Unbury Carol(16)

Dwight nodded, but his expression did not change. Despite the edginess, there was some fun in this: playacting grief.

“No need for apologies, my good man. And I didn’t hope to offend thee, either. Perhaps the best we can do, the compromise, is to say that the lady was too young, God or no God, and that dying is just the most awful thing we’ll ever do.”

The stranger closed his eyes and smiled sympathetically. Then Arthur shuffled him along. Dwight saw Patricia Johns waiting next in line.

“Patricia…”

She took the hand he held forth in both her own. “I’m so sorry, Dwight.”

Dwight smiled sadly. “Would you believe,” he said, “that earlier this morning a person told me no man ought to outlive his wife? That the man is supposed to go first?”

Patricia’s eyes widened a bit. “Seems a strange thing to say on such a day.”

“Yes, yes, but maybe also true. Your kind are given the gift of birthing…for that perhaps you are sentenced to endure death as penance.”

Patricia clucked her tongue. “Morbid thoughts, Dwight Evers. But understandably so.”

She knelt and kissed his cheek and touched his hand, too, for a moment before stepping into the crowd of people. Behind her stood another gentleman.

“Sir, Mister Evers, my name is Geoffrey Hughes. We have not met as of yet, and I regret that this is the time. But allow me to say that I am a great admirer of yours in matters of business, and I’d imagine a man of your stature can perhaps lean a bit on his place in life at a time like this.”

Dwight frowned. Perhaps the man didn’t know Dwight conducted no business of his own.

Dwight looked quickly to the urn. Hattie again. Carol’s mother’s money.

“Mister Hughes, I, too, regret seeing your face for the first time so soon after seeing my wife’s go still. But as to your comment, you must not know the method of the heart, for a lifetime of good standing appears silly to me now, and all good deeds are rendered juvenile.”

“Oh, I do not doubt that, Mister Evers. But perhaps in your darkest hour you can light the candle that shows you what you have remaining. Not many a man has had the success you have found.”

At the mention of a candle, Dwight thought again of the nagging flickering he saw in his mind’s eye the night before, leaving the Manders Funeral Home. The unwanted thought that he may have forgotten something. Something key.

“Mister Hughes, we are meeting, here, now, in my darkest hour, and I’m not aware of the candle of which you speak. The shadows you allude to have blocked me out completely from the sunny sidewalk where children play and men pass men with nods and good cheer. The sun went down yester eve and with it the clock-bell rang…a thunder-rush through the house…the glass rattled a bit…the furniture rattled a bit…and I had no illusion that the darkest hour was then upon me. The details of the very bedroom she lay in dissolved and met with the shadows…the things we had shared…the simple fringe on a throw pillow…the fabric of the drapes…and bigger things, too…less visible as they are…the sound of her slippers in the hall…the soothing sound of a comb through the knots in her hair…the atmosphere she created, erupting from her like clouds from the steam pipe…all this shook and then faded quickly into the shadows created by a clock telling me it was, in fact, the darkest hour. And in that moment, Mister Hughes, though I am aware your intentions are high, there was no candle. No. By definition of it being the darkest hour, there is no light to be seen.”

Arthur nodded to Mister Hughes, gently asking him to move on.

Dwight saw a young man holding a folded piece of paper standing next in line.

“What’s this?” Dwight asked, recognizing it as a messenger.

“Telegram for a girl who works in your house, Mister Evers. Come all the way from Mackatoon.”

That flame again. The light in Dwight’s mind swayed as if touched by the wind.

“Let’s have it then.”

The young man stepped forward and handed him the paper. Dwight unfolded it and, holding it close to his face, looking down the bridge of his nose, read:


Miss Farrah Darrow

Do not bury STOP Not dead STOP On my way STOP

James Moxie



It appeared to many visitors as though, after reading, Dwight went through the gamut of all bad emotions. That’s how William Mooth, next in line, explained it later to his wife.

Ah, it was terrible, Martha. All in awful slow motion. The poor man twisted, made to rise, sat again, reread the telegram, looked about the room, made something of a fist, made to rise slowly, and sat again. Whatever it was he read, I feel awful bad the news had to be put on top of the news he’d already been sentenced to endure.

Then Dwight sat still half a minute, hands folded, composed.

“I think I’ll remove myself from the gathering for a moment, Arthur,” he finally said.

“Of course, sir.”

Dwight took the tall man’s hand and rose from the stool. He patted Arthur on the shoulder and asked him quietly if he wouldn’t mind asking the messenger to wait a moment before leaving. Then Dwight walked through the gathered people as his wife’s name popped out of conversation in sharp bright bursts. Ladies watched him pass and would later comment on how he appeared to have aged ten years since last they saw him. Others wiped tears from their eyes with their scarves. A man in his path stepped aside, and Dwight nodded absently before recognizing him as Sheriff Opal.