The Rosewood Casket

by Sharyn McCrumb

  “I’m not against money, you guys,” said Clayt with a weary sigh. “You’re right: I don’t have two nickels to rub together. You think I wouldn’t like to have a place outside town, and a truck that wasn’t disintegrating in the driveway? Or that I wouldn’t like to buy some free time to do some volunteer work for local conservation groups, instead of having to hustle every waking moment for enough money to live from one month to the next? Yeah, I could use money, maybe more than most of you. But I believe I’d rather starve than to sell out the family land to some developer, who’ll put in a hundred houses on lots the size of postage stamps. Do you know how many habitats would be displaced if we let this happen?”

  Garrett Stargill put his hand on his brother’s shoulder. “You can’t appoint yourself guardian of the planet, Clayt,” he said. “You can’t save it all. Now think about what Daddy would want us to do.”

  Robert Lee laughed. “No mystery about that,” he said. “Daddy didn’t give a damn about nature, far as I could tell, unless you could shoot it and eat it. He’d have sold the farm to strip miners if they had made him a halfway decent offer.”

  “He stayed here, didn’t he?” said Clayt.

  “Maybe he didn’t care much for the rest of the world,” said Charles Martin. “The only time he ever saw it was in a war. And he got shot down in the English Channel, remember? That would drive anybody back up the mountain. I never could talk him into going back to Italy, even when I played Rome.”

  “He wouldn’t go anywhere around here, either,” said Clayt. “Remember, he always used to tell us how he’d take us camping sometime, or on a long canoe trip down the Nolichucky? But we never did anything with him. He’d work all day, and then he’d lay on the couch and watch television with a paperback western in his lap.”

  “Farming is hard work,” said Robert Lee.

  “Not that hard. Not all the time,” said Garrett. “And when we were kids, he wasn’t any older than I am now, so don’t tell me he was too old and tired to manage.”

  “He didn’t want to be bothered,” said Charles Martin. “Remember how he’d start looking around when you tried to talk to him, and then he’d say something like, ‘How about that?’ so that you weren’t sure if he heard you or not.”

  “Fathers weren’t supposed to be nurturing in those days,” said Robert Lee, making the word into a sneer. “You ought to be glad he didn’t beat the tar out of you, and stay drunk all the time. We had friends with fathers like that.”

  “Well, if he cared about us or this farm, he sure managed to keep from showing it,” said Charles Martin.

  “Well, I care about the farm,” said Clayt. “Besides, this land issue isn’t about Daddy. We’re Stargills, and this is Stargill land. It’s our turn to say what becomes of it.”

  “Okay,” said Charles Martin. “Let’s hear your say, Clayt. What should we do? Hang on to the land, and lose it to taxes, or watch it get hemmed in by crackerbox houses? Or should we try to find a buyer we approve of? Or do you just want to give it to the government for free, and have nothing to show for two hundred years of Stargills’ work?”

  Clayt went to the window, and began to rub the dust away with his palm. “The land has the look of winter yet,” he said, peering out. “That’s why you can talk so easy about giving up this land. Three weeks from now those words would stick in your throats. You’ve forgotten, haven’t you, what it’s like here in late spring? So beautiful it takes your breath away. The lilac bushes reach almost to the second-floor windows by now, and they’ll be covered with flowers, making the breeze smell like perfume. The maples will be leafed out on the hills. You can see ridge after ridge from here—all the way to North Carolina. The stream will be ready for trout fishing, and the blackberries will be gearing up for summer. And at twilight fawns come out to play under the trees in the meadow. You couldn’t give it up if you remembered.”

  “Well, we did give it up,” said Robert Lee. “Remember? I’ve been living in Cincinnati for more than thirty years, and Garrett and Charlie are in the flats of west Tennessee and Kentucky, so don’t give us a song and dance about the beautiful mountains, because we’ve already lost the land, cold turkey. We couldn’t afford to live here.”

  “Maybe we ought to talk to this developer,” said Garrett. “At least we could hear him out. Maybe he can address some of our concerns, and we can find a solution that we can all live with.”

  “I can’t live with any solution that includes a developer,” said Clayt.

  * * *

  Spencer Arrowood was not especially pleased to see Frank Whitescarver on the threshold of his office the first thing in the morning. The pudgy man in the polyester suit had a look of urgency on his face, which Spencer figured meant bad news for somebody.

  Dabbling in local politics was a necessary evil that went along with the job of sheriff, and Spencer managed it well enough, but he did not enjoy it. He had seen too many elderly good old boys get elected because a shiny suit and a down-home accent made the working folks feel that the candidate was one of them. They would not learn until too late—if ever—that their possum-faced country boy had traded their interests for his own gain. They would find their road requests indefinitely tabled, the landfill slated for their section of the county, or the trailer park approved for their community, while the more affluent county residents were represented by officials who would tolerate none of this. Meanwhile, the genial poor folks’ representative sold his land to the state for a new elementary school, or managed to purchase new acreage at just the right location to capitalize on some future venture. Frank Whitescarver was just such a local politician. He was forever serving on one board or the other, to no one’s benefit but his own, as far as Spencer could discern.

  Still, it wasn’t the sheriff’s business to judge the unindicted, or to make gratuitous enemies, so he stood up and extended his hand. “What can I do for you, Mr. Whitescarver?” His expression was one of polite concern. He’d be damned if he’d smile.

  Whitescarver’s jowled face looked solemn, and his hand was sweaty. “Well, Sheriff,” he said, “the fact is that I need you to act in your official capacity to enforce a county ruling.” He reached into his pocket and took out a sheaf of typed papers.

  Spencer scanned the first few lines, and looked up, his eyes narrowed. “An eviction notice?”

  The realtor nodded. “I’m just as sorry about it as I can be, but I have to think it’s the kindest thing sometimes to save these poor old farmers from their own stubbornness, before they starve to death and ruin their families along with them.”

  The sheriff had been reading the document. When Frank stopped talking, he said, “You bought J. Z. Stallard’s land for unpaid taxes?”

  “Oh, I made him an offer first,” said Frank, shaking his head sadly. “I drove out there special, early this week, ready to buy the farm from J. Z.—and I’d still have had to pay the taxes, you know—but he wouldn’t hear of it. I guess people just can’t face facts, sometimes. But he’s getting old, too, and it’s hard for some of these old-timers to let go.”

  “So there was a tax sale?” said Spencer, keeping his voice neutral.

  Whitescarver pointed to the bulletin board in the outer office. “You’ve got the notice posted right out there, Sheriff.”

  “And you bought J. Z. Stallard’s farm?” He felt as if he were spitting out the words, but Frank Whitescarver’s expression did not change.

  “That’s right.”

  “And you want me to go kick them off their land?”

  “I believe the state of Tennessee considers that your sworn duty, yes, sir.” Frank Whitescarver had stuck his chin out, and his eyes had gone piggy, as if at last he had become a bit embarrassed at the situation, but he was determined to brazen it out. He had a signed legal document, after all.

  Spencer Arrowood sighed. He still had inquiries to make about the box of bones that Nora Bonesteel had saddled him with. The words See Rattler were penciled on his desk calendar for this
morning. Besides, there was more work of every kind, now that he and LeDonne were splitting all the duties again. He would never admit to Martha Ayers how much they had missed her work. “Well, I’m kind of busy right now,” he said, “But I’ll try to get around to it. How long are you going to give them? Six months?”

  “A week.”

  “A week?”

  “They’ve had years to pay their taxes, haven’t they?” Frank Whitescarver shrugged. “They knew this was coming. No use postponing the inevitable. They need to get on with their lives. It might be easier to get it over with quick, like pulling out a splinter, don’t you think?”

  “All right,” muttered the sheriff. “I guess it has to be done.”

  “I thought I’d ride out with your deputy when he serves the eviction notice—”

  Spencer Arrowood shook his head. “I’m going to do it myself. I owe them that at least.”

  * * *

  Lilah Rose Stargill pushed herself away from the breakfast table with a contented sigh. “Well, ladies,” she said, “as soon as I fix my face, we can get started on our sewing again.” She smiled as she patted one wrinkled cheek. “I always say that the best makeup would be some plaster of Paris mixed with spackling, and a little color thrown in. That would cover the damage, wouldn’t it?”

  Kelley yawned. “I don’t see why you should get dressed up just for us.”

  “I never bother with it at all,” said Debba.

  Lilah looked at her. The girl looked like a peeled grape with her lank hair, her lashless eyes, and her bloodless lips. “Well, you’re young yet,” she said kindly, because Rudy disapproved of needless unpleasantry. “I’m always afraid that the world would just rise up and throw me overboard like Jonah himself if I didn’t make an effort to look presentable.” She smiled at the others and hurried out of the room, before the debate on cosmetics could continue.

  Kelley looked at Debba Stargill and shrugged. “Who are we to argue with her? She’s been married for thirty years at least. I think I’ll go put on some lipstick.”

  Debba Stargill stayed at the breakfast table, because she didn’t really feel like primping. She was finishing the last of the coffee when the little girl appeared, rubbing sleep from her eyes. She was already dressed in tiny blue jeans and an Opryland sweatshirt. “Where’s my momma?” she asked. She did not ask to be fed. Debba Stargill was not the sort of person children imposed on.

  “In her bedroom, I think,” said Debba. As an afterthought she added grudgingly, “Can I get you anything?”

  Kayla had already opened the refrigerator, and was helping herself to strawberry jam and a bowl of grapes. “This’ll do,” she said, reaching for the plastic wrapper containing the bread. “I’m used to getting my own breakfast.” She dipped the butter knife into the jam jar, and began to smear a slice of bread. “You all gonna be sewing again today?”

  “Yes. We’re just getting ready to begin. Would you like to watch television? I guess we could work somewhere else.” Debba didn’t sound happy about the prospect. She didn’t have any children, and she wasn’t sure how to talk to them, so she treated them with careful politeness as if they were tuxedoed waiters in a restaurant she could barely afford.

  “That’s okay,” said Kayla with bread-stuffed cheeks. “I’m going outside to play. It’s kinda neat up here. I saw a rabbit yesterday. And Clayt’s been telling me a lot about birds.”

  “Well, that’s nice,” said Debba, “but you need to be careful out there. A little girl could get hurt in those woods. And if you see any strangers out there, you run right back, you hear?”

  Kayla nodded. “Sure,” she said, as she stuffed a sprig of grapes into the pocket of her jeans. “Tell Momma I’m gone.”

  * * *

  Frank Whitescarver had lapsed into silence. Now he was looking out the window of the patrol car, studying the blur of landscape with a practiced eye. Spencer Arrowood had answered all his attempts at small talk with monosyllables, and finally with silence, as he pretended to concentrate on the road. Frank could tell that the sheriff didn’t want to be on this errand, and he especially didn’t want company, but that was too bad. Maybe it wasn’t pleasant to put people off their land, but it had to be done, and there was no point in the sheriff sulking about it, because it was his sworn duty to uphold all the laws, not just the ones he approved of. Frank gave up trying to talk to him though. He concentrated on the scenery—you never know what you might find, even on a road you’ve driven a hundred times.

  The road climbed, and circled the ridges, offering glimpses of the valley, and an occasional clump of early wildflowers brightening the road ahead. Not far now. Frank straightened up. “The turnoff is a dirt road up here to the right,” he said. “Do you know it, Sheriff?”

  “Yeah.” Spencer Arrowood’s lips tightened. “I played basketball in high school with Tate Stallard. I used to take him home after games sometimes. He was a good friend.”

  “I remember him,” Frank nodded. “He didn’t come back from Southeast Asia, did he? We lost a lot of good fellas over there. Yep. Might have been different if he’d lived.”

  Spencer swung the patrol car into the gravel turnoff by the mailbox marked “Stallard.” Up the steep drive, he could see clabbered clouds in blue haze, wreathed by maple trees as old as the century. As they reached the crest of the hill, the white frame house came into view, in need of a coat of paint, but proud and sturdy against the hills.

  “It’s a likely spot, isn’t it?” said Frank.

  “It is now,” said Spencer.

  “They’re home. I see J. Z. Stallard’s truck parked there beside the barn. Do you want me to stay in the car while you serve the papers?”

  Spencer took a long, hard look at his passenger. “You do that,” he said.

  “Of course, if you need me to do any explaining, you just give me the high sign, and I’ll be right there to help you out.”

  The sheriff stopped the car next to the house, collected the papers, and got out, slamming the door as hard as he ever had. He helloed the house. “Are you there, J. Z.? I need to have a word with you.” A sudden movement beside the barn made him turn. He saw two figures emerge from the building, and stand in shadow. He waved, but they stood where they were.

  Spencer’s fingers touched the leather of his holster—a habit with him when the situation got touchy, but he managed a tight smile and began to walk toward the Stallards. He had known them all his life.

  * * *

  Lilah Stargill settled down on the living room sofa with the squares of the quilted coffin lining in her lap. “I guess we can get started now,” she said. “Shall we keep doing like we have been? Kelley cut, while Debba and I sew?”

  “Fine with me,” said Kelley. “But we’re down to just a couple more squares from Mrs. Stargill’s wedding suit. We need to pick something else to cut up.”

  “Have we used something from each one of the boys?” Lilah ran her fingers along the length of cloth. “Baby blanket, wedding outfit, Eye-talian shawl…”

  “What else can we use?” asked Debba. “Something from the boys now? Did all of ’em bring a necktie? That would work.”

  “I don’t know,” said Kelley. “I only packed one tie for Charles Martin, and it’s a real silk one from Italy. I don’t know about cutting it up.”

  Debba nodded. “Garrett’s is a special one, too. I mean, it doesn’t look fancy. It’s just a regular army issue necktie, but he’s real superstitious about it. He thinks it brings him luck.”

  “I wonder if Clayt even owns a tie,” Lilah mused.

  “Neckties are all well and good,” said Kelley, “but the boys might need them for the funeral, and, besides, ties don’t contain a lot of material. We’ve got more than half this liner to sew yet, and we’re running out of things to put in it.”

  “I guess we could go through the old trunks again. See if we can figure out which pieces belonged to Mr. Stargill’s parents.” Debba shrugged. “Maybe we should just choose pretty fabric
s. We’re pushed for time, aren’t we?”

  “What about a piece of cloth from Nora Bonesteel?” asked Kelley.

  “Oh, honey, they weren’t married,” said Lilah. “That wouldn’t be right.”

  “Well, what of that?” said Kelley. “Charles Martin and I aren’t married, either, but I think—I’d like to think—”

  “Well, hon. You never know how a man feels about you unless he’s willing to make it legal.”

  Kelley’s eyes narrowed. “Judging from the number of married men that have hit on me, I’d say being legally joined is no guarantee, either. At least I know Charles Martin stays with me voluntarily.”

  Lilah gave the younger woman a pitying smile, but she did not reply. No point in telling her that even with the best will in the world, men need a little enforcing of the “voluntary” as the years roll on. If Kelley and Charlie stayed together long enough, she would learn.

  “What about part of Mr. Stargill’s military uniform?” Debba suggested. “I know Garrett would want part of it used, if it was him. Well, of course, Garrett wants to be buried in uniform, but you know what I mean. Men set a store by it.”

  “It’s their equivalent of a wedding dress,” said Lilah, nodding. “We’ll have a look for it. Anything else? The bedspread? Tablecloth?”

  “The doily from on top of the television,” said Debba. The others stared at her, and she said, “Well—I mean, you know—he must have stared at that thing sixteen hours a day. He hardly ever looked away from it when we came to see him. I guess he loved that television as much as he did his kinfolk.”

  “He wasn’t much on showing affection,” Lilah admitted. “I remember when Dwayne died. Why, I’ve seen people take on more about losing a dog than he did with his own son lying dead down in Florida. But that doesn’t mean he didn’t care. He just wasn’t one to carry on about his feelings.”

  “Is that what your angel says?” Kelley’s feelings still rankled from the marriage discussion.

  “No. Rudy hasn’t expressed any opinion about Daddy Stargill or the coffin lining. He’s not one to gossip about other folks. He makes me walk chalk, and that’s all he seems to care about. I haven’t heard from him today.”