Blackman's Coffin by Mark de Castrique Page A

the bottle and the journal to Tikima’s reading chair. Maybe I was doing exactly what she had done a short time before someone killed her.
    Saturday, May 10th: I came home from the hospital two weeks after the attack by the bear. Father brought me in our hearse. The Model-T had not been Father’s first choice. He’d wanted to buy a new REO, a very fancy vehicle with designs carved into the wood panels and plush red velvet curtains drawn across the interior of the side windows. Heavy springs softened the ride, which Mother thought foolishness since the passenger couldn’t feel anything. Father said those same family members who worried about the thickness of the cushions in the casket would be impressed.
    But last fall while Father was still saving for the REO, he received a letter from a funeral home in Spartanburg, South Carolina, asking if he’d be interested in buying their hearse. The price was only two hundred dollars—far less than the REO. They were selling it because they were merging with a competitor—a marriage had united rivals into one happy funeral family. Mother insisted Father at least look at it, so we’d taken the train down the steep Saluda grade and been met at the depot by a strange looking contraption. A Sayers and Scovill horse-drawn hearse had been mounted to the chassis of a Model-T. The cab of the car had been cut to leave only the driver and front passenger seats. The carved wood of the hearse’s paneling had been fitted over the metal of the cab’s roof and sides. The black enamel finish of the car blended with the color of the wood and at first glance the vehicle appeared to be of one piece.
    The man from the Spartanburg funeral home said the craftsmanship of the woodwork couldn’t be matched by the REO or any other motor coach. Then he kicked the tires and said how the Sayers and Scovill elegance was matched by Mr. Henry Ford’s mechanical simplicity. The engine had been treated like a baby, and if we ever had a problem, any garage would know how to fix it.
    All Mother could think about was the money we would save. We already had a Model-T passenger car so my father liked the idea of having backup parts handy. We bought the hearse on the spot and I rode in the back as we journeyed up the mountain through Tryon, Saluda, and Hendersonville. The ride was rough, the carriage top heavy causing the vehicle to sway as we went around the switchbacks lifting us above the flatlands of South Carolina. Through the wooden wall, I heard my father laugh and say we’d never be going but a few miles to the cemetery once we got home and mother was right, the passengers wouldn’t complain.
    But on the way home from the hospital Mother felt differently. I was the passenger. She laid a heavy winter quilt across the hearse’s hardwood floor. She brought a down-filled pillow to support the bandaged stub of my leg, and she continually told my father to slow down and stay clear of the ruts.
    I don’t know who was happier when I limped into bed—me, Mother, or Father.
    Sunday, May 11 th : I slept till early afternoon and might have slept the entire day had Mother not come bursting into the room, throwing back the window sash so that my eyes filled with sunlight.
    “Henderson, you must wake up.” She bent over my bed, her face pale and her breath coming in short gasps.
    “What’s wrong?” I scooted to a seated position against the headboard and looked at the open door behind her.
    “Mrs. Edith Vanderbilt. She’s outside. She and Miss Cornelia. They’ve come straight from All Souls.”
    Mother scurried around my room, tidying as she moved. I’d never seen her so anxious. The ache in my leg was forgotten as my own panic swelled. I had been on the Vanderbilt land. Could they be angry? All Souls was the Episcopal church Mr. Vanderbilt had constructed in Biltmore Village. I knew Episcopalians prayed about trespasses in The Lord’s Prayer. We were Presbyterians and prayed about debts. The Vanderbilts