A Prayer for the Dying

by Stewart O'Nan

“I didn’t know that.”

  “Or the evening stage.”

  “I didn’t know. I just wanted to leave.”

  “Then where were your bags?”

  “They took everything. Even the clothes weren’t my own.”

  “They wouldn’t be,” you say. “Your old city clothes wouldn’t fit.”

  You pause to contemplate this and see your mask on the floor by the workbench. You knot it on, smell your stale breath trapped in the thin cotton. You turn back to Lydia Flynn and pull the other sleeve up her arm. She’s cool beneath your fingers, the last heat of her retreating to a warm core.

  “Why city clothes?” you ask, moving, like any penny-dreadful detective, back to your original question.

  Is it a mystery? Maybe she was trying to spare the rest of them. Maybe she was out of her head, sick, insane. Afraid. And why she died isn’t a mystery. Still, it’s your job to be suspicious. You’d never say it, even to Marta, but you’re proud of your ability to both believe and question everything. Secretly you think everyone does, but at some point they give in, surrender to the comfort of certainty. It’s too much trouble, this endless jousting of belief and doubt, too tiring. Finally you suppose it will break you, yet strangely it’s the only thing that keeps you going—though, true, at times you feel unbalanced, even somewhat mad. Crazy Jacob the Undertaker. A holy fool. Wouldn’t your mother laugh at that.

  You drape the shift over Lydia, pinch one side under a thigh, then roll her over and fasten it in the back. Tuck the blouse in, fix the collar, her neck still warm against your pinkie. There’s no hose, only a homely pair of black socks and a blocky pair of cast-off shoes too big for her, their soles holey, thin as paper.

  “There,” you say, and retrieve the comb. Her hair’s snarled from the sickroom pillow, and then when you work it free, a sprig sticks out. Lick your fingers and wet it, draw the comb across and pat it down. A little pancake for the face. Rouge. Inspect, touch up.

  “Very nice.”

  The coffin won’t take long. You don’t have to measure anymore, you just naturally head for the right stack of boards. It worries you sometimes; walking down the street or peering out from the pulpit, you size people up, decide who’s likely. You worry that you don’t have a nice piece of cedar long enough to accommodate Harlow Orton.

  Square the corners, drive the nails. The basement’s quiet, occasionally a drip from the table. The smell of the lamp and the paraffin when it hits you is dizzying. You pin in the crusted sheets like bunting, fasten them with tacks. Plane the lid so it fits. Muffled, the church bell calls four, then five o’clock, the mill whistle screams quitting time. You think you should get home—you don’t want to worry Marta—but you take your time and do it right. Take advantage of it now, you counsel. Make this your best work. You won’t have the luxury with Thaddeus and the others.

  *

  When you come up it’s twilight, the jail wrapped in shadows. The darkness seems hot after the cellar. Your back hurts from lowering her into the box, and you stretch, rolling your neck, pleased to have gotten the job done. You know Chase will be early tomorrow, so you buckle your gun belt, tug your jacket on and head for home.

  It’s dusk and the bats are circling low above the oaks, the evening star clear as a lantern. You walk through town, the air rich with butter-fried onions, and as you pass your neighbors’ warm, orange windows, you see them bent over their plates, discussing the day’s events. Marta’s promised chicken, and you picture it keeping warm in the oven. It’s a superstition of hers, the whole family sitting down to supper. She’ll be waiting, distracting Amelia with a song and a piece of zwieback. She’ll set everything on the table while you wash up, and when you come back in, she’ll be waiting beside Amelia, fixing her bib. You’ll sit a moment in silence, the three of you together for the first time since breakfast, the day’s business evaporating, becoming, finally, unimportant, and then you’ll say grace.

  A horse snorts inside the livery, and ahead, under the tunnel of trees, you can see the ghost of another coming up the road. Slowly it reveals itself—Doc’s white mare hauling his trap. It rattles and grinds over the stones. You flag him down, but don’t go closer. The mare rolls its eyes in the blinders, puffs its rubber lips. They always smell of blood and feces, the rank, wormy meat.

  Doc leans over the reins to speak. “Get her ready?”

  You say yes but nothing else, and he thanks you. He doesn’t ask why you’re on the road so late, and you wonder if he knows. Of course he does; he knows you.

  “You see Thaddeus?” you ask.

  “I saw both of them. You were right. I put a quarantine on the place.”

  “What about Meyer and the other one?”

  “I told them to be careful.”

  “And the girl?”

  Doc looks off up the road as if someone might be coming. He shakes his head, looks at his hands. “There’s nothing I can do for them. Just have to wait and see.”

  Wait and see what? you want to ask, but don’t. You’ve seen what it does. And you know he’s doing his best. It reminds you of how sometimes folks will blame you for a crime left unsolved, like Fenton and his jackknife; until you catch someone, it’s as if you’ve robbed them yourself.

  “Is he going to put up a sign or do you want me to?”

  “I asked him not to,” Doc says. “I still want to be careful with this.”

  “I’d rather be careful the other way. You can say it’s chicken pox.”

  “It’s still isolated.”

  “How many more cases till it isn’t?”

  “Jacob,” he says. “Think. What will people do when they find out?”

  “Leave.”

  “And what if they have it? What if it isn’t isolated—and you think it isn’t.”

  You imagine them moving through Shawano and back east toward Milwaukee, splitting off in all directions like spurs from a trunkline.

  “I’d rather keep it here,” Doc says. “It’s easier to just close town off, quarantine the whole thing. That’s what they did in St. Joe.”

  “And it worked,” you ask.

  “It didn’t spread.”

  “How about inside the town?”

  “More than half the town survived.”

  “Half the town,” you repeat.

  “More than half survived. If it had gotten to Joplin who knows what would’ve happened.”

  “What if no one has it except Meyer?”

  “Then we’re fine,” he says.

  “What if our other tramp has it and he’s in Shawano living it up with some new chums?”

  “Then it’s Bart’s decision, not ours.”

  The two of you look at each other, trying on arguments. Your head hurts, maybe from the paraffin, maybe from just talking with Doc. All of it, everything. The heat.

  “I don’t like it,” you say.

  “Neither do I, but right now we don’t have much choice in the matter.”

  You agree out of habit, then wonder whose decision it is. Legally, you think, it’s yours. If you believe he’s wrong, why not fight him? Or is it too early? Is he right?

  It’s not the right time, and you say you’ll see him tomorrow.

  “Chase’ll be in early,” you say.

  “So will I.”

  “No rest for the weary.”

  “No sir,” Doc says, and starts the team off. You wave, then turn and walk, and soon you can’t hear them.

  It’s darker under the trees, the stars peeking through the canopy, a hint of hyacinth in the air. Tomorrow’s Saturday, and you haven’t even begun your sermon. How many ways are there to say have faith? You search your memory for a parable on strength, on trusting the Lord. Abraham and Isaac come to mind, but you just did that last week. Job’s overused. Lot. You shake your head and walk on. It’ll come, just give it time. Maybe leaf through Matthew after supper, look over your old notes.

  Round the bend, and there’s your house, the lamp lit, windows warm and orange as your neighbors
’. Is it selfish that you give thanks for this, that the sight touches you more deeply—that it seems to mean more—after poor Lydia Flynn? If so, you don’t mean to be cruel. And you’ve done right by her, you made sure of that.

  Through the gate and up the walk toward the front door. It’ll be good to get this gun belt off, the jacket, the boots. You’ve earned your supper.

  Locked, just as you instructed. You jangle the big key ring, searching.

  Open the door and the light blinds you. Fresh bread, and the salty crackle of fat. On the floor of the sitting room lies Amelia’s stuffed duck, toppled on its side. You undo the gun belt—Marta won’t have it around the child—and stow it high in the front closet, thumping the door shut to announce yourself. When no one comes, you make your way to the kitchen.

  It’s empty, a wisp of steam floating up through a hole in the stove top.

  “Marta,” you call.

  In the dining room the table’s set, your milk poured, the high chair between the two seats so you can each minister to her. The tray holds a spray of crumbs, a slug of gravy. Maybe they couldn’t wait.

  The back of the house is dark.

  “Marta?”

  You try your room first, peering in the door. She’s not on the bed, and immediately you turn to the nursery.

  It’s black, and you have to leave the hallway before you see Marta sitting in the rocking chair, her hair a bright frame, her face dark, impossible to read. She’s still, hands in her lap. Amelia’s in her crib, already asleep, and softly you go to Marta.

  “I’m sorry,” you apologize, ready to explain why, but she doesn’t take your hands, she doesn’t look at you, as if you’ve done something inexcusable. A wet sniff and you know she’s been crying.

  “What is it?”

  “She’s sick,” she says.

  “What do you mean?” you ask, though you already know. Better than anyone, you know.

  “She’s sick,” Marta says, and now she’s clutching at you, grabbing, crushing herself to you with a strength you find frightening. “Jacob, she’s sick.”

  4

  In the dark you hear Amelia coughing, then Marta’s soft footfalls. You slip out of bed and stand in the door in your nightshirt, watching her bend over the crib. She rearranges the blankets, returns to the rocker and waits.

  “Come to bed,” you whisper.

  “No.”

  “I’ll see to her.”

  “No, you go on.”

  It’s been like this all night. You’ve already warned her that it’s dangerous, that she needs her rest. You argue, then retreat. You wouldn’t think of keeping her from Amelia. Maybe it’s just a summer cold. You’ll get Doc to take a look at her in the morning.

  Till then, you lie awake in the half-empty bed, each cough startling you like a gunshot. You think of your sermon, of what you can possibly say now that would be true. You do believe Amelia will get better. And if she doesn’t, what will that do to your faith? Is it so weak that the sorrows of this world can destroy it with one puff? You hope not, but maybe so. Maybe so.

  You think of the night you first saw Marta—at a barn dance in Shawano—how, like now, you couldn’t sleep afterward, how it seemed that her grin and the cock of her slim hips threw your whole world in doubt. She danced herself into a sweat, and when you tried to take her by the waist—primly, oh, with the most noble intentions—she kicked you in the shin and whirled away laughing. Though you’d spoken only a few words to her, you felt—you hoped and feared both—that soon you’d be leaving behind everything you knew. It was exciting, and frightening, and while that’s not quite how it feels tonight, you recognize this new edge the two of you have stepped over.

  But that was willful, you think. This is different.

  Faith will always save you. In the dark you repeat the phrase to yourself, as if that will make you believe it. It’s a question, really, and you think the answer could make a good sermon. When won’t faith save you?

  When you believe too much in this world. In yourself. In anything but God.

  When you won’t let it. When you don’t want to be saved.

  And why wouldn’t you want to be saved?

  Because you don’t deserve to be.

  Those nights during the siege, it was this quiet. You’d lost track of the days, cut your thumb peeling strips of meat from the horse’s jaw. You had to feed the little Norwegian; he couldn’t walk from hunger. His teeth fell out in clumps, his hair took a reddish tint. At night you stood guard with an empty rifle, bayonet fixed, listening to the wet suckling of lips. In the morning, the dying accused you of having food.

  A cough, and Marta crosses the room. Amelia wheezes. You wait till it ends, then get up, your nightshirt fighting you, binding you tight as you toss the heavy feather tick aside.

  Marta has the lamp lit, the wick so low the flame paints her chin blue above the crib. She lays the back of her hand against Amelia’s head, then tucks the coverlet up to her neck and turns to you, a hand on the rail.

  “How is she?” you ask.

  “Hot. She’s due for a feeding but I don’t want to wake her.”

  “She’ll be fine,” you say, and Marta nods. She understands you have to say this, that you have to believe.

  “Go back to sleep,” she says. She pads to the rocker and sits down, tips her head back and closes her eyes. “Go.”

  You want to do it just to agree with her, to make things easier. There’s nothing to say, no appropriate biblical wisdom, though you could quote Scripture till the sun comes up. And so you go to your knees beside the crib.

  You don’t have to ask Marta to join you, merely close your eyes and bow your head, and soon you hear her cross the rug and kneel beside you. Her hand takes yours, cool, and the two of you concentrate, beseeching Him, pledging your honest faith though you know it’s nothing in His eyes and that you’ll accept His will regardless because you’re His servants.

  Amelia barks, stopping you. Her throat rattles, full of stones. The two of you wait till it’s just scraps, then whistling breath. You go on.

  You know He is just and merciful and that there is a purpose in all His works, even this. You ask this in the name of His Son, Jesus Christ, who was crucified for your sins, and in that equation, that sacrifice—Christ’s willing death for your sins—you see the hope of all this balancing out, of some justice or salvation from what seems pain and chaos. You believe.

  “Amen,” Marta says, and squeezes your hand, then sends you to bed. This time you go.

  And yet, do you sleep?

  Marta’s rocker squeaks, and far off, a dog shouts out an alarm. The woods are full of tramps moving through. You think of Old Meyer tending Bitsi and Thaddeus, Lydia Flynn in your cellar. You consider the possibility that you’ve given it to Amelia, that as you loved Marta in the grass last night, you were killing her. Amelia hasn’t been out of the house in days. You dragged the dead man by his ankles, had Thaddeus lift him by the armpits. You set Clytie afire, breathed the meaty smoke. Now Amelia’s sick. What other explanation is there?

  You get up and go into the other room. Marta looks up, startled, as if she’s been sleeping.

  “It must be me,” you say. “I’ve given it to both of you.”

  “Go back to bed,” she says.

  “I’m sure of it.”

  “Jacob.”

  “No,” you say, and confess everything, kneeling at her feet. She leans over and holds you, her hair falling across your face, catching in your tears. Your pride, your carelessness, your sentimental love for the dead. It’s all true.

  “But you’re fine,” she reasons, “I’m fine. It might be a cold after all. We won’t know until Doc looks at her.”

  “And if it is?”

  “If it is,” she starts, but doesn’t finish.

  You look up at her, find her eyes. She’s always been stronger than you. Why is this a surprise?

  “If it is,” she says, “then it is.”

  Though you hold each other, i
t isn’t comforting, and when you’re back in bed, alone, the moon seems bright on the wall above the commode, the shadow of the empty basin a dark blossom, the lamp a twisted stalk. The portrait of Amelia that Irma painted for her birthday is obscured, faceless, a framed blot. Marta coughs now, heavier than Amelia, and measured. You get up and move to your desk, lean over a blank sheet of paper in the gray light. Uncap the ink, dip the nib. Again, what can you say that is absolutely true?

  It is not ours to question God’s will.

  There is a reason for our suffering.

  You dismiss these immediately, don’t even write them down. We will always question God’s will. We will always need a reason for our suffering.

  Something about mercy.

  Amelia coughs and Marta moves to the crib.

  Mercy, you write, then hesitate.

  Is that all we can ask for? And even then there’s no guarantee. What does faith entitle us to?

  Nothing. And in that lies its purity.

  Can you really say this? You picture your congregation lifting their faces, chins tipped up, waiting for you to start. Doc, John Cole and his family, Yancey Thigpen, Millie Sullivan. And what can you say to Old Meyer? Marta? Chase?

  “Jacob,” Marta whispers from the door. “You’re talking to yourself again.”

  You nod, apologetic, and she leaves you. Usually she’d joke with you, ask if you’re wrestling with angels, but not tonight—or this morning, as your pocket watch reminds you, its ticking amplified by the desktop. In two hours the sun comes up.

  Mercy.

  You nudge the sheet of paper away, cap the ink and blot the quill. Stand and let out a cough.

  It’s just a rumble, a speck catching in the skin of phlegm coating your throat, the air tearing its way back up and out of your mouth. Briefly, gone before you can raise a fist to stanch it. That’s it, just the one. You lift the feather tick and slide in, then lie there in the moonlight, wondering if all three of you are sick, until, perversely, you’re sure it would be best for everyone. Board yourselves in and die together. You’d be the last, that way you could take care of them. Oddly, the thought eases you.

  And still you don’t sleep. You won’t, you know, and so you lie there trying to come up with a first line for your sermon. It’s obvious what you’re going to talk about; avoiding it would be pointless, coy. The question is, what can you possibly say to help them?