The Last Days of Dogtown

by Anita Diamant

  The African question was too complicated for Oliver to fathom on his own. He would try to discuss it with Polly, he decided, and turned his attention back to Judy, who seemed to need cheering up.

  He leaned toward his friend and, in a tone of

  lighthearted conspiracy, said, “I haven’t told Polly yet, but

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  I’m starting to look around for a new situation,” and filled the rest of the journey with his plan for an escape from the stink of fish, which Polly could no longer wash out of his clothes.

  Judy warmed to his plans and before they knew it, they had arrived. Judy clucked at the lights blazing from every window in the house. “That girl.”

  “I’ll come by and tell you how he’s faring,” said Oliver, as he opened the garden gate for her.

  “Thank you, my dear boy,” she whispered. Before

  letting go of his arm, she reached up and kissed him lightly on the cheek, and wondered why she had never done that before.

  By morning, Cornelius’s fever was nearly gone and he was able to rise and limp outside. But overnight, something had changed in the household. Polly was as pleasant as ever, but she looked at him with obvious pity. Oliver did nothing out of the ordinary, but he would not meet his eye.

  He left a few days later, his knee stiff but tolerable. “I’ll be thanking you the rest of my days,” he said.

  Oliver shook his hand firmly.

  “Will you come by and visit the boys?” Polly asked.

  “I’ll be seeing them,” said Cornelius, running his hands over their silken heads.

  He moved into Judy Rhines’s cottage and returned to trapping and gathering whatever could be sold or bartered.

  And he resumed his nighttime rounds, using a cane and walking carefully when he went out for a glimpse of Judy

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  through lace curtains in Gloucester. He increased his circuit to include all the last of the Dogtown stragglers, down to Easter and Ruth, three creaky widows, and the sad crew at Mrs. Stanley’s house.

  He looked in on the Youngers almost every day, and even got himself a spyglass so he could follow David’s progress as he learned to walk. Cornelius frowned and smiled to see how Natty teased his little brother and then helped, by turns. Wherever Cornelius went, he searched for little rustic oddities to scatter in the woods beside the Younger house. Sometimes, he’d hide nearby and wait for the excited shouts of the boys when they found the arrowhead or snakeskin, the outsize pinecone or tiny mouse skull. Natty brought the eggshells in to his mother, who exclaimed over the pretty colors. Polly collected a whole rainbow of them: pink, blue, gold, and tawny white, and arranged them in the perfect bird nest they’d also discovered. She set it out on a windowsill, so Cornelius could see that they remembered him, too.

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  His Own Man

  In the eight years since he’d left Dogtown, Sam had not been cold or hungry. Thanks to his well-earned reputation for politeness, sobriety, and diligence, a succession of widowed women gave him room and board in exchange for his assistance in caring for their homes and properties, and for his handsome companionship.

  Over time, pretty little Sammy Stanley had become a striking man of twenty, blue-eyed and honey blond, with a fine, sharp nose and a chiseled jaw. He’d taken to calling himself Sam Maskey, which suited him. Years of hard work had thickened his neck and broadened his shoulders so that even a threadbare coat hung from him with military authority. The only shame, the ladies agreed, was that he’d not grown any taller than five feet. When he tried for a job at one of the new two-man quarries, he was turned away.

  “You’re too damned short,” said the foreman, not unkindly.

  “It’ll be a backache for anyone to bend down to you. Come back when you grow.” But he never did.

  He might have married into a fortune or at least a good living. There were several willing maidens who would inherit farms or fishing vessels, but none of them tempted Sam enough to overcome his distaste for the grinding labor of the fields or the perils of the sea. The girls were

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  impossibly boring, too, and the truth was that the idea of a bedmate repulsed him, a distaste that came of growing up among whores, he figured. Besides, he had no need of a housewife, as he preferred his own cooking and had yet to find anyone to iron a shirt as well as he did. And then there was the matter of being able to keep all his earnings, without any family obligations.

  Sam managed to set aside a substantial pile of money over the years by “lending a hand,” as he called it. He had done everything from unloading wagons and shucking clams, to painting rooms and harvesting turnips. He carried letters to Gloucester and fetched back newspapers, bolts of fabric, musical instruments, and some packages whose contents he could not guess. He traveled as far as Salem once, to deliver a little boy to his grandmother after his mother died. On that trip, he was offered a good price on half a case of Crown’s Tonic, a favorite patent medicine among his elderly acquaintances. After selling all of those bottles for twice what he’d paid, Sam moved into the nostrum trade.

  Every few months, he’d order a supply of the remedies advertised in the Boston newspapers, so that when a person in the northern reaches of Cape Ann wanted a dose of Fisher’s Spirits, she need not suffer two weeks or more waiting for her cure to arrive. For his thirty percent, Sam could provide a bottle of Hamilton’s Grand Restorative or Lee’s Genuine Essence and Extract of Mustard on the spot. He accumulated an efficient inventory of elixirs, bilious pills, and worm-destroying lozenges, and even recommended one remedy or another to his neighbors, who came to trust his suggestions.

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  Sam’s room at Widow Long’s house was large enough to accommodate the crates and boxes. His landlady was more than happy to tolerate the clutter in exchange for a dependable reserve of Dr. Cotton’s Soothing Syrup, a rather expensive potion imported from England.

  “Without my syrup, I wouldn’t get a wink of sleep,”

  said Mrs. Long. Sam poured her a nightly dram of the honey-flavored brew, which contained more alcohol than anything else. She snored like a sailor after taking her medicine, and was never troubled by the knocking of the customers who visited him after dark.

  Late one night in March, the door rattled with three short raps.

  “Damn,” Sam said. Three knocks meant it was Molly Jacobs, who came not to buy but to beg. “Hold your water,”

  he barked. The old baggage had been coming at him with her hand out ever since he’d left Mrs. Stanley’s place. She only came after midnight, announced by that tap-tap-tapp ing, like a timid woodpecker.

  But when he opened the door, he found it was Alice Ives, who’d come looking for medicine to ease her father’s cough. Sam sold her a bottle of Crown’s Tonic, which would help the old man to sleep at the very least, ignoring Alice’s blushes, cow eyes, and the way she touched his sleeve when she paid.

  After she left, it occurred to Sam that Molly had not been begging for months. Had there been snow on the ground the last time she’d come? He couldn’t remember.

  Whenever Sam heard Molly’s three taps, he swore an oath and got a few coins ready so he could press them into her hand quickly, before she could put a foot across the

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  threshold. If it was raining hard or freezing cold, he’d let her in to warm herself for a moment, but he never offered her a seat or anything to eat or drink.

  “Sall
y’s thin as a rail these days, Sammy,” said Molly, who never asked for herself. “She ain’t had a cup of tea in a fortnight.” It was always for Sally. “Her dress is in tatters,”

  she sighed. “It’s so awful for her, and it just about breaks my heart.”

  What he gave her was hardly worth the walk from

  Dogtown. Sam used to justify his stinginess by thinking some of it might find its way into John Stanwood’s hands, but Sam didn’t get any more generous after Stanwood’s death, which was either the result of a barroom brawl or from drowning in a shallow ditch, depending on who told the story.

  Molly would thank Sam for his pittance with a

  dignified curtsy and a set speech. “Me and Sally are real proud of you,” she’d say. “Sally just about busts when I tell her how nice you’re living, so respectable and clean. And so handsome! And I tell her that you’re as good-hearted as you are good-looking. And she says she knows that’s so.”

  It was the lying that kept him from giving her more money, or that’s what Sam told himself. He owed them nothing. Molly and Sally were not kin, and although neither of them had ever smacked him or even scolded him, neither of them had ever made a move to help him in all those years of heavy chores. He’d never seen either woman show a lick of interest in anybody or anything but each other. They had no claim on him.

  Still, Sam secretly hoped that his charity, which was regular if not openhanded, would serve as a kind of

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  investment in his salvation. Sam wasn’t sure he believed that God paid close attention to what he did with his money, but he noticed that the better sort of people at church let it be known that they gave to the support of orphans and widows.

  Sam had become a fixture at Sunday worship, sitting in the same pew every week. After the service, Reverend Jewett shook his hand firmly as he gripped his shoulder, which Sam took as a public signal of approval.

  A sermon that touched upon Jesus’ attention to the fallen Magdalene had made Sam feel so right with the world, he resolved to give Molly a silver dollar the next time she came tapping. Pondering why it had been such a long time between her visits, Sam reasoned that it had been an especially wet winter, with heavy snows that froze and left big, icy snowbanks everywhere, so walking would have been even more difficult than usual.

  But that notion brought on a vision of Molly’s body half-eaten by the awful yellow-eyed dogs in the woods. If they were dead—either of them or both—he would be expected to go up there and clean things up, one way or another. “Damn it to hell,” he said.

  He’d been back to Mrs. Stanley’s house only three times in the years since Stanwood had chased him out. The first time was a few weeks after his escape, just to see if he might be able to sneak in and get his extra shirt and stockings. He had crept up to the window on a Tuesday afternoon, which was the only time that the house was ever deserted, and then only on the rare days when all three of them went into town, or for a visit with Easter. But both Sally and Molly were there, still in bed, wearing stained shifts he was sure had not been washed since he left.

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  He went a second time, on a whim, a few years later.

  Making his way into Gloucester on an errand, he stopped just to see if his childhood home was truly as awful as his memory of the place. The house was even more decrepit than he remembered it. The roof sagged and the path was overgrown with weeds right up to the door, which hung off its hinges so he could peek inside. The table was piled with dirty clothes and dishes, and the floor was littered with dry leaves. The mess gave Sam a kind of bitter pleasure, and when he got to town, he bought himself a new leather belt, not because he needed it but because he could have whatever he wanted.

  His third visit had been just that past autumn. Molly had woken Sam early one morning. He’d leapt out of bed, furious that she’d come in daylight, fumbling for his money so she’d leave before anyone saw her. But, she had not come to beg.

  “Mrs. Stanley died last night,” said Molly. “We woke up this morning to the smell of it and you need to come get her for the funeral. Sally and me can’t fetch her in. Besides, we figured you’d want to set it up with that minister chum of yours.”

  Sam was horrified that Molly knew of his friendship with Reverend Jewett and feared that if he didn’t agree to take care of the matter, Molly would go to see him herself and provide the pastor with a pungent reminder of Sam’s low connections.

  “I’ll do it,” he said. “You go back to the house. I’ll be there directly.”

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  Reverend Jewett welcomed him into his study with a firm handshake and a smile. Sam studied the hat in his hand as he explained the reason for his visit. “Mrs. Stanley of Dogtown has died and her burial, well, it falls to me as I was, I mean, I am, that is . . .” he faltered. “There was no one else to call. There’s no question of, well, a proper funeral. . . .”

  “Master Maskey,” Jewett interrupted. “It is only right that you should come to me on this occasion. It is most generous of you to take on such a commission. You of all people will understand that the work of the parish does not permit me to accompany you. In fact, there is a gravely ill lady who requires my attention today, and some other pressing matters.

  “Your . . . that is to say, Mrs. Stanley was not churched, was she?”

  Sam shook his head.

  “Why not just bury her out there, near her home. This is not uncommon in such cases,” Jewett said. “Have you a Bible?”

  “I could have the use of Mrs. Long’s family Bible, I suppose,” Sam said, mortified.

  “No matter,” said Jewett, who turned to his bookshelf and plucked out a volume with a broken spine and frayed cover. “I will make you a gift of this one. You can bring the Scripture to your, that is, to the departed, well, to the bereaved. Here, I will mark a reading for you.”

  He found the passage quickly, laid the ribbon on the page, and snapped the book closed with his right hand.

  “Jeremiah, Chapter Three.

  “Godspeed,” he said, but did not rise or extend his hand.

  Sam felt the slight.

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  As he walked into Dogtown, his embarrassment gave way to clammy fear. He hadn’t seen a corpse since the day he was pushed into the close, smoky room at Easter Carter’s house. He made his way slowly, the Bible heavy in one hand, a shovel in the other.

  Molly and Sally were waiting outside and led him in.

  The windows were open and the door was ajar, but no amount of fresh air could clear the stench of rot and rum.

  Mrs. Stanley was laid out on her bed, her hair neatly combed, her hands folded. He turned away as quickly as he could but not before catching sight of the bilious pallor on her ravaged face.

  Sam walked out and said, “Where do you want me

  to dig?”

  “Ain’t we taking her to that nice little cemetery on the hill?” asked Sally.

  Sam had forgotten the high-pitched, nasal voice. Sally seemed a faded version of herself, the blonde gone to white, the porcelain skin flaked and ashy. Even the yellow of her dress had bleached to an ivory whisper of gingham. Sam fancied that if she stood in bright sunlight, he’d be able to see clear through her. Her distracted glance was the same, though, as was the painfully sweet smile.

  “Now, Sally,” Molly said, catching on to Sam’s plan.

  “You know we ain’t got time for that sort of funeral. But that pastor must be on his way, isn’t he?”

  “He won’t be coming,” Sam said. “He gave me this Bible to read over her. We’ll do it private.”

 
Once the smile faded from Molly’s face, Sam could see the permanent squint etched around her nearsighted eyes.

  “Wrap her in the sheets,” he said.

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  “No coffin, eh?” asked Sally.

  “A winding sheet is plenty good,” said Molly, trying to make the best of it. “We’ll tuck her in.”

  “Help me find some place I can plant her,” Sam said.

  Molly winced at his language, but pointed to a grassy field that still showed the effects of a bygone plow. Sam picked a likely, treeless spot but hit a boulder with the first jab of the shovel: it took him five attempts before he found a place thawed enough to dig even a shallow grave.

  By the time the hole was deep enough to serve, the afternoon was dimming and a biting wind had kicked up.

  They hurried with the body, wrapped in a sling of yellowed bedding. The old whore weighed more than Sam had expected, and the stiffness of the body made his skin crawl.

  But when they got her to the grave, they stopped, not knowing how to get the corpse into it.

  “You go in and we’ll hand her down to you,” said Molly.

  “Not me,” he said.

  “Well, I can’t do it,” Molly said. “My knees . . .”

  “Oh for goodness sake, just drop her,” Sally said. “She wouldn’t do half as much for us.”

  The plain truth of her statement struck Sam as funny, and he couldn’t keep from smiling when Mrs. Stanley landed with a soft thud. He shoveled the dirt in as fast as he could, and then he picked up the Bible. Sally and Molly bowed their heads as he opened the book and read, “‘Hast thou seen that which backsliding Israel hath done? She is gone up upon every high mountain and under every green tree, and there hath played the harlot.’”

  Sally’s head snapped up and Molly gasped, but Sam continued.

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