take care of the matter, Molly would go to see him herself and provide the pastor with a pungent reminder of Sam’s low connections.
“I’ll do it,” he said. “You go back to the house. I’ll be there directly.”
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Reverend Jewett welcomed him into his study with a firm handshake and a smile. Sam studied the hat in his hand as he explained the reason for his visit. “Mrs. Stanley of Dogtown has died and her burial, well, it falls to me as I was, I mean, I am, that is . . .” he faltered. “There was no one else to call. There’s no question of, well, a proper funeral. . . .”
“Master Maskey,” Jewett interrupted. “It is only right that you should come to me on this occasion. It is most generous of you to take on such a commission. You of all people will understand that the work of the parish does not permit me to accompany you. In fact, there is a gravely ill lady who requires my attention today, and some other pressing matters.
“Your . . . that is to say, Mrs. Stanley was not churched, was she?”
Sam shook his head.
“Why not just bury her out there, near her home. This is not uncommon in such cases,” Jewett said. “Have you a Bible?”
“I could have the use of Mrs. Long’s family Bible, I suppose,” Sam said, mortified.
“No matter,” said Jewett, who turned to his bookshelf and plucked out a volume with a broken spine and frayed cover. “I will make you a gift of this one. You can bring the Scripture to your, that is, to the departed, well, to the bereaved. Here, I will mark a reading for you.”
He found the passage quickly, laid the ribbon on the page, and snapped the book closed with his right hand.
“Jeremiah, Chapter Three.
“Godspeed,” he said, but did not rise or extend his hand.
Sam felt the slight.
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As he walked into Dogtown, his embarrassment gave way to clammy fear. He hadn’t seen a corpse since the day he was pushed into the close, smoky room at Easter Carter’s house. He made his way slowly, the Bible heavy in one hand, a shovel in the other.
Molly and Sally were waiting outside and led him in.
The windows were open and the door was ajar, but no amount of fresh air could clear the stench of rot and rum.
Mrs. Stanley was laid out on her bed, her hair neatly combed, her hands folded. He turned away as quickly as he could but not before catching sight of the bilious pallor on her ravaged face.
Sam walked out and said, “Where do you want me
to dig?”
“Ain’t we taking her to that nice little cemetery on the hill?” asked Sally.
Sam had forgotten the high-pitched, nasal voice. Sally seemed a faded version of herself, the blonde gone to white, the porcelain skin flaked and ashy. Even the yellow of her dress had bleached to an ivory whisper of gingham. Sam fancied that if she stood in bright sunlight, he’d be able to see clear through her. Her distracted glance was the same, though, as was the painfully sweet smile.
“Now, Sally,” Molly said, catching on to Sam’s plan.