She wants a large one on account of Mr Clark’s stoutness
* * *
I am not a doctor but I am generally expert with noticing. So I will wager an explanation for Mr Clark’s fatal rupture – the brandied fruits done for my brother. Many folks so stricken was known to eat brandied fruits soon before. You will not catch me eating any.
At hearing the news, I hoped that Mr Clark were faring better than Dives from the Bible. Too much richness takes a body past mending. We said some Christian words for Mr Clark’s soul, and somewhere in the sorrow Big vanished without a word.
* * *
After dinner, a peaceful hour around the fire – seven Stiles children studying their marbles – Mrs Tab and Cloe sewing intently – Mr Job reading from the Psalms All they that go down to dust shall bow before Him and none can keep alive his own soul – for me a chew and whittling – Big remained absent.
* * *
Just before I bedded down, Big finally come to the roost. His light were dimmed some with drink, though his mouth were burning bright. He were mourning the deceased, except the mourning seemed more to do with his own expectations than Mr Clark’s.
He unburdened himself of the entire saga of his day. At Dog’s, he had only told the happy part. But now he unfurled his entire beggar’s tour of Ohio city – his humbling – his hearing over and over that he were meant for better work – his brief triumph and sudden fall.
I allowed he had a worse day than all but Mr Clark.
I could not even ask Cloe to marry me during the hour I were marriageable
I did not speak my judgment that Cloe would not have found him any more marriageable. I only put the candle to sleep.
Straw rustling and the snoring of Asa and Agnes and other creatures below, and great fitful sighs from across the attic.
Little brother
It were no use to pretend sleep. Big would talk at a tree stump when the mood come on.
Big
Little brother did you hear what the Dog said today?
About putting a shoe in your ass
About I were only a spirit and not a man
He were just cussing you
What if he were sneaking truth in cusses? What if I am only a spirit? What if I am another Chapman?
* * *
We are not too starchy here. It takes a great deal to offend a westerner. But John Appleseed Chapman were past pardoning. He dressed in such rags that you could see through to his privates. His beard were matted up into felt. Even his gifts of apple seed seemed untoward. He wore a chamberpot on his head and I doubt he remembered the last time he went to bed sober.
Chapman visited us long ago, before any of Big’s feats, before the incident that put the spirit on him, before the west side had more than a few folks. Big and I were small. On account of Chapman’s reputation as the patron of orchards, the settlement of Cleveland put on a celebratory feed. Chapman did not eat a bite – only drank awful amounts. His very presence put an itch on you, like you were dressed in winter clothes at summer. The more we seen of Chapman the more we wanted shut of him. After he got too hospitable toward a young maid, some of the men encouraged him to move along. His scent stayed on for some days.
Chapman showed that a spirit of the times is not an incorruptible thing. Not hooped with iron. Not immune from rust or rodents. There were others like him. In Lorain, their Large Dutch had turned wild like a night pig – hollering in German about no one known what – robbing farmers. Near Hinckley folks feared to meet Feathers, in his gown made of buzzards – he stole children. Dick of Norwalk lived underwater and ate sailors. Stinking Squirrelcoat of the woods, et c.
Chapman and all those proved that spirits did have a tendency to go sideways – though Big were surely not as sideways as Chapman. The man had had a democratic use in his prime – spreading the hygienic drink of cider – but by the time of my encounter, he were all chewed up.
I had thought on Big’s question before he asked it that night. What kind of spirit were Big? When is a spirit’s work finished? What comes after?
* * *
It were only the third day of spring but the stoves at Dog’s grocery made an indoors summer. I were already dabbing at my brow before the preacher said a word. But fat Mr Clark did not mind the close air any on account of being dead. The undertaker had gone after him with powders and paint such that he looked like a Philadelphia actor.
I do not speak ill of the departed when I say Mr Clark had a vanity. He cared for clothes and niceties – even now he rode on a masterpiece of a coffin by Mr Job, oak polished to pearl. It were a shame to give it to the worms beneath the Monroe-street burying ground. The rich man were vain of attention too, and it carried on past dying. His will said to spread him out in a public place, but not a church, so folks could have refreshment, and better to keep women home. The will went on to say you ought to read the rest of me aloud for any that cared to hear in that same public place, before you even bury him.
You might recollect certain intemperances from Dog regarding Mr Clark – regarding the deceased having lard for a heart et c. They never was friends or on visiting terms, but Dog never missed a chance to draw custom. So he had offered up his grocery as the public place, and loyal Sarahjoe had draped the room with crepe beforehand, out of Mr Clark’s love of upholstery. It were a sight to see the grocery done up. Sarahjoe had even gone after the cats and tied mourning ribbons around their necks.
A burial wanted manners – wanted passing by the coffin under Dog’s wall of weapons with your head bare. Substantial folks from both sides of the river was in attendance – mayors Frawley of Ohio and Willey of Cleveland. Factory owners and landlords and merchants and every other man of means. They puffed at pipes and spat tobacco politely, while Dog spidered around pouring whiskey and cussing less than usual.
The reverence were not all on account of manners. Mr Clark’s will would include his bridge. It was expected that the bridge would become property of the public interest – though which public and which interest remained to be told.
Before the manners wore out, stout short Mayor Frawley stood up at the front of the grocery to read out the will. He had tobacco crusted at the corners of his mouth and looked already worse off for drink, but he and everyone else were accustomed to that. Frawley was an authentic and original leatherlunged jackass, and suited to his trade. After a short attempt at mourning, the mayor got down to the matter of interest.
My deeds to lots on the Cleveland side of the river to be sold at auction with proceeds donated to the Methodists
My deeds to lots on the Ohio side… proceeds donated to the Episcopals
My furniture and cut glass… proceeds donated to the Congregationalists
My wagons and livestock… proceeds donated to the Baptists
Impolite commentary were heard when proceeds from his silver and chinaware were donated to the Catholics, but Mr Clark had spread his bets impartially regarding on salvation. He had greased up every type of Christian. I were half surprised he had not set aside a chamberpot for the Mormons.
My home is donated to be an orphanage under the direction of Miss Sarahjoseph Fulk
My clothes to be cut up into garments for the orphans of said orphanage
This gone on and on. Poorhouse and public school and library and the militia company all come in for buttering. Mr Clark had considered everything down to his shoe buckles. As the recitation dragged, listeners murmured with boredom – cats chased after undone mourning ribbons.