The Last Days of Dogtown (15 page)

After a moment of silence, his host slapped the table and doubled over in laughter. “You son-of-a-bitch!”

But the superior smirk on Stanwood’s lips remained fixed. “I am speaking the truth here,” he said.

There followed an uncomfortable scraping of chairs, clearing of throats, and draining of cups. “And then what?” someone prompted. “Did she come down and do what Mrs. Stanley does for you?”

Stanwood grabbed him by the collar and shook him. “I am talking about an angel of God, you codpiece,” he said. “That’s just the sort of blaspheming that’s going to send you to hell while I’m singing hymns with the saints.”

The fellow pulled free and joined the rest of the company, which had shuffled a retreat to the far corner of the room, peering at Stanwood and whispering like a bunch of schoolgirls.

On Sunday, he woke his wife and daughter early and hurried them into the church before they could finish their tea. They were the first to arrive and Mary had to pull him out of a front pew, which was reserved for wealthy parishioners. But Stanwood sat tall in his seat near the back, anxious to hear how the minister would serve up his redemption for the edification of the unfortunate sinners around him.

Reverend Hartshorn began his sermon in high dudgeon. “The miracle of this day is that all of you have not been snatched into hell since you awoke. It is only God’s hand keeping you from that awful place, and even more so that you sit here in the house of God, provoking Him by your sinful and wicked manner of attending His solemn worship.”

A shudder ran through the congregation, which recognized the tone and knew it was in for one of their pastor’s more violent perorations. “Consider the fearful dangers you face,” he warned, “the great furnace of wrath, a wide and bottomless pit full of the fire of wrath. You hang by the thinnest thread. Flames of divine wrath are flashing all around you, ready at every moment to singe that thread and burn it asunder.”

Hartshorn continued in this vein for a solid hour, painting pictures of a scalding future while the sanctuary grew steadily colder. Stanwood chewed his lip and crossed his arms and tried to follow the preacher’s thoughts, but his mind wandered and he was nearly dozing when he realized that Hartshorn was shouting, signaling the climax and conclusion of his address.

“Let every one of you who is still without Christ, you who hang over the pit of hell, whether old man or old woman, or middle-aged, or young people, or little children, listen to the loud call of God’s word. For a day of great favor to some will doubtless be a day of vengeance to others. Man’s heart will harden, and his guilt will increase apace if he neglects his soul. Never was there so great a danger.

“The wrath of Almighty God hangs over the greater part of this congregation. Let everyone fly out of Sodom: ‘Haste and escape for your lives, look not behind you, escape to the mountain, lest you be consumed.’”

The minister closed his book with a flourish, at which point Stanwood got to his feet, climbed over Mary, and marched up the center aisle. Every hat and bonnet turned to watch him fling the door open and slam it shut. And then, one hundred pairs of damning eyes turned upon Mary and Rachel, the mother white as a sheet, the daughter glowing crimson.

Stanwood strode out of the city and back to Dogtown, grumbling all the way, and did not stop until he reached the scene of his miracle. He stared up into the once-enchanted tree, now barren and bleak against the low-hanging winter sky.

“God damn me,” he muttered, and then clapped a hand over his mouth. If the Holy Spirit had come to him here, might not the place itself be sacred? He bowed low and then scurried to his cold Dogtown bed, where he covered his throbbing head with a blanket and tried to stifle his awful thirst.

Accounts of Stanwood’s misadventures with the clergy and his behavior in church traveled the length and breadth of Cape Ann quickly, delighting everyone except Mrs. Stanley, who saw her business fall off by more than half. Sally and Molly didn’t mind the slowdown. They spent their days together under the covers, looking at old newspapers, whispering, and occasionally asking Sammy to cook another pot of cornmeal mush.

Sammy had hardly slept and bit his fingernails to a bloody quick. He was certain that Stanwood would wake up one morning and realize that it had been no angel up in that tree. He jumped whenever Mrs. Stanley’s door opened, and was relieved as that happened less and less.

But after four straight days without a single guest, Mrs. Stanley told Sammy to seek out Mr. Stanwood. “Tell him I wish to see him,” she said, adding coolly, “Tell him nicely.”

Sammy went to town, but made no effort to find him. In fact, he’d been keeping a careful watch on Stanwood, who made daily visits to the tree where he’d been tricked into salvation. He approached on tiptoe, cringing with his hat in his hand. He never got any closer than about twenty feet, where he’d bow his head for a few moments and then slink off, glancing up over his shoulder as he went.

On the day Sammy made a pretense of running Mrs. Stanley’s errand, he went by Stanwood’s house and, hearing tapping from inside, crept around to the back window and felt his insides freeze. Stanwood was at the table, a chisel in his hand, working on a granite tablet that was precisely the size of a child’s headstone. Sammy ran all the way back home and pulled the blanket over his head, complaining of stomachache.

His fears were laid to rest the next day when he walked to Stanwood’s tree and noticed that a flat marker had been pounded nearby. Sammy smiled as he ran his finger across the inscription:

JMS
1819

Within a month of his angelic visitation, Stanwood had become a pariah in Gloucester. Without liquor to lubricate his tongue or paint a new flush over the roseate wreck of his face, he looked grizzled, old, and pasty. Once a welcome sight at public houses and bachelor quarters, he had become a whinnying parody of a preacher, smug and grim. After several unpleasant scenes, the town publicans decided that Stanwood’s presence was bad for trade and banned him outright.

Shut out of every other pub and tavern, Stanwood became a fixture in Easter Carter’s sparse parlor. She had few guests in winter, which made it easy enough to turn aside any tensions when Stanwood waxed odious. She refilled the cups, told a joke, and steered the conversation away from the eternal fire that awaited the unrepentant.

As the short afternoon passed into the longest night of December, Stanwood sat with a mug of tea, nursing a cold. Coughing into a filthy kerchief, breathing hoarsely through his mouth, he stared into the flames, uncharacteristically quiet.

Easter’s other guest that day was a shy sailor named Joseph, a British gob who called upon her whenever his ship made port in Gloucester, bypassing far more convenient pubs in town. “She puts me in mind of me mum,” he told his mates, who thought him mad to trek so far for cabbage and weak beer. For an extra dollar, Easter mended his stockings and washed his shirts.

Joseph was whittling and watching Stanwood suffer through another loud, racking coughing fit. “Hot rum is the best thing for the catarrh,” he said.

“I have sworn off strong drink,” Stanwood said, wiping his nose.

“Admirable,” Joseph said. “But for medicine, there’s nothing better to tame the cough. I knew a chap who broke his ribs coughing like that. The pain was something awful.”

Stanwood’s mouth watered at the idea of a dram of rum, which had always been his favorite spirit. He recalled the way it had warmed him, from tongue to belly, and the taste, sweet as smoke from a wood fire on a cold morning.

“Joseph is right, dearie,” Easter agreed. “It’s a good cure, ’specially with a little drop of honey in it. I got a little bit hidden away,” she said, “just in case I come down with something, but as I’m feeling fine, I’d be glad to put the hot poker in a cup for you. It makes the nicest toddy. Just for the cure of it, of course.”

Stanwood’s thirst sidled up to him like an old friend. “Just for the cure,” he said.

As Easter poured, the smell penetrated Stanwood’s stuffed head. He smiled in relief and recognition as the heat intensified the scent, wafting it into his grateful eyes, which watered in anticipation. He took the warm cup between his hands and held his face over the steaming surface for a moment before taking the first, slow sip, paying reverent attention to the effect of the heat and alcohol as they opened his nose, soothed his raw throat, and eased the knot in his chest. After another sip, the dull headache he’d suffered for two months melted from his brow. He was home.

Stanwood beamed at his hostess as he drained the cup and held it out for more. “Easter,” he said. “Your name suits you. I am resurrected.”

Easter thought that was a good one and laughed as she emptied the bottle for him. Stanwood swallowed the second serving a little less carefully, smacked his lips and pressed his last quarter into her hand. “That deserves a chaser,” he said. “Bring on the beer, my good woman, though cider would do. I’m still parched.”

Easter poured, feeling only a little guilt for ending Stanwood’s dry spell. He was no treat drunk, but sober he’d been as bad as a swarm of fleas.

Stanwood’s head grew lighter by the moment and it occurred to him that the best thing about sobriety was the way it punched up the effect of a drink afterward. Three glasses of ale followed the rum, and Stanwood felt like a great weight had been lifted from his neck

“You all right now, Johnny?” Easter asked, watching his face regain its old glow. “That angel of yours won’t be angry, will she?”

“Don’t you meddle with that,” he snapped.

Easter shrugged. “I don’t mind, dearie. Not me.”

Stanwood stalked out in a hurry. Walking at a brisk clip, he passed his own house and thought about the mess inside, frowning at the thought of having to fetch his wife back to clean it up. As he neared Mrs. Stanley’s house, he smiled and tipped his hat in the darkness but did not stop until he arrived at the foot of the tree where he’d had his vision. There was a crunch of frost underfoot, and the moon silvered the silent, bare branches. He listened hard for a minute, and then he unbuttoned his trousers and watered the tree. Giggling, he turned and ran over to piss on the marker he’d set out. Stanwood tucked himself, pulled himself up to his full height, cupped his hands around his mouth, and shouted, “I’ll be damned.”

Pleased with himself, he muttered, “I’ll be goddamned,” all the way back to Mrs. Stanley.

Although it wasn’t long past sunset, her windows were already dark. He cracked the door silently, planning to take his old friend by surprise. The only light came from a candle stub in Sammy’s corner beside the stove. The boy’s back was to the door. Stanwood stole across the room, thinking he’d give the boy a good fright first. But when he reached the bed, he saw what looked like a king’s ransom in coins laid out in rows on the blanket.

Stanwood put a hand over Sammy’s mouth and whispered, “What have we here?”

Sammy tried to get free, but Stanwood held him where he sat. He reeked of drink and sweat. “You’re a real little bastard, ain’t you? Holding out on your grandma like this.”

When Sammy tried to twist loose, Stanwood gripped him around the neck so tightly, he thought Stanwood meant to choke him. But he let go and swooped down and filled his pockets with every last cent it had taken him years to acquire.

Stanwood swayed a bit as he straightened and fixed Sammy with a menacing smile: he put a finger to his lips and ran his other thumb across his neck. Sammy nodded and Stanwood went into Mrs. Stanley’s room, where murmurs were heard, then laughter, then hurried rustlings, then silence.

Sammy’s limbs felt like lead. He stayed perfectly still until the familiar honk of Stanwood’s snore startled him into motion. He pulled on his boots and coat and ran all the way into Sandy Bay, straight to the home of Widow Linner, where he knew he’d find the door unbolted. Inside, he wrapped himself in the hearth rug and curled up before the fire.

When Margaret Linner found him the next morning, she didn’t know whether to shake him or kiss him. Her floor was tracked with mud but Sammy’s face was so angelic, she pulled up a chair and watched him sleep while her kettle boiled. When he woke up, he crept to her side and told her that John Stanwood had arrived at Mrs. Stanley’s house with a sailor who wanted to use Sammy as he used the girls. Sammy said that he’d put up a fight and escaped, but having no family to turn to, he’d hoped for refuge from the kindest woman he knew.