Katie

by Michael McDowell

  Mr. Gillow’s assistant and Mrs. Gillow’s hired girl brought over, in a little goat cart, a plain wooden coffin that had “Female” lightly pencilled on the bottom; for Mrs. Drax, a woman of common height and size, no coffin need be specially con­structed. Ben Gillow and his assistant placed Mrs. Drax in the coffin and brought it downstairs, no easy operation considering the narrowness of the turn in the staircase. Upstairs, Mrs. Gillow and the hired girl folded the bloody linen, washed down the walls, and took away with them two mantillas that were all that was left of Mrs. Drax’s meager wedding trousseau.

  The funeral on Sunday was brief, quiet, and well attended. Despite the damage to her face, Mary Drax’s coffin was kept open at the front of the church, with a bunch of violets covering the place where her ear had been sliced off. It was Philo herself, during the last hymn, who pried off the coffin plate for a souvenir and pushed down the lid.

  Everyone was respectful of Philo’s grief, but even at the grave­side, she heard a low voice behind her ask, “What will she do . . . ?”

  Philo could not remain in the house where Mary Drax died. It was unthinkable that she should attempt to sleep in a room whose walls had been clotted with her mother’s gore. It would do no good either to bring her bed below, for she could not pass the narrow stairs or cross the hallway without seeing the prints of Katie Slape’s feet, dyed in her mother’s blood. These considerations occurring also to Mrs. Libby prompted that good neighbor to offer Philo refuge. Philo accepted gratefully.

  Philo knew that Katie Slape had come to murder her, not her mother. To Philo belonged rightly the inheritance that the Slapes had usurped, and Philo was also witness to the murder of Richard Parrock. Philo, not Mary Drax, had been Katie’s quarry in New Egypt. She could not even be certain that Katie was not still waiting in the fir forest for another chance.

  On the evening after the funeral, Philo sat silent at Mrs. Libby’s table, smiling absently when she was addressed by one of the children, but scarcely able to follow their prattle. She re­tired to the little room two of the Libby girls had vacated for her, threw herself onto the bed, and wept for nearly an hour, remembering her mother.

  Eventually, she undressed and got beneath the covers. She began to examine her predicament in detail. Within a week she had lost both grandfather and mother, and they had been all her family. Her only responsibility now was to herself. She had wondered how she might support herself in New Egypt when work was not to be had for a young woman, when she hadn’t her mother’s expertise with a needle, when the interest payment on the mortgage would roll inexorably around in another few months – and then realized that there was no reason why she should remain in New Egypt at all. No ties of affection kept her here. If she remained, she would be forever no more than Mary Drax’s daughter. Poor Philo, how do you suppose she keeps body and soul together?

  Philo would have liked to remain for some few days with Mrs. Libby in order to recover herself and indulge her grief over Mary Drax’s death; but Mrs. Libby’s household was as straitened as her own had been, and Philo knew that she was a burden on the widow with her four children. On the following morning at breakfast, Philo said to her, “I’m going to see Mr. Varley.”

  “Oh!” exclaimed Mrs. Libby doubtfully. “Philo, do you think he’ll have work for you?” She was hesitant to discourage the orphan, but had heard only the day before that the graniteware factory was taking on no new hands.

  “No,” said Philo, “I’m going to sell him the house.”

  Mrs. Libby threw up her hands but said nothing.

  Philo did not further explain her plans. She went to Mr. Varley’s office at the factory, found him in, and offered to sell him the house for two thousand dollars. Fourteen hundred fifty of that would be assumed in the mortgage he held, and Philo would receive only five hundred fifty dollars. Jacob Varley, though he knew that Philo was without funds and that her mother could have left her nothing except the house, offered only one hundred dollars over the amount of the mortgage.

  “Mr. Varley,” said Philo placidly, “you know that the house is worth much more than that.”

  He shook his head. “No, Philo, the house is no longer worth two thousand dollars. Perhaps last week, but this unfortunate . . .”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  He turned round and spoke plainly. “A house loses value if there’s been a murder in it.”

  Philo considered this a moment. She did not believe Mr. Varley and knew that he, who seemed to her to have all the money in the world, only wanted to cheat her of what little she possessed. On the other hand, she wanted the cash and she wanted broken those ties that bound her to New Egypt. Her pride, however, kept her from giving in to this avaricious man. “I will keep the house,” said Philo, and rose.

  “Philo,” said Jacob Varley quickly, “you should not remain in that house. You should take lodging elsewhere. There’s a room to be had, I think, above Mr. Clegg’s store. He’ll want no more than two dollars a week for it, I should imagine. That house, you should be rid of it. You’ll be forever reminded of what happened there. And of course you won’t have any way of keeping up the payments on the mortgage.”

  “I will not sell the house to you for a sum that would leave me only one hundred dollars,” said Philo, and coldly thanked Mr. Varley for his time, and left the room.

  Jacob Varley was irritated by the girl. She hadn’t money, she hadn’t the opportunity of getting any money except by the sale of the house – and still she had refused his offer. The house was of course worth the two thousand dollars she had suggested – his own foreman had offered him twenty-five hundred dollars for it, if he could get it from the Draxes. But if he could buy it from Philo for fifteen hundred, he could sell it to his foreman for only two thousand, make five hundred dollars’ profit, and gain the undying gratitude of his employee.

  Philo was still young. What need had she of five hundred dol­lars? The difference between fifty and five hundred would prob­ably not even be evident to her, Jacob Varley told himself. And he could also afford to wait when she obviously could not.

  On her way back from the graniteware factory to Mrs. Libby’s, Philo stopped at Mr. Clegg’s store with the intention of pur­chas­ing apples and candy for the kind woman’s children.

  Mr. Clegg was astonished to see her and wondered that she could be out on the street so soon after her mother’s death.

  Philo thanked him for his condolences and attendance at the funeral.

  “What will you do?” he asked, and even in this mild gentle­man’s mouth, the question did not please her.

  “Yes,” said a familiar voice behind her, “what will you do, Miss Philo?”

  It was Jewel Varley, in a dress of corn-colored barege with matching boots and gloves and a hat that was no bigger than a cockleshell. She might have been on her way to tea with the President’s wife, except that it was ten o’clock in the morning and the President’s wife was in Washington.

  “I don’t know,” said Philo, unable to hide her gloominess.

  “My goodness,” Jewel exclaimed, “but your life is just one long railway track of misery, Miss Philo! Ma and I are certain we don’t know what’s to become of you! P’rhaps if you could sew we would let you mend some of our things – some of our things get so frightfully torn. The countryside is rife with briars, Miss Philo!”

  “I don’t sew,” said Philo glumly.

  “I had intended to invite you to my come-out party this evening, Miss Philo. But I don’t think I can now. Why, you’re in double mourning! You won’t be out of mourning, I’ll vow, for another two years! I couldn’t have you sitting like a statue of grief in the corner. It would drag on everybody’s spirits.”

  “No,” said Philo, “I would not be much inclined to attend a party this evening.”

  “So you can just sit at home and mope, I suppose,” said Jewel. “But I will tell you one thing, Miss Philo: I couldn’t sit at home in that house and mope, not when my mother had been hacked to piece
s at the top of the stairs. No!” She shook her head vehemently. “I for one couldn’t do it!”

  “I don’t intend to do so,” said Philo. “I have decided to sell the house.”

  Jewel considered this a moment. “Then you will have some money,” she said. “I know my father will wish to buy it. His foreman offered him ready cash for it.”

  “Oh, yes?” replied Philo, with interest.

  “I heard Pa tell Ma so,” said Jewel. She cast her head about, trying to think of a way to denigrate Philo, who had been un­avoidably raised in her estimation by her having become, in how­ever insignificant a way, an heiress to property. “If you do sell the house, Philo, you will be involved in a business transaction.”

  “I do not think I shall mind that very much,” Philo replied.

  “Business transactions are not ladylike. Ma says it is common and vulgar for a lady to know anything about money.”

  Notwithstanding Caroline Varley’s dictum regarding women and business, Philo, as soon as she had made her small purchases and taken leave of Jewel, hurried over to the house of Mr. Varley’s foreman. Philo had often delivered sewing to Mrs. MacMamus and was known to both her and her husband.

  “Mrs. MacMamus,” Philo said when the requisite exchanges of grief and consolation had been made, “I am told that Mr. MacMamus is interested in purchasing the house in which Mother and I lived.”

  Mrs. MacMamus, a pleasant woman whose principal fault was an unquenchable desire to rise in the world, said, “Why, yes, Mr. MacMamus has interested himself in the matter. We want the house for Mr. MacMamus’s sister, who has decided to come to live near us in New Egypt. Dolly – that is her name – is an esti­mable woman, but . . .” Mrs. MacMamus hesitated, cocked her head, and concluded apologetically, “. . . but she was once married to an Irishman. I thought it best if we found her some place to live other than this house, but as you know, there is not much building in New Egypt, and there are so many workers at the factory! We despaired of finding a place, and at last I had to ask Dolly to come here.”

  “Mrs. MacMamus,” said Philo. “The house is mine now, and I intend to sell it. Would your husband still like to have it?”

  “I’m sure of it,” said Mrs. MacMamus. Philo smiled. She was certain at least that Mrs. MacMamus wanted it very much.

  “How much would he be willing to pay for it?”

  “He offered Mr. Varley twenty-five hundred dollars, I believe.”

  “So much as that!”

  Mrs. MacMamus nodded.

  “Please tell Mr. MacMamus,” said Philo after a moment, “that I will sell him the house for two thousand two hundred and fifty dollars.”

  Mrs. MacMamus looked very pleased indeed, and asked Philo if she would not wait with her until noon, when Mr. MacMamus would come home for his dinner.

  She did so. Mr. MacMamus seemed every bit as pleased as his wife at Philo’s offer and, drawing up a bill of sale himself, exchanged Philo’s signature for two draughts on the Cookstown Bank. One of these was made out to Philo Drax for the sum of $800, and the other, for the amount of the unpaid mortgage, to Jacob Varley.

  That afternoon Philo again appeared at the graniteware factory and again was admitted to see Jacob Varley. He was certain that she had come to accept his offer and was struck dumb with astonishment when Philo merely handed him the bank draught across his desk.

  “May I have a receipt please?” Philo asked. “And the original note.”

  “This draught is signed by my foreman!”

  “It is to Mr. MacMamus that I have sold the house,” said Philo unperturbedly.

  Jacob Varley flushed. He suspected that Philo had found him out, but if she had, she did not betray her triumph in either her voice or her countenance.

  “How much did you get over and above this amount, Philo?” he asked curiously as he handed over the receipt.

  “You must ask Mr. MacMamus that, sir,” she replied. “It is not my business to tell.”

  “What will you do, Philo?” Jacob Varley said. There was in his voice a little note of respect for this young woman who had got the better of him.

  “My plans are indefinite,” she said.

  “Perhaps you would like to invest your money,” he suggested.

  “With you, sir?”

  “I might be willing to hold on to your money for you, Philo.”

  “I have my pockets,” said Philo. “And if they become full, there’s always a bank.”

  Chapter 22

  THE HORSEHAIR BLANKET

  That afternoon Philo took the cars to Cookstown, where she exchanged Mr. MacMamus’s draught for notes and gold. At a millinery store that sold ready-made articles she purchased two neat dresses, and a little farther down the street, a small wicker bag in which to carry them. She caught the late-afternoon train from Philadelphia that would carry her back to New Egypt.

  Philo sat looking out the window of the railway car, wonder­ing when she should next see that familiar landscape of careful fields and evergreen forest. The lowering sun glinted on a brook that followed for some distance the path of the tracks, and the water glistened like her own tears.

  Yet her tears dried suddenly and she sat very still when she began to catch the conversation of the two gentlemen seated directly behind her in the car. Both men had been in their places when she boarded the train at Cookstown.

  “. . . state marshal . . .” was the phrase that first drew her attention.

  She turned her head, and listened carefully, holding her hand over her other ear to shut out extraneous noise. “. . . to New Egypt,” the same voice went on.

  “Murder there last week, I heard, terrible thing, woman cut up in her bed.”

  Philo wondered that the tale of her mother’s death had trav­elled so far and so quickly. She began to hope that the state mar­shal – she assumed that the first voice was his – had dis­covered Katie Slape, and was on his way to arrest her. Philo very nearly rose in her seat to speak to the marshal, but his next words stopped her movement and froze her heart.

  “That woman’s daughter I’m coming to arrest.”

  “No!” replied the other.

  “Certain true, black and blue,” the marshal assured his com­panion.

  Philo closed her eyes tightly.

  “Own daughter?”

  “Girl murdered her grandfather,” said the marshal. “I just found her out. Ten days ago down in Goshen—”

  “Where’s Goshen?”

  “Down on Cape May.”

  “Oh yes.”

  “—down in Goshen, girl came to her grandfather’s house, and murdered him in his bed!”

  “Now her mother’s dead too?”

  “Yes,” said the marshal. “Bit peculiar, that, too. I’m told it was another girl that killed the woman in New Egypt, but maybe it was the woman’s daughter, in a disguise.”

  “Dangerous girl!”

  “Oh I got a warrant, and I got a gun, in case she comes at me with her knife,” the marshal assured his companion.

  The sun dropped down behind the fir forest, for a few moments shining a gold-green light through the topmost boughs. The train was no more than a mile outside of New Egypt.

  “What’ll come of her?” asked the marshal’s companion.

  “We’ll send out invitations to her hanging,” replied the marshal.

  “Put me down,” said his friend with a laugh. “A girl that kills her own grandfather, she—”

  His voice was drowned by the locomotive’s shrill whistle.

  The train had halted at the New Egypt station. Philo sat hunched down in her seat as the marshal stood in the aisle. She lis­tened to his retreating steps down the length of the car behind her, and only when she could hear them no longer did she rise. She hurried to the opposite end of the car, stood on the platform, and peered out.

  The marshal, a tall, smooth-shaven man in a green plaid jacket, was in conversation with the stationmaster. Doubtlessly he was asking Mr. Kilcrease where he might f
ind the Drax house.

  The train began to move again, but Philo did not get off. She could not have emerged onto the platform without being seen by Mr. Kilcrease, who would immediately have pointed her out to the marshal as the very person he was seeking.

  When the train had passed the station and was on its way out of town past the graniteware factory, Philo leapt from the car platform and, still clutching her new case, landed on a soft clay bank.

  Not even stopping to brush herself off, she raced toward the fir forest and in another ten minutes found herself within sight of Mrs. Libby’s and her own house. She sneaked across the field at its narrowest point and knocked at the back door of Mrs. Libby’s house, but Mrs. Libby had already been apprised of some­one’s approach by the furious barking of all her dogs.

  “Philo!” she exclaimed, looking down at the young woman’s dress but more alarmed still by the terror in her eyes.

  “Mrs. Libby,” said Philo quickly, “a marshal has come to town to arrest me for my grandfather’s murder.”

  Mrs. Libby threw up her hands in horror.

  “Please help me get away,” Philo said in a low voice.

  Mrs. Libby went immediately to put the horse to the wagon.

  Philo went upstairs and hurriedly packed her belongings. Mrs. Libby sat on the buckboard of her wagon in the dooryard. Philo went cautiously out of the house and crept onto the back. Crouching between two large bales of hay, she drew a blanket over her.

  “I’ll take you back to Cookstown, and you can take the cars to Philadelphia,” said Mrs. Libby.

  Philo whispered her thanks, and sank lower beneath the blanket. The wagon rolled out into the lane. Mrs. Libby’s four children hung over the fence in near danger of puncturing their abdomens on the pickets, but they had been forbidden to call out farewells.

  Philo, well hidden, lifted a corner of the blanket and peered out from behind the substantial form of Mrs. Libby. She saw the house where she had been born and raised and the window of the room in which her mother had been so cruelly murdered. Farther down the lane, she saw the doctor, rocking on his piazza.