by Pete Beatty
There is a sickness worse than hog cholera, named despair. Big determined he would not succumb – that he would find remedy.
Spring.
Honest work is medicine. You cannot bottle or buy better remedy, whatever your ailment. On the first day of spring 1837, Mr Big Son determined to physic himself.
* * *
Our days proceeded somewhat like birds. You cannot rely on birds for any exact behavior, but you seen patterns in their doing. Sniff the wind some – fly around – make hidys at your cousins – swoop down and poke at corncobs. It is fool behavior, but regular. Do anything regular enough, and it becomes sacrament.
You cannot rely on a day entirely but you know the sun will come up.
On the first day of spring, that sun found us in our attic apartments above the Stiles barn. With the sun came the birds for a sing at our hayloft door. Those little birds peeked in at a long low room. Two straw beds and plenty of blankets. Two chairs. A few souvenirs of Big’s rambunctions. His red neckerchief hung on a nail.
A dozen birds come out for that day’s choir. Some of the singers come right into the attic to consider the crumbs and other savories that resided in Big’s bedclothes. My brother ate prodigiously, at all hours. You could practically hear hunger grumbling inside his snores, just before a grand brass yawn of snnnnChhtFppth announced that Big had joined the day. He shook his limbs out of his blankets and shooed off the scavenging birds, although one brave sparrow lingered to tug at a bone.
Another eyeful of my brother – let us see him close. At four and twenty years he had the bones of a man but the demeanor of a boy still. He were strong all over, such that even his shining brown hair and his ivory teeth seemed to have muscles. His eyes was somewhat small and close, and they tinied up to nothing when he laughed – a cannon sound that could rout any misery.
A roaring yawn and a thumping of the chest. Today is the day, little brother, he pronounced. I will make an honest man of myself
First, he would make his toilet. He picked up his sliver of looking glass and fussed some with his hair. Tied on his red neckerchief – sleep were the only place you could find him without it. Once the kerchief were on, he were open to custom. Without another blink, he dove down into the yard of the Stiles homeplace.
* * *
There was a ladder down from the attic, but most days Big preferred to leap into the barnyard. On this day he landed in a mudhole occupied by the sow Arabella, who thrown one eye open to hidy Big and gone back to sleep. Next to greet him were the chickens, who clucked their hidys as they fled from his stomping across the yard.
From the kitchen came the next hulloa of
MIND YOUR FOOTING, BIG
Mrs Tabitha Stiles known from experience that Big were already dripping mud and soon to kick something over. Even as Big hidyed back, he tumbled over a pail. Mrs Tab’s head shot out from the half door of the kitchen and eyed my brother like he were a mess to clean – like her stare were soap.
Despite the hard looks, Mrs Tabitha had an abundance of love for us. Only that she gone about loving like wringing the head off a chicken – best do it fast and hard. Her mothering were almost ferocious. Food were an example. She would get a corncake in your mouth as soon as you come within her reach. Often you did not even mark her approach with the corncake – she struck like a panther.
As Big drew up a bucket of water from the well Mrs Tab come after him with the first cake of the day. Even as Big chewed his breakfast, he spoke, scattering crumbs to the chickens.
Today is the day, Mrs Tab
I expect it is, Big
Today is the day I find honest work
She gone after him with another cake. I believe there were times when she fed a person only to keep them from talking.
I will never be useless anymore, Mrs Tab A shower of crumbs and another Today is the day like he were convincing himself.
Judging from her aspect – if I imagine her mind – Mrs Tab were not sure God had made Big to be useful – not sure anyone in history had ever been useful enough.
But all she said to Big were While you are making yourself useful take that busted harness to Mr Philo
* * *
Big climbed on the tall bay Agnes and went toward usefulness at a walk – just as I come down the ladder looking for my own day’s work. I waved at Big’s back and greeted the other creatures – a hulloa to the pigs and chickens, a scratch between the ears for Asa the ox – and submitted to my corncakes from Mrs Tab. I did not find Mr Job in the yard or barn, so I went into the homeplace.
Can you see the Stiles homeplace?
Two rooms, one sat on top of the other – the upper for sleeping, the lower for every other chore. A front door faced the lane but were never used – everyone known to call at the kitchen door in the back, which looked out on our barn. In our younger years Big and Cloe and I had slept in the homeplace with Mr Job and Mrs Tab. But as their natural children multiplied and Big took to the occasional night-fry, we migrated to our attic for propriety and comfort. Cloe slept in the homeplace still, as the governess of the seven little Stileses.
Job Jr age fourteen – John twelve – Jonah ten – Joseph called Joe eight – Josiah six – Jomes called Jom four – and little Joy two.
I found the entire regiment gathered in the downstairs for morning lessons. As I come into the kitchen door I saw Cloe’s back, and before her the seven little ones sat on three coffins laid out as pews.
We favored coffins for sitting on account of Mr Job’s work.
You will say it is morbid to have coffins for furniture.
It is only good sense.
The first hour of the day was set aside for a shouting-school. Their little hands would be set to chores but not before moral and mental improvement. Cloe were leading the seven through their alphabets by a memory game – they were to remember a Bible person for every letter.
J? said Cloe.
Six Jesuses and a babble from little Joy.
And what did Jesus do?
He made miracles, said Joe on behalf of the assembly.
K?
Seven silences.
Never mind K L?
La-za-russ, said the older young ones. Lab-ar-aaa, said the younger young ones, and a breath later Joy added zarss
And how did Lazarus do?
The sound of small brains churning. He died but Jesus woke up him said Job Jr. He got doctored added Josiah, thoughtful.
Good Now the letter M?
Meed! I yelled from the behind them.
You are not a Bible mister shrieked Jom.
Don’t stand there and watch Meed it makes me itch
Itch or no, Cloe went along with my fooling. And how does Mr Meed do?
* * *
Myself I mostly helped Mr Job with the coffins. You can live without a coffin but you cannot die without one – make it a coffin from Stiles and go in style.
I apologize for the Yankee peddler talk – it is a habit of enterprise.
Coffins is what kept the family fed and watered. In a shop at the back corner of the barn, Mr Job and I knocked together burying boxes and other small furnitures. You might startle to hear of a coffin called furniture but give it thought. A good coffin will do as a bench – a chest of linens – a sideboard if you stack two – a wardrobe if you turn it on end – it has even got rope handles for easy transport. The idea is keen thrift – you are expecting to be buried by 1850, or 1860 if you are careful of your health. Consider what a good coffin will cost in twenty years’ time. You can cinch yours at the 1837 price or swap us a shoat. You get a chiffoneer into the bargain. I never like to see a neighbor buried but better for them to ride in Stiles. We bring the box to you – fill it however you like.
As the school lesson moved from Meed to Nebuchadnezzar, Mr Job stuck his long goose’s neck into the kitchen door.
Hitch up Asa We have got deliveries
* * *
You ought to meet th
e monarchs of the manger.
Big loved Cloe most but he loved Agnes first. She were a tall bay mare, good hearted and headstrong. She were also a fiend for grooming. You never saw such vanity in a creature. Agnes would grab a brush in her nimble teeth and drop it at your feet. If you did not take the suggestion, she might bite after your ears until you heard her. Once, I swear, Agnes brought me silk ribbons in her teeth – she meant for me to tie them into her mane.
Another vanity – Agnes would not work beside another horse or mule. She did not care for the company of other creatures at all, apart from Asa.
Agnes were hardly the only one partial to Asa the ox. He were the most congenial citizen of Ohio, known and loved by folks in every corner of the city. I do not think it strange to say that Asa were my good friend. He had the heart of a four-legged dog, would follow you on chores and supply good company. Even the swing of his hindquarters had cheer in it.
* * *
Those hindquarters was particularly galvanized that morning, and we near to flew along even with a dozen coffins piled on the wagon. The bustle of Ohio city at day’s beginning. Hammers and hoes falling like birdsong – progress gnawing the very air. We swapped hulloas with neighbors as we gone, and a few loose dogs and day pigs chased along to greet Asa. We rolled past churches and jail and the steam-powered chair factory, which Mr Job held in disdain – coffins were good enough for sitting, and hands enough for working. Past the office block and the ARGUS news paper and rope walk and a dozen stores spilling their wares out onto the street like cracked eggs.
There is no quiet season for coffin work. Folks generally die when it suits them. You could make a burying box with confidence that it would find filling before long, and merchants on both sides of the river had standing orders for Stiles readymades on account of the fever season coming. With a Stiles readymade, all you want is nails mallet and shovel. I suppose you also want a deceased person and a preacher as well.
The latter items you have to find yourself. But you could fetch up the nails mallet and shovel and a thousand notions more from Handerson and Panderson, foremost merchants and our first delivery of the day. Asa hardly needed steering to take us to H and P – he knew from habit that a candy awaited him there. Asa were incorrigible on the question of sugar. There had been instances of his looking into private windows and doors if he sniffed sweets. Even as I hitched him up outside the merchants’, I saw a madman look in his great brown eyes.
As Mr Job untied the ropes around the boxes, I ducked into the cool darkness of the emporium – a man-made wilderness of merchandise. Barrels stuffed with tools and garlands strung with bedpans. Dressmakings and hats and cheeses hanging overhead between shelves groaning with bottles of I do not know what. You felt lost in all the possibility. From somewhere inside the thicket, I heard either Handerson or Panderson greet me.
HULLOA, SIR
It were a trick to tell their voices apart.
WE HAVE GOT A MILE OF NEW CALICOES BUG BANE CONGRESS WATER MILK OF ROSES A SCORE OF NEWYORK SHIRTS A GROSS OF GOOD CLAY PIPES
Telling Handerson from Panderson did not matter to anyone but their wives. They were two fleshes with a single mind.
BROADCLOTH LINEN AND WORSTED DRILLINGS WORKED COLLARS AND CAPES A CAREFULLY SELECTED ASSORTMENT OF FAMILY GROCERIES THE VERY BEST OF TEAS AND OLD JAVA COFFEE RAISINS
You can see their single mind had a single idea.
SHEETING AND SHIRTING VERY CHOICE CARPETS AND RUGS TOBACC—
This would go on if you did not bust in.
Coffins are here
Before my lips were still, a long thin arm – Handerson’s – shot out from a heap of bonnets, clutching a peppermint stick for Asa.
* * *
A memory told to me by Mr Job. As a boy Mr Philo Fish were a maniac for speed. He run through meals and run through chores and even run the words out of his mouth in a startled chirrup. Philo were at perpetual rebellion against standing still. He were not running away, but only preferred as much dispatch as he could get – in line with the national attitude. Why walk when you might run?
He raced that way through fifteen years until a horse dropped dead on top of him. The weight of the deceased broke Philo’s right leg up and down. No more running for a time. Bed rest did not suit Philo and he did not give his leg time to heal proper. It proved that the leg were weary of Philo’s huphup, and took gangrene rather than go back to running everywhere. It were deemed best that the boy and his leg part ways. At their farewell, the surgeon poured some whiskey over his implement and handed the jug to the boy for courage.
Philo drank down half of the jug and has been racing through them since.
He never much mourned the leg, which Pa Fish wanted to bury with Christian manners. Philo only said to give it to the night pigs and took up learning leatherwork. Ever since he has made a calling from rigging harnesses and saddles and every other notion that kept a horse or other creature in place. Folks knew better than to pity Philo for his lameness. He would spit on that.
* * *
Big and Agnes made a straight line to Mr Philo’s shop with the busted harness. Today were the day for rigging the whole world.
Hidy Phi
Mr Philo hidyed back by a froggy belch. Partly from whiskey and partly from nature, Philo lacked for parlor manners.
Mrs Tabitha would have this harness fixed up Big held the harness up like it were meat for the pot.
Philo were getting around on his one natural leg and a cane. He liked to save his false leg for formal occasions. By a tilt of his head he instructed Big to add the harness to a pile in the corner. Big done as he were told and turned back – meaning to ask Mr Philo to take him as an apprentice.
Instead he were struck in the chest with a pair of shoes.
Take those to the Dog and fetch me back the jugs he swapped me
I surely will, Phi
As Big slung the shoes over his neck, he engined his courage up some.
And I might say another word to you Phi
Big never wore hats on account of vanity of his hair, but he still reached up like he were removing an imaginary one out of respect. Agnes looked in from the open window as if to encourage Big’s asking.
Mr Fish
Philo had not been paying him any mind since throwing the shoes. He were taking a loud p___ into one of his empty jugs. After an awful long time Mr Philo finished with a ceremonial braraapgh and clomped back to his workbench.
What is it Big? Philo were still holding the jug of his own water.
Now my brother came unstuck— Mr Philo I have gottohavemoneytowedCloe I will work for it Have you gotworkforme? Teach me leatherwork Mr Philo You have known me since I were a tadpole Have you work for me?
Mr Philo set down the jug of p___ slow and scratched behind his ear.
I was wondering if you ever meant to hitch Cloe up
I mean to Phi I do To make a wife of her and a honest man of myself
Mind your wishes
Big twisted his lips around to grab the next words. Before he found any, Philo answered.
I haven’t got s___ for you to do
Big shrunk down some.
And if I did have s___, I would not give it You have got a higher purpose than to sit and fart all day, Big
* * *
It were no puzzle to tell Handerson from Panderson with your eyes. Handerson were as skinny as a foal’s legs and Panderson were just the opposite. It were round Panderson that came charging out of the emporium to direct Mr Job and me as we unloaded the order of coffins.
SET THEM ON END THERE LIKE THEY ARE STANDING UP TO GREET FOLKS IF YOU WOULD
As soon as we had one stood up, it were Handerson writing on it with a chalk – Panderson had vanished back into the thicket in pursuit of a customer. As Handerson bent from the waist to scrawl the price of FOUR DOLLARS on the coffin, he looked like a vast grasshopper
– even his green suitclothes encouraged the likeness.
Mr Job looked troubled by thoughts as we stood up the next coffin.
Handerson—
It were round Panderson back again somehow, puffing at a cigar.
—Panderson you have got your numbers wrong You are selling these for less than you paid for them
From inside a round cloud come THE READYMADE COFFINS IS ONLY TO LOOSEN UP POCKETBOOKS ONCE A MAN THINKS HE HAS A BARGAIN, HE LOSES HIS DISCERNMENT
Mr Job had a particular silence he took when he thought a person foolish. I could see him buttoning that silence on, plain as Panderson’s smoke. As we tied up the remaining load, Mr Job forgot his silence to hidy Miss Sarahjoseph gliding past, her feet hidden in skirts. She were the maid of Mr Clark, the richest man in Ohio.
Mr Job Mr Meed Mr Panderson— Each name came with a violent curtsy of the neck.
Back came Handerson, bowing in his grasshopper way, nearly putting his nose to the front of Sarahjoseph’s bonnet.
MA’AM ATYOURSERVICE MA’AM WE HAVE GOT MILES OF CALI—
Oh it is alright Mr Handerson I do not need the whole show I am only come for more brandied fruits Mr Clark is gustatory today
* * *
Big tied Mr Dog Dogstadter’s shoes together by the laces and hung them over his neck. Asking Philo was only practice. Only a puddingbrain would give up hunting after one poor miss. His next shot were ready at hand – Philo’s closest neighbor, Mr Ozias Basket the teamster. Big walked Agnes across the lane and hitched her at the rail, where she sniffed mule scent with disdain.
Inside the Basket barn, the mules added their jabbering to the stink. They was domiciled in long rows on each side, and as Big gone down the wide center, the creatures made loud hulloas. He found Mr Ozias in the very last stall.
