Carried to the Grave and Other Stories

by Leslie Budewitz

“The churchwomen will organize a picnic lunch after the burial,” Laura continued. “Since the church hall is being used by the school right now, we can eat at the cemetery after the burial, if the weather holds, or plan to gather in the school, if you’d prefer.”

  She had no preference, no reason to have one. It was good of Laura Peterman to ask, out of courtesy for her temporary guardianship of the girl, but she had no idea what to do.

  “Which would you choose?”

  “I would choose a picnic on the cemetery lawn. It’s the custom back East, and I’ve always enjoyed it.”

  “Where back East did you come from?” Kate wasn’t good at identifying accents, probably because she’d been so few places herself.

  “Pittsburgh,” Laura said, after a brief hesitation. “Now, is there anything you need? Anything we can do for you?”

  “Thank you, no. People have dropped by extra food, which I appreciate, though Grace doesn’t eat much and we are grocers.” Kate flashed a quick grin. “She’ll be going back to school on Monday, and once we’re in a routine . . .”

  “Yes. Routines are good for children. But Sunday, after the service and lunch and all the excitement . . .” Laura’s voice trailed off. “You should be prepared.”

  Kate took a deep breath and exhaled. Be prepared for tears, as the loss sunk in. “Thank you. You’ve been most kind.”

  Laura Peterman responded with a sweet, slightly sad smile, and bought a few sticks of candy before collecting the girls. Grace returned with a healthy flush on her cheeks and a lightness that gave Kate hope.

  The rest of the day went smoothly, the whoosh of wheels and clack of hooves outside mingling with conversation and the jangle of the cash register inside. Saturday followed much the same pattern. There was no word of the thieves, or the second candlestick. Kate did not see Thaddeus London again, and she didn’t mind. At home, in the evenings, she attempted to sew while Grace read to them, but she was not a good seamstress at the best of times, and her nerves were too jangled for delicate work right now. Later. There would be plenty of time later, in the long winter ahead.

  ∞

  In the front pew, Grace sitting straight-backed between her and Paddy, Kate tried to focus on the visiting minister’s words. Tried to forget that he stood on the very spot where she had found Reverend Haugen on what the minister called “that unholy day.” But how could she, the way the man went on about his dear, departed friend’s faith and his love of Christ and his constant prayers for the soul of the community, and finally, a word about his love for his only child.

  She could not, would not, forget that Arval Haugen had been a man first, and a father, and then a minister. His failure to consider Grace, should anything happen to him, was troubling. He had lost his wife; he knew better than most the dangers. He and his daughter had been cast out, if Grace had the story right, from the only family remaining. As Laura Peterman had said the other day in the shop, these things happen.

  But she could not blame Reverend Haugen for not wanting to believe he might die early. Surely he had expected there would be time to repair the relationship with his mother-in-law. For Grace’s sake, and the love of his late wife.

  After the service, a procession of automobiles, buggies, and wagons headed for the cemetery. Laura’s recommendation had been a good one. The view of the mountains was magnificent and the minister’s words mercifully brief before the six strong men, Paddy among them in a nod to his role in the community and to having taken in young Grace, even though he was a Catholic, lowered the casket into the grave.

  Grace stood silently. After she had tossed a handful of rich, dark dirt onto the casket, she’d tucked her bare hand into Kate’s gloved one and kept it there as the mourners filed by, paying their last respects. Grace accepted their condolences in a manner that suited her name, convincing Kate that Arval and Freya Haugen had been good parents, despite their feud with Mrs. Swensen.

  And then Kate and Paddy were alone by the grave with Grace, the minister and sexton a few feet away.

  “Shall we leave you here with your father for a bit?” Kate asked.

  “No,” Grace replied quickly. Then she knelt, the skirt of her dark brown dress just missing the fresh dirt around the edge of the grave. Folded her hands and bowed her head. Kate took Paddy’s hand, and they waited.

  Then the threesome picked their way down the slope to the sprawling lawn where the churchwomen had spread out quilts and opened their baskets. Kate hadn’t brought a basket, having been told it wasn’t necessary, but she wasn’t immediately sure where to go. Anne Lang beckoned them, rising and giving her pupil a quick but firm embrace.

  “Kate, I don’t believe you’ve met my brother, Frank.” Anne gestured to the young man who had pushed himself up with difficulty, his shoulders uneven, one leg several inches shorter than the other. “Frank, this is Mrs. Murphy.”

  “I’ve seen you in the post office,” he said, holding out his hand. “Your husband owns the Mercantile.” Frank Lang’s words were not easy to understand, and one side of his face drooped. But his grip was firm and his eyes were gentle.

  “He does,” she said. “Grace and I have been helping out this past week.”

  They settled on the yellow-and-white quilt, in the popular Flying Geese pattern. Paddy sat beside her a few minutes later, after the inevitable stops for a quick conversation. Anne passed around plates of ham and potato salad, and poured glasses of lemonade. Ivan Gregory joined them, telling stories of the small towns where he’d worked before settling here. He kept it light, though Kate had heard enough from Paddy and the men in the Mercantile to know that conditions were sometimes quite dangerous, pay low, and bosses hard. Ivan Gregory did not seem like a hard boss, and she hoped that was true, particularly when she saw the effort he made to amuse Anne Lang and the flush on the teacher’s cheeks. It was almost like a carefree summer picnic, despite the reason for the gathering, and Grace ate more than Kate had ever seen.

  “There’s Daniel Gibson,” Paddy said to Kate. He handed her his plate and pushed himself up. “I’ll go have a word.”

  Kate watched him go. She recognized several families from the shop or piano lessons. The Petermans sat not far away, Laura and James and their three children, and Laura waved. When she turned back to her own group, Gregory was relaying a story about a stubborn mule that had Grace and Frank captivated, but Anne’s attention was elsewhere. Kate followed the teacher’s gaze to where Paddy stood with Gibson, beside a graceful birch. Then the two men shook hands and Paddy moved on. The teacher kept watching the deputy sheriff, and Kate could not read the expression on her face as the man looked toward their quintet.

  “I should go say hello to a few people, if you don’t mind,” Kate said when Gregory finished his story. “Grace, would you like to say hello to Elizabeth?”

  Grace quickly agreed. They thanked Anne, said their goodbyes, and joined the Petermans, where Grace accepted a slice of cake and settled in next to her friend. Laura stood and walked a few feet away with Kate.

  “This was an excellent recommendation,” Kate said. “Thank you. It’s good for Grace to see the community’s respect for her father.”

  “He was a good man. I only wish—” She broke off, catching her lower lip between her teeth and clutching her elbows.

  Kate did not dare ask what she wished. Then Laura took her hand and spoke fervently.

  “You’re young, Kate. And it’s clear that you have a good heart, if an innocent one. Please, don’t judge people for their mistakes. We all make them, and some . . . well, some mistakes simply can’t be undone.”

  And with that, Laura Peterman squeezed her hand and returned to the colorful log cabin quilt where her family sat, and began to pack up. Kate could not see her face. Perhaps, when Reverend Haugen had ridden his bicycle out to visit with the Petermans, he had told her about the rift with his late wife’s mother. Yes, that was it—Laura had mentioned something of the family trouble when she’d been in the Mercantile.

 
Kate was relieved to know he’d found someone to confide in. How difficult it must be for men of the cloth to hear other people’s concerns and not often have the chance to express their own.

  “Mrs. Murphy,” the mother of another piano student called. Kate greeted the woman and was introduced to her husband and other children. She wove her way through the gathering, hoping to remember new names and faces the next time they met. To her surprise, the atmosphere was quite pleasant, not maudlin at all. Perhaps that was because the town was too new for many graves. There would be more grief to come. Almost everyone shared a story about Reverend Haugen, and it seemed clear that he’d been well-liked, even loved. The doctor expressed his fervent wish that today’s visiting minister would not be taking over the church in Jewel Bay, “or we’ll all turn deaf, from him talking our ears off.” Several women asked about Grace, and Kate had to acknowledge that she did not yet know what would happen to the girl.

  But she had not grown up with three sisters without developing the ability to hear bits of conversation not meant for her. A shocking suggestion that Reverend Haugen might not have kept every secret as quiet as he should have. A comment that Ivan Gregory might now have the chance to buy the land he’d been coveting for his orchard, land some thought better for a new church and school. She needed a break from all the talk.

  Pretend you’re in Baraboo, she told herself. Smile, say a few words, like Alice or your mother would do. And keep moving.

  When she reached the top of the cemetery, she paused to read the inscription beneath a stone lamb. An infant, dead at just three months.

  “You there!” a rough male voice shouted, and Kate jerked her head up. Who could be yelling at her?

  “What are you up to?” the man continued, his heavy forehead wrinkled, a thick hand waving. “He bothering you, miss?”

  “Who?” Was he talking to her? She twisted her head and glimpsed Frank Lang, partially hidden by a large spruce, one of a row that marked the far edge of the cemetery. Frank was hurriedly buttoning his pants. “Oh, good heavens, no.”

  But the man ignored her protest and grabbed at Frank’s arm. Frank tried to pull away, but with his poor balance, he stumbled and the man easily snared him.

  “How do we know an imbecile like you didn’t kill the reverend? We know he had a hankering to marry your sister. He’d have tossed you out on your ear,” the man said. “Now here you are, making a pest of yourself with this young woman.”

  “I—I just came up—here to—to make water,” Frank stammered.

  “I don’t know who you are,” Kate said to the man, “but I’ll thank you not to speak so rudely. Frank has done nothing wrong.” A movement caught her eye and she spotted Daniel Gibson a short ways away.

  “That’s enough, Henry,” Gibson said, stepping into the scene. “Mrs. Murphy says Frank wasn’t bothering her, and we’ll take her at her word.”

  “You should be looking at him for the murder,” Henry said. “We all know it doesn’t take much for a defect like him to turn violent.”

  “I know no such thing,” Gibson replied as he led the man away.

  Kate put her hand on her heart to slow it down. Frank had finished buttoning his pants and was watching her uncertainly.

  “Are you all right, Frank? What a horrid man.”

  “He—he’d have hurt me if—if you hadn’t stopped him. Thank you, Miss Ka—Kate.”

  “Shall we rejoin your sister?”

  Frank nodded and they made their way down the hill. Frank walked slowly, planting one leg and swinging the other around, using his arms for balance. Kate stayed close, though she was too small to help much if he fell. It was plain that some folks had heard Henry’s words and shared his distrust of Frank, while others had no idea what had happened.

  How terrible that Frank, and Anne, had to endure such hatred. How widespread was it? Was Jewel Bay, despite its name, not as polished or genteel a town as its leading residents might want to think? Was Paddy right to believe in the town’s promise? Could a town where thieves went uncaught and murder—in a church, no less—went unsolved prosper and thrive? Should they pull up stakes while they could?

  If they could.

  No. It was impossible. Paddy had sunk everything into this town—his money, his heart, and his hopes. And on a day so bright and clear, how could she not believe, too—even if they were gathered for the funeral of a well-loved man. Even if there were gossips and cruel tongues amid the offers of spare clothing for Grace, and a cot that could be folded up and tucked out of the way. This was the town they had chosen. The town where they had cast their lot and their luck.

  They reached Anne’s quilt and Frank thanked her again before settling himself next to his sister. Should she mention the incident? Then an arm slipped around her waist and the touch and scent of Paddy Murphy enveloped her. She buried her head in his shoulder. A silent sob wracked her and he held her close.

  “Ah, lass,” he whispered. “You’re safe with me.”

  Was she safe? Was Grace? Oh, how she wanted to believe it.

  ∞

  “Paddy,” she said when they were alone that night in their bedroom, “is it true that Reverend Haugen wanted to marry Anne Lang? What would have happened to Frank?”

  Paddy’s eyes went wide as he unbuttoned his shirt, the collar hanging loose around his neck.

  “News to me, lass. Where’s this coming from?”

  She told him about the incident in the cemetery.

  “Henry Clyde,” Paddy said, his eyes darkening. “It’s him you got to be watching out for.”

  “Was the reverend courting Anne?”

  “Mighta been. I’d say if she’s partial to anyone, it’s Ivan Gregory.”

  That made sense. Anne had invited him to sit with them, after all, and they’d chatted easily. It had been Anne who suggested Ivan take the reverend’s bicycle for his nephew, who ran errands for the power company, since it was too big for Grace.

  Kate unpinned her hair and reached for her brush. “She is attractive, and there aren’t many unmarried women of a suitable age in town.”

  Paddy tossed his collar on top of the dresser and wriggled out of his shirt. “Sounds to me like you did as much watching as you did listening.”

  “I could hardly help it, could I? Tell me about your conversation with the deputy. Does he think Frank Lang might have turned violent? I can’t believe it. I sat with them for nearly an hour and Frank seems as gentle a man as there is.”

  “Oh, aye. And I don’t mean to be sharp with you. Frank talks slow and moves poorly, but he’s right enough in the head. Can’t say the same for Henry Clyde.”

  “He didn’t like me setting him straight, that’s for sure. I expect that’s one customer we’ve lost.”

  “And one we don’t need,” Paddy answered. “But you know how cruel people can be about those who look different.”

  They were both thinking, Kate knew, about a man back home who’d been kicked in the head by a horse, leaving him with one eye and a misshapen skull. He’d done no harm to anyone, but a group of older boys had been merciless, mistreating him to the point that town elders had intervened and put a stop to it.

  “I think they’re scared,” he continued. “Because they don’t understand, and they know it could happen to any of us.”

  Kate finished brushing her hair and began to braid it for the night. “Do you know what happened to Frank?”

  “School board hired Anne on the recommendation of a woman in Pondera, and when she arrived with Frank in tow, it went about that he’d been injured in the same train wreck that killed their parents. I’ve never had any reason to doubt it. He would have been a boy, though I’d put him at twenty-one or -two by now. He does odd jobs around town—feeding stock, stacking wood. But it can’t amount to much.”

  If he couldn’t support himself, then he was a burden. If that limited Anne’s marriage possibilities, did she mind? It was hard to imagine Ivan Gregory resenting a crippled brother, and as manager of t
he power plant, surely he could afford to support his wife’s relative, especially one who could work around the house. If they were right about Ivan’s interest, and if Anne returned it.

  Stacking wood, Paddy had said. Gibson and his men had taken the woodpile apart but hadn’t found the second candlestick. Where could it be?

  “There must be something we can do,” Kate said. “To stop the awful talk.”

  “Lass, what a heart you’ve got. But let the questions go.” Paddy pulled back the bedcovers and held out an arm. His eyes danced in the lamplight and his lips curved. “Come to bed.”

  And she happily did.

  ∞

  Monday. A clean slate, full of promise, her mother always said. And this Monday was both. Kate decided to walk Grace to school, since it was her first day back, and on the way, they chatted about lessons and the books Miss Lang had lent her, already finished.

  Children swarmed the school from all directions, alone or in clusters. They shouted, laughed, and taunted each other, and Kate relished the sound.

  “Grace!” Elizabeth Peterman called. Grace waved back, then glanced at Kate.

  “Go on then,” Kate said. “After school, wait for me outside and we’ll walk home together.”

  Grace flashed her a smile and ran to her friend.

  “Good to have her back,” a woman said. Anne Lang. The two women watched the girls, Grace showing Elizabeth the borrowed books, the pair chatting happily. “She seems to be coping well.”

  “Most of the time,” Kate said. “It’s a big loss for a girl who’s already suffered a serious blow.”

  “I was much older than Grace when our parents were killed. Almost twenty-one. But Frank was so young, and I left teachers’ college to take care of him.”

  “A big responsibility to take on, at a hard time. How did you decide to come to Montana?”

  “Not so much a decision,” Anne said, “as the only option we had. The president of the college took a special interest in finding a placement for me, and wrote to an alumna who lives in Pondera. She arranged a position, even though I hadn’t finished my training. But when we arrived, I discovered that there was no opening after all.”