Page 117 of Stay Buried

Josephine urged Malcolm through the open door into the basement. “Hurry! Get down there and hide! Don’t make a peep.” Heeding her advice, Malcolm trotted down the steps.

Ashley went next, willing herself not to rush on the rickety wooden stairs. There was no handrail, so she pressed her palm against the cool stones of the wall as she descended. In a hushed tone, Josephine promised, “You’ll be safe down here,” and then slammed the door shut and slid the bolt into place on the other side.

Reaching the bottom of the stairs, Ash could see Mal’s confusion and panic rising, and she gave his hand a squeeze. Whatever was happening, they were in this together. They scanned the room. There were shelves lining the wall on one side of the steps, crammed with old paint cans and thinner, rags, boxes of lightbulbs, spare fuses, a flashlight. Tucked behind an old mop head was something she recognized immediately. Ashley froze, dropping Mal’s hand. He followed her gaze as she stared in disbelief, unable to make a sound, to even breathe. All the air left her lungs. Even her heart seemed to stop beating.

A leather bag, embossed with a sunflower and three letters. Ashley reached for it in what felt like slow motion, her arm heavy, her hand feeling disconnected from her body. Even Malcolm looked like he was going to be sick. The leather was soft, familiar, as she ran her fingers over her mother’s initials:LEF. She pulled the bag out, clutched it tight against her chest.

FIFTYFRANKIE

March 16, 1919

Pearl woke at daybreak. I’d been sitting in the chair beside her as she lay in my bed, drifting all night. I dreamt of fire and curses. I had changed my clothing when we returned home early this morning, but the smell of smoke from the barn stayed in my hair and on my skin, filling the back of my nostrils and throat.

Pearl opened her eyes and looked at me. “Frankie.”

“You’re all right,” I said, stroking her hair. “Thank God! I don’t know what I would have done if…”

She looked around. “Where am I?”

“My bedroom,” I told her.

She smiled, said, “So this is what I had to do to get you to bring me to your bedroom?”

I laughed, took her hand in mine, and kissed her fingers.

Uncle Thomas appeared in the doorway. I was horrified to see the shape he was in. The jaundice in his eyes was worse; his skin and breath were beginning to give off the terrible rotten-fruit smell. His eyebrows were singed, his face red and blistering from burns.

Pearl gasped when she saw him, trying to sit herself up, but quickly realizing she didn’t yet have the strength. “What on earth has happened to you, Dr. Endicott?”

“Never mind about me. How are you feeling?” he asked Pearl.

“I have an awful pain in my side,” she said. “I imagine that has something to do with having been shot.”

Uncle Thomas smiled and did a quick examination of her dressing. The surrounding skin was stained orange-brown from the iodine, but the bandages were clean and dry. He patted her arm. “This will help with the pain,” he said, giving her an injection of morphine into the muscle just below her shoulder. “You need to rest,” he told her. “Frankie and I have to go out for a bit, but we’ll return soon.”

Pearl nodded, and soon drifted back to sleep. Aife settled in on the floor beside the bed.

“Keep an eye on her, girl,” I told the dog, giving her a pat on the head.

UNCLE THOMAS AND Ireturned to the St. James barn to find it was still smoldering. Luther St. James, Michael Knapp, Bert Osbourne, and Reverend Davies were there. “We should recover his remains,” Uncle Thomas called as we approached the group. “Bury him. It’s the very least we can do.”

“We’ll give him a proper Christian burial,” Reverend Davies suggested, and the others agreed. The men walked into the smoldering barn with grim faces, led by Luther, to collect the knackerman’s remains. I followed, biting my lip to stifle a cruel and mocking laugh. Where were their Christian values when they lit the fire, when this man was burning to death and screaming?

Remorse had set in, as I’d known it would.

“I don’t even know his true name,” Bert said. “What will we put on his stone?”

“Nothing.” Uncle Thomas was solemn. “We’ll leave it blank. Get apiece of granite and polish it to a shine, like a mirror. We’ll go and we’ll visit and we’ll see ourselves and remember what we’ve done.”

As he spoke the words, I knew them to be true, although I feared my uncle would not be among those visiting the grave.

My chest ached and my whole body felt heavy; it was difficult to make my legs move through the remains of the barn, so I followed slowly as the men navigated over smoldering timbers, hot pockets of coals, Luther leading us through the ruined structure.

Only days before, we’d stood right here in this very barn. I recalled the carnage, the wrecked bodies of the torn-apart horses. And the one still living.

“We call her Shirley,” Luther had said as we peered in at the white mare, watched in horror as she’d torn into her own leg with her teeth.

I remembered how she’d broken through the door of her stall, charging at us, like she knew, like she’d seen inside our heads, knew we were going to destroy her. Like her sickness had made her so much more than herself.