The Last Days of Dogtown

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

“Come on, old gal,” said one of the men, replacing his cap and pulling her arm through his. “We’re going to stand you for a toddy.”

Easter recounted all of this to Judy Rhines, who’d never seen her friend so downcast. “We went back to the tavern and I said, ‘Everyone raise a glass to the memory of—’ and damn me if I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know if I should call her John Woodman or Black Ruth. I just couldn’t stand for anyone to laugh at her.” Easter’s eyes brimmed over and she shook her head. “It wasn’t good, Judy Rhines. I tell you, it was the saddest send-off ever.”

“You were good to her,” Judy insisted.

“I didn’t do much.”

“She wasn’t alone at the end. You were a good friend and Ruth knew it, too. I’m certain of that.”

“Maybe,” said Easter, softly. “I suppose.”

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A Last Wish

The months following Ruth’s death were dry and

gray, a perpetual twilight unbroken by snow or

sun, and a great sadness settled in Cornelius. His head ached. He found it difficult to wake and slept the morning away, passing what was left of the short, cold days making brooms and then whittling scraps of wood into blocks like the ones he’d once seen the Younger boys play with. He did not go into town.

His only company was the tan dog. Though she spent most of her day outdoors and out of sight, she returned in the evening to eat what he fed her, and curl up near his feet.

Cornelius never spoke to the dog, mortified by the depth of his gratitude for her presence.

After three months without seeing him, Oliver decided he had to find out if Cornelius was dead or alive, and he left the shop early one afternoon to walk into Dogtown.

“I wondered how you were getting on without your tea,” Oliver said, only partly cheered to discover his worst fears unmet. The smell of wet dog and unwashed

clothes hung in the air. Wood shavings littered the floor of Judy’s once spotless floor, scattered plates with dried bits of food lay about, and a mound of peat crumbled by the hearth.

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

Cornelius shrugged and poked at the fire. He was thinner and grayer than the last time Oliver had seen him.

There was a decided stoop to his shoulders and something else was amiss, too, though he couldn’t quite put his hand on it. “I worry about you, old man,” he said, gently.

“No need,” Cornelius said, feeling that he’d been scolded.

“Polly sends her good wishes,” he lied, for she had no idea that he’d come. “And the boys, too. Nathaniel is the best student at mathematics. Mrs. Hammond says it’s a wonder the way he adds and figures. I put that to your teaching him. Remember?”

Cornelius said nothing.

“Maybe you don’t recall. While you were laid up, you said the numbers to him, and it seems like he picked ’em up.

David has started at the school, too. And I don’t know if you’ve seen Isaac yet, the baby. He’s a redhead, of all things, but Polly says her granddad had that coloring.”

Cornelius did not turn to face Oliver, who chatted on in the manner of an old friend. He carried on for as long as he could but finally stopped. Getting no response or acknowledgment, he gave up. “Well, I’ll be going. You will come down to the shop with some mallows, won’t you? I’ve got ladies clamoring for mallows already,” he said, and picking up one of the blocks piled on the table, added,

“I might be able to sell these for you, too.” He ran a finger over the carved images of dogs and birds. “Would it be all right if I take one for Isaac?”