The Last Days of Dogtown

The L A S T D AY S of D O G TOW N

and turn his back to her? Or would he reach for her as he used to?

It was seven years ago, on a bright April afternoon, that Cornelius had walked past her door with a couple of mallards over his shoulder.

Like everyone else on Cape Ann, Judy knew who

Cornelius was by sight. “You’ve had good luck,” Judy said.

Cornelius stopped. “Luck had no part in it.”

“You’re a fine hunter, then.”

“A better cook.”

She laughed at the thought. “That would be a matter of taste.”

“You got salt?”

She nodded.

“Fiddleheads?”

“A basketful,” said Judy. “Early ones, the best. I found a big stand down by the creek today.”

“Get some water, then,” and he added, “if you please.”

She brought him water, salt, and the basket of greens she’d planned to sell in town the following morning. Meanwhile, Cornelius had plucked and gutted the birds. He melted little bits of fat from under the skin, rolled the ducks in salt, and lay them on to fry, and then added every last one of the ’heads to the pan. Judy was put out at that; she wanted a needle and thread badly and that wild crop was to have paid for them. Nor did she much fancy tasting the mess simmer-ing in her pot. Still, she had to smile at the sight of the large man sniffing over her fire, and she set to making a pan of long rolls so there’d be something tolerable for supper.

But the duck turned out to be the best she’d ever eaten.

It was different from anything she’d ever put in her mouth,

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A N I T A D I A M A N T

more salted, and more . . . she searched for a word. More flavorish was the only way she could put it.

“How’d you learn this?”

“My mother, she showed me. Back home, they cook

this way.”

“Virginia?” asked Judy, remembering a story about how Cornelius’s mother had been bought from there.

His pressed his lips together for a moment, then said,

“Virginia ain’t home. My mother told me to never call that place home. She said my home is over in Africa, where she was born. She said we would go home after this life. She said not to fret about that.”

Judy hoped Cornelius was a Christian. It seemed

awfully unfair for his soul to be doomed to eternal misery considering how well he cooked. She had stopped going to First Parish to avoid hearing any more about burning pits and damnation.

“You’re lucky to remember your mother’s cooking,”