She had another dream about being a large black dog, very much like the shaggy cur named Bear, who had been the pack’s leader when she first arrived. Had there been a successor anything like him, Ruth would never have been able to get as close to his descendants as she had.
Ruth had begun visiting the dogs in their high meadow two years after Henry Brimfield’s appearance on Cape Ann, which was also the last time Bear was seen. Ruth had kept her distance at first, no closer than fifty feet. She crept to within forty feet the next summer, twenty the following year, until she was close enough to stretch out her hand and touch them. Not that she ever did any such thing, nor did she make any sudden moves or speak a single word, thus proving herself trustworthy. Or at least tolerable.
Studying the dogs, she had learned how to live within herself entirely: to sit without expectation, to rest, eyes half-closed, and panting through the stifling heat, sniffing subtle changes in the air, succumbing to sleep when it came.
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The dogs were neither noisy nor silent, neither idle nor busy. They snored and sighed, coughed, scratched, and snapped at buzzing passersby. They stood and stretched, ambled to the bushes to lift a leg or crouch, returned to shade or tall grass to circle and settle again. They smelled one another lazily, chewed on the grass, lifted their chins to follow the motion of a bird or a scent on the wind. Ruth passed whole days among them, floating through time like it was warm water.
In the days after Easter’s departure, Ruth took note of the greening trees and began to look forward to the coming summer afternoons. But her anticipation was undercut with dread, too, for the pack was dwindling fast. When Ruth first arrived in Dogtown, there were nearly twenty-five dogs in the hills, living like a nearby but separate neighborhood, at peace with the people next door—a little standoffish, perhaps, but friendly enough. By the time Easter moved to Gloucester, there were no more than eight of them left, and those few were bony and mangy.
That spring, Ruth caught sight of the last breeding-age female, waddling and swollen with puppies, and hoped there might yet be a future for the pack. But the litter was stillborn and the mother lost too much blood in her labors and died as well. Ruth found little Brindle’s body in the woods a few weeks later, his ribs showing beneath his dull, dusty fur: she buried him where he lay.
In August she counted the last six dogs, sprawled in their sun-baked pasture overlooking the sea. Ruth turned at the sound of a rasping sigh, and watched as Brownie sank gently into death, as if the earth were welcoming his body home.
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Tan got to her feet immediately and padded to Brownie’s side, where she lay down with her head on her paws. Ruth knew that she was mourning her companion, though not in the manner of men and women, who make much of
themselves when death takes a loved one. Her sorrow seemed purely selfless by comparison. The other dogs made a show of shaking their coats and sneezing before they walked into the forest, leaving Tan to absorb her loss alone.
Ruth fetched a shovel so that she would not have to watch the crows pick Brownie’s body clean. Tan was still there when she returned but walked away when she started to dig a small oval hole, which hugged the curled-up corpse in a neat embrace.
The blue of the sea caught Ruth’s eye as she wiped the dirt from her hands, and she felt an involuntary shiver of pleasure at being alive. She was not quite one of the dogs, she thought, kneeling to arrange a cairn of stones on top of the freshly turned earth. It felt good to finish something properly, even if it was something as inconsequential as piling rocks over the bones of a wild dog.
As she bedded down that night, Ruth felt the dirt of the grave under her nails, and listened to the silence left by Easter’s absence, regretting again that she had not said a proper thank-you. She closed her eyes and summoned up her landlady’s impish face and wondered, though it had only been a few months, whether Easter still walked the earth. Ruth hated to think of that pleasant spirit trapped forever in a narrow wooden box.
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Had Ruth tried to find out, she would have discovered that there was no cause to worry about Easter: she had flourished from her first day at the tavern. Her fond smile could still melt the ice off a pump, and she knew how to make the dullest fellow feel so clever, he’d order another draught just to remain close to the glow of her attention.
Easter had a talent for making out a person’s mood, knowing when to comfort a lonesome traveler and when to back away from a black mood. She understood that most people needed only a semblance of interest, and that some men got downright testy if she paid too much attention, suspecting her of trying to catch them in a lie.
There were times that Easter missed being the
mistress—especially when Louisa Tuttle gave her the evil eye for pocketing a little bonus from some grateful fellow. But all in all, she was as happy as she’d been in twenty years.
Easter was a favorite with the regulars, who loved her stories and jokes. And she had many pets among the sailors and merchants and farmers, with a soft spot for handsome faces. When the greenest eyes she’d ever seen stopped at her counter, she fluttered right over to see what he’d drink.
His name was Robert Newell, and a fetching lock of brown hair curled over his wide forehead. He had nice manners, matched her smile for smile, and made Easter giggle like a girl.
Newell told her that he was a chandler from Ipswich with business in the harbor and an elderly relative on Cape Ann. After he finished his ale, he announced, “I’d better be going. My auntie is waiting supper for me.”
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“Too bad,” said Easter, who had forgotten herself completely and laid her weathered hand on top of his.
“Well, I wouldn’t say no to a cup of tea before facing that wind.”
“Will you be wanting me to tell you your fortune?” she purred.
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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“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.”
“A camel?” said Newell.
“That’s it.”
“What’s that supposed to mean? Is that a good sign or a bad one?”
Easter shrugged. “Couldn’t say. I’m just telling you what I see.”
“Camels come from Africa,” said a smooth-faced young sailor. “You headed to Africa, mister?”
Newell smiled and shook his head. “No, but I do
have to head up to my auntie’s house, or my supper will be burned. Thank you for a most diverting afternoon, Mistress Easter,” he said and pressed a coin into her hands as he rose. “I’ll keep a good eye out for camels, though.”
Everyone laughed at that, including Easter. But Riley wouldn’t leave it alone. “Now, Easter,” he wheedled. “If you
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see an elephant in my tea leaves, does it mean I’m going to India? Or that I’m going to need the outhouse in a big way.”
Easter smiled into his face and silently wished him a painful bout of constipation.
When Newell returned six months later with the
unlikely report that he’d seen a camel during an unexpected trip to Quebec City, the story brought a fresh crop of men and even a few women to the tavern, seeking clues to the future. Easter brewed a great deal of tea, laid out cards, and hung straight pins on strings over big bellies, too. No one seemed to mind how rarely she was right in her predictions about business deals, or luck in love, or whether the baby turned out to be a he or she. Easter tried to tell people what they wanted to hear and never hurt a soul with any of her prophecies. With the extra income, she ordered three dresses in bright colors from Polly Younger, and a new cap of fine green batiste, which topped off her smiling face with a rakish flourish that would have looked foolish on anyone but Easter.
Judy Rhines took great satisfaction in seeing the apples return to her friend’s cheeks and the dimples to her hands.
She would stop in at Easter’s rooms in the mornings for tea and conversation, though there were times she grew impatient with Easter’s endless reminiscence about the old days in Dogtown. After Easter spent a solid hour chewing over Cornelius Finson’s fate and fortunes, Judy let a good week pass before visiting again. But when Tammy Younger died, which happened almost a year to the day after Easter
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moved to Gloucester, they attended her funeral arm in arm.
It was Mrs. Pulcifer who had discovered the body. That bony busybody had been making her way home after a long, gossipy tea with Betsy Hodgkins down the road from the Younger place. She heard the lowing of a cow in desperate need of milking and followed the pitiful sound to Tammy’s place. Peeking through the open window, she’d gotten what she called “the shockingest sight of my life.”
Tammy was seated at her table, facedown in a bowl of moldering stew. She must have been lying there for a few days at least. Mice had been in and out, nibbling what was left on the plate and chewing the old woman’s hair. From the look of the round, bloody bites out of her hands and on the back of her neck, some crows must have hopped through the window, too.
“If I didn’t have my grandmother’s constitution,” said Mrs. Pulcifer, taking a third glass of cordial from Oliver, “I would have fainted right on the spot. The smell was the worst part of it. Any other lady would have fallen into a faint.”
Polly Younger argued against having any sort of funeral for Tammy. But Oliver gave in to Mrs. Pulcifer’s fuss about laying her to rest with some dignity after the “shameful”
way she’d been “abandoned” to die.
Oliver agreed to pay for the coffin and bought a better class of spirits than any of them were used to. The day he learned of Tammy’s death, Oliver sold the house and lands to Nathaniel Babson for enough money to buy a share in Everett Mansfield’s store, add two rooms to his house, and buy Polly an extravagant bolt of blue cotton he knew she was pining for.
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Pouring the liquor made it easier for him to be in that house. He liked people thinking of him as a spendthrift if only to prove that he was an entirely different sort of Younger than his awful aunt. A dozen people were gathered around Tammy’s wooden table for the funeral tea: Oliver and Polly were there with their three boys—baby Isaac having only recently joined the family; Easter Carter and Judy Rhines helped to serve and clear. Mrs. Pulcifer wouldn’t have missed it for the world, of course. Finally, there were John and Betsy Hodgkins, who brought their balky nine-year-old twins.
There wasn’t much conversation beyond small talk about the weather and the newspaper that had begun publishing in Gloucester. Even those paltry exchanges ebbed into silence quickly and Judy noticed that everyone, even the children, was staring into their cups or mugs, wondering how long before they would be released.
“The service was just awful,” Mrs. Pulcifer said, as she had several times that afternoon. At the cemetery, the pastor had read a single psalm over the casket, remanded dust to dust, and left it at that. “It was an insult to the dead. I’ve a mind to say something to that Reverend Lionel.”
“For goodness sake, Hester,” Easter said. “It was Tammy Younger, after all. Did you expect the man to lie about her with a Bible in his hands?”
Judy Rhines decided it was time to leave. She’d felt poorly all day, somehow overwrought and sleepy at the same time. She was there only because Oliver had come right out and begged her to help him “muddle through the day.”
She hadn’t seen Tammy since the day she helped Oliver retrieve his birthright; she counted back and discovered that
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it had been eight years. Judy probably hated Tammy Younger as much as Polly or anyone else on Cape Ann, not that she could explain what riled her so deeply. Not even her dreadful treatment of Oliver explained the way that Judy had wanted to beat her with a hot poker. Attending her funeral seemed a way to make amends for those unspeakable feelings, but it also made her feel like the worst sort of hypocrite.
Judy wanted only to be back in her room, where she could drink tea and finish her book; an American novel this time, about a colonial maid who loses her British fiancé to the sea and finds herself in love with a noble-minded savage.
“We’re all pegging out, eh, Judy Rhines?” asked Easter, taking her friend’s bitten lip as a sign of sadness. “There’s so few of us left from Dogtown days.”
“I’m ready to go home,” Judy said.
Easter had wanted to ask Judy to accompany her into Dogtown; she’d wanted to take a look at her house—and Ruth. But she could see that Judy was determined, and she didn’t want to go by herself. “I’ll walk back with you, then.”
Overhearing them, the wine-fuddled Pulcifer trilled,
“But no one’s so much as raised a glass to Tammy Younger.
Someone should say something. Wooon’t be proper.”
Hodgkins, who had drunk the most, raised his glass.
“I’ll do it. Here’s to the sorry end of that old bitch and baggage. The last witch of Dogtown.”
“Now, John,” Betsy sniffed. “No need to speak ill of the dead.”
“You were whistling a different tune last night,” he shot back.
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Betsy Hodgkins was a sharp-elbowed woman, greatly
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relieved to be rid of her notorious neighbor, whose proximity had always seemed an insult. Her whole life, she’d dismissed all talk of witchcraft as so much stuff and nonsense. But the night before the funeral, when Hodgkins had brought her coffin into the kitchen for a quick coat of wax, Betsy had gotten a strange chill up her back. Such skittishness wasn’t like her; her husband had brought many coffins indoors without any effect on her.
But then, both of the twins had startled up in bed with nightmares, screaming and sweating so that she’d had to slap them before they recognized their own mother. After that, she dropped her favorite china teacup with the hand-painted yellow rose on the bottom. What finally unnerved her was the heavy thud of a bird flinging itself against the kitchen window, again and again. She made John go outside with a broom to chase it off and when he returned, ordered, “Get that thing of evil out of my house.”
“Don’t be a fool,” he snapped. “I need to wax the top and I’ll be done.”
Betsy folded her arms and clamped her mouth so that her lips disappeared—a portent of a long sulk—so he put his coat back on and took the coffin back to the barn, where he consoled himself with a long pull from a hidden bottle.
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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