by Lynn Austin
“I’ll be happy to read to you,” I said. I would gladly lose myself in Treasure Island, the saga of treachery and betrayal and buried treasure.
“Time to cook up that potion, now,” Lillie told me after the boys went home.
“You mean the one that’s going to put Mack to sleep?”
“Um hmm. If you’d kindly help me get upstairs to my workroom, I’ll mix it up and we can get it cooking on the stove. Now, I know you ain’t real happy about helping us, honey. Tell you the truth, I’d rather you didn’t see what all goes in it. You understand, right?”
“Believe me, I have no intention of stealing your magic formula.”
Mack “died” that afternoon. It was too wet and rainy to bury him that night so they scheduled his funeral for the next morning. Once word of Mack’s death spread, everyone in town pitched in to help. Faye’s husband delivered the casket—a roughhewn box that looked as though it had been made out of old packing crates. Cora tacked a tattered blanket inside for a lining. Several men volunteered to dig a grave for him in the cemetery on the edge of town.
Lillie’s knockout potion was so powerful that I feared she really had killed him. Mack fell into such a deep sleep that he never even twitched a muscle as the packhorse ladies lifted him into his coffin. They bawled their eyes out as Alma lowered the lid into place. She wiped her eyes on her sleeve, then picked up a hammer and a handful of ten-penny nails.
“Don’t nail him in yet,” Lillie said. “I need to say good-bye first. In private.” Somehow she produced a few genuine tears, and the ladies quietly slipped away into the night.
“Now what?” I asked, hands on hips. “You aren’t going to let them bury Mack alive, are you?”
“’Course not. We need to go out to the shed and gather up a half-dozen empty feed sacks. Then we’re gonna fill them up with dirt and rocks so we can put them in the coffin instead of Mack.”
She kept saying we, but I knew whom she meant. Lillie didn’t have the strength to carry the shovel, much less dig with it—and Mack looked as dead as he was supposed to be. From what I could see, the only person who could shovel dirt and lift rocks was me. I put on Mack’s old woolen jacket and went to work down by the creek, digging and loading in the dark of night, carrying each heavy sack up to the house and piling it by the casket.
“Nope, still not heavy enough,” Lillie would inform me each time. And back I would go, out into the drenching rain, for another load.
“This is the last thing I’m going to do for these people,” I muttered as I worked. “No more potions. No more lies. No more insane schemes in the dead of night. I’m finished! Done! I’ll take care of the library books and read stories to the kids, but that’s it until my two weeks are up!”
Mack was still dead to the world when Lillie finally decided I had shoveled and hauled enough ballast. My arms and legs trembled with fatigue from the unaccustomed labor. I longed for a hot bath to wash off the filth but had to make do with a kettle of hot water and a sponge bath in the kitchen sink. Since neither Lillie nor I could move Mack, he slept in that awful casket all night, just like a real dead man. It served him right.
Mack was as groggy as Rip Van Winkle the next morning. He could hardly get his legs underneath him to climb out of the box. “Wow! Have I got a headache! Did somebody drop a rock on my head while I was asleep?” he asked as I helped him to his feet.
“I wish I had thought of it,” I mumbled. “Do you know how many pounds of dirt and rocks I shoveled for you last night? In the rain?”
He smiled sheepishly. “About a hundred and seventy-five? Maybe one-eighty?” When I didn’t smile back, Mack fixed me with his soulful eyes. “I’m indebted to you, Miss Ripley.”
“You bet you are! I’m still exhausted.” He leaned on me as I helped him stagger up the stairs so he could hide in Lillie’s workroom during his funeral. Then I hefted the rocks and bulging feed sacks into the casket and nailed it shut, venting my fury with each whack of the hammer. It took forever. I had never wielded a hammer before and I kept missing the nails.
Faye’s husband, Lloyd, and five other men volunteered as pallbearers to carry the coffin to the cemetery on the hillside. At least the rain had stopped. Barefooted children had combed the woods and fields to gather wildflowers while women in feed-sack dresses and knitted shawls had prepared the funeral luncheon. Lillie changed into a long black dress that might have fit her fifty years and a hundred pounds ago but now it billowed around her frail body like a feed sack on a broom handle. She stuck a black hat with a mourning veil on top of her wispy white hair and leaned on my arm as we followed the casket outside. Someone—probably the packhorse ladies—had draped the library porch in black crepe. The entire town, some eighty or ninety people, from babes in arms to gray-haired old-timers, gathered in front of the library for the funeral procession to the cemetery.
“Who’s going to conduct the service?” I asked Lillie as I helped her descend the porch steps. “I don’t suppose this town has a preacher?”
“I’m gonna do it.”
“You’re a preacher, too?”
She answered with a grin. I couldn’t imagine my father or any other minister telling as many lies as she had or orchestrating this terrible charade.
An elderly man, whom I recognized as the village postmaster, hobbled up to us. “Too far for you to walk, Miss Lillie, so we fetched you a ride.” The crowd parted to reveal a two-wheeled cart, pulled by a goat! The animal wore a black bandana around his neck—presumably to convey his grief—and someone had wound black mourning crepe around the spokes of the cart’s wheels.
“You’re kidding!” I blurted. It was such a ludicrous sight that I had to put my hand over my mouth to keep from laughing. I tried to imagine Gordon and his father escorting grieving mourners to the Blue Island Cemetery in goat carts.
The postmaster helped Lillie climb aboard, then she turned to me, patting the seat beside her. “You wanna ride with me, honey?”
“No, thanks. I’ll walk.” I might be exhausted from shoveling dirt for half the night, but I still clung to my dignity. A goat cart, indeed! The postmaster scowled at me, clearly insulted. The goat added a rude bleah to my refusal. The man turned away and proudly herded his goat up the road, leading the funeral procession.
They buried Mack near the bottom of the cemetery out of respect for Lillie. She couldn’t climb the steep hill, and I don’t think the goat could have made it up the slope either, even though Miss Lillie didn’t weigh much more than a bag of feathers. The mourners began to sing “Safe in the Arms of Jesus” as everyone gathered around the gravesite, but there was such an odd assortment of musical instruments—guitar, banjo, harmonica, and fiddle—that it sounded more like a square dance than a funeral. Children tossed spring flowers onto the lowered coffin. The packhorse ladies cried and wailed. Mamaw and the boys were sniffling, too, leaving tear tracks down their dirty faces. This was cruel. Just plain cruel.
The sheriff’s car pulled up as we were partway through the second hymn, “He Hideth My Soul in the Cleft of the Rock.” I wondered if he was going to pry open the casket and view Mack’s corpse for himself. Was it against the law to help fake someone’s death? Could I be arrested as an accomplice? My heart began to gallop with guilt when the sheriff climbed out of his car, but he simply removed his hat in respect and stood watching from the edge of the road, away from the knot of mourners.
Lillie pulled a black-edged handkerchief from her sleeve and wiped her tears as she prepared to deliver her sermon. “Our friend Mack was a good man, and we’re sure gonna miss him. He brought books and stories to this town and set up the library for us. I know we’ll always remember and be grateful for what he done. There’s so many things in this life we just don’t understand—why we have hard times and trials, why we gotta lose people we love. But God has a plan. Yessir, He always has a plan. It’s up to us to decide every day if we’re gonna be part of it or not. Are we gonna do His will and build His kingdom? Or are we too busy ma
king our own plans?”
I looked down at my shoes as she talked, scuffing the dirt with my toe. I wasn’t following any plan at all, God’s or my own. What was wrong with me? Maybe I should start making a list like my father always did. But what would I put on it? Did God write lists for us? Would He give me a peek at mine if I asked Him?
I didn’t pay much attention to the rest of Lillie’s sermon as I thought about the sorry state of my life. She finished with a prayer and everyone sang “Pass Me Not, O Gentle Savior,” which seemed more appropriate for a revival than a funeral. Then everyone drifted back to the library. A couple of the men carried the mattress back upstairs to make room as the entire town crowded inside the house. I saw people roaming through the library, pulling books off of the shelves and gazing at them in wonder as if Mack had written each and every word himself. I would have to straighten the shelves after everyone left.
The musicians gathered on the front porch to play a medley of lively gospel songs as if we were at a barn dance. I saw some of the men from the post office passing around jars of what looked like moonshine. The women loaded down the library table with food, simple dishes like beans and corn bread, homemade pickles and deviled eggs. I knew it was a sacrificial offering since these people didn’t have much to eat themselves, and it made me angry all over again.
I waited until all of the guests were fed before filling a plate for myself. After looking around for a vacant place to sit down, I ended up sitting behind the library desk. I had just taken a bite of hard-boiled egg when the fiddle player sauntered over with his instrument in one hand and a plate of food in the other. He was about my age and had the unusual combination of dark brown eyes and straw-colored hair, a good-looking man in shabby clothes and worn-out shoes. They were probably his Sunday best.
“Hey there. Mind if I sit here?” he asked. I did mind, but without waiting for my reply, he laid his fiddle and bow in front of me and sat down on a corner of my desk. “I’m Ike Arnett,” he said, extending his hand. “You must be our visitor from up north.”
I quickly finished chewing and swallowed as I shook his hand. “Yes, I’m Alice Ripley from Illinois.”
“I knew you was the flatlander everyone’s talking about ’cause you’re so pretty. Girls from up north are a whole lot prettier than the ones down here. And you’re just about the prettiest gal I ever did see.”
The last thing I needed was the flirtatious attention of a hillbilly fiddle player. I looked down at my plate, not at him, pushing beans around with my fork. Then I realized that I was being rude. I looked up again and said, “Thank you.” With a decent haircut and fashionable clothes, Ike Arnett could be handsome. His cocky grin told me that he already knew it, so I didn’t return his compliment.
“The music you’ve been playing out on the porch is very interesting,” I told him. “I’ve never heard hymns played quite like that before—especially at a funeral.”
“Ever been to Kentucky before?”
“No, this is my first time.”
“Well, that explains it.” He smiled and there wasn’t a girl in the world who could have resisted smiling back.
I continued to eat and he continued to stare at me until the silence became uncomfortable. “Um . . . does your little band play together very often?”
“We’re not really a band. Just some folks from town who got together to pay our respects to Mack.”
“Oh. Well, you sounded very good.”
“Thanks. I have a lot of time to practice now that the mine is closed and most of the dance halls have shut down. But I been getting by, doing a little of this and that. And every so often I get work playing my fiddle.” He raked his fingers through his hair, but it flopped back onto his forehead just like before, hanging into one of his eyes. “When times were good, I played in a band every weekend. We traveled all over the place, even up to Ohio and West Virginia. I had a girl in every town.”
“I assume you aren’t married, then?”
“Why settle down when you can have a good time?” He winked at me. I couldn’t believe it! Oh yes, Ike Arnett knew he was good-looking.
“Life on the road’s no good for a family man,” he continued. “I guess I could settle down now that I ain’t traveling as much, but I haven’t found the right girl.” He waited for me to look up at him, then added, “Yet.”
I remained deadpan, refusing to swallow the bait. “Where did you learn how to play the fiddle like that?”
He shrugged. “Fiddling’s been passed down in our family for years and years. I been sitting on our porch, listening to my granddaddy and uncles play for as long as I can remember. So one day I took the fiddle off the mantel when my chores was done and started fiddling around with it myself. I took a real shine to it.”
“That’s very interesting.” And it was. How could anyone play as skillfully and artistically as Ike did without ever studying music or taking lessons from a teacher?
He changed the subject and began to talk about Mack while he ate, chattering on and on about what a great friend Mack had been and how much he would miss him. I confess that I tuned out Ike’s words as if changing radio stations. His affection for Mack seemed genuine, which made me feel even guiltier for playing a part in this huge deception. I was beginning to wonder how I would ever get Ike Arnett off my desk again when the banjo player sauntered over.
“Quit your flirting, Ike. We got work to do.”
Ike shoveled the last few bites of food into his mouth and stood. He picked up his violin and winked at me again. “See you around, Alice.”
The day’s events took all the starch out of Lillie, and late in the afternoon, Faye and Marjorie helped her up to bed. When the last mourner left and the packhorse ladies had finished helping me clean up, I went upstairs to see if she was all right. She had a lamp burning, and I took a good look at her room for the first time. It was very neat and tidy, considering that she had been sick in bed before I arrived. Frilly white curtains hung on the windows and a beautiful patchwork quilt covered her bed. Framed pictures decorated the walls, and an embroidered sampler hung at the head of her bed. I moved closer to read it: “There is a friend who sticketh closer than a brother.” Proverbs 18:24.
Mack limped into the bedroom to see her, too, and sat on the edge of her bed. I glared at him, making sure he knew exactly how I felt about him.
“It was a very nice funeral, honey,” Lillie told him. “You should’ve been there to see how well-liked you were.”
“Did the sheriff come?”
“Yessir, he was there, making sure you was dead and buried. I think you’re safe for now, honey.”
“Maybe. But I’m worried that someone will see me. I’ll have to go outside to . . . you know . . .”
“You could move up to the cabin until your work is finished.”
“What work?” I asked. They ignored my question.
“I can’t leave you, Lillie. Who’ll take care of you if I’m not here?”
“Honey-girl’s been helping me. She’ll take care of both of us.” It took me a moment to realize who Lillie meant.
“Wait . . . me? . . . Listen, I won’t be here much longer. My aunt and uncle are coming for me next week.” They continued to talk, ignoring me completely.
“How about tomorrow night, after dark?” Lillie said. “That’ll give you time to pack some food and things. Think you’re strong enough to travel up there?”
“I guess we’ll find out.” He bent over the tiny woman and kissed her forehead, then tucked the covers around her with his good arm. “Good night, Lillie. We’ll talk more tomorrow.” And before I could stop him, Mack limped into his old bedroom where I had been sleeping and closed the door.
“Hey! That’s my room. Where am I supposed to sleep?”
No one replied.
The next day I had the library all to myself. Mack and Lillie both stayed in their rooms, and the only time I saw them was when I brought their meals upstairs. I didn’t even have to cook since we had p
lenty of leftovers from Mack’s funeral. Faye’s boys must have been naughty again, because they didn’t come in to hear the next chapter of Treasure Island. It was just as well, for I could hear Mack thumping around in his bedroom all afternoon, and the boys would have heard him, too.
When I brought dinner upstairs, Mack had changed out of his bloodstained clothes for the first time and was sitting on Lillie’s bed, talking quietly to her. Their whispered discussion halted when I walked in with the supper tray.
“Don’t stop on my account,” I said. “I’ll just leave this here and eat downstairs.”
“Now, now, honey-girl. I know you’re feeling peeved with us.”
I pinched my lips shut and didn’t reply. Who wouldn’t be out of sorts after sleeping in Lillie’s chair in the non-fiction section all night? I still had a kink in my neck from my uncomfortable night’s rest. At least there hadn’t been any bats flying around downstairs.
Mack tilted his head to one side and gave me his puppy-eyed look. “You came here to help out, Miss Ripley, and you’ve been an enormous help to us. Maybe not in the ways you intended, but—”
“But the Good Lord knows we couldn’t of done any of this without you,” Lillie finished.
“I get no satisfaction in knowing that I’ve aided in a terrible, deceitful conspiracy against an entire town.”
Mack grinned. “Very nicely and dramatically put, Miss Ripley. A bit melodramatic, perhaps . . .”
I wanted to punch him, but Lillie held up her hand. “Truth is, Mack would probably be dead for good if you hadn’t helped him. And I’d be knocking on the pearly gates right behind him.”
“This town has a lot of secrets,” Mack added, “and I’m afraid you stumbled right into the middle of them.”
I rolled my eyes. “Now who’s being melodramatic?”
Mack and Lillie exchanged glances.
“We just wanted to let you know how grateful we are for all your help,” Mack said. “Now, please sit down and eat dinner with us. Let’s let bygones be bygones.”