The Rosewood Casket Read Online Free PDF

Old man Stargill didn’t want a drawn-out death, either. That was clear. But it was also clear that J. Z. couldn’t turn around and walk out as if he had not found the sick man. Regardless of Stargill’s wishes, J. Z. could not live with such an act of abandonment on his conscience.
    He picked up the phone, hesitated a few moments longer debating the possibilities, and then dialed his own number. He let it ring a dozen times to give Dovey time to answer in case she was at the clothesline or out checking on the livestock. They had an Angus heifer that was nearly due with her first calf. Finally he heard his daughter’s gasping hello, and he talked quickly while she caught her breath.
    When he’d finished explaining the situation, he heard her sigh. Finally she said, “You didn’t call an ambulance, did you?”
    “No, Dovey. I haven’t yet. He’s set against it in his note. I figured the least we could do is to notify the boys, and let them make the call. But he needs somebody with him, and I’m no good at sickbeds.”
    The sigh again. “All right, Dad. I’m coming over now.”
    *   *   *
    An hour later, Dovey Stallard came out of the bedroom, wiping her hands on a dingy towel. “I cleaned him up, and changed his sheets, anyhow,” she told her father, who was sitting at the kitchen table. “His condition hasn’t worsened any. Now what? Have you notified his kinfolks?”
    J. Z. shook his head. “I couldn’t sit still. Besides, I was trying to straighten up a little in here. I got most of the garbage bagged to take out and the floor swept, so it won’t stink so much. I wouldn’t want the boys to come home to that.” He picked up Randall Stargill’s letter. “I figured I’d call them when I finished the kitchen. Not that I think any of them will be home this early, and, to tell you the truth, I’m not looking forward to the conversation when I do get up with them. This letter is the damnedest thing, Dovey.”
    “What is it? A will?”
    “Not in so many words. It says Stargill doesn’t want to leave. Says he wants to die at home. He wants his boys to build his coffin. I believe his mind was going toward the end. But, of course, he ought to be in intensive care, because this might be a treatable illness. Maybe it’s not his time yet.”
    “I don’t think he has a chance of making it,” said Dovey, glancing at the crabbed writing on the paper. “He must be nearly eighty, and he’s in a coma. Suppose we take him to the hospital, and he gets better, and then he gets out and sues us for violating his instructions?”
    Stallard shrugged. “He couldn’t get much from me, Dovey. I can’t even pay the taxes on the farm this year. What with the fire and all.”
    “He could sue for spite, and we can’t afford to pay a lawyer. Let somebody else decide what happens to him. You’ve done as much as duty demands.”
    “We could call the county attorney,” said Stallard. “See what he says.”
    Dovey shook her head. “You ever try to get a straight answer from a lawyer? We need to know now—not next week. Call Mr. Stargill’s sons about this. You’ve put it off too long already.”
    J. Z. Stallard hesitated. He hated telephones. “Clayt still lives around here, doesn’t he?”
    “He tells people he lives in the state capital,” Dovey sighed. When her father looked blank, she added, “You know—Jonesborough.” The village had a one-block business district and a population of a few thousand at most, but in the era of history that was Clayt Stargill’s passion, frontier Jonesborough had been a state capital. By 1788, when the lost state of Franklin was reabsorbed by North Carolina and Tennessee, Jonesborough’s brief flicker of glory was over, and it reverted to a paintbox-pretty mountain town where Norman Rockwell would have felt at home.
    Dovey Stallard turned on the hot water, and began piling stained coffee mugs and food-encrusted plates into the sink. “Might as well do these dishes