Epilogue

Funny, there are so many things I can't remember from that day because I paid no mind when they happened. I know the house was decorated, flowers and ribbons wound about the bannisters, garlands festooned the tables and flowers stood in vases everywhere; what type they were, I couldn't say—I just know they were there. I can't even remember everyone who was there, mainly because the only person I really saw was Charity. And Mariette. I remember that Hoss had swooped Mariette up as she became hysterical and carried her upstairs. Mariette kept saying she was sorry but it had to be done—she had to save me since she wasn't able to save Jason, She kept repeating, "Adam couldn't see what she was but I could. I saw it today—I saw it. I had to save him." And then she asked Hoss why he had stopped her from doing herself in—something like that—she was sobbing. I don't remember feeling any emotion at the time—I was numb. If only I could have stayed that way.

I can still see the spot of red on Charity's dress, how it was such a contrast to the color of the fabric as the color spread slightly but not as much as you would expect. We always expect a death-dealing wound to be huge, gaping, but it rarely is. I noticed in particular the lace on the bodice—it was roses and vines. I remember Charity telling me that the lace overlay had come from Chantilly, France and that white Chantilly was rare. It's a trivial thing to remember except that I had asked Charity if she would like to go to France someday. When there, I would buy her yards and yards of Chantilly lace, enough for her to decorate a thousand dresses. Charity had laughed, delighted with me and said that yes, she would love to visit France and had kissed me. I remember I promised her that I would present her the world and she said that I was her world.

But what I will never forget is Charity's look of shock when she was shot, how her eyes widened when she turned to me. I had thought Charity was going to say something to me but she never did—not even my name. She never made a sound except a small, "Oh." And then she had collapsed and I grabbed her. And she was dead. Charity had died and Mariette had killed her, shot her while in an embrace.

The guests left quickly except for Roy Coffee and Dr. Martin. Roy and my father were upset-I noticed that they were trying to keep their voices down as they talked about something—I suppose it was Charity's death but I can't be sure. I had pulled Charity onto my lap as I sat on the settee, holding her like I would a sleeping child and rocking slightly. Dr. Martin had bent over us and I knew he was trying to find a pulse but it was useless. After a few minutes, my father and brothers, not knowing what to do next, asked to take Charity from me. I couldn't have that so I held her even closer, clutched her to me and took her upstairs where I lay her on my bed and then locked us in. I pulled my desk chair next to the bed and sat holding her hand—the hand with her wedding band.

I was in there until the next day. I don't know how long I would have stayed in the room with her if they had left me alone, maybe forever, but finally, after my family tried to talk to me through the door, to convince me to open it, Hoss smashed the lock and I turned to see my father looking like a mad man, his eyes round with fear, push past my brothers. He was dressed in a black suit as were Hoss and Joe—actually, they looked the same as they had at the wedding and I wondered how much time had passed. My father told me Charity was dead—as if I didn't know—and that she had to be buried. I reluctantly agreed—I knew it had to be done so I allowed them to take her. I followed my father down the stairs as Hoss carried Charity. The coffin had been made and the undertaker stood in the parlor next to it. Pastor Richards was there as well and some of the same people who had been at the wedding stood in the house—some outside waiting in their buggies. I looked about the room. Black ribbon was wound on the bannister now and huge ebony bows seemed everywhere—even on the front door. The women looked as if they had been crying.

We buried my wife that day. I rode in the buggy, unkempt, unshaven, my eyes burning from lack of sleep. It was a beautiful afternoon. Spring was finally here and the birds were calling and I noticed a hawk gliding overhead. It would dip its wings and then circle again. The air was scented with sage and pine and I saw a stag standing off a distance, watching us as we passed, a then a doe came out of a stand of trees and stood beside the male.

Charity grave is a few yards from Marie's. Pa said that he thought it was the best place. It was always beautiful by the lake and there are no tree branches overhead to block the view of the sky. Every day I'm home, I visit and place wildflowers on Charity's grave; she liked the purple carnations that grew in clumps and I would stop and gather them for her. I talk to her as well, even though I know it's foolish-a grown man talking to a mound that has a decaying corpse beneath it. I know that. I also doubt the existence of heaven or ghosts or spirits of our deceased loved ones surrounding us. But no matter how much I tell myself I'm just being a fool, I have a sense that Charity is with me. I also talk to her in my room at night while I stare into the darkness. I am a rational man but I figure that if there is no spirit of my wife around me, fine. My talking to her hurts no one but if she is there, if that is Charity's soft hand I swear feel caressing my cheek, so much the better. But what destroys me the most—the irony that makes me break down into sobs when I'm alone is that I never "knew" Charity as my wife. I had my chances to be with her, to lay with my heart's love but no—I put it off. I swore that I would never postpone anything again.

As for Mariette, I know I should hate her but I can't. She was unhinged—I felt partially responsible. Dr. Martin said that Mariette wasn't capable of standing trial and in a manner, I was glad; I didn't want Charity a subject of public interest and scandal. We placed Mariette in a sanatorium in San Francisco. It was originally for people suffering from consumption but it had changed over the years and became a home for embarrassing relatives of the wealthy, for those people who couldn't cope with the world and had retreated from reality. Pa pays and I visit her whenever I am in San Francisco on business. Mariette doesn't remember the wedding, doesn't remember shooting Charity or even Charity, for that matter, and always greets me as if it's the first time she's seen me in years, embracing me and kissing me and telling me Jason will be home soon and asking if I can stay for dinner. Her doctor who is a pompous ass, says that she has blocked all memories of Charity's murder because they're too upsetting—blocked everything that happened within the last six years or so. I smiled slightly when the doctor told me that.

"Why do you think it's amusing, Mr. Cartwright," he asked disapprovingly.

"Amusing? No. Ironic? Yes. I would gladly trade my sanity to forget what happened but I remain rational and logical and therefore…well, I remember it every day of my life. You don't find that even the slightest bit sardonic?"

Well, Mariette is happy—she thinks she's waiting for Jason to return home every evening; each day is the same day over and over and time never marches on for her. Although my father and my brothers have been to see Mariette as well, we never discuss her—or Charity. And my family, well, whenever during a sermon Pastor Richards talks about the virtue "charity," my family is uncomfortable for me at the mention of the word.

~ 0 ~

It was about two months after Charity's death when my father came out into the barn where I was mucking out stalls.

"Adam, why are you doing this?"

I didn't look up but kept at it. I always found the barn and its redolent smells of horse, leather, and even manure comforting. "It has to be done, I have time and so I'm doing it." I continued shoveling up the urine-soaked clumps of sawdust and the manure and dumping them in the wheelbarrow.

"Where's Miles? You know he's to do it and I wanted those saddles cleaned."

"I sent him out to help with the branding. He needs to learn." Miles was a young fifteen-year-old boy who wanted to be a ranch hand. As the newest and the youngest hired, his first chores were to do the dirty jobs on the ranch. It was like an initiation in a manner.

My father stood and watched for a moment and my irritation rose; I had come out to be alone.

"You supervising? You gonna tell me that I'm not shoveling shit the right way?"

"Adam, you don't have to be busy every moment of every day," he said in a soft voice.

I kept working. "Yes, I do, Pa, because if I don't, I'll get up the courage to blow my brains out."

"Adam." My father grabbed my arm and I faced him. "So that's what you think. That it takes courage to die?" I said nothing as I felt my still-intense sorrow, my grief bubbling to the surface; my father's show of concern for me was too much. Why couldn't he let me be? "Let me tell you something, son—it takes more courage to live every day when your life has been shattered than to end it all with one quick bullet. Trust me—I know. If it hadn't been for you and later both you and Hoss, and then…." He stopped talking as his voice began to quaver and his eyes brimmed with tears. He swallowed heavily.

"Pa, you don't have to tell me." He looked grateful. "It never goes away, does it?" I asked. He shook his head no and then I realized that what he had said was right. It took courage to live—far more courage to live on without those you love than to end it.

And that's the biggest joke of all.

~ Finis ~