The Ferryman

Like a tree planted by the water,
I shall not be moved - Mississippi John Hurt

There was no moon and he was driving too fast down a dirt road. His reflexes were dulled from drinking and at the curve he stepped on the brake just a few deadly seconds too late. He was killed instantly as the old car collided head on with a massive tree. His name was Gene. He was tall and broad shouldered with intense Montgomery Clift good looks. He was nineteen.

The small island community reacted immediately. Within an hour, the island women had gathered at his wife Anne's side with quilts and comforters, coffee and food baskets, Bibles, home remedies and what little comfort they could offer. The men towed the old car from the ditch, disposed of the whiskey bottles and took his body to the doctor's house. The church opened it's doors to all and by
morning people began arriving from the mainland. The ferrymen, most of whom he'd known all his life and worked with for years, steadily shepherded passengers until well after dark. They were silent even with each other. The undertaker and hearse came early in the morning and out of respect were ferried across alone. Arrangements were made with the family, and Gene was taken back to the mainland. A day or so later, his body was returned and he made his last crossing just as the fog began to lift and burn off. After a simple service, he was buried in the small cemetary behind the church. His dad, Doug and his wife, Anne stood together and at their feet sat a shaggy black lab mix named Buttons who Gene had raised from a puppy. They had been almost inseparable in life and I was sure that Buttons could feel if not comprehend the grief. His sad eyes searched the crowd and as we all walked slowly away, he laid beside the grave and would not be moved.