Staggerford (35 page)

The Berrington County sheriff, followed by the Giant and ten patrolmen and several dozen soldiers, rushed up and took the Bonewoman into custody. “My daughter did it,” she repeated. Somewhere geese called.

Doctor Maitland came forward and knelt over the body with his stethoscope, then Father Finn with his kit of holy oils.

Headlights came on. A procession of jeeps, trucks, and cars came down the driveway and turned in the yard, making a circle around the body and the priest and the Plymouth, then climbed with a grinding of gears up the driveway and out of the gulch.

Thanatopsis and Beverly emerged from the woods. Beverly was scarcely recognizable. Grief seemed to have altered the very bones of her face. When she saw Miss McGee she threw her arms around the old woman’s neck, bearing her nearly to the ground, and Thanatopsis had to pry her loose. Thanatopsis and Miss McGee helped her into the Plymouth, then got in themselves.

“Take her to my house,” said Miss McGee.

“But, Agatha, I have her room ready. You can’t possibly—”

“She
must
come home with me, Anna Thea! … She must live in
my
house … “Her breath was catching in her throat. “As much for my sake … As much for my sake as hers.”

Lillian Kite, Imogene, and Thanatopsis sat with Miss McGee through the evening. Several of her former students stopped in to tell her to be strong. “Be strong,” they said as they took her hand. They knew that “Be strong” was a helpful thing to hear, having heard it themselves when they were in the sixth grade and in any of a hundred sorts of difficulty. Tonight when they took her hand in their own, however, they found it quite limp, for Dr. Maitland had talked her into swallowing a large, befuddling capsule, like the one he gave Beverly.

Father Finn came in and sat in the wing chair. Whenever he spoke of eternal verities, he had the habit of raising his eyebrows and squinting at the same time, as though he were trying to peer through smoke. He said that God allowed his children to be visited by affliction so that he could see what they were made of.

Miss McGee said, “God knows what I’m made of. He made me.”

“He knows our potential, Agatha, but we must prove ourselves. Today you have been given more sorrow than other people because you are stronger than other people—you are capable of more growth. In not giving in to despair, you are growing in God’s love.”

“I am growing like the fern of goodness and sin.” She was giddy on Dr. Maitland’s capsule.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I
am
the fern of goodness and sin.”

Father Finn lit a cigar and changed the subject. He had never found this woman easy to understand. Of Miles he said, “I didn’t know him well. But I know he was a good man and he meant a lot to everybody.”

“No one means a lot to everybody, Father. To whom, I ask you—besides to Beverly and myself—did Miles mean a lot? A deep, abiding lot?” She stood. Staggering slightly, she went to the china closet for the cut-glass ash tray.

Thanatopsis offered to stay overnight, but Miss McGee said no, she and Beverly would be all right. When everyone was gone Miss McGee went upstairs to Beverly’s room.
As she pushed open the door, light from the hallway fell across the bed. Beverly was shivering in her sleep. The northwest wind—the winter wind—shook the window and howled under the eaves. Miss McGee went to the closet for another blanket, and as she spread it over the bed Beverly stirred, grimacing and raising a finger, responding to something in a dream.

EPILOGUE
 

W
HEN DALE PRUITT IN
Los Angeles was notified of his brother’s death, he phoned the apartment where Carla and his two daughters lived. He and Carla had been divorced for three years.

Carla, hearing that Miles was dead, broke into a wail that brought her younger daughter, Charlene, running from the other room. (The older daughter, Trsh, was out of town on a high school choir trip.)

“I’m flying to Staggerford tomorrow,” said Dale. “The funeral is Monday. Do you want to go with me? He was once your sweetheart, don’t forget.”

“No,” said Carla. “I’m never going back to Staggerford as long as I live.” She hung up.

“What’s the matter?” asked Charlene, drawing back slightly from the terrible face her mother was making. Charlene was twelve and greatly disappointed in the kind of woman she was discovering her heavy, nervous mother to be; but she was always careful to be civil to her, careful never to arouse her mother’s unpredictable temper.

“What’s the matter?” Charlene asked again.

Carla drew her daughter to her breast. She said, “Your
Uncle Miles is dead,” and she buried her wet face in her daughter’s hair.

“Who’s Uncle Miles?” said Charlene.

Carla’s father, the bald barber, had never seen his granddaughters. He had never been invited to California, and Trish and Charlene had never been to Minnesota. Occasionally at Christmas Carla would send him a snapshot, but the fact that he had never seen them face to face was the great sorrow of his old age.

Although Mr. Carpenter was seventy and hard of hearing, he still barbered part time in his shop next to the Morgan Hotel and was sometimes called upon by the undertaker to shave dead men. In the funeral home on Sunday, as he shaved Miles and trimmed his hair, Mr. Carpenter murmured, “If Carla had married you, Miles, instead of your brother, my grandchildren would be growing up in Staggerford. From the time they were babies I would have been cutting their hair.”

On Sunday evening when Miles was put on display at the Carlson-Case Funeral Home, Wayne and Thanatopsis Workman were among the first to see him. They stood at his coffin as Muzak broadcast “Around the World in Eighty Days” from a beehive speaker in a comer of the ceiling. Thanatopsis noticed that Miles’s double chin was not so prominent when he lay on his back. Gravity seemed to draw it down under his ears, where it rested on the satin pillow. She shook her head. She left Wayne and walked home alone through a fine, driving snow that stung like pins.

On Monday morning school was dismissed for the funeral. It was still snowing. The senior class attended as a group, but most of the underclassmen, unacquainted with Miles, sat in their cars and smoked, or went to the pool hall and drank pop, or walked through the stores lifting merchandise. It was too cold to stand around outside.

The pallbearers were Wayne Workman, Coach Gibbon, Mayor Druppers, Historian Smith, Biologist Jennings, and
Doc Oppegaard. Smith was old and Oppegaard was small, so it was hard work for the other four. As they passed into St Isidore’s under the huge rose window, Coach said to Wayne, “Did I ever tell you I never understood this guy? Did I tell you he thought a tie was as good as a win?”

Sitting through the funeral mass without her knitting needles—without the purple afghan she was within forty rows of completing—made Lillian Kite feel edgy and useless. Only by knitting and purling and casting off stitches could she keep her hands and her mind properly occupied. In church her mind raced. She recalled how handsome Miles had looked in her husband’s ranger uniform (though not so handsome as her husband had looked) and how it was a blessing after all that Miles had not married Imogene, for the pain in a new widow’s heart was like death itself. And how would Miss McGee take it? There she was in the front pew between Mrs. Workman and Dale Pruitt. Would she go right on as if nothing had happened? Lillian wouldn’t be surprised. Or would she break down for once? Just what was Miles to Miss McGee, anyhow? Certainly more than your run-of-the-mill roomer. He was a sort of half-husband, half-son. Was a half-husband, when it came to dying, the equal of a real husband? If so, Miss McGee was in for some real pain. And what would she do with her hands? When someone in your household died you were left for the rest of your life with less to do with your hands. Lillian had felt this terrible uselessness in her hands the moment she went into the bedroom and saw Lyle tangled up in the quilt and dead. There was nothing to do for him anymore. No meals. No washing and ironing. No picking up after him. What would Miss McGee, who was not a knitter, do with her hands?

Beverly Bingham did not attend the funeral. She was still in bed, and Mrs. Murphy (Father Finn’s housekeeper) agreed to watch over her in Miss McGee’s absence.

At Evergreen Cemetery, where the wind blew snow down everyone’s neck, the six men placed the coffin over the grave and Father Finn said, “O God, by your mercy rest is given to the souls of the faithful; be pleased to bless
this grave. Appoint your holy angels to guard it and set free from all chains of sin the soul of him whose body is buried here, so that with all your saints he may rejoice in you forever. Through Christ our Lord. Amen.”

The snow was over everyone’s shoes. Thanatopsis stood with her arm around Miss McGee’s waist. Dale Pruitt hugged himself and shivered. He had come from California without his overcoat.

Father Finn sprinkled holy water on the coffin, where it froze in small drops, then he swung the censer over the grave. On the wind the smoke poured levelly out of the censer and into the folds of his vestments. “Lord, we implore you, grant mercy to your departed servant that he may not receive punishment in return for his deeds; that as the true faith united him with the body of the faithful on earth, your mercy may unite him with the company of the choirs of angels in Heaven. Through Christ our Lord. Amen.” He turned to Miss McGee, whose face was veiled and said, “God bless you, Agatha.” Then all hurried to their cars.

But those were not the last words spoken over Miles’s grave. When the mourners were gone, the gravedigger and his helper came out of the tool shed, where they had been warming themselves as they waited. The gravedigger was a college student from Berrington who earned tuition money by digging graves and sewers. Today he had brought along a friend to help him fill the grave. Both young men were excited by the snow, for both of them owned snowmobiles.

“I wouldn’t trade my Blue Streak for any other make in the world,” said the gravedigger, driving his shovel into the snow-covered mound of loose dirt piled on top of Amy Pruitt’s grave. “She starts easy as pie and she runs like a charm.”

“The Blue Streak is a horseshit machine,” said his friend. “I had a Blue Streak once and it was nothing but trouble.”

“Not mine. Mine runs like a charm.” The first shovelful of dirt drummed on the lid of the coffin.

“I say it’s a horseshit machine.”

From the cemetery Miss McGee went home and dismissed Mrs. Murphy. She hung up her coat and climbed the stairs and went straight to work cleaning out Miles’s room. She worked in her best black dress. During the noon hour Thanatopsis came over and told her to rest.

“I must not pause, Anna Thea. If I pause I might go mad.”

She sorted through Miles’s belongings. She stored in the attic whatever was worth saving, including his journal. She sent his clothes to the missions. In her snowy garden she burned a lot of junk, along with a perfectly mysterious heap of green fabric she found in a box on a neglected shelf of his closet—a suit in shreds. She turned his student papers over to Mrs. Horky, his replacement at school, and she kept the leather briefcase for her own use.

Throughout the afternoon she looked in on Beverly, who had been drugged by Dr. Maitland on Saturday night. When she looked in at five o’clock she found Beverly sitting up in bed, smoking. Beverly turned her eyes toward Miss McGee in the slow, bewildered manner of someone who has been asleep for the greater part of two days and nights.

“You must dress now, Beverly, and come down and help me with supper.”

Beverly slowly nodded.

“Today will be our only absence from school, Beverly. Tomorrow you and I go back on our regular schedules.”

Beverly slowly nodded again as she turned back to the contemplation of her cigarette.

Miles Pruitt’s obituary was the last thing Albert Fremling composed before leaving the office on Monday evening.

Miles Pruitt, teacher and lifelong resident of Staggerford, died Saturday at the age of 35.

He was a graduate of Staggerford High School and St. Andrew’s College. He was a member of the Minnesota Educators’ Association and its local affiliate, the
Staggerford Educators’ Association, of which he was a past president.

Surviving are his father, Leonard Pruitt, of Duluth, and a brother, Dale, of Los Angeles.

Services were held Monday at St. Isidore’s Catholic Church, the Rev. Francis Finn officiating, with interment in Evergreen Cemetery.

Those desiring may contribute memorials to the Miles Pruitt Memorial Book Fund of the Staggerford Public Library.

When the editor finished this piece, though it wasn’t Friday, he felt like drinking and driving. He took a long pull from the pint of brandy he kept in his desk, then he got into his red Pontiac and sped through falling snow to Berrington, running over a gray cat on the way.

At the Green Lantern in Berrington he ordered a double brandy at the bar and asked to see a menu. He ordered another double brandy and decided to have the T-bone. He ordered a third double brandy and was shown to a table in the dark dining room, where Doc Oppegaard and Stella Gibbon were having the sirloin.