Death by Misadventure

The summer after my great-grandmother was laid to rest in the small cemetery by the church - the summer I got my first lesson in death and dying - my daddy was still trying to help me make sense of it.  We were sitting on the side porch, warmed by the sun and still a little sleepy-eyed, when Uncle Shad's ancient pickup truck turned at the top of the driveway and began a rapid descent.

Too fast for good news, my daddy muttered and got to his feet with a frown, Stay put, I'll be right back.

Shad pulled up behind the old Lincoln in a cloud of dust, spraying gravel and screeching brakes.  He emerged from the truck pale-faced and clearly shaken, went directly to my daddy and my grandmother who had come out the back door in a rush of dogs.  I remember the sky was very blue that morning with masses of low hanging, marshmallow clouds.  The sun was blazing over a peaceful blue-green ocean, the wildflowers were waving in the breeze, and Bill Albright's oldest boy had just been found face down in what would've been his newly plowed vegetable garden.  

Laid out in a furrow, stone cold dead, Uncle Shad said grimly, didn't hardly have much skull left and ol' Pride jist standin' over him with his reins and bridle all covered up in blood.

Killed by his own horse? my daddy asked doubtfully but my grandmother didn't seem surprised.

Mal Albright was mean as a snake, she said shortly, beat that horse three ways from Sunday and weren't no kinder to his own kin. Sorry excuse for a man and if the horse done it, he got no better'n he deserved.

If the horse done it? my daddy asked innocently enough but Nana and Shad just exchanged a glance and pretended they hadn't heard.

Coffee's on, Shad, my grandmother said, Come get you a cup.

A man's dead here, Alice, my daddy protested and Nana turned on him slowly.

A mean drunk and a wife beater is dead, Guy, she said calmly, Killed by an animal he whipped and tormented and abused. Ain't nobody gon' be sorry he's gone.

More power to the horse, Uncle Shad agreed, Ain't gon' be no more black eyes on that woman or little ones with broke arms.

The Mounties 'll sort it out, Guy, Nana said mildly, Nothin' for us to worry over.

I didn't think my daddy was convinced but he hadn't known Bill Abright's oldest boy, Malachi, a bitter, angry, and vicious tempered failure of a man who used his fists to make his point.  I remembered seeing his common law wife and children around the village - always huddled in a pack and silent - sometimes with visible bruises or broken bones.  They traveled together, as if there were safety in numbers, avoiding the curious looks and unasked questions, always returning to the miserable, falling down farmhouse up island where, if anyone was to venture onto his property, Mal was likely to shoot first and ask questions later.  

Boy ain't right in the head, Bill Albright had pronounced years before and washed his hands of him, He's more'n three quarters crazy and all the way mean.  Be a waste of a bullet to shoot 'im and that's a fact.

Despite the rampant but quiet speculation that the death might not've been entirely accidental, the Mounties found no evidence of what Miss Hilda called "foul play".  Ol' Pride might've been encouraged, they admitted, but there was no way to prove it - they labeled it death by misadventure, the coroner's inquest seconded the finding - sent in their paperwork and returned to the mainland.  Grumbling but relieved islanders chipped in for a second hand suit and Mal Albright was put into the ground on a windy and stormy August day with no one by the graveside save for the preacher.  There had been no service and no farewell - it was all James could manage to get some of the younger boys to carry the coffin and dig the hole - and Miss Clara refused to tend the grave so that by October it was overgrown and forgotten.   Mal's common law wife packed her things and her children and vanished, some said to the States, some said no, just as far as the South Shore but no one knew for sure. And ol' Pride, aquitted on the grounds of self defense, went to live with Clara and her painted pony, spending the remainder of his days in a peaceful stable with an ocean view.

None of it helped me understand death and dying any better but I was comforted that Ol' Pride - I came to think of him as the only real innocent in this sad, little drama - had come to a good end.