by Mic Roland
“You’ve been trying so hard to be the brave pioneer woman through all this,” he said tenderly. “All stoic and strong, keeping your household running. We’ll need that bravery if things keep going like they are, but for right now, it’s okay to not be so brave.”
She buried her face in his shoulder again and resumed sobbing. He held her tight, happy (if that is the word for it) to be needed by her.
He stood with her for a long time, until she seemed all cried out. She pulled back slowly, sniffing long wet snuffles. Martin pulled a paper towel from his pocket. It took several blows to clear her nose up.
“What now?” She wiped her eyes with her sleeve.
“I’m going to ride up to Town Hall and ask. Why don’t you three girls get Ruby cleaned up. Maybe put her in her favorite outfit. You know, that light green pantsuit that you said made her look like a dinner mint?”
Margaret chuckled at the memory, but started to well up again. She shook it off. “Yeah. She always did like that pantsuit.”
Margaret slowly opened the bedroom door. Judy and Susan stood in the hallway. “We need to get Ruby cleaned up,” she said to them. “Judy, would you bring in one of the pots of water? Susan, please bring in the soap and cloths.” Both went to their tasks.
“I’ll be okay now, Martin. You should get up to Town Hall.”
Martin started to walk past her, but she snatched him in a sudden tight hug. “Thank you,” she whispered. She kissed his ear.
It was early to be expecting anyone to be at Town Hall. Martin knocked at the doors. He peered between cupped hands to see if there was any movement inside. There was. The town clerk scuffed up to the door in her slippers and bathrobe.
“What brings you here so early?” she asked. From Martin’s curious look, she explained her appearance. “Been sleeping in my office. Got no heat at home, but they rigged up a wood stove in the basement. It ain’t Florida, but it’s better than my house.”
“Well, I was wondering…” Martin was reluctant to blurt out ‘what do you do with dead bodies?’ That sounded too crass. “I had someone in my home die last night.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. Was it someone close?”
“Not immediate family or anything: an older lady from our church. The thing is, what do we do now?”
“I see. Well, come on inside. Landers will be along shortly. He just went over to the school to check on the shelter people. Have a seat over here.”
Martin sat on the creaky wooden chair. The air inside Town Hall was a bit warmer than outside, but not by much. The smell of wood smoke was faint, but unmistakable. The clerk returned with a clipboard.
“This is our new death form.” She handed Martin the clipboard. “We’ve been having people fill this out. It’s not much for paperwork, but at least we’ll have a record of who died, when and where — if anyone is concerned about that later.” She scuffed back around the partition.
The form asked for the deceased’s full name, date of birth, and place of birth. Martin had to think hard. He never had much of a memory for such personal details. In his mind, he replayed some of Ruby’s stories. Belfast. That was it. She was a little girl in Belfast, Maine. He had no idea if she had actually been born there or not, but it was something. Date of birth? He had to resort to mental math. They celebrated her 80th birthday awhile back. Was it two years ago? Longer? He decided it was three years ago. Ruby was 83. Subtract that from this year and…
There. He had line one complete. Date of death and location were easy. Next of kin? That was not so easy. She had a daughter somewhere, but she seldom came to visit Ruby. When she did, it was usually to ask for money, which Ruby always gave her, even if it meant she had no grocery money for the week. Ruby was a sucker that way. Margaret would always take Ruby grocery shopping afterward, to make up for the shortfall. Martin had no idea where the daughter was. At least he knew her name: Crystal. He never heard her last name, but he thought she was married, or divorced or something. He wrote all he knew: Daughter: Crystal.
In the Cause of Death box, he wrote what he guessed was the cause. In the Remarks box, he added that she died peacefully in her sleep. If anyone in the future was trying to find out about Ruby, and read the form, it might be a comforting nugget to find.
The front doors clattered open. A rush of cold air swept down the wide corridor. “Simmons?” asked Landers. He was so bundled in coat, cap and scarf that only his voice betrayed his identity.
“Yeah. That’s me,” Martin stood.
“What are you up here for so early in the morning?”
“Well, we had someone die in our house last night.”
“Aww,” Landers sounded sincerely sad to hear the news. “That makes three new ones, counting yesterday’s. Was it someone close?”
“Maybe not all that close. She was an older lady, a member of our church. She needed someplace to stay because her building had no heat. We put her up in my daughter’s old bedroom. But what I came to ask was: what do we do now? What do we do with her body?”
Landers took off his cap and shook his head. “Not a lot we can do nowadays.”
“Do we dig a grave on our property and bury her there, take her somewhere? I’ve never had to deal with this before. I don’t know what to do.”
“Lessee,” Landers stroked his beard. “How long has she been dead?”
“We don’t know exactly: maybe six hours? She’s all stiff and stuck in the position she was sleeping in.”
“Yeah. Rigor mortis. You might want to get the body into a body bag. I’ve heard that dead bodies can start to ooze fluids after awhile. There won’t be any morticians doing their things, so it’s just the harsh physical reality now.”
“Okay, plastic bag, but then what?”
“Oh, well, after you’ve got the body ready for burial, bring it up to…”
“She,” Martin interrupted. “She’s a she, not an it.”
Landers smiled sympathetically. “Sorry, I meant to say her. Bring her up to the village cemetery on top of Stockman Hill. We have a grave already dug up there. Bring her up there whenever you’re ready. There won’t be anyone to perform any kind of service for her, so you’re on your own there. Oh, and bring your own shovels, too. Sorry to sound so cold about it all, but your lady is the eighth since this began. I’ve been around this barn a few times already. You understand.”
Martin nodded. He left the clipboard on the wooden counter. “Yeah. I understand. Thanks.” Martin pulled his stocking cap over his ears and pulled his collar up before opening the door.
“We have her cleaned up and dressed,” Margaret announced as Martin came through the door. He could see the puffy eyes of Susan and Judy. “It was a very hard thing to do, but they helped a lot. What did they say?”
“I guess they have graves already dug up in the cemetery. Landers said we could take her up there whenever we were ready.”
“Okay. We’ll get ourselves cleaned up and ready to go.”
While the women scrubbed their hands vigorously, as if death were a contagion, Martin brought up two heavy black trash bags from the garage. Ruby looked awkward, as if frozen while climbing a ladder: a dinner mint climbing a ladder. Martin pulled one bag down over her head and shoulders, though it kept snagging on her curled hand. The bottom bag slipped up to her waist much more quickly. With duct tape, he sealed the two bags together.
“What are you doing?” demanded Margaret.
“Landers said that bodies might start to ooze fluids and stuff. He said to put her in a body bag. All we have are trash bags.”
“We can’t bury Ruby like that! It looks like we’re taking her to the dump!”
Susan came along side Margaret and gasped. “What? You’re going to throw her away? That’s awful!”
“He said to put the body in plastic bags, so that’s what I did. I’m sorry it looks bad, but what else do we do?” Martin felt flustered for lack of a clear alternate plan to suggest.
“We have to do something else,” insisted Ma
rgaret. “That just won’t do. There’s no dignity in that.”
“What if we wrap her in a sheet?” Susan asked. “Kinda like a burial shroud. No one will see the plastic.”
Margaret’s face lit up at the idea. “I know just the one.” She trotted down the hall.
“I saw some silk flowers downstairs,” added Judy hesitantly.
“Oh, that’s good,” said Susan. “Can you find some pins too? We could pin them on.” Judy nodded and ran down the hallway.
“I just did what Landers said,” Martin apologized. “He said plastic bags.”
“I know, Martin.” Susan squeezed his arm. “You’re doing what you can. Let us get her a bit more dressed up for her final trip.”
Martin’s shoulders slumped. Final trip. How were they going to get Ruby up Stockman Hill to the cemetery? If trash bags set everyone off, he certainly could not suggest putting Ruby in the wheelbarrow, or tied to a pole between him and Dustin, like a deer.
“When you have her ready, let me know,” he said. “I have to go get the truck ready.”
Martin could not help but give a sad smile when he saw the ladies’ handiwork. Margaret had found a sheet from Lindsey’s childhood memories box. It had minty green ponies printed on it. It was the perfect color for Ruby. Susan and Judy had dressed up the tied-off ends of the sheet with light green ribbon. Near Ruby’s shoulder was a small bouquet of silk flowers and more light green ribbon.
“You guys did real good. That’s got some dignity,” he said. They carried her down to the truck in another sheet.
Dustin had cobbled together a bier of two-by-fours and a scrap of plywood. “I figure four of us can each carry an end to take her from the truck to the grave.” Dustin started to climb into the back of the truck.
“I want you to stay here, son,” said Martin. “I don’t want to leave the house empty. Are you three ladies up to carrying an end?” All three nodded solemnly. “Ruby isn’t heavy, son. We’ll be fine. Keep an eye out. Have one in the chamber and two magazines in your pocket. I don’t know how long we’ll be.” Dustin nodded with his head down.
Martin tried to balance a stately processional speed and his desire to not waste precious gasoline. He turned into the cemetery to see a gray minivan and an older Buick already parked on the narrow cemetery road. Two separate groups of people stood near the end of a long pile of dirt.
Martin tugged on the bier to get it halfway out of the pickup bed. He and Margaret took the front board-ends. Susan and Judy took the tail end. They walked carefully around the dirt pile, trying to keep the bier level, lest Ruby roll off onto the ground.
They stopped and stared. Before them stretched a long trench, six feet wide and maybe fifty feet long. The town had dug a mass grave with a backhoe, before the ground froze. It could accommodate dozens more dead.
Difficult Words
Martin climbed down into the trench. The sloping end-wall was where he guessed the eighth body had recently been buried. Number nine, Ruby, was probably supposed to go up next to that. With his shovel, he scooped out a hollow in the slope. He signaled to Margaret. She and Susan lowered the tied-up sheet into his arms. It still surprised him how little Ruby weighed. He settled her into the depression he had dug. He climbed out and stuck his shovel in the long dirt pile behind them.
“You should say a few words,” Margaret prompted.
Martin knew she would say that. He also knew she was right. He was no more a pastor than he was a doctor, but for his little household, he was all they had. During the drive to the cemetery, he tried to think of what to say. What does one say? He could remember attending graveside services at his parents’ funerals. He was young then, and not paying attention to what the men said.
He opened his Bible to no page in particular. He hoped that if he just started talking, the right words would flow. It was a stupid plan, and he knew it. But, it was all he had. They were grieving. That word triggered a memory.
“Paul told the Thessalonians not to grieve like the rest of men, who have no hope. For much of the world, death is seen as the ultimate end, and dismal one at that. Whether rich or poor, powerful or strong, everyone dies and that’s all there is. Paul said, in Romans, I think, that if we believed like that, we would be men most miserable.”
“But we’re not, because we have hope. Not a sort of wishing hope, like kids before Christmas, but the confident hope that someone will deliver on a promise. Jesus told his disciples, ‘I go to prepare a place for you. If I’ve prepared a place for you, I will come back and get you and you will live with me.’ “
“Ruby had that hope. She accepted Christ as her savior, before I was even born. She had seen Him work in her life all those years. She talked about the little miracles along the way. That gave her hope that He will keep his promise to her, that most important promise, to take her up to be with Him.”
“So, while we who are left still grieve, it should not be like the rest of men who have no hope. We, too, have the same promise, that He has Ruby with Him now. The end of this life is not really the end at all. For her, it is a new beginning. She has no more aches and pains, doesn’t have to take any more pills. She has a new body, and an eternal life.”
“We lay to rest here, her mortal shell. We will miss her…and all her stories about Maine…but, we who are also saved will see her again. We have His promise on that.”
Martin closed his Bible and looked at the rest of his group. All heads were bowed. Was there something else he was supposed to do? That was all he could think of. He turned and plucked his shovel from the pile of dirt. Someone had to be the first to drop dirt on the minty ponies. He guessed that it was his job to go first.
After his shovel full scattered on the sheet, Margaret took the other shovel and dropped a scoop of earth on Ruby. Susan asked for Martin’s shovel with her eyes and an outstretched hand. She added a scoop to the grave. Judy followed, eyes welled up.
Each took a turn shoveling the sandy clay until the last traces of the green and white sheet were gone. The three women stood back, as if the task was done, but Martin knew she had to be buried deeper than that. He put his back into it. He shoveled deep and threw hard, as if by physical work he could erase death itself.
After a while, Margaret touched his arm, startling him. “That’s enough,” she said gently. She pointed with her eyes. He had piled dirt high in the trench over Ruby. The excess was simply cascading down beside her into the open trench. He felt like he might have refilled the whole trench if she had not stopped him.
Martin’s arms dropped to his side. He was exhausted. With a hand still stiff in a shovel-grip, he reached inside his coat and pulled out the crude grave marker he made. On the five by eight inch scrap of pressure-treated wood, he had carved: ‘Ruby Gibson, a child of Maine and a child of God,’ and her dates. He stuck the little board in the fresh earth. He straightened up, adjusted his coat and turned to go.
“Um, excuse me?” came a voice behind him. It was a small woman. Points of white hair extended below her black furry cap. She looked as if she were struggling to frame her question. Martin waited. A graveside is no place for a rush.
“We don’t have a minster. Ours drove south to be with his family. I heard you… what you were saying over your…person. Would you please say a few words for us?”
Martin sank inside. He felt he had no strength left. He barely had enough words for Ruby, and he knew her. This was a total stranger. What words could he find for someone he never knew? The little lady in the furry hat had, despite her wrinkles, the same lost little girl look that Margaret had. He was too exhausted to resist.
“Okay,” he said. “Can you tell me something about your…”
“Husband. His name is…” she choked. “Eugene. How did yours die?” she asked conversationally. Martin guessed that she wanted to talk to someone…anyone.
“Oh…um…we think she had a stroke. Died quietly in her sleep.”
“That’s nice to hear. Many times, I wished Eugene could
have passed like that. He’s had a lung condition, you see, for the past couple years. They had him on a CPAP machine: increasing the oxygen level over the past few months. He got along pretty good with his machine: still doing things around the house. He called it his ‘filling station’.” She tried to chuckle, but the engine would not start.
“When the power went out, and the machine didn’t work, he said he would be okay. He tried not to move around much. You know, conserve his oxygen, but his breathing got more and more labored. Still, he said he would be okay.
“The past couple days, it was such hard work for him to breathe that he was sweating. I tried to make him as comfortable as I could: damp cloths on his forehead, fanning him. He kept telling me not to worry, saying he would be okay.”
