The Last Days of Dogtown Read online

  Despite all the changes life in town had made in her, she still favored great helpings of solitude. And yet, before she knew it, Judy was entirely accustomed to Harriet Plant’s expansive ways and captivated by her cooking. Indeed, within a few weeks, she was finding it difficult to fasten her dress at the waist.

  On her first full day in Gloucester, Harriet went to market, demanding that the shopkeepers let her taste everything before she bought. Then, with little more than butter, sugar, and flour, she tested the oven by baking a series of cakes and biscuits that brought tears to Judy’s eyes.

  Harriet turned a basket of eggs into an airy construction spiced with some green herbal concoction she’d brought with her, and she made a cold potato soup that was the most refreshing thing Judy had ever tasted. Harriet was delighted by her new friend’s keen appreciation and responded to her praises with precise and reverent descriptions of her methods.

  “No recipes?” Judy asked, amazed that Harriet arrived without books or cards.

  “No need,” she said and pointed to her head. “We’ll see what these Washington folks will ask for. I can cook mush, squeak, and dowdy as dull as anyone else this side of the

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  pond. My professor has been to Italy and France so I can cook as I please when it’s just him for dinner, and thank God for that. When he entertains, it’s nothing but charred beef and custard.”

  Judge Cook arrived several weeks before the rest of his family and spent his days at his desk, reading mail and receiving local acquaintances in the library. He met with Judy to review the books and noted, “Mrs. Plant seems quite a treasure. Well done.”

  After Judy returned from her interview with their employer, Harriet plied her with questions. “Now there’s a likely looking man. Is he good to you? Is he still in law?

  Will he remarry, do you think?”

  “I’m sure I don’t know what Joshua Cook has in mind,”

  said Judy. “I think it unlikely that he’ll marry again, though.”

  “Why’s that? He’s young enough, and easy on the eyes.

  Is he pining for his wife, then?”

  “Really, Harriet, I haven’t any idea. And I’m not entirely sure I approve of gossiping about the master of the house.”

  “Well then, what about you?” she said, brightly.

  “Me?”

  “I can ask if you’ve ever been married, can’t I?”

  Judy smiled in spite of herself. “No. I have not been married.”

  “Why not?” Harriet asked.

  “No dowry, no family, no prospects.”

  “Oh, tosh. You’ve a fine head on your shoulders, and a face that don’t curdle milk.”

  “Flatterer!” said Judy.

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  “I got me a husband, for a while at least. And you can see I’m no beauty!” Harriet said. “Maybe we should go see the fortune-teller at the tavern that I heard tell of; maybe she can see clear to finding you a husband.”

  Judy laughed at the idea. “If you’re talking about Easter Carter, she can’t see into the future any more than you or me.”

  “That’s not what I heard.”

  “Well, you heard a pack of nonsense,” Judy said, and told her about Easter’s real gifts, of their days together in Dogtown, and the odd assortment of neighbors they’d known and buried. “Now that we’re both in town, I can’t fathom why we stayed there as long as we did.”

  “It’s never easy to make a big change,” Harriet said.

  “Anyone left up there anymore?”

  “Just one, I believe.”

  “Which one?”

  “Cornelius Finson.”

  “You didn’t mention him.”

  “Didn’t I?” Judy said. “There’s not too much to tell, though he is the last African in these parts. He lives by his wits, trapping and hunting. Quite the hermit by now. He took over my old cottage, not that it was ever really mine.

  I just moved in when Ivy Perkins went to live with her sister in Lanesville, and no one ever told me to leave. I guess there’s still no claim on it if Cornelius is there.”

  Harriet smiled. “Sounds like a good story to me. Did he have a wife?”

  “No,” said Judy, firmly.

  Harriet perked up at the certainty in that answer. “You seem awful sure about that.”

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  “Well, I suppose I don’t know for certain,” said Judy, giving away nothing. “Is there anything you wish me to order for dinner tonight?”

  Harriet’s good-natured but persistent questioning about everything on Cape Ann ended with the arrival of the summer guests. The responsibility of running the house consumed Judy’s waking hours. She could hardly finish a sentence without interruption, as a hundred small details demanded her immediate attention.

  The children arose early, needing breakfast. Card games and conversation lasted late into the night, with calls for savories and cider. All day, the sea air sharpened city appetites so that the kitchen never stopped and Judy was pressed into service, helping organize seaside picnics, elaborate teas, and formal dinners.

  The young ones tracked sand everywhere, trampled flowers, spilled food, and filled the place with shrill shouts and giddy laughter. A nursemaid followed them from one adventure to the next, but Judy had to oversee the unending cleanup in their busy wake, while anticipating the needs of adults used to a much larger staff.

  She felt a great sense of satisfaction in keeping the linens fresh, the larder filled, and the guests fed. She basked in the Judge’s pride in his well-run house. In bed, she relived the day’s failings (not enough milk for the children’s supper) and triumphs (praise for the gardens). But on the August morning she found herself cutting late roses for the dinner table, she realized that she’d been cheated out of a whole

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  summer’s pleasures. She could not recall smelling the lilacs that year. She had not said much more than hello to Easter since June, nor visited with the Youngers. She had brought Polly in to do some mending, which at least got her up to date on the news about her little boys.

  Harriet found a fresh source for Dogtown stories in Polly, who obliged with old tales of witches, a detailed recitation about the terrible Tammy Younger, and the notorious Mrs. Stanley.

  “Doxies in Dogtown!” Harriet exclaimed. “Whatever happened to the boy?”

  “He goes by the name of Maskey now, and he built himself a fine house in the center of Sandy Bay,” Polly said.

  “He’s quite the model citizen, a church deacon. Have you seen him in his whiskers, Judy? And that ebony cane? He wears boots that give him an extra two inches, and they make him strut like a little rooster. He’s a bit of a laughing-stock, I’m afraid.

  “He hasn’t married, though he might have his pick.

  He’s an odd one,” said Polly. She glanced at Judy and said,

  “Some folks say he’s as strange as Cornelius Finson.”

  “What about that Cornelius fellow?” Harriet asked.

  “I’m simply fascinated by the Africans.”

  “He keeps to himself more than ever,” said Polly. “My Oliver worries about the poor man. We got to know him quite well a while back.” She told Harriet about how their dog found Cornelius lying on the road, and how Oliver had brought him to stay with them till he was well enough to go.

  “How extraordinary,” Harriet said, “taking a stranger into your home like that. My goodness.”

  “Cornelius wasn’t a stranger, really,” Polly said.

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  “Though he’s become one now. He hasn’t come into town for months and months. It’s become a kind of dare among the boys in town, to go hunting for a glimpse of the last man left in Dogtown.

  “I’ve always felt sorry for him,” said Polly. “I’m not sure I ever met anyone so lonesome.” She peeked at Judy’s face as she bit off a thread. “Don’t you feel sorry for him?”

  “Well, of course I do,” said Judy, and she got up to see that the table was laid out properly for dinner.

  August ended, the guests departed, and the house itself seemed to sigh with relief. The evening before the Judge left, he called Judy to the study and handed her an en-velope. “A token of my appreciation for a wonderful summer.” He rose and took her hand. “I hope that you will stay with us for years to come. For now, however, I want you to take your ease. We quite wore you out these past months. I order you to have a good rest, Mistress Rhines. It’s well deserved.”

  Harriet Plant departed in a shower of tearful kisses, having exacted a promise of regular correspondence from Judy. On the way to the coach, she pouted, “I don’t see why you won’t spend Christmas with me in Cambridge.”

  “Perhaps I will,” said Judy.

  When Judy returned to the empty house, she clapped her hands at the pleasure of having it all to herself again.

  She moved her clothes back upstairs to the high ceilings and windows she’d missed all summer, and then strolled through the quiet rooms, stopping in the library, where she

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  emptied the dregs of the Judge’s sherry into a crystal glass, put up her feet, and watched the sunset turn the harbor into a pink punch bowl. The great clock ticked while the gulls became black apostrophes against the line of one endless lavender cloud that stretched to the horizon.

  After a few more busy weeks—washing and mending, airing and folding—Judy paid off the maids and became a lady of leisure, just as the Judge had suggested. She lounged in bed until nine in the morning, drinking tea and reading novels. After lunch, she set to work, draping the furniture and closing up the drawing room, the dining room, and all the bedrooms save hers. As September ended, she had the gardener shutter the windows for winter. The darkened house saddened her a little, but it would save on dusting and preserve the carpets, she told herself. And as the days grew shorter and cooler, every week provided extra hours to read and rest and to imagine that this was the life she was meant for. As she drew a satin coverlet over her shoulders at night, her years in the rustic Dogtown cottage seemed like a detour or a bad dream.

  That same house had become Cornelius’s paramount blessing. His sorrowful mood had lifted with the lengthen-ing days, and he spent the summer cleaning and mending until the place was back in good order. He lived more quietly than ever, eating the small game he caught and harvesting the volunteer beans and squash that grew in the abandoned kitchen gardens of Dogtown.

  Oliver had brought him a good price for the pile of

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  wooden blocks that had kept him from cutting his own wrists. Cornelius had welcomed him back that day with a cup of rose hip tea, and he agreed to Oliver’s suggestion that he try carving whales on the next ones.

  When his visitor made to leave, Cornelius offered his hand, looked him in the eye, and said, “You’re a good man.”

  Oliver was flustered by the unexpected praise, shook his hand, and promised, “I’ll be back.”

  When he told Polly what Cornelius had said to him, she smiled and said, “He’s right.”

  Oliver tried to get back to Dogtown every fortnight if he could, trading oil, tea, and meal for pelts or mallows or whatever Cornelius had on hand. After they did their business, the two men said little, but Cornelius would not let Oliver leave without taking a cup of the broth or stew he seemed always to have on the fire. The concoction warmed Oliver like nothing he’d ever tasted, and he looked forward to it as he walked up the Dogtown road, especially as the days grew colder again.

  That December, an early snow fell steadily for three solid days and three nights. In Gloucester, wagons could not pass and almost no one ventured outdoors. The scene outside of Judy’s windows was peaceful and beautiful, but by the end of the third day, she was starting to feel trapped and lonely in a way she never had in Dogtown. The knock on the kitchen door felt like a gift and she threw it wide, hoping for Oliver, who sometimes dropped by at that hour on his way home.

  But the expression that greeted her was so pinched and grim, Judy cried, “Has something happened to one of the boys?”

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  “No, no,” Oliver hurried to reassure her. “They are well. Polly is fine, too.”

  “Come in,” Judy said. Before he could take a step, Tan darted into the room, startling them both.

  “That’s his dog,” Oliver said. “She followed us all the way down. It’s Cornelius. I found him outside in the snow, wandering without a coat. He didn’t know me at first. But then he started weeping and I couldn’t leave him there.”

  “Of course not,” said Judy. “It’s good of you to take him in again.”

  “No,” Oliver interrupted. “I couldn’t take him home.

  There’s barely room for all of us anymore, and he’s in a real bad way. He would have scared the boys and so, well, I’m sorry to tell you, but I took him to the workhouse.”

  Judy understood. Cornelius was dying.

  “The reason I came here,” said Oliver, “is that by the time we got to town, he was raving. First he called for his mother, and then he started calling for you. He was wailing, and, well, he was saying other things, too.” Oliver lowered his voice. “Of a personal nature. I figured you ought to know right away.”

  She touched his arm. “I’ll get my cloak.”

  In the year since Judy had visited Ruth in the workhouse, it had grown even more desolate. The floor was slack and no one had bothered to sweep it for some time. As her eyes adjusted to the chilly dimness, a loud voice announced,

  “This must be Judy come for her nigger.” A large, blowsy woman smirked from a bed in the center of the room.

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  Cornelius was huddled on a cot in the back corner, farthest from the scant warmth thrown off by the stove. She threw off the dirty blanket covering him, laid her wool cloak over him, and folded her scarf for a pillow.

  “Is there no water?” Judy asked.

  The woman tried to hide the jug beside her bed. “We got nothing here till morning. And they don’t want us moving nothing,” she warned as Judy picked up a stool and placed it beside Cornelius, sitting with her back to the room.

  His eyes glittered in the dark. She took his hand and whispered, “Sleep now, my dear. I’ll be here when you wake up. Take your rest. Judy’s here.”

  In the morning, the matron gasped at the sight of them lying in each other’s arms and rushed out to find Easter, whom she knew to be Judy Rhines’s friend. Judy and Cornelius were still asleep when they returned, her pale hand resting upon his dark cheek. Easter sighed and shook her head. She’d been right then, all those years ago.

  “Let’s get him out of here,” Easter said, tapping Judy’s shoulder.

  “He’s coming home with me,” she said, instantly awake.

  “You sure that’s wise?” Easter whispered, as though they could keep anything secret in that place.

  “I don’t care. He’s coming with me.”

  Oliver arrived soon after, and the three of them got Cornelius on his feet and out into the blinding sunlight and melting snow. Passersby stared as the haggard African staggered down the street, with Oliver supporti
ng him on one side and Judy on the other. Easter brought up the rear and watched as heads turned and the whispering began: she knew the story would be all over town before noon.

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  Judy threw an extravagant number of logs on the fire and sent Oliver to find her a fresh-killed chicken. After she got Cornelius out of his filthy clothes and settled in bed, Easter took her aside and asked, “What’s the Judge going to say when he finds out about all this?”

  “I don’t care,” Judy announced, in a voice that was new for her. “I do not give a tinker’s damn what he says, or anyone else.”

  “You may yet,” Easter said. “I’ve got to get back to the tavern.” She would have a lot of explaining to do if she was going to save anything of her friend’s reputation. “I’ll be back quick as I can. Tomorrow morning at the latest.”

  Judy placed a cool cloth on Cornelius’s brow, which was nearly as hot as the kettle. The stubble on his chin was white.

  He had grown so old, and yet she thought she’d never seen a more noble face.

  Oliver brought back a piece of ham wrapped in paper, and he stood over the sleeping man.

  “He looks better,” Judy said.

  Oliver had been thinking how much worse he

  appeared. “I’ll stop back later. I may even have a chicken by then.”

  That evening, Easter sent over a boy carrying a pail of beer, a slice of pie, and a scrawled slip of paper that read,

  “Keep up yr own strenth. ”

  Judy was grateful for her friends’ attentions, but the truth was that she wished only to be left alone with Cornelius so that she could care for him without having to feign distance or disinterest. She wondered how she could feel so much happiness at such a terrible time. Cornelius had not opened his eyes all day. Her good name was lost,

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