The Last Days of Dogtown

“Missus?”

“Yes, Cornelius,” said Polly, eager for any word from him.

“I fear that David’s head is not right.”

Polly froze.

“There, on the top.” He pointed. “Like a melon, Missus, with a soft place. It’s not right. I’m so sorry. I didn’t do anything . . .”

“Oh, no,” said Polly, who felt her heart begin to beat again. “That’s just how babies are made. The soft part there closes over soon enough. Natt

y’s head was like that, but it’s hard as a nut now. See?” She made him put his hand on the older boy’s curls. “But I suppose it’s not something you know till you have a baby of your own.”

Cornelius nodded and Polly went silent, afraid she’d said something hurtful. Not that she had any hope of knowing the heart of this quiet shadow of a man. But she did know, and with complete certainty, that he treated her

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sons with the same affection and patience as Oliver or Judy.

And she knew that he was grateful for every small kindness he was shown.

Cornelius’s pain eased slowly, but his knee still throbbed and swelled whenever he put weight on it. “It’s the dog days, that’s what it is,” Easter said, when she stopped to pack his bandage with a foul-smelling concoction of pickled burdock leaves. “This is the worst time of year for healing, and that’s all there is to it. A few more weeks of rest will be the cure of you, and not even this heat can stop that. If you do as I say and keep off that peg of yours, you’ll be on your way soon enough.” Cornelius had little choice but to keep still and hope the old woman was right.

One day was much like the next, which made little events stand out: the late raspberries ripened and they all ate their fill. A few squashes added a tasteless but filling accompaniment to whatever leftover bits of cod or haddock Oliver brought home.

The weather cooled for a few days but then grew

unspeakably hot again, and even sweet-tempered Natty turned sullen. One afternoon, when his mother was occupied with the baby and Cornelius was dozing, the usually tractable little boy started to wail. “Judy. Where is my Judy?

I want my Judy!”

“Hush,” said Polly. “Your Judy is tending Mrs. Cook, who must be very ill, indeed, else she’d be here. She’s never been away from you so long, has she?”

Polly turned to Cornelius and explained, “Judy Rhines has been like a sister to me since Natty was born. He dotes on her but we haven’t seen her in so long, have we, Natty?

I’ll go call at the Cooks’ and have a good long chat with her,

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just as soon as I can get away from the house at last and from . . .” She stopped herself, and Cornelius realized that he was not the only one who dearly wished him fit enough to be on his way.

That night, Cornelius was unable to sleep. He was no longer disturbed by the dog’s snoring, or the baby’s night cries, or the murmured conversations and rustlings from Oliver and Polly’s bed. He had to get out of the Youngers’

house. Polly didn’t need another man to take care of, and Oliver had to be paying extra for what they were feeding him.

He’d leave in the morning. He’d make do with a cane and move back to Dogtown. He’d take over Judy Rhines’s place and be grateful for the peace and quiet of the woods.

He would get by scavenging and doing odd jobs, just as he had in the past.

While Cornelius lay on his back and planned, a bird burst into song in the damp night air. At first he thought there might be more than one bird, cawing, warbling, whistling, trilling, grunting, and cooing. After a while he realized that a single mockingbird was responsible for the medley of faultless imitations: robin, gull, and dove, wild turkey and crow, and then (was it possible?) a frog’s cheep, a cricket’s chirp, and what sounded like the short, husky bark of the Youngers’ ridiculous little dog.