Old Gatestown Chronicles

by Eva Conrad

Another Black Cat Crosses Arlie’s Path

  Hortensia Alesworth handed Arlie McIntosh a kitten.  “This one reminds me of you, ’e does. What do you think of ‘im?”

  “I think he will do just fine,” whispered Arlie, who began cradling the little black cat.

  “That one, ‘e’s a rascal!  Climbed up the curtain ‘e did.  But when he wears ‘imself out ‘e’s just a bit o’sleepy fur.”

  Arlie took the kitten home and fed it milk and scraps and watched it climb the fenceposts until it fell asleep in a spot of sun.  September had come, and with a chill in the air. Two weeks ago, Arlie had buried his last black cat, and had to wait until one of Hortensia’s kittens could be weaned.  It had been a difficult two weeks without the joy of having a cat scamper around.

  All of Arlie’s cats were black and usually male, and he would accept cats of no other color; but as his cats made their rounds they generally sired plenty of black kittens around town for him to adopt.   Usually they met with some unfortunate end, perhaps disappearing into the woods or being carried off by a coyote as her supper.  A few had lived to old age, eagerly making use of the commodious living arrangements Arlie provided.

  This kitten needed a name.  Arlie had named over forty black cats over the years and he was running out of ideas.  He settled on Alvin, after his brother. 

  Alvin turned out to be a girl.  On account of Alvin’s adventurous ways and her habit of sleeping as close to Arlie’s head as possible, among other endearing practices, “Alvie” was permitted to keep her position as Arlie’s official black cat.  Alvie grew large and beautiful under Arlie’s protection and care; her fur became thick and long and slick, and it shone in the sun, showing its warm brown undertones. 

  She was a clever animal.  Arlie would talk to her for hours when they were alone together in the house.  She would mimic his words so that he swore to people she could talk. Some of them, upon hearing her, would agree, if only to humor him, although she could say ‘out’ and a garbled ‘hungry’ rather well.  Alvie trotted after Arlie as he went about his chores, drinking a squirt of milk as Arlie milked his cows and sitting on the fencepost as he slopped the reeking pigs.  She liked the piglets rather well and would sometimes hop down into the sty to sidle up to them, rubbing their stink well into her fur.  But Arlie didn’t mind.  He was happy for her company and the kindness she showed his little piglets. 

  As fall set in Arlie began to slow down for the first time in everyone’s recollection.  He took a bad cough by November.  The townspeople began taking turns checking on him.  Alice Markley and Lady Persephone came together on Tuesday afternoons, bringing Arlie his supper.

  “Oh, I don’t know why you women waste your time on me.  I can take care of myself, you know.  What did you bring me?” he’d say. 

  After the women set Arlie’s supper in front of him they would set upon cleaning up the house.  Alvie took a liking to them.  She’d perch herself where she could watch them working and rub against them as thanks for their support.

  Before long the women started making up little songs to sing to Alvie, who took to crooning along.  This was great entertainment to Arlie.  

  But Arlie got worse.  Already rail-thin, he lost weight.  He began to cough blood.

  “I know the cause of my demise, ladies,” he said.  “It is the dreaded white death.  It has chased me though all of these decades, reappearing as it will. Now the doctor says it will be the end of me.”

  “Then you have rallied forth before, old Captain!  Do not give up so soon!” Alice cried.

  “No, Miss Markley, there comes a time for all of us to meet our maker.  I am ready to go.  I have so many waiting on me in the world beyond.”

  Arlie began to tell his stories, and he was telling them for one last time.  The townspeople gathered round to listen to him, crowding his parlor for hours, with Arlie propped up in a chair.  He would sometimes become weak and fall into slumber in the middle of a story.

  “You know, my first wife was not actually Olivia.  My first wife was a Choctaw girl.  I have rarely spoken of her all these years, as it pains me so.  She was named Laholla Oyoho, meaning ‘beloved woman.’  We were on our way to my land grant here in Kentucky and she was murdered by marauders.  I should have been killed, not her.  We were running from them and they hit her with an arrow, but missed me.  I carried her into a rock shelter, where she bled out in my arms.  There was nothing I could do, friends.  Nothing I could do.  I wanted to die.”

  Arlie wept into his blanket. 

  “But you see, friends, there was so much waiting for me here as it happened.  I had forests and canebrakes to cut down, all of this land to clear of rocks, and an orchard to plant. Little did I know that there was another woman made perfectly to suit me, and I her.  My dear Olivia, you see.  She was my soul’s own mate.  Folks, I am going to be with my Olivia, my wonderful wives who have cared for me so, and all of my dear children who have already passed. Don’t be sad for me, friends.”

  Everyone was terribly sad. 

  In the weeks to follow Arlie kept telling his stories.  In attendance was the editor of the Gatestown Chronicle who was there to capture every glorious word for publication.  Alice and Lady Persephone attended him every day now.

  Finally, one day, Arlie looked up at Alice and handed her something.  “Alice, I have looked after you as though you were my own daughter.  These are Laholla Oyoho’s beads. Please keep them and remember that I am always with you.”

  He nodded at Lady Persephone and handed her a glittering brooch.  “This belonged to my mother, and the only woman in town with enough style to wear something as ostentatious as this is you, Lady Persephone.”

  And then he beckoned Alvie, who hopped onto his lap, causing him to wince with pain.

  “Take this flea bitten critter, too,” he said, handing the cat off to the weeping women.

   

  An Iron Cross

  Alice Markley pulled at the red-hot end of a metal rod, drawing it thin and twisting it. As it cooled it became less pliable, and she reheated it in the coals, drew it out glowing, and curled the end into a hook.  Someone opened the door, and she plunged the hot end of her work in progress into the water, which emitted a sizzle and a plume of steam. 

  She was clad in her leather apron and filthy shirt and pants, sleeved rolled up to her elbows. Her hair was arranged in a pretty braid, but her face was smeared with soot.  “How may I help you?” she asked, hands on her hips. 

  She could only see the person’s silhouette at first as daylight poured in around the edges of his figure. He shut the door behind him, taking off his hat upon hearing her voice.  He hesitated for a moment as his eyes adjusted to the dark interior, as everyone did.

  “Ma’am, I need to see the blacksmith regarding a special order.”

  “Well, I am him,” she said smoothly.  “What might you be needing, sir?”

  “I’d like a special grave-piece.  I’m not sure how to explain myself, exactly.  You see, my wife, she’s very ill, ma’am, and she wants a wrought-iron cross made for her grave.”

  Alice grew quiet as her eyes focused upon the face of the man before her.

  “Sir, it would be a privilege to help you if I can,” she breathed.

  “I came here, because I was told Markley is the best blacksmith in the area.”

  “Sir, I have taken over my uncle’s shop.  I hope that I do not disappoint you.”

  “They say that you are a better smith than your uncle.”

  Alice’s back straightened.  “Sir, I will work until I have met your highest expectation. Please sit with me at my desk, and we shall make some sketches.”

  The two sat at the desk.  As Alice worked her pencil lead into the paper drafting a few designs she made conversation.

  “Sir, your wife is ill?  Are you certain that she will not recover?”

  “The doctor says she wil
l die,” he replied, “There’s no hope, you see.”

  Myron peeked in at Alice and her customer to make sure nothing untoward was going on. She nodded at him.

  Alice streaked the lead across the page, then scuffed in details.  “I understand.  At least I understand in as much as I am able, not having had to contend with such a thing.”

  She took down the desired dimensions, showed him three drawings, and asked him what he thought, and then drew a new sketch after hearing his opinion.  “That’s just it, Miss Markley.  That’s the one,” he remarked at the new drawing. 

  “When must you—I mean to say—when should I—apologies, but when do you expect to need the cross, Mr. Howell?”

  “It should take as long as it needs to take, Miss Markley.  I will place a stone, and then the cross will be added when you’ve finished.  I will be back to check on your progress within about a week.”

  Alice worked late into the evening for the first week to keep up with her own orders and make progress on Mrs. Howell’s cross.  She curled metal into scrolls and curves, measured them against one another, adjusted them, and laid them on the table.  When Mr. Howell returned she took him back to the “kitchen” table to see what she had made.

  “How is your wife, sir?  When you came in I was hoping that you would tell me that she was quite well and that you had cancelled the order.”

  “No, Miss Markley, she is much worse, and so much so that I wish, for her sake, that God would take her, as she endures such torment,” he sighed.  He was obviously in a state of exhaustion.  She fetched a tin cup from a shelf and asked him to sit down, then poured him some rather strong coffee, then smeared a biscuit with butter and set it in front of him.

  “Miss, do you actually live here?”

  “No, I don’t,” said Alice, smiling.  “When my uncle kept the shop he lived here.  It is humble, but it was enough for him.  I think he was quite comfortable here.  I spend my days here, and I find this little space useful, but I do go home at night unless pressed to stay for some reason, such as inclement weather.  I still live with my parents, the Markleys.”

  “But Miss Markley, aren’t they rich folks?  I-I mean, I saw the house on my way into town, and, why, I think you’d be in finishing school, not blacksmithing!”

  Alice smiled broadly, pouring some coffee for herself.  “Yes, it took a strange turn of events to gain my parents’ consent for me to become a blacksmith instead of going to ladies’ seminary.”

  “It’s unheard of, Miss Markley, but it seems that what they say is true:  you are the finest blacksmith to be found.”

  Alice created the main structure of the cross; then she began welding the decorative pieces onto it, and she set it against the wall when it was finished. Even she was surprised by the beauty of her work, and she showed it to everyone who came into the shop. She even mailed her sketch to Uncle Harvey.

  Her customer did not come back for a month; but when he appeared he was completely disheveled and obviously stricken with grief. He had lost weight and seemed to have aged ten years. He came into the shop with his hat in his hand, wet from the sleet that was dropping.

  “Goodness, Mr. Bentley! You should not have come out in such weather!” Alice scolded.

  But her customer was quiet and merely looked at her.

  “She has, passed, hasn’t she? Oh, I am so sorry.” Alice paused, touching Mr. Bentley’s arm gently. “Do come in and sit by the stove. I will start a pot of coffee. We cannot have you getting sick,” she said, leading him to the kitchen table.

  As they walked into the room behind the shop Mr. Bentley saw the cross. His eyes widened. “It’s perfect, and so beautiful!” he whispered. He began to sob uncontrollably, and Alice led him by the arm to the table and gently pushed him down into the chair. She set a pot of coffee on the stovetop and threw a blanket of Mr. Bentley’s shoulders, then fished the lace-edged handkerchief from inside her shirt: it was the only clean cloth she had with which to wipe away his tears.

  Alice put her hand under his chin and lifted his face as if he were a child and dabbed at him with the handkerchief. Just then a droplet of cold water stuck her on the nose, making her flinch. The roof was leaking! She looked up, and two more drops of icy water struck her on the nose.

  Endings and Beginnings

  Arlie wrote to his three living children to tell them he expected to die anytime. One of them, herself an old woman, wrote back to tell him that she did not require any of her inheritance as she had done rather well for herself, being on her fifth husband. His estranged son wrote Arlie back, telling him to rot in hell. The other heir, also a son, had passed away in the meantime.

  He knew what to do, and he called in Mr. Markley to help him write up the will.

  Spring arrived and the old man was still hanging on, enjoying the attention he was receiving from the townspeople. But the time was coming for him to pass, and he went about dividing up his property.

  Miss Markley and Mr. Bentley decided to marry in his old apple orchard while the trees were in bloom, and he was carried out preside over the matter as if he were in charge; in fact, he was. He demanded that a picnic lunch be served afterward, and that fried chicken must be served and that everyone in town must be invited. He had written to Harvey and Harvey appeared as a surprise, with his beautiful wife and infant child following behind him.

  That evening, Harvey sat by the fire with his old friend and mentor, and they talked about the things they always talked about one last time; and Harvey recalled sitting in the town square as a boy and listening to these stories again and again.

  Then, once Arlie’s house fell quiet, he drifted off to sleep in his chair and never woke again. He was laid to rest with his seven wives and his children who did not grow up in Old Centennial Cemetery.

  Captain McIntosh’s house had been built around 1830 of brick and mortar, with additions constructed of clapboard. His original cabin still stood as well, and that’s where Harvey and Millie and baby Joshua stayed for the time being. The Bentleys settled into the Captain’s old house and admired his heirlooms. Harvey knew the stories behind most of them, each an artifact of Arlie’s life.

  The Musselwhites were in the family way, and Alice insisted that they move into the old house for the time being as well, the drafty rooms behind the shop were not sufficient for a pregnant woman, and it was worse from the construction that was underway there; Myron and Harvey had been busy adding shop space to accommodate three blacksmiths instead of one. Elias Bentley had sold his farm and was now hard at work on the McIntosh farm, which had fallen into a bit of disarray.

  This odd assemblage of people would become Gatestown’s leaders in all of the most important ways, despite their eccentricities, or, rather, because of them.

  The End

  Or is it?