and just then , in a clean office area , I was embarrassed over my uniform and my deodorant was , well , I hadn ’ t used any . I cleared my throat , not having spoken yet that day . “ I ’ m caretaker over at the Cemetery .”
She smiled . “ I ’ ve seen you there . Your wife ’ s buried up the hill , isn ’ t she ?”
“ Yup .” I explained my curiosity over the old gravestone . “ I ’ ve got records , but no name was ever recorded for that plot .”
“ Up the hill ?” she smiled with curiosity . “ I ’ ve never noticed it . I may go over on my lunch and look for it . What were the years on it ?”
I recited them . She typed a few keys on her keyboard ( I tried peeking , trying to learn something ), looked at the results , clicked and typed a few more times . “ Your best bet , I think , are the old newspapers , which are on microfilm . The microfilm is in the basement . The town had a couple of papers in those years . I ’ d start with the Chronicle . There ’ s another reel with copies of the Dispatch and Good Deed .” She wrote down numbers for me , addressed me through her thick glasses . " I would start at ‘ 93 and work up to ‘ 94 . Look for obituaries .”
I thanked her and descended the steel staircase into the nicely cool basement . Aside from a janitorial room with an unlocked door , it was all one big room under a bank of fluorescent lights , with columns and floor to ceiling shelves of old town records , mostly in cardboard boxes . The lights hummed and the air smelled of dust and mold . In the middle sat the microfilm machine ; I studied it a minute and got to work .
The celluloid crackled a little as it rolled . The screen display took some adjusting , and I had to nearly put my nose on the screen . The f and the s in those days seemed interchangeable , and the lens distorted the text , like reading through the bottom of a Coke bottle , but I didn ’ t have to read too much before I discovered an old neighbor , Missy Dutton . Missy was a black woman who died in 1793 , and died most unkindly . As recorded in the Dispatch , according to ‘ persons who knew ,' she was born in the Caribbean and brought here a slave . She bought her freedom and moved to West Pilsbury , where she lived in the woods and worked odd jobs . There were rumors of black masses and she was taunted when she walked in public , and unnamed townsfolk accused her of witch craft , claiming to have seen her in the cemetery under a full moon in the center of a pentacle . She was blamed for the periodic missing cow or goat or other petty thefts , and at one point the constable and four armed men found her shack and burned it down . She built a new shelter and stayed for another ten years until a child went missing . On the flimsiest of circumstantial evidence and questionable testimony , she was lynched . The story noted that she cursed her killers , vowed revenge , and ‘ made unholy statements .' She was ‘ interred locally .'
***
The smoke of candles tucked into lamps on either side of the lectern rose lazily in the dark , to the rough beams of the church ceiling . Their scent , with the pitch saturated torches just outside the door , mingled with close-in sweat . When the door opened , the flames trembled . It was June , the warm weather upon them , and a storm seemed to be brewing in the night sky , with distant rolls of thunder , flashes of lightning , and gusts of wind . West Pilsbury men , seven of them , gathered in the church on this , a Thursday evening . They talked amongst themselves , a lost child their concern , and what they planned to do . Standing at his lectern , the Reverend Mennan , recently appointed , nodded in greeting to men as they arrived . “ Caleb , greetings . Melvin , good evening .” Caleb was forty-seven , and had a thriving farm , Melvin was his eldest boy ; both carried muskets . Abraham Burkett joined Caleb and Melvin in the first pew , where he was not accustomed to sitting . Mennan directed the last man in to let the door fall shut . I have lain with her , God help me , and I love her . The minister looked at his Bible , closed on the podium . He was usually drawn to find his answers there , but tonight he declined to take the cover and a pinch of pages in hope of guidance . Instead , he asked of the new arrivals , “ Any word yet ? Did Little Maggy return ? Has anyone found her ?” He hesitated on ‘ found ’ for its awful overtone .
“ Course not ,” said Abraham , his hatchet face always making whomever he argued with feel bested . “ We all know what ’ s happened . Let ’ s get on with it !”
***
Who put in the head stone , I wondered ? Why mark her grave at all ? What puzzled me further was why that colonial era stone was in the Civil War area , at right angles to the other plots , but I figured that out . They didn ’ t bury Missy Dutton in the cemetery , but in the woods . The cemetery filled up with the extra business from the Civil War . In 1865 , land was cleared for more graves . So she wasn ’ t buried in the cemetery , the cemetery caught up with her .
I read back to 1792 , finding lengthy obituaries for folks of sterling character whose stones I already knew . No one else fit the dates , and her circumstances fit the bill , so I felt pretty sure I ’ d found the occupant . I was surprised at the joy I felt , knowing I ’ d finally know everyone on the hill . And knowing something of her sad life and cruel death , I thought hard on to how to adorn her new headstone .
I decided it was worth teaching the passers-by in this case . ‘ Accused of witchcraft , lynched on this spot . May she be remembered .' I ’ d do the lettering and then I ’ d let Charles add cherubim or death heads or whatever ornamentation he thought would look good . Missy Dutton ’ s grave would get a real upgrade . I met him at the plot the next day and gave him a page of note paper with the inscription . “ I ’ ll do the lettering , this is so you can see how much space to leave .” He read it and spoke it back to me to be sure he ’ d read it right , and he stood there in thought . “ Was she really a witch ?” he asked , either scared or fascinated . I never really understood him .
I shook my head . “ Not like they think she was . All that nonsense , saying the devil was in them , doing terrible things , that ’ s not witchcraft . I ’ ve seen some stuff on PBS . They worship the earth , they cast spells , but they ain ’ t troublemakers . Folks back then were kind of ignorant .”
Charles nodded and tucked the note in the cargo pants he was currently wearing to shreds . It was a dry day , warm but with a breeze , a nice change from the hu-