As people step aside to let the men carrying Joseph Carl pass, I see John Holleran. On the other side of the hole, he stands with his mama. They’ve placed themselves behind all the others who want to get a good look-see. John’s head is tipped as if he’s speaking to his mama, probably asking is she sure she wants to stay. He’ll take her on home, he’ll be saying. No need for all this.
Because John’s head is bowed, his hat hides all but a corner of his mouth and his chin. He wears the blue wool jacket that once hung so often from the back of one of my kitchen chairs, usually the one nearest the stove. The jacket is nearly worn through at the elbows. I told him once I’d stitch a few patches for him, but I never did. I lean left, pressing against Juna to get a better look at him. He lifts his head, and his eyes settle on mine. I would guess he lets out a long, slow breath. The crowd shifts, and he is gone from sight.
“Won’t do you no good,” Mary Holleran shouts. I know her voice even though I can’t see her. “Flipping that boy won’t change what’s been done.”
I still can’t see John, though I imagine he’ll have tugged his hat low over his eyes. He’s never believed much in the know-how, but others in town will think about what Mary’s said for a good long time. Maybe for the rest of their lives. They’ll think of Joseph Carl buried here at the crossroad, his body flipped upside down, and know that sometimes a thing done can never be undone.
The people nearest John and his mother drift away. When it seems certain Mary has nothing more to say, two more men join the four, and then two more, and the eight of them flip the casket. Another two cradle the box with thick leather straps that will take the weight without snapping. Two more join in, each grabbing hold of an end, and the four of them spread themselves evenly between the two straps. Half on one side of the hole, half on the other. The rest of the men walk away, and the four who remain brace themselves, holding the straps with two hands, digging the heels of their laced-up boots into the ground, leaning back to use their weight. They could be children playing tug-of-war. The ladies shield their eyes with kerchiefs. Children crouch at the hole’s edge, press two hands into the dirt, each of them leaning over it a little farther than the last, one getting hauled away by a hand that grabs hold of him by his collar.
As the men inch their way forward, the box tips and wobbles, first left and then right.
“Careful now,” Sheriff Irlene says. Her own children, the younger ones, stand with their grandmother under the same tree as the men from the newspapers. Sheriff Irlene waves at her mother to take the children on home. “Lower him with care,” she says.
One half of the men lean and pull while the other half give slack. The box levels, and they continue inching forward. When it hits ground, the men drop the straps of leather as if they were hot in their hands, and three of the four walk away. They straighten their jackets with a tug at their collars and shake their heads because that was a thing they damn sure never thought they’d be doing. The fourth fellow tugs at a strap. When one hand isn’t enough to yank the strap clean of the box, he grabs hold with two and again uses his weight. When it still doesn’t come free, he tosses the end into the hole. One by one, fellows step forward, grab an end, and toss it into the hole.
The same preacher who wouldn’t speak at Dale’s grave, the man who has preached to our family all our days, gives Joseph Carl his parting words. It’s a verse or two and no more. Folks bow their heads, fold their hands, draw their coats and blankets in tight around their shoulders even though the cool breeze that started the day has died off and the sun now shines full on the hole and the crowd gathered around it. Orange and gold leaves crackle overhead. Here and there, they flutter to the ground, spinning, floating, softly landing. When the preacher says amen, the word travels through the crowd and folks turn to make their way back home.
No one speaks to Juna like they did the morning of the hanging. I catch a few staring at her midsection, surely wondering if it’s true about the baby growing inside and wanting to tell their own one day that they saw the child in the beginning.