The Last Days of Dogtown

Newell leaned forward and teased, “You got the

vision?”

“Dearie, I used to be so good at this, some of that stiff-necked lot accused me of being a witch.”

“A sweet thing like you?”

Easter saw a fellow across the table roll his eyes and realized that she was making a fool of herself. She rushed off to get his tea, red-faced and flustered.

“I think I’ll take my chances on the witchcraft.

Go ahead and tell me my fortune, won’t you, Mistress?”

Newell said.

“Just call me Easter.”

“Well then, Easter. Will you?”

“You got to drink it first.”

Newell gulped his tea and handed her the cup while a few men gathered to watch. Easter picked it up, eyed her audience with a mysterious twinkle, and swirled the dregs.

Covering the cup with a saucer, she flipped it over in a quick motion and set it on the counter.

“We got to let it settle,” Easter said, prolonging the drama. “Someone bring a lamp so I can get a good look.”

Lifting it off the saucer with a great flourish, she leaned forward to study what was left in the cup. “Hmmmm.”

Newell crossed his arms and smiled.

“I see you on a journey,” she said.

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

“That’s no mystery, Easter,” mocked a voice from the crowd. “He’s up here from Ipswich. He’ll be going home.”

“Let the woman talk,” Newell said.

Her nose was an inch above the rim. “You’re heading somewhere else soon. Someplace real steep. Up a mountain.

You are i

n a great hurry.”

“That couldn’t be this trip then, since the fellow’s been in here all afternoon.” It was Henry Riley, cutting up.

“Shhhh.”

“You’re climbing this steep hill, and there’s a . . . well, I’m not sure what it is. What is it you call them critters with the humps on the back?”

“A hunchback?” Riley said.

“Naw,” Easter shot back. “Like a horse but with bumps on ’em.”