by Ed Rehkopf
Hattie in her arms, sang soft lullabies to her and delighted in making the little smocks and dresses that were so becoming to her. How would poor Martha bear the shock? With this heavy thought, George collected himself, stood, and with a dazed, though manly, purpose went to his wife.
In many ways it is a blessing to be a man during such tragedies. Arrangements must be made, details attended to, women comforted, and these duties mercifully distract a man from his own grief. Many a husband, father, and son has literally buried himself in these duties, showing little or no outward emotion, becoming what is commonly called a "pillar of strength". Yet men must pay the same exacting price and their grief is merely postponed and channeled to other outlets. So it was with George Stanford.
The next days were busy ones. Hattie's body was removed to the mortuary that afternoon. Telegrams, carrying the tragic news to relatives, were dispatched. George met with John Handel, the mortician, to make funeral arrangements and with the Reverend Mr. Michaels, the Methodist minister. Services and arrangements were announced. Most difficult for George was the uncomfortable task of receiving condolences. In the midst of all the preparation, he was sometimes able to bury the painful thoughts of his loss, but the well-meaning sympathy from others was a constant and painful reminder. Yet even this was easier for him than the task of dealing with his wife.
The shock of Hattie's death left Martha nearly insane with grief. She was heavily sedated by Dr. Benton and was constantly attended by an ever-changing parade of women from the church. Though he knew most of these women, George, in his own preoccupation, didn't recognize many of them, yet he mumbled his faint and inarticulate gratitude whenever he passed one in the hall. He tried as best he could to help his wife, but she either lay trance-like on her bed or suffered renewed outbursts of hysteria. The kind and elderly Dr. Benton confided to George that he was quite concerned about Martha. Such overwhelming blows to a person's senses could sometimes leave them unalterably mad. But George hardly heard, much less understood. His own mind was itself so badly battered.
Three days after her passing, Hattie was laid to rest. It was a clear and bright spring day, ironic in contrast to the mood of those who gathered under the old trees of the Grandview Cemetery. Reverend Michaels spoke of unity in Christ and the divine plan which was so often incomprehensible to man. His simple message was eloquent and fitting. A light breeze rippled through the flowers surrounding the casket. A lone bird cried overhead. Ladies with hats and veils shading their faces sobbed softly while men stood bareheaded in stony silence.
When the little coffin was lowered into the ground, Martha shrieked suddenly and collapsed. George caught her and helped her to a chair. Friends wept openly and without shame at this pathetic sight. Reverend Michaels attempted to speak some words of comfort to Mrs. Stanford, but in her grief she could not be comforted. George bowed stiffly to the minister and shook his hand.
When Martha was able, George guided her to the waiting carriage, climbed into the seat beside her and signaled to the driver. The horses started and the wheels grated on the graveled drive. The crowd of mourners began to dry their eyes and quietly disperse in small groups. When the last of the mourners was out of sight, two laborers who had been waiting at a respectable distance came with shovels and began to fill the hole.
The weeks that followed the funeral were pure hell for Martha. Sleep was impossible. She refused the well-intentioned consolation of the ladies of the congregation. She refused even the Reverend Mr. Michaels. Instead, she lay in bed day and night. The food that was brought her was left, more often than not, cold and untouched. No matter what she did, the inescapable fact of Hattie's death consumed her. Each day, every aspect of her altered life screamed an awful reminder to her. In every part of her existence there was a painful absence. Not even in sleep could she escape the memories that ravaged her consciousness. The hurt was a gnawing hollowness without definition, without location. It was unrelenting in its intensity and merciless in penetrating every moment of her life. Nowhere could she escape; nowhere could she hide.
And indeed, she looked like a fugitive. Pale, gaunt, with dark circles beneath eyes red from unceasing tears, she lost twenty pounds from lack of appetite and lines like crevices radiated from the corners of her eyes across a face grown prematurely old.
George was alarmed by the rapid deterioration of his wife and sought the advice and reassurance of Dr. Benton. The good doctor, for his part, was also disturbed. He had seen many people react to tragedy in his long career. No two were alike, yet there were certain generalities he could draw from his experience. Martha Stanford, though, seemed well outside the norm. Yet, if there was one hallmark of the doctor, it was his unbounded optimism, his longstanding faith in the recuperative powers of the human body and spirit. Time would heal all. So he prescribed rest and mild sedation.
George, in his own feeble and ineffectual way, tried to help his wife, but rather than finding a sympathetic soul anxious to share the meager consolation of their mutual loss, Martha displayed a cold and undisguised hatred for her husband as if somehow he were responsible for the tragedy. This rejection hit George at a time when he most needed the sympathy and help of his wife. He recoiled sadly from this rebuff, a confused and broken man. What shred of stability he had maintained since Hattie's passing was swept away.
Though none that knew George suspected, it was from this time that his decline began. It didn't happen suddenly and so was not noticeable. Those who saw him every day sensed a withdrawal, but did not think it unusual or unexpected after his loss. He went about his business and maintained his routine, so it was to all a terrible shock when not six weeks after Hattie's passing, George Stanford was found hanging by a cord in his study.
This further tragedy struck the town hard and little else was talked about for days until Martha went East in the company of an aunt from St. Louis who had come to take her home. By the time she left even Dr. Benton thought there was little hope of recovery from the madness that had overtaken her.
The following week two laborers drove a wagon into Grandview Cemetery. In the wagon was the stone George Stanford had ordered for his daughter's grave the week after the funeral. The wagon stopped briefly at the caretaker's cottage and then proceeded down one of the narrow dirt lanes.
The mound of dirt that had previously marked the grave had settled from the unusual rains that had fallen in early May and a thin growth of new-green grass was beginning to cover the spot. The driver of the wagon pulled on the reins to halt the stoop-headed horse and set the brake. The two men jumped down and went around to the rear of the wagon. One rolled up his sleeves and hitched his trousers while the other dropped the tailgate. They both knew that this would be easy work. The small stone was easily lifted by one man. Since the day was fine and the work light, both men were in good spirits.
They lifted out their shovels and began to prepare the site. The stone sat in the wagon wrapped in burlap and tied with a rope to protect it from damage in transit and placement. The laborers were also superstitious. They believed it bad luck to see the stone's inscription. Later that day, Mr. Sparlino, the stone cutter would drive out, check their work and uncover the marker. When all was just right, he would send a formal and solemn little card to the bereaved announcing that the monument to the memory of their dearly beloved had been erected and was now awaiting inspection.
Within an hour of unhurried labor the two men had prepared the hole and set the stone. The marker was small and light and their unspoken assumption was that it was to mark the grave of a child. Rarely, though, would these men speculate aloud about a grave or its inhabitant. They preferred instead to keep their conversation light and so talked mainly about their acquaintances and the doings in town. At half past eleven they threw their shovels into the wagon, hitched the gate and climbed up onto the seat. With a flick of the reins, the wagon lurched forward, turned a wide circle and began toward town.
&nbs
p; After lunch, Mr. Sparlino came out to check the work of his two men. With some difficulty he found Artis Johnson, the old caretaker, who was trimming hedges on the far side of the cemetery. But once found, Artis led Mr. Sparlino quickly to the site. Together they inspected the grave and discussed the necessity of certain minor improvements.
Mr. Sparlino's success against his only competitor, Rubino and Sons, lay in this attention to detail. When his customers came to inspect a monument, everything at the grave site had to be just so. For this edge, he regularly tipped Artis and expected certain things in return.
Artis went off to fetch a rake. Mr. Sparlino took out his pocketknife, cut away the ropes and carefully unwrapped the stone. He stood back to admire his handiwork. It was well executed, but certainly a strange little stone. No larger than a piece of curbing, the plain white marble was inscribed simply with the words, "Little Hattie Sleeps". He stared at it for a moment, lost in thought. In a final gesture of puzzlement, he shrugged his shoulders and turned to look for Artis.
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