A Prayer for the Dying

by Stewart O'Nan

  “Right.”

  The two of you sit there a minute in the cool room, pondering what this means to Friendship. Your thoughts refuse to connect, run together like the cicadas outside, screaming in the trees.

  “Guess I better wire down the line and let Bart know,” you say, but it’s a question. You’re hoping Doc will back off and say he could be mistaken, that the woman’s symptoms could be anything. Diphtheria kills quick, that’s the one thing you know. You think of what the woman said—He takes the little ones first.

  “Yep,” Doc says, half-distracted, and sighs, an admission of failure. “I guess you’d better.”

  2

  “We can leave,” Marta says for the fifth time tonight. You’re in bed, under the comforter, but no one’s going to sleep. “We’ll take what we need and go to Aunt Bette’s.”

  “We can’t,” you whisper. You’re nose to nose, inches apart, one thigh clamped between her knees. “I can’t. You know that.”

  “I know.”

  She’s so disappointed it makes you want to give in, and she knows this. All night she’s apologized for making you feel it’s your fault, but it is, and she has, so there’s no point. You don’t know how to argue; it’s a weakness in you. After the war, you lost the will to fight, the interest in getting your way in little things. Your strategy is to make her happy, keep the peace—at worst, retreat, take the blame. But there’s no argument here. Your duty seems plain. You hold her closer, smell the warmth of her neck, the taste of the day’s work on her—the tang of salt pork caught in her hair. Her breasts are tender; they leak when Amelia cries.

  “Jacob, if I took her to Bette’s. For a visit.”

  “How would that look?”

  “I don’t care how it looks.”

  “You don’t?” you ask, bold, because you know Marta’s not selfish, that she loves Friendship as much as you do.

  “I do,” she concedes. “But what am I supposed to do—stay in the house all day while you go out? And if you should get it, what then?”

  You tell her you know how to handle the dead, that once the disease spreads, you’ll need her even more, but you picture the soldier this afternoon, how you forced his stiff arms into the box and slid the lid shut, banged the nails home with three even strokes. You tell her Doc knows what he’s doing; he got Amelia through the croup, didn’t he? In the dark, she sighs, unmoved, and you realize your argument is calm and logical where hers is spurred by a mother’s fear. You realize you’ve entirely mistaken the issue you’re debating.

  “You can go if you want. I’ll say it’s a visit.”

  “No,” she says, bitter, even though she’s won. “We’ll stay.”

  You part, roll over so you’re both facing away, but you turn and fit your knees behind hers. She takes your hand and bites one knuckle in forgiveness.

  “I’ll be careful,” you reassure her. “I’ll be with Doc.”

  “I know,” she says, but unconvinced, and shifts again, her hair tickling your forehead. This debate could go on indefinitely, rage silently while you rearrange yourselves, plump the pillows. Finally a long stretch of quiet, her breathing drawn and soft, and then from the nursery comes a hiccup and a siren of a cry as Amelia realizes she’s awake. Marta sighs and folds the comforter aside, staggers to the rocker to calm her. You wait in the dark, listening to them creak, then Amelia cooing, Marta’s song about the bear who ate too many blueberry pies.

  You don’t remember falling asleep, or your dreams, though you know they were vivid, disturbing—a house with too many doors, tilting like a ship in high seas. You wake suddenly to daylight, the smell of frying butter. The blinds are up, but Marta’s closed the door, her robe hung from the peg. Outside it’s brilliant, another perfect day, and you try to hold off thoughts of the coffin you buried in the weedy edge of the churchyard, the woman Doc has locked in his office.

  It breeds in the heat, he said.

  You lie there and watch the light turning the leaves transparent. It seems wrong that this can kill. Rain seems more appropriate, long gray days, cold.

  There’s no time to philosophize. You pitch out of bed and haul on some clean dungarees, pour an inch of water in the basin and wash your face. Take a second in the mirror to trim your beard with Marta’s sewing scissors, tilting your chin until you achieve the exact fashion the captain of your regiment wore. Buttoning up a clean shirt, you think you’re just as fastidious as Doc in your own way. But that too has to do with responsibility. An officer provides his men a model of cleanliness, order, decorum, and a town, like an army, looks to its leaders. You quiz your neat twin in the glass. Do you really believe this or are you just hoping? It’s like you to be steadfast when panic would serve you better.

  Marta peeks in the door and says, “Breakfast.”

  “Why didn’t you wake me up?”

  “You were tired.”

  You thank her, hoping last night’s business is over, knowing it isn’t.

  Open the door and you can smell corncakes and sausage. It’s strategic—all week it’s been oatmeal—and you try to conjure your arguments, the line you need to cleave to.

  Amelia hangs on Marta’s ankles at the stove. Marta placates her with the straw dolly; Amelia gnaws on its head. Coffee’s on the table, too hot. The sausage pops in the skillet. Marta has her back to you, and you watch her elbow digging the cakes up, flipping them. She must know it’s too late to change things. And it’s the right decision, it’s the Christian thing to do.

  She lays the plate in front of you and stands back to gauge your pleasure in her work. The butter runs. They’re rich, the edges crisp, middles still doughy. You nod with your mouth full, toss back a burning slug of coffee to help it down. Maybe the woman’s an isolated case, the soldier her lover, the woods their nightly rendezvous. It’s your fear of disappointing Marta that makes you cast about like this. You smile at her and pin a sausage with the side of your fork until the skin splits, spear it and cram in another bite. Satisfied, she unties the apron and sits beside you.

  “Stopping by Doc’s first?” she asks.

  It takes you a minute to swallow, and then it goes down hard. “He’s the boss on this one. Maybe she’s better today.”

  “Let’s hope.”

  “You never know with these things,” you say, and it could be true, couldn’t it?

  “Have you talked with Bart at all?”

  “I wired him yesterday.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He said, ‘Good luck.’”

  You look down and all you’ve got left is a nub of sausage, a sodden wedge of corncake. You’ve wolfed it; it happens when you’re nervous or thinking too hard.

  “More?” Marta says.

  “No thank you. Guess my stomach’s gotten used to just oatmeal.”

  “I thought you’d want something stronger today.”

  “I did,” you say, but just to agree with her. It puzzles you that she’s given up so easily. If she left on the morning stage, she could be at Bette’s before sundown. You finish and she takes the plate, walks over to the stove where she’s got a kettle going. She ties her apron on again, clanks the dishes into a tin tub and pours the hot water over them, sets to work as if this is just another day. She’s calmer than you, and you think it’s her faith you aspire to, her unswerving belief that attracted you to her, not her long hands or her hair, the way her upper lip flattens in the middle, turns suddenly lush. Tonight maybe you’ll take her out by the garden and sing to her.

  Amelia latches on to your boot, her heavy head resting on the toe, and you pick her up, your hand steadying her warm, pudgy neck. Her eyes light dreamily on yours and she coos. You coo back, make a face and watch hers change, unsure.

  “Going out the Colony?” Marta asks from the tub.

  “To see Chase. I imagine so.”

  “You be careful out there. That whole place could be diseased the way they live.”

  “I’ll keep my distance.”

  The church b
ell tolls seven-thirty, and you gulp your coffee. If the soldier was from town, at daybreak Cyril Lemke, the sexton, would ring the bell one time for every year of his life, but he’s an outsider, and the sun comes up quiet. The coffee’s strong. You want a second cup, but it’s a luxury you can’t afford today. You set Amelia down and she cries, weeps, shrieks. Marta croons over her shoulder, trying to soothe her. It’s the hard part of the morning, leaving. Marta shrugs; it’s not your fault. Babies cry.

  You head for the silence of the bedroom and grab your gun belt from its shelf and buckle it on, slip the Colt from its holster and check the cylinder, make sure all six are there. You’ve never needed them—or only against that mad hog (who took all six before pitching over)—but people expect you to be handy with a gun, and you are. Saturdays you practice out by the Hermit’s lake—the surface ringed green with scum—picking skinny patent-medicine bottles off a log. Carl Soderholm down at the apothecary saves them for you. It’s an exercise you read about in a Wild West dime novel, but it seems to work. Last Saturday you were five for six, and only missed the one because the freight blew its whistle just as you were squeezing the last shot off. If you had to shoot a cigarette out of someone’s mouth like in the book, you could probably do it in four or five tries.

  In the kitchen, Amelia’s finally stopped crying, her head against Marta’s chest. Marta sways in place, shifting hip to hip. Their hair is precisely the same shade, and their eyes; there’s no trace of you in Amelia’s face, and sometimes you wonder if they need you at all, if you’re really a part of them. It’s fleeting, this worry, and turns quickly into wonder at how lucky you are. Certainly you’re unworthy of such love.

  You kiss Marta on the forehead, taste the soap on her skin. “You can take her and go.”

  “We’ll be fine,” she says, dismissing the idea with a wave. “You’re the one who needs to be careful.”

  “I will.”

  “And stop in at Fenton’s for me? He’ll know what I want.”

  “I will.”

  You kiss her again, and then you’re past her, almost out of the house, but at the door you stop, as if to give her one last chance.

  “Go,” she says, laughing at you. “I was being a silly chicken.”

  Her smile more than forgives you. She’s pleased that you’re doing the right thing. She believes in you. It’s why she loves you—that you care about this town, that she can be sure you’ll do what’s best for everyone. But once you close the door and walk out into the dusty street, the smile you gave her slips from your face, and you wish she’d fought harder, that she’d stopped you. Because you know you’re wrong.

  *

  You ride your bike to town. It’s already hot, the shadows of oaks sharp on the road, dust clinging to the bright fireweed. Before the trees give way to the shadeless plain of Main Street, you hear a rig rattling behind you, a team puffing along. You move right to let them through, and as they appear over your shoulder, you see it’s Chase with his women in the bed of the wagon, sitting on hay bales. His clothes are the same as yours—a boiled shirt and a black cravat, dungarees and boots—but they’re new and sit on him like a costume. City money, everyone says, spitting it like a curse.

  “Deacon,” he calls, and waves, neighborly, and you nod. He’s a big man, built solid as a Canuck logger, with the same bluff charm. In the army, you were glad to serve under men like him; it was the little drunkards that got their regiments killed.

  The women mark you and smile. Some of the newer ones still wear their city clothes, but the few you recognize sport a simple uniform—a white blouse and a black shift, their hair pinned up in caps like Mennonites. There are always new ones coming in. It’s said some of them don’t have men, which leads to murkier speculations you want no part of. Their dust covers you, then clears.

  It’s only Tuesday, you think. They do their shopping Wednesday, regular, the women fanning out through town, paying cash, aggressively pleasant. Maybe it’s not remarkable, but you’ve schooled yourself in the way Friendship operates. You know when the smallest thing is out of place, and today you’re on guard.

  When you reach Main Street, your suspicion proves true. Chase’s empty rig is parked in front of Doc’s, the team tied up so they can’t dip at the trough. They see you and stamp impatiently, as if—like blueticks—they can smell the history of your fear. You lean your bike against the rail and climb the sidewalk, prop your door wide with the spittoon to let everyone know you’re open. The cell’s empty, the rifles locked to the wall. You conduct this inventory out of habit rather than any true necessity. Your desk is clean, yesterday neatly marked off on the wall calendar. The order soothes you, but just for an instant. It’s going to be a busy day—when all you really want to do is bike down the river road and take the handcar out west along the Montello line, maybe hike up on top of Cobb’s tunnel and soak in the view, the county spread around you like a map.

  Not today. You double-check the gun rack, then head next door, wondering how you defend yourself against sickness.

  In the parlor, Chase towers over Doc. He seems far too large, and confused—like a bear wandered into a shop, strangely out of place. Doc fusses with a brass paperweight, sliding the milled disk over his blotter like a pawn. Chase turns away, paces, rubbing one eyebrow as if thinking. You’ve interrupted them.

  Doc seems relieved. “I’ve been telling Reverend Chase of the possible consequences of the disease.”

  “I’m aware of the consequences,” Chase says, trying to be polite. “We’re prepared to take care of her. We have three certified nurses among us.”

  “No doctor.”

  “No.”

  “And what sort of quarantine would you enforce?”

  “Whatever you suggest.”

  “Total,” Doc says.

  “Fine,” Chase says, as if he’s gotten the short end of the bargain but is still glad to have it settled. He wants to be civil just as much as Doc. “Can I see her now?”

  “I’m not suggesting it for this case but for the next one that crops up. I’d like to keep Miss Flynn here. She needs a doctor.”

  “For how long?”

  “A day. Two. However long she lasts.”

  He delivers this so quickly that you wonder if it’s deliberately mean. The news makes you look at Chase. For an instant, standing in profile by Irma’s striped wallpaper, head bent, he seems heavy, defeated, but then, with effort, he straightens up and puts on a pained smile. “If there’s nothing to be done, can’t we have her home?”

  “Too contagious, I’m afraid,” Doc says, genuinely sorry.

  “I understand.”

  For a moment the parlor’s silent except for the clock ticking in its bell jar, and you can hear the birds outside, a gust of air rustling the trees like a wave, then subsiding, giving way to cicadas. You wonder why you’re trapped in this room with these two. You have nothing to say, other than you’re sorry.

  You do. It doesn’t seem enough, but Chase thanks you anyway.

  “If I could see her,” he asks, and from the tone it’s clear Doc could say no and he wouldn’t argue. You’re not surprised he’s reasonable, willing to cede his authority. Grief breaks down all but the crazy; it’s a secret of your profession, one people don’t want to know. Another secret you’ve just found out: Chase is sane. The stories people tell make him out to be a tyrant, wild-eyed, and it’s heartening to see they’re untrue. He’s like Doc, you think—he’s like you—just trying to do the best for his flock.

  “I can let you visit with her briefly, but I don’t want you getting too close.” Doc waits for Chase to agree to this before he gets up and searches his middle drawer for a key.

  You follow them through the curtain and down the hall, past the tasteful landscapes and still lifes Irma bought in Milwaukee. You expect Chase is used to such elegance, or perhaps he’s too busy to comment on it, his mind elsewhere, preoccupied. You notice you’re only thinking of Irma’s touches because you don’t want to picture the
woman, that you’d be happier not seeing her at all.

  Miss Flynn, he called her. You think of Mrs. Goetz tumbling from the pew, her head grazing the hassock, saved from the cool floor by her neighbor’s foot. You knelt down and watched her go, her lips trying to fit around one final word. It’s hard to lose anyone, especially when your flock’s small to begin with.

  Doc bends to jiggle the key in, and the bolt clacks back.

  “I don’t want you to touch her,” he warns Chase.

  “I understand.”

  Doc leads him in. You linger on the Persian runner, wondering again what you’re supposed to do. That fascinating green summer light you love is filtering through the window at the end of the hall, throwing a winking pattern of shadows across the floor.

  “Merciful Jesus,” Chase says, and you hear a thump, as if he’s fallen.

  He’s on his knees by her bedside, and, not really wanting to, you see her.

  She’s like the soldier, her eyes sunken in violet pits, cheeks creased and hollow. Her pupils move but she doesn’t register any of you; they flit as if tracking a fly. Doc has wrapped a mint plaster about her neck. She wheezes with every breath, her lips stained as if she’s been drinking wine. On the nightstand sits a basin of water tinged pink with blood, a stack of folded washcloths. Chase bends his head and mutters over his clenched hands, and you find the scene has drawn you into the room.

  You stand beside Doc, watching Chase pray, feeling the urge yourself, and when he reaches for her there’s nothing either of you can do. He leans his head down and presses the back of her hand to his lips. When he lays it back in place, you see the cuticles are purple, the blood settling as if she’s already dead.

  “That was very dangerous,” Doc says in the parlor.

  “I’m sorry,” Chase says, dabbing his eyes with a handkerchief. He sits on the love seat, hanging his head. He’s been teary intermittently, overwhelmed by the sight of her. He’s told you how Lydia Flynn’s family threw her out after she lost her factory job, how she’d become a hard woman and how he’d found her one evening selling herself in the Milwaukee train station. Her hands were black from the soot of the girders. Years ago, he says, and you wonder how that can be; he looks no older than forty. You think of the rumors about the women of the Colony. Maybe there’s some truth to them. It only makes you like Chase more, his ministering to the fallen. Or is that sentimental?