A delegation brought me some mourning clothes Tuesday afternoon, and Sheriff Rufe Waters and County Attorney Web Clay and a couple of fellows from the chamber of commerce drove me over to the mortuary in a limousine. Rufe and Webb took me into the chapel to look at the casket-but not inside it- and then they took me right out again.
I didn't hear much of the services because someone thought I was looking peaked, and they took me into the rest room. They gave me a couple of drinks to brace me up, and made me lie down on the lounge. And after the services were over they got me up again.
I rode out to the cemetery with Rufe and Web and one of the Legion boys and a fellow from the Farmers' Union. Rufe is the wheel horse for the Democratic party and Web is the same for the Republicans. If I'd been picking a foursome to ride with from the standpoint of keeping all sides happy, I couldn't have done better. And I hadn't had to do it. It was done for me.
It started to rain a little on the edge of town, just a few drops, but by the time we passed our-my-place it was misting pretty hard. I looked up the lane toward the garage, and of course there wasn't any. Just part of the framework and a pile of timber and metal and ashes. But there was a guy chasing around, trying to cover things up with pieces of canvas.
I asked who he was.
"That's the investigator from the insurance company," said Rule. "Looks like he'd have enough decency to lay off during the ceremony."
"I've got my eye on him," said Web. "I'm just hoping he gets out of line a little. He can't come into my county and tell me how to run things."
I wanted to ask him what the trouble was, but I decided it wouldn't be appropriate. Or smart. The longer I could stay in the background and let my friends do my arguing the better off I was.
I guess almost the whole county was at the cemetery. There wasn't room for half the people inside, and they were parked along the grade for almost a mile on either side of the gates.
They all stood up when we passed, stood along the side of the road or on their running-boards or wagon beds, with their heads bowed. It gave you an awfully funny feeling. It made you feel almost like it was Judgment Day; like they'd all been pulled up out of everywhere for the trumpet's blast before they could move. It was kind of scary.
I remember one woman in particular. She was standing up in a wagon box with a big fat squawling baby in each arm. They looked damned near as big as she was; and she'd started to feed them, I guess, because she had her blouse open and what babies go for was hanging out on each side. It wasn't hanging right, though, and the kids were as mad as all hell, twisting and screaming and grabbing at it, and trying to raise their heads up. But she just stood there with her head bowed like everyone else.
We drove through the cemetery gates, and got out. Web and Rufe stood by me at the grave.
The minister began his oratory; a lot of mumbo jumbo about being washed in the blood of the lamb and people being better off dead than they were alive; and all the time, by God, acting like it was deep stuff. And the different bands began to play "Nearer My God To Thee," and they couldn't play with themselves, let alone with each other. And the church choirs kept racing ahead and falling behind. And-but it wasn't funny. I've never felt more like bawling in my life.
There are some things so bad and so careless that you wish to God they didn't pretend to be good intentioned so you could put in a holler without making a heel of yourself. I've felt pretty much the same way looking at newsreels of ceremonies at the tomb of the Unknown Soldier. The bands playing and the people singing, all in their own way, the right way; and the generals, the statesmen, and the club ladies all speaking a little piece for themselves. And they all mean so goddam well-I guess-and no one is responsible any more than I was responsible for her.
I bawled; there beside the grave with the rain coming down harder and harder. I felt just as bad as if I'd known the woman.
I could hardly see a thing I was crying so hard. I saw Carol for a second on the other side of the grave, and then everything got blurry again.
Web and Rufe led me away. We went back to the car and they put me inside while they waited outside, one at each door.
It came over me all of a sudden that I was a prisoner; that the reason they were with me was to watch me. I leaned forward to get out of the car, and Web Clay eased me back.
I tried it again. I knocked his hand out of the way.
"You let me out of here!" I yelled. "I can't stand any more! Take me away from here!"
"Maybe we'd better, Web," said Rule. "Joe's been under an awful strain."
Web said, yes, I had, and went and got the other two fellows. We drove away.
Web rode with his arm around me, almost with my head pulled down against his chest; and Rule made me take a new silk handkerchief to blow my nose on. They took me into the house.
"What you need, Joe, is a good stiff drink," said Web. "Rufe, you got anything in the car?"
"I've got something," I said, straightening up a little. "I guess we all need a little something."
We went up to my room and had a few good stiff drinks, and swapped a little talk. Rule and Web got friendlier than I'd ever seen them. While we were up there, Carol and some of the town ladies were busy downstairs fixing coffee and laying out sandwiches and cake. When the crowd began to come in from the funeral, the boys took me downstairs again.
I was sat down and stood up and made to eat cake and sandwiches and coffee, and when the people began to file past me in a line on the way out, they- the ones that were taking care of me-even did my talking.
"Yes, yes. That's very kind of you, neighbor-"
"Joe appreciates that very much-"
"Joe thanks you very much-"
I guess they would have even shook-shaken- hands for me if they could have.
By this time it was dark, practically everyone was gone except the ladies who were staying to help Carol. I went upstairs and had a few more drinks and tried not to think. It was raining to beat hell now, and the wind was coming up. I heard Rufe and Web pulling out for town, and pretty soon another car left behind theirs. The insurance man's.
There seemed to be a draft coming from somewhere. I thought maybe someone had left a window open. I took another stiff drink and looked through the upstairs room by room. There wasn't any window open. I went downstairs again.
All the ladies had left except Mrs. Reverend Whitcomb. She was staying that night to keep the proprieties. She fussed around me for almost an hour, trying to do things for me that I didn't want done. When she'd worn us both out she hobbled into the downstairs bedroom and closed the door. I'd think she weighed around two-eighty. And she wasn't much taller than a quart of beer. She'd been going through doors sideways for so long that she kind of waltzed when she walked.
When she got into bed one of the slats popped like a gun going off. Then, there was a rasping, grating sound, like a bale of wire being dragged across a tin roof, and the whole house shook.
"Are you all right, Mrs. Whitcomb?" I called.
She was silent, or not exactly silent, either; I could hear her panting for breath.
"Quite all right, Brother Wilmot," she said finally. I hesitated. "Are you sure there's nothing I can do for you?"
I knew damned well the bed had broken down.
"Oh, no, Brother Wilmot. I'm just dandy. Now you run along."
Carol was still busy in the kitchen. I went upstairs, took another drink and went to bed.
I didn't hear her when she came up the stairs. She opened the door and came in without turning the light on; and in one of the dim flashes of lightning from the storm I saw her pulling her dress off over her head.
"You shouldn't do that, Carol," I whispered.
"It's all right," she whispered back. "I peeked in at Mrs. Reverend Whitcomb. She's sleeping down inside the bedstead. The mattress and springs fell through with her."