Several of us reconvened at Doctor Copeland’s place at nine o’clock in the morning. It was already warm. Jane Ann brought Shawn’s good clothes over. We dressed the corpse and placed it in the coffin and brought Shawn’s remains up to the church on a plain truck wagon from Allison’s livery, which the women had draped in some black bunting. Loren and several others fetched Britney and the little girl up from the Watling house to the church and the funeral got underway. Britney still appeared angry on top of being distraught. Jane Ann seemed to struggle with her briefly in the front pew. It was because Shawn’s coffin was closed, after all, I surmised. Loren and the other elders had decided that his wound was too terrible and would scare the children. They’d asked me to nail it shut and I did.
We townspeople had settled into the pews when all seventy-three adult members of the New Faith Church entered behind Brother Jobe. They filled in the remaining seats, and took places standing in the sides and rear when all the seats were occupied. I couldn’t remember when the church had ever been so full. It was strangely thrilling. Curiously, all the New Faith men stood on one side, and the women on the other. Of course, neither Wayne Karp nor any members of his bunch appeared. We in the choir took our places and began the funeral service with the hymn, “Awake, My Soul, and with the Sun,” also called the Doxology.
At the conclusion of the verses, Andrew Pendergast continued playing the hymn softly in the background on piano while Loren came into the pulpit in vestments that he rarely wore except at funerals, and gazed out over the congregation as if to the more distant scene beyond the doors, which were open to keep the air circulating.
“The death of a young man in the early summer of life, seemingly senseless, sudden, and violent, can test our faith. We’ve been tried over and over in recent years by violence and loss, by the crumbling of society’s touchstones, by illness, darkness, hardship, and even the wrath of the earth’s weather, out of our gleeful avarice. We elders remember our former lives and we have a lot to answer for. We regret what our lost riches have cost us, even while we miss them. Shawn’s brief life bridged these two worlds. By the time he came of age, the days of miracles were over. He assumed a role in our little society, and he went manfully into a life of hard work making the ground yield our bread and caring for his family. He was a generous member of our music circle and will be sorely missed there. There is no telling where another destiny might have led Shawn if this tragedy had not intervened. We’ll never know now, because his life was snatched away in a moment of reckless confusion.”
A wave of low murmur flowed through the congregants. More than one person coughed.
“We don’t know where this land and its people are tending. But we hope for an end to our losses, and we pray to be worthy of this beauty-filled, God-made world that we are still grateful to live in, for all our startling difficulties. Would that the Almighty might stop plucking our young away and reap us instead, the long-lived, who disgraced his world and led it down into weeds and ashes. But his design is not revealed to us and his will only known through our acts. Dear God, death reminds us of our true nature. While in your world we are in you. We are your servants. We thank you for your lessons and your mercy. We ask for your blessings upon the spirit of our friend and kinsman, Shawn Watling, as he enters into the light of your grace.”
Loren paused a long moment, then said, “We will continue at the cemetery. All are invited to follow along.”
Much bustling and bumping in the pews concealed the sound of Shawn’s child crying for her father as everybody moved for the doors. We pallbearers carried the coffin back out to the wagon. The people of Union Grove made a long procession behind the wagon to what had been the edge of town until the 1950s. By a strange irony, several of the houses built afterward, which had encroached on the cemetery for years and dishonored it with their graceless vinyl split-level facades, had been among the first disassembled by Wayne Karp and his crew for salvage, so the cemetery had regained some its original character as the place where the town met the rural landscape. And of course no cars were disturbing the peace of the late morning. Loren had gotten a crew together earlier in the morning to dig out the grave and set the straps for lowering the coffin. When we’d gotten the coffin off the wagon, Tom Allison drove the rig off and left the horses tied to the iron fence in the shade.
We in the choir took up our places behind Loren at the head of the grave. The New Faith people ended up in a crowd on one side and the Union Grove people on the other. Loren began the burial with a Psalm, number 100:
Make a joyful noise unto the Lord, all ye lands.
Serve the Lord with Gladness:
come before his presence with singing.
Know ye that the Lord he is God:
it is he that hath made us, and not we ourselves;
we are his people, and the sheep of his pasture.
Enter into his gates with thanksgiving,
and into his courts with praise:
be thankful unto him, and bless his name.
For the Lord is good; his mercy is everlasting;
and his truth endureth to all generations.
When Loren had concluded, Brother Jobe took a step forward from his people, cleared his throat in a demonstrative way, and began reciting another Psalm, number 1:
Blessed is the man that walketh not in the counsel of the ungodly,
nor standeth in the way of sinners,
nor sitteth in the seat of the scornful.
But his delight is in the law of the Lord;
and in his law doth he meditate day and night.
And he shall be like a tree planted by the rivers of water,
that bringeth forth his fruit in his season;
his leaf also shall not wither;
and whatsoever he doeth shall prosper.
The ungodly are not so:
but are like the chaff which the wind driveth away.
Therefore the ungodly shall not stand in the judgment,
nor sinners in the congregation of the righteous.
For the Lord knoweth the way of the righteous:
but the way of the ungodly shall perish.
There was more than a little coughing and chuffing among our townspeople as he concluded.
“Thank you, Brother Jobe,” Loren said, “for that interesting choice.”
“The hundredth there that you spoke. That’s on the cheerful side, given the circumstances. Wouldn’t you think?”
“I thought it might reflect the gratitude of we the living.”
“The Lord is busy judging, and by death do we know it.”
“I suppose so. Now, if you’ll permit us.”
Brother Jobe appeared to think better of saying more and stepped back among his people.
“Lord our God,” Loren said, “you are the source of life. In you we live and move. Keep us in life and death, in your love, and, by you grace, lead us to your kingdom through your Son, Jesus Christ, our Lord.”
“Amen,” the crowd said.
“Almighty God, look on this your servant, lying in great weakness, and comfort him with the promise of life everlasting, given in the resurrection of your Son, Jesus Christ, our Lord.”
“Amen.”
Loren turned and nodded to those of us in the choir behind him. We began the hymn named “Africa” by William Billings. It was not about the continent of Africa per se, or any of the doings within it, but it was a very beautiful hymn of the American Revolutionary period. It was a favorite of ours and one that Shawn himself had sung with us many times. His strong baritone was conspicuously absent.
Now shall my inward joy arise,
And burst into a song;
Almighty love inspires my heart,
And pleasure tunes my tongue.
There were five more verses. When we had concluded, out of nowhere, and much to our surprise, the New Faith people raised their voices in song, all seventy-three of them. The song they commenced was an ominous tune I had heard once or twice, c
alled “The Great Day.” It went like this:
I’ve a long time heard that there will be a judgment,
That there will be a judgment in that day,
Oh there will be a judgment in that day.
Oh, sinner, where will you stand in that day?
I’ve a long time heard that the sun will be darkened,
That the sun will be darkened in that day,
Oh the sun will be darkened in that day.
Oh, sinner, where will you stand in that day?
I’ve a long time heard that the moon will be bleeding,
That the moon will be bleeding in that day,
Oh the moon will be bleeding in that day.
Oh, sinner, where will you stand in that day?
The New Faith people sang the hymn in the shape note manner, all modal harmonies full of terror and dread and nasal harshness. It was an impressive display. Our people seemed cowed by it.
When they had concluded, we immediately sang “Shiloh” another hymn by Billings. As we laid down our last note, they answered with “Mortality” by Isaac Watts:
Death like an overflowing stream
Sweeps us away; our life’s a dream,
An empty tale, a morning flower,
Cut down and withered in an hour.
Loren glanced behind at us in the choir and gave a little shake of the head which we took to mean we should not answer with any more music. In this fraught interval of silence, Brother Jobe spoke out.
“Reverend, I’ve always thought the minor key better suited this sort of occasion,” he said. “I can’t help but remark on your employment of the major keys.”
“We sing to honor the beauty of God’s creation and the joy of the living who remain in it.”
“Funeral is a time of sadness.”
“I don’t think we need to be instructed on how to feel.”
“Didn’t mean any disrespect, Reverend. But D-major always puts me in mind of dancing, not burying the dead.”
Not a few of the other New Faith people seemed to titter at that, though they tried to hide their faces. Some of our people turned and began to walk away from the gravesite. Others gaped across the yawning grave in wonder at the newcomers. Britney glanced pleadingly at Loren.
“If you’ll excuse me, Brother Jobe,” Loren said, “we are burying our dead, and we’re doing it in our way.”
“Sorry. Go ahead.”
“Thank you.”
“I’ll just shut up now.”
“If you don’t, Brother Jobe,” Loren said, “I am liable to come over there and bust you in the mouth.”
Brother Jobe recoiled slightly, then lowered his head and did not utter another word. His people likewise looked down.
“Almighty Lord,” Loren said, “we commit the body of Shawn Watling to the peace of the grave. From dust you came, to dust you shall return. Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come, thy will be done on earth as in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread. Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us. Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. For thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory, for ever and ever. Amen.”
“Amen.”
At that, we laid Shawn into the comfort of his everlasting resting place and left the burying ground in silence.
FIFTEEN
In the days that followed Shawn Watling’s funeral, everyone made an effort to attend the needs of his widow and their daughter. There were no official safety nets in our little society, no more social services, no life insurance, nothing but the goodwill of neighbors. I went over twice: once with Todd Zucker, to get in stovewood for her, using his horse cart to bring maple cut from his dying sugar bush; the second time on my own, bringing five pounds of cornmeal from Einhorn’s store. It was eight o’clock in the evening when I came by, after working a full day on the cupola.
I could see Britney through a front window sitting in the broom shop, but she didn’t come to the door after I’d knocked twice, pretty loudly the second time, so I let myself inside and went to the shop.
“Excuse me for barging in,” I said.
She turned to me as if shaking off a reverie and leveled a gaze my way, as fierce as a kestrel. It was unnerving.
“Just checking to see if you’re okay?” I said.
“I’m okay,” she said, and she turned her gaze back down to her handiwork.
“How’s your little girl getting on?”
“She’s over to the Allisons,” Britney said with a sigh. The Allisons had an eight-year-old girl and a boy, six. Tom Allison operated the only livery in Union Grove in a time when most of us did not yet own our own horses or rigs. The family had a nice household untouched by personal tragedy, apart from Tom’s never again working as the vice president for administration of the Washington County Community College, which had closed its doors, and his wife Linda’s losing her graphic design business.
“The world seems to be burning up out there,” I said.
“It might as well,” Britney said.
I glanced down at my sandals, made by our cobbler, Charles Pettie, out of old automobile tire treads and leather straps.
“How are you doing for food?” I said.
“All right.”
“I brought you some meal.”
“Thank you.”
“Anything else you short of?”
“People have been very kind,” she said and put on a wan smile, as if speaking from inside a globe of loneliness. I knew what that place was like. Maybe I was projecting my feelings too much, but it was troubling to think what would happen now, with no one to care for her. Less than a week after her husband’s funeral, it seemed indecent to imagine who she might eventually pair up with, but that was the direction my mind went in and I couldn’t help it. There were few single men in our town. The absurd Heath Rucker. George Murdlow, the candlemaker, who never washed. Perry Talisker, who lived in a shack by the river and made bad corn whiskey and decorated the outside walls of his shack with the stinking pelts of beaver, otter, and raccoon. Buddy Haseltine, who was “slow” and helped out at Einhorn’s store in exchange for a cot in the storeroom. Wayne Karp’s tribe. Myself. We were the single men in town. What a sorry bunch we were, I thought. Yet I was shocked to imagine for a moment having a young woman such as Britney in my care, and then to take that a step further into the dark territory of conjugal relations. It was a fugitive thought but I was ashamed of myself. Her father, who did not survive the Mexican flu, had been younger than me when he passed on.
“Are you getting any meat?” I said.
“We could stand some.”
“Ben Deaver mentioned he would slaughter a kid for me. You like goat?”
“I’ll eat it,” she said.
“I’ll bring some by when I get it? You like smoked trout?”
Watching her sit in a beam of evening light, I couldn’t fail to notice how well formed she was. A troubled look came over her. She stood up and brushed bits of broom straw off her apron.
“They came around here,” she said.
“Excuse me? Who came around?”
“That New Faith preacher and some of their women.”
“A lot of damn nerve, after how he behaved at the funeral.”
“What I thought too.”
“What did they want?
“Trying to get me and Sarah to move over to the school.”
“They’re a weird bunch. Why would you consider that?” I said.
She shook her head. Then her features crumbled. She tripped forward into my arms, weeping. Her hair was full of the spice of fresh grass and childbearing. It made me a little dizzy in the heat. I held her until she was cried out. “You don’t have to put in with them,” I said. “You have this fine place here.”
“Maybe,” she said and drew away, pulling herself together. “But this making brooms and baskets won’t do all on our own. People have all they need of those things.”
“We
’re your people and we won’t let you go hungry,” I said.
“This being alone is something else,” she said and squeezed her eyes shut as if to keep more tears from coming out. But they did, of course.
SIXTEEN
I made the trip out to Bullock’s with Brother Jobe the following morning. They’d sent a young man over the night before to notify me to be ready. It was more like being issued instructions through a subaltern than being invited along on a social call, but I didn’t hassle the messenger about it. I went over to the old high school at nine o’clock in the morning, as instructed. The New Faithers were turning the old school bus garage into a barn with thirty stalls and had fenced off the adjacent baseball field into four paddocks. They had twenty-odd horses, several mules, and a big tan jackass, not counting that team of handsome blacks hitched to the Foley cart, and they seemed all set up for breeding operations now. A muscular chestnut stallion grazed in a separate paddock on the hillside beside the old school cafeteria.
“I see you like horses?” Brother Jobe said.
“I do.”
“There’s a lot to like there,” he said and bid me to climb aboard the rig. We took off at a trot.
It felt grand to sit high up behind that team and exhilarating to move so swiftly down the street, like the dream I had about the magic chair. He drove confidently. There was nothing I had yet seen that he was not confident about. The few people out on Main Street stopped to watch as we flew by. The temperature was rising, though, and he slowed the horses to a walk as soon as we got outside of town where there was no more need to show off, and the pavements got bad again. We passed the ruins of the Toyota dealership with its defunct lighting standards lording over a phantom inventory of sumac bushes where the Land Cruisers and Priuses used to sit parked in enticing ranks.
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