The Last Days of Dogtown

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

his tongue or paint a new flush over the roseate wreck of his face, he looked grizzled, old, and pasty. Once a welcome sight at public houses and bachelor quarters, he had become a whinnying parody of a preacher, smug and grim. After several unpleasant scenes, the town publicans decided that Stanwood’s presence was bad for trade and banned him outright.

Shut out of every other pub and tavern, Stanwood became a fixture in Easter Carter’s sparse parlor. She had few guests in winter, which made it easy enough to turn aside any tensions when Stanwood waxed odious. She re-filled the cups, told a joke, and steered the conversation away from the eternal fire that awaited the unrepentant.

As the short afternoon passed into the longest night of December, Stanwood sat with a mug of tea, nursing a cold.

Coughing into a filthy kerchief, breathing hoarsely through his mouth, he stared into the flames, uncharacteristically quiet.

Easter’s other guest that day was a shy sailor named Joseph, a British gob who called upon her whenever his ship made port in Gloucester, bypassing far more convenient pubs in town. “She puts me in mind of me mum,” he told his mates, who thought him mad to trek so far for cabbage and weak beer. For an extra dollar, Easter mended his stockings and washed his shirts.

Joseph was whittling and watching Stanwood suffer through another loud, racking coughing fit. “Hot rum is the best thing for the catarrh,” he said.

“I have sworn off strong drink,” Stanwood said, wiping his nose.

“Admirable,” Joseph said. “But for medicine, there’s

123

DOGTOWN FINAL PAGES 27/9/06 2:07 PM Page 124

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

nothing better to tame the cough. I knew a chap who broke his ribs coughing like that. The pain was something awful.”

Stanwood’s mouth watered at the idea of a dram of rum, which had always been his favorite spirit. He recalled the way it had warmed him, from tongue to belly, and the taste, sweet as smoke from a wood fire on a cold morning.

“Joseph is right, dearie,” Easter agreed. “It’s a good cure, ’specially with a little drop of honey in it. I got a little bit hidden away,” she said, “just in case I come down with something, but as I’m feeling fine, I’d be glad to put the hot poker in a cup for you. It makes the nicest toddy. Just for the cure of it, of course.”

Stanwood’s thirst sidled up to him like an old friend.

“Just for the cure,” he said.

As Easter poured, the smell penetrated Stanwood’s stuffed head. He smiled in relief and recognition as the heat intensified the scent, wafting it into his grateful eyes, which watered in anticipation. He took the warm cup between his hands and held his face over the steaming surface for a moment before taking the first, slow sip, paying reverent attention to the effect of the heat and alcohol as they opened his nose, soothed his raw throat, and eased the knot in his chest. After another sip, the dull headache he’d suffered for two months melted from his brow. He was home.

Stanwood beamed at his hostess as he drained the cup and held it out for more. “Easter,” he said. “Your name suits you. I am resurrected.”

Easter thought that was a good one and laughed as she emptied the bottle for him. Stanwood swallowed the second serving a little less carefully, smacked his lips and pressed his last quarter into her hand. “That deserves a chaser,” he

124

DOGTOWN FINAL PAGES 27/9/06 2:07 PM Page 125

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

said. “Bring on the beer, my good woman, though cider would do. I’m still parched.”

Easter poured, feeling only a little guilt for ending Stanwood’s dry spell. He was no treat drunk, but sober he’d been as bad as a swarm of fleas.

Stanwood’s head grew lighter by the moment and it occurred to him that the best thing about sobriety was the way it punched up the effect of a drink afterward. Three glasses of ale followed the rum, and Stanwood felt like a great weight had been lifted from his neck

“You all right now, Johnny?” Easter asked, watching his face regain its old glow. “That angel of yours won’t be angry, will she?”

“Don’t you meddle with that,” he snapped.

Easter shrugged. “I don’t mind, dearie. Not me.”

Stanwood stalked out in a hurry. Walking at a