Last Words

According to Aunt Vi who had heard it from Uncle Shad who had gotten it from John Sullivan's brother, Jacob, who had been told by Bill Albright's new wife who had been passing by and practically witnessed it, Miss Coraline had put aside her mending, laid her head back against the old cane chair and said to her old dog, Fetch the ferryman, Dutch, I think I'll go now, and with one last whispery breath, she died. Dutch obediently trotted down to the ferry slip and found Cap just about to pull out, then raised such a fuss that the old sailor reversed his engines and pulled back in. Got me a bad feelin' about this, Mac, he told the scowman and set out to follow the dog, Don't wait for me.

Miss Cora, as everyone called her, had been a spinster, what the islanders graciously referred to as a maiden aunt. She and Cap were the only surviving children in the family and she had kept house for him since the age of fifteen. She had been a seamstress and a music teacher, had tended a small garden and sometimes raised goats, written several columns for the mainland paper, sung in the choir. She was buried the following Sunday while a gentle rain fell and James read the 23rd Psalm. The island women descended that very afternoon bringing covered dishes and casseroles, pitchers of iced coffee and tea, cakes and pies and freshly baked muffins. Enough to feed a damned army, Cap protested in vain and Nana shushed him sternly as she directed the deliveries and herded him onto the front porch and out of the way. Take the dog for a walk, she advised, Sort yourself out.

And so the ferryman and the dog set out to escape the chatter and the woman, the casseroles and the pity. The walks soon became a habit with them - at the end of the day, Cap would light his pipe and he and Dutch would walk the coastline to the cove. Here he sat smoking and watching the ocean while the dog explored the driftwood and abandoned fishing shacks. Here he talked with Cora, thinking over and over about her last words and the miracles of life and death and old dogs. With his sister gone, he couldn't bear to leave Dutch at home so the dog became a fixture on the ferry, sitting proudly in the cabin or patroling the scow as cars were guided on and off. He made friends with the tourists and locals alike, and was soon as well known as Cap himself.

The last I saw them, they were walking the path past the graveyard, an old and nigh deaf ferryman and a half blind dog, leaning on each other for strength and - as we all do - still sorting themselves out.