“ Of course .” It was not yet eight in the morning , and the air was already humid , unusually warm for mid-May . From another room a young girl called out , “ who ’ s here ?”
“ Just ,” she hesitated , “ someone to fix the stone wall in the back .” The footsteps moved away .
She led me through her backyard , a hummocky exercise in need of mowing , and into the woods on a well-trod path . The air was filled with the smell of damp soil . “ Sorry to be rude , but I don ’ t want her knowing anything .”
About what , I wondered ? “ Your house looks old ,” I said , following her , mosquitoes humming in my ears . “ It needs some work .” She held a branch that would have whacked me in the face . A good distance out of earshot , turning her head so I could hear , she said , “ Heather is nine and she has some recent health issues , although her doctor and the school seem to think she ’ s psychosomatic .” We reached a clearing and she was waving her hand to disperse mosquitoes . “ Just up here is our family cemetery .” It was enclosed with a stone and mortar wall , snug against a field stone wall , the sort that marks property lines . There were twenty-two graves , four rows , unevenly spaced , most of them Keatons . “ Here we are . It ’ s not the entire family . Some headed out west . We buried relatives here until 1920 . Then we ran out of space and put them in the public cemetery .” She led me to an old slate , near the front , three feet tall and tilted slightly to the left , bearing chiseled initials M . D . and that same life span . It was weathered but legible . Mary rested one hand on the scalloped top . “ This is where she ’ s buried . She , whose name I ’ m avoiding saying .” She tried to smile but looked scared . “ And now I ’ m hoping you ’ ll destroy that new stone you put up .”
I knelt to touch the rough stone . “ Just her initials are here .”
She nodded and looked away . “ Yeah . What I was told by my father , and he was told by his , is that she was brought here a slave , she bought her freedom , and fell in love with John Dutton , another African . They moved from Dedham to here and he built this home . He died ,” and she touched a neighboring stone , " in 1786 . About two years after they came here . She had three children , two after John died . She was poor . She may have been a prostitute , or just poor , whatever . But there is this family legend that she messed around in stuff .”
Still kneeling , studying the stone , no longer hearing the skeeters , I looked up at her and supplied the term . “ Witchcraft ?”
She looked irritated . “ Or something . African rituals . Witchcraft to the uninformed .” She stood in front of the stone with arms crossed . “ The legend is that there isn ’ t a name on the stone because if someone says her name , bad things can happen to them . Now ,” Mary spoke even more softly , as though to keep the chipmunks from hearing , “ it happens that none of my ancestors are named after her , and my daughter , Heather , seems to believe the legend . Two weeks ago , around the time you said you changed the stone , I got called by her school . She ’ d blacked out in class . She ’ s blacked out twice more since . She ’ s out for like half an hour , fortyfive minutes . We ’ ve been to two specialists , I can ’ t afford any more . One says it ’ s all in her head , one thinks it might be a , uh , tumor in her brain .” Mary teared up . “ Heather told me about Missy when our G . P . said there seemed to be nothing wrong with her . ‘ Mommy , maybe it ’ s Missy doing this to me ,’ she said , out of the blue . I don ’ t know how she ever heard about it . I haven ’ t said anything . I consider it foolish .” She turned to look into the woods in the direction of her house , her back to me . “ And I know how utterly ridiculous this sounds , but since I ’ ve shown you where she ’ s buried , and you know she isn ’ t in the town cemetery , could you chisel her name off the new stone ? Please ?”
We heard a scream from the house , high and shrill , childlike , and she ran , and because it seemed the right thing to do , I followed . She ran through the woods , across the yard , glanced back ever so briefly to see me chugging behind her , and she yanked the back door open and disappeared inside . I paused at the doorway , until I heard another scream , this one ending in a cry . “ Mommieeeeeee !” I heard footsteps upstairs , and then I heard Mary yell , “ help !”
Heather was lying on her side in bed and struggling to breathe as blood poured from her nostrils . She was coughing and gagging and Mary was using her fingers and the blanket to clear her nostrils . I was going to suggest CPR , as I watched Mary hold her daughter , cooing to her . Then Heather coughed up a gout of blood and her breathing became easier .
Mary lifted her daughter , and I ran downstairs ahead of her , and she threw me her keys as she loaded Heather into the back seat of her minivan . I drove as quickly as I dared , though Heather was recovering and whispering to her mother . Mary got on her cell phone and they were waiting for us when I pulled up to the emergency room seven minutes later . The nurses packed Heather onto a gurney with mother trailing . I parked the minivan and went into the waiting room , and waited .
I drove them home three hours later , at a calmer rate , stopping at a drugstore for a prescription . X-rays confirmed , the brain tumor was real . I said very little to Mary , just helped her get her daughter upstairs . “ I ' ll be in touch ,” I said , and left .
I don ’ t remember driving back to the cemetery , I don ’ t remember opening the tool shed , but my memory did show me driving up to that grave with a ten pound hammer and a chisel , and though the sweat dripped off me after the first swing , and my heart thumped dangerously , I pounded that chisel and chips flew as I obliterated Missy ’ s name . Panting , I mourned the ruined stone ; I couldn ’ t just let Charles discover it , so when there was no name , nothing but vandalized marble , I dropped the sledge and headed for his cottage . I was relieved to find the original stone still in front of his home with some others he ’ d improved . He looked like hell when I knocked on his door .
“ You look like hell ,” I said , pretending to study a crack in his front door . “ Feel like hell .” He just looked down . “ I ’ m really sorry to say this , ‘ cause you did a magnificent job on that stone , but I think I was mistaken about who ’ s buried there .” I didn ’ t tell him about Heath