The Last Days of Dogtown

Tammy screwed up her face. “Allen is making a loan?

That horse’s ass does nothing for nothing.”

“You’re right there,” Judy agreed. “I fixed him up with some spring tonic a little while back, and I’m calling in the favor. I figure I might get some of that famous butter out of you, in exchange for the ride.”

“Why should I give you anything?” said Tammy. “You won’t be going out of your way.”

“I could pass on by without stopping.”

“And what would people think of you when I tell ’em you left me here to starve?”

“How about if I take half a log of butter for doing you that favor?” Judy said.

Tammy thought Judy a ninny for asking so little, but she scowled to hide her satisfaction at the bargain.

Oliver rose early to gather enough reeds to make good on Judy’s lie, and for once he didn’t regret cutting short his morning with Polly. He was skittish about rolling over on her now that she was carrying a baby, though he barely slept for worrying. What if Tammy decided not to go into Gloucester? What if she had destroyed the will? What if he

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couldn’t find it? What if he did? And what kind of difference would it make, anyway? There was no way to get back what had been taken from him.

The mist was starting to burn off as Judy stopped at Tammy’s place. She was waiting, smoking a pipe and tapping her foot, with three full buckets ready to go. She had churned so much she’d had to wrap some of the butter in strips of yellow gingham instead of white linen, and she’d been rehearsing ways to insult the shopkeepers if they made any complaint about the difference.

As soon as the cart disappeared, Oliver stepped out of the woods and headed straight for the writing table. It was more cluttered and dustier than he remembered, piled with all sorts of rubbish: lengths of string and ribbon, buttons and nails, shells and bent spoons. The drawer was so full, it took him three tugs to get it open.

He sat down at the table with the drawer and set to removing the scraps and wrappers, reading every label and advertisement, and then laying each paper flat to make sure he missed nothing. Beneath the last yellowed slips of tissue, he found a small wooden box that rattled with promise but contained nothing but a dozen pale pebbles. On second look, Oliver realized that they were actually the brittle remains of Tammy’s teeth. A shiver passed through him as he remembered her bleating cries at John

Stanwood’s hand.

There was no will. He had been so certain that the desk would yield it up. He was wrong again. Polly would be better off married to anyone else—even Caleb Boynton.

Hating himself for thinking such a miserable thing, Oliver returned to the desk and kicked it as hard as he could,

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breaking one of its legs and toppling the whole thing onto its side. The back split apart, and he saw the piece of parchment stuck between two thin panels.

Oliver held his breath as he teased it, yellow and dried, out of its snug hiding place and unfolded the creases slowly, so the paper would not tear. The whole document was but two lines of writing.

This is to state that all of the Younger lands, including the house on Cherry Street to the

stream below and to the road above, as well as the pasture to the north and west as noted in town deed, are the sole property of Oliver

Younger, son of Daniel Younger. This to take effect 12 September 1818, sixteen years to the day after his birth, when he shall come into his inheritance.

[Signed] Daniel Younger and William Allen

27 June 1806

Oliver