Unbury Carol(15)

Carol Evers dead STOP Condition got the best of her STOP As beautiful in death as in life STOP Funeral in two days STOP

Moxie crossed his porch and mounted the mare. It was too bad the messenger wasn’t going north; on that horse he was riding Moxie could have caught up to him quick.

But Moxie didn’t even have quick to spare.

Two days

Riding now, past his own gardens, heading for the Trail, Moxie felt the pressure of two days upon him, and thought, distantly, how time, like air, has a way of running out.





Eleanor, in her plain dress, stepped through the groups of two, three, and four, and poured lemonade and coffee while balancing a tray of peach cobbler and biscuit pie. She made small talk when called upon but mostly agreed…yes yes…a terrible thing…too young she was…

Dwight sat on a counter stool, a stuffed pheasant upon the table, and greeted those who came to grieve. His thick hair was combed back from his forehead, revealing a troubling display in place of his normally careless visage. Never clean-shaven, he had a thick graying mustache that hung above his strong five-o’clock beard, the tough skin stretched upon the masculine features of his face. The slight pouch of his belly was held tight by a black vest and a watch chain that was beginning to rust. His eyes were made extra cavernous by the low lighting in the parlor, the heavy black of his suit, and, as anybody would of course understand, the death of his wife.

“Eleanor,” he said, getting her attention as she passed. “Let me know if you’re in need of any supplies.”

Eleanor nodded. There were guests in earshot, and for this Dwight looked good.

“Of course, Mister Evers. But don’t worry about what needs us others have today. Just you worry ’bout your own.”

Dwight held her free hand in both of his and nodded. Beside him was a man named Arthur, hired for the afternoon to shuffle the grievers along. Arthur, having worked in the Evers home many times, recognized many faces. The number of guests did not surprise him; Carol was a very popular woman in Harrows.

The Evers home was a big one, with twenty-inch stone walls, a lime green that matched Carol’s garden. The gathering was in the parlor, where a clock ticked on the mantel of a fireplace that sat dark and unused. The sun came in through the high windows; the purple drapes were tied tightly aside. Some of the attendees had been in this room before, some had not, and Dwight could tell the difference: the way the virgins fingered the drapes, studied the photographs on the walls, or tilted their heads toward the ceiling. Even under the callous umbrella of death, the home elicited wonder.

Everybody stopped to examine the urn with the ashes of Carol’s mother, Hattie, that stood upon the mantel beside the clock, as if she had something to do with time and timing yet.

And Carol, because of the way she’d lived her life, still cast a shadow in death. The house was, after all, hers. Paid for by her. Decorated by her. Spirited with twenty years of her bodily presence…no more.

But Dwight counted on that shadow fading.

He turned to see two strangers, a lady and a gentleman, standing beside him.

“We’re certainly sorry to hear of your loss, Mister Evers,” the man said, holding his hat by its brim to his chest. “It’s never a nice thing.”

Dwight nodded. “It’s true, good man. Death is never a nice thing. Even for those old enough to deserve it.”

The lady took Dwight’s hand and gripped it. “If ever you need a lady to come through here…to make certain things are in order…you just call on us, Mister Evers.”

“Barbara!” the man said, reddening.

Dwight smiled. “No need to blush, sir. You would be surprised how many women have offered to help. I guess it’s fairly obvious the state I’m in. Look about you.” He fanned his hand to the greater part of the room. “All this is her doing. From the chandelier and carpet to the very mood.”

Barbara frowned.

“Well,” Dwight said. “Not the mood today, but the one that usually existed in here. Carol had a manner of…illumination. It’s a wonder we used lanterns at all. I thank you for your offer. I may even make you honest on it.”

Arthur made a congenial gesture suggesting the widower was through speaking, and perhaps needed these exchanges of words to be brief. The couple passed.

The food and drink were going fast. The people talked at length about their affairs and death in general, and Carol’s name broke through the word-tangle often, as though today her name was not to be whispered. Dwight heard it many times. Too many times. It wasn’t unusual for her to steal a room, and he nodded slowly, guessing Carol’s name had always come through other words to him, other voices, sharp and alone.

“Mister Evers, sir.”

Another gentleman stood beside him, holding his hat.

“I’d like to express my deepest sympathy for you. Though I understand nothing I say can make it better, I feel it incumbent upon myself to point out that she is in a better place now.”

Dwight hesitated before saying, “Well, sir, Carol and I were never what you’d call fastidious. If there be a heaven, as you allude to, I’ve no proof of it yet, and my findings yester eve only further confirm this for me.”

He turned from the man, his eyes overcast, his lips tight to his face.

“I beg for your pardon, good sir, on such a day, but I did not mean to offend,” the man said. “I can only tell you from those of us who are…fastidious…that she be in better hands now. Hands that I have no doubt will one day touch you and show this to be true.”