The Last Days of Dogtown

Hodgkins’s rough toast put an end to the gathering.

Judy and Easter rushed away, refusing Oliver’s offer to drive them in his new wagon. “We’re not as old as all that,”

said Judy, squeezing his hand. “Besides, it’s turned into a lovely day.”

Oliver was the last one out and loaded the wagon with the few barrels of plates and pots that Polly decided she could use. When he climbed up into the rig, he handed

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Polly the reins and took the baby out of her arms. Within a month, Babson sent a crew to strip the house, leaving nothing but a cellar hole and some piles of trash, which burned before the first snow.

Cornelius Finson heard of Tammy’s death from the Widow Fletcher in Sandy Bay, where he’d stopped with a bucket of clams. She gave him a cup of weak tea, making it clear that he was to drink it standing in the kitchen while she got her change purse and talked about her aches and pains. As he was ready to go, she said, “With that Younger woman dead, you’re the last one left in Dogtown.”

Cornelius did not bother to contradict the old woman, who had forgotten about Ruth, who was still rattling around in Easter’s house. He seemed to be the only one who remembered that Ruth was still there.

She must be content with her solitude, he decided. As far as he knew, Ruth had not gone into Gloucester or Sandy Bay even once in the year since Easter left. But he’d noticed that the light-colored dog was living with her now. Seeing Tan tag after Ruth reminded Cornelius of Judy Rhines and her Greyling, though he’d never heard Ruth say a word to the dog, and the animal kept much more distance between them.

Cornelius had seen them from afar, and close up, too. In fact, he had walked near enough to Easter’s house, morning, midday, and evening, to give Ruth the oppor-tunity to speak to him. Once, he even saw her drawing back from the window as he passed. In the end, he thought it just

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as well. The last two Africans on Cape Ann had been in the same room on occasion over the years. They had nodded silent greetings on the road, but they had never spoken.

What would they say to each other after so many years? he wondered. He did not wish to be questioned by a virtual stranger, even if she was, in some way, a sister in the skin.

He imagined that she probably felt even less need to talk than he did.

Cornelius was not nearly as cut off from the world as Ruth. He continued to make his rounds, secretly

watching over the Younger family and Judy Rhines. He sold meat, fish, and berries to some of the up-country farmers’ wives and widows and he stopped in at Oliver’s store at least once every month to buy oil, cornmeal, and candles. He did his marketing late in the day, when the streets were nearly empty, since the morning he overheard a woman telling her little boy, “If you don’t do as you’re told, Black Neal over there is going to come to steal you from your bed and sell you to the devil.”

Cornelius was ready for winter when it hit, hard and cold. The house was snug, and his larder was stocked. He passed the days taking care of his own small needs and whittling. Every night before bed he stepped outside and sniffed for the smoke rising from Ruth’s chimney.

On the cold December evening when he smelled

nothing but winter, Cornelius hurried over to find her a few steps from the open door, with four dogs huddled against her shivering body. She might have been lying there the whole day or even since the night before, for all he knew.

The fire was long dead. The dogs had kept her from freezing.

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When Cornelius arrived, three of the hounds sprinted out, but Tan stayed where she was, growling softly as he crouched. He moved slowly and met the dog’s steady gaze to reassure her that he meant no harm.

“Ruth,” said Cornelius, gently.

Tan’s ears flattened back against her head.