A COUPLE OF HUNDRED PEOPLE WERE AT THE CHURCH FOR Calpurnia’s service. They filled the pews, they stood up and down the aisles, they stood around outside, on the steps, on the grass. Then, fifty or more must have come along to the cemetery, on the hill above the village. There they stood at the grave and listened to the minister.
Polly Jefferson was at the rear of the gathering. She looked about her. A fine October morning: bright, the air clear, tuned, ready to ring like struck crystal, the trees turning color, and the many hydrangeas planted here and there around the cemetery in full display.
“Lincoln Services Largely Attended.” Polly was the local correspondent for the Brattleboro newspaper. Later today she would have to compose and file Calpurnia’s funeral notice, and she was assembling her thoughts. Largely attended was right enough. Polly couldn’t recall seeing this many at a graveside. Not surprising, given Calpurnia’s being the great-great-somebody-or-other of the whole valley; but still, a good turnout. Polly knew what Calpurnia herself would say about it. Calpurnia would make one of her sharp remarks, something like, why wouldn’t people come? The eats are free, the coffee’s hot, and the guest of honor won’t be making a speech. Something designed to show how tough she was, how hardened, how unfeeling, all things Polly knew Calpurnia absolutely was not. Well, tough, maybe, to last as long as she had. Ninety-eight was no joke.
Polly reminded herself to be sure she had the minister’s name right: Harrison, was it, or Harrington? She would ask Dorothea Clinton. Dorothea was the oldest of Calpurnia’s nieces. She had left the valley when she married, lived in St. Johnsbury. In the couple of days after Calpurnia’s death, Dorothea had swept in and pretty much taken over the arrangements. She had brought in her minister from upstate to perform the service. Polly would have liked her own Pastor Chet to do that, but Dorothea was a high Episcopalian and wouldn’t have stood for it. And, in fact, Calpurnia had had no opinion of Pastor Chet, either.
The truth was, Calpurnia had not been a believer. Let people believe whatever they like, Calpurnia said, which to Polly was no different from her being an atheist. Not that they argued about it. What would have been the point? They were friends. Polly knew Calpurnia didn’t believe. But she knew more: she knew Jesus knew it, too, and she knew He didn’t care. He loved Calpurnia anyway, exactly as He loved Polly, exactly as He loved everybody. If Calpurnia’s unbelief didn’t matter to Jesus, why should it matter to Polly? It shouldn’t, it didn’t. And anyway, as Polly stood in the cemetery with the rest, she knew—she knew for certain sure—that if Calpurnia hadn’t been a believer in life, she was a believer now.
At the head of the grave, Dorothea’s imported priest, in his gown and dog collar, was winding things up. Polly tried to move a little closer. She listened intently. Much as she missed having Pastor Chet here, she was moved, she was somehow satisfied, by the words of the old service, which the minister now pronounced:
Unto God’s gracious mercy and protection we commit you. The Lord bless you and keep you. The Lord make his face to shine upon you, and be gracious unto you. The Lord lift up his countenance upon you, and give you peace, both now and evermore. Amen.
Amen. People began to turn, to break up, to move. Now Polly could see Eli Adams standing toward the front, near the grave. Beside him was his friend Langdon Taft. Polly gave Taft a good look over. He appeared sane and sober, and he was dressed up in a jacket and tie; but she didn’t plan on speaking to him. Then she saw the little State Police girl standing beside Taft, close beside. Hmm, said Polly, what’s this? If the trooper girl was getting mixed up with Taft, somebody ought to have a friendly word with her. Polly liked the trooper. She had been as nice as she could be the time Polly called the State Police when her cat went missing. The trooper had come to her house and helped her look. Turned out the cat had gone down cellar for reasons of her own. They found her right off. She hadn’t been lost at all. But the trooper had been as nice as she could be about the whole silly business.
The trooper was in uniform. Polly stood on her tiptoes to try and see if she was wearing her gun. She had been when she came about the cat. Polly hoped she wasn’t today. She hoped the trooper wasn’t wearing a gun practically in church. Though Pastor Chet said there were congregations out west, down south, where worshippers did wear their guns in church. In fact, they were expected to. Calpurnia would have had something to say about that, too.
Eli, Taft, and Trooper Madison had left the grave and were moving down the hill to where people had parked their vehicles along the road that went by the cemetery. Polly followed them. She examined the trooper’s midsection from behind. No gun. She caught up with the three of them. Polly put herself as far as she could get from Taft, next to Eli, who, of course, had been closer to Calpurnia than anybody.
“How are you doing?” she asked him.
“I’m doing alright, Polly,” said Eli. “How about you?”
“Well, you know,” said Polly. “But I thought everything went off very well. Dora should be pleased.”
“Yes,” said Eli.
“’Course,” said Polly, “Callie wasn’t a churchgoer.”
“No,” said Eli.
“Not that it matters,” said Polly.
“Not that it does.”
“The point is,” said Polly, “she’s in a better place.”
“She didn’t want a better place,” said Eli.
“No,” said Taft. “That’s right. She didn’t.”
“I don’t think I ever met her,” said Amy Madison.
“She was a good old girl,” said Eli.
“One in a million,” said Taft.
“We’ll miss her, for sure,” said Polly. “You know, it’s hard to believe she’s really gone forever.”
She hadn’t been speaking to Taft, but it was Taft who turned to her with what Polly thought was an odd little smile, and said,
“Very hard.”