Pa woke up first, but his rustling around got the rest of us up. Seeing Mom still on the plank, unmoving all night and not waking up now was a jolt. It really brought home how final this was. Pa came in with a bucket of cold water from the pump. We all took turns washing the sleep from our eyes. Izzy was lucky to be last today. The water was not so brutally cold when he filled his basin. I could see him crying a little as he washed his face. He was the youngest and took care of Mom inside while the rest of us worked the farm. His life would change the most.
Izzy asked, “What about school?”
“School will get along without you until we get your mother buried.” Pa explained. “If we get time, Ike or Sam can go by and get assignments. Mostly, you can make up your assignments as you get time.”
While Izzy washed, Pa was already dressed and outside hitching Sue, our mule, to the flat wagon. By the time Izzy had crawled into his clothes, Sue was making grumpy morning noises about the unexpected chore in the cold this morning.
Pa came in and spoke to us. “We will take your mother on that plank. Izzy, take that blanket and spread it in the bed of the wagon. Sam and Ike, take the head and foot of the plank. Pete and I will walk on the sides holding on to the plank. The main thing is to keep the wood level so you Mom don’t roll off. Getting out the door will be tricky. I will go out first, Pete. Then we will move the plank to the other side of the jamb so Pete can come out. OK, boys, let’s be careful with your mother and go slowly so nobody trips.”
Mom didn’t weigh anything. Any of us but Izzy could have scooped her up like a baby and carried her that way. But this way let each of us help her to the wagon. I remember Pa had to do this with each of his parents. Someday, I might carry Pa the same way. We did it the way he said.
When we reached the back of the wagon, Sam put the head end in and hopped up in. He lifted the plank clear of the blanket on the floor and each of us advanced a little until Pete and Pa had to let go and move to the sides of the wagon where they could regrip the wood and continue the slow movement of Mom into the wagon. When I was finally able to set down the foot, Mom was lying in the middle of the wagon bed. Excess blanket showed on both sides of Mom’s plank. Pa flipped one side of the blanket over her. I did the same with the other side.
Pa announced, “Izzy and Sam, ride back here on each side near her head. Pete and Ike, you can ride on each side with your feet hangin’ off the end. It’ll be a rough ride. We just don’t want to lose her.” Pa cracked a little smile.
Let me explain about the “town” of Hill Oklahoma. It is just the hill we live on. Mrs. Corrigan, who lives in the next house down the road with her boy Kev, are the only other residents besides us. Pa made a sign that says “Hill Oklahoma, Post Office” and put it in front of Mrs. Corrigan’s drive. That is the whole town – two houses with a post office in one of them. Main Street is county road 251. There are no signs to mark the start or stop of this town. The road doesn’t even get wider. If it weren’t for the post office sign and the $10 a month Mrs. Corrigan gets as the post master, there would not be any evidence of a town. When there is a letter to be mailed, we just carry it to Hackett unless it is the day the Post Office truck goes by. Then Mrs. Corrigan sets a red flag on the sign that says post office and the truck will stop to pick up a letter. Once in a great while, the truck will stop when there is a letter or package for someone living around here.
There are no close roads that go from here to Hackett. If you wanted to be on a road the whole way, it would be over 15 miles to Hackett. Walking was four miles and was pretty direct. Taking the wagon, it was about five miles along roads then over a rolling meadow, then back onto the bumpy Arkansas road that goes into Hackett. That was Pa’s plan to take Mom over the meadow. He clucked at Sue and snapped the reins down on her rump and we began the slow trek to the funeral parlor in Hackett.
At the Hackett Funeral Home, Pa takes off his hat as he goes in. In just a minute, he sticks his head back out the door and says, “Ike, take the wagon around back and the undertakers will take Mom in. Then all of you come back around here. We have some questions to answer.”
After pulling the wagon around the building via an alley, I tied up the mule and knocked on the door. Two men in rubber aprons over black vests and trousers come out and take Mom into the back of the funeral parlor. You could tell they were practiced and had no trouble working together to carry an awkward load. They deposited Mom’s body onto a work table, plank and all. The lead man then showed all of us to the front office where Pa was already seated. The mortician fetched four more chairs for us.
“Well then,” the man started, “what was the deceased name?”
“Letha Daniels,” said Pa. “Very pretty name. What was her maiden name?”
So, Pa and the funeral director went back and forth discussing every aspect of Mom and her family and where all the relatives were and what church and which Masonic guild and what sort of coffin would she want? This last question caused all of us to adjourn to the casket room to look them over. They went from plain wood box to a cloth covered wood box all the way up to solid bronze with silver handles and the water tight guarantee. I couldn’t figure out if the guarantee was watertight or the coffin was watertight. I wondered who would check if it was the coffin. The cloth covered wood was the cheapest box and that is what Mom got.
The mortician said we would need to stop at the sheriff’s office to fill out a form for an unwitnessed death. “It was witnessed,” Pa said. “Me and the boys were there.”
The mortician smiled and said when a death is unwitnessed by any state-licensed agent like a sheriff or a doctor or a nurse, then a form has to filed with the sheriff and a doctor has to examine the body to be sure no foul play was the cause. “We can’t do a thing until a doc gives us an OK and signs a death certificate. You won’t be able to collect any life insurance until that death certificate is filed. It is just a formality.”
“There won’t be any life insurance.” Pa told the mortician.
The mortician looked crest fallen. “That’s too bad,” he said. “Insurance can help so much with these final bills.”
When everything was settled and planned, Pa asked if a George Nelson was also here. The mortician said “yes” and asked if we knew him.
“Only casually, Pa said. “He came to a couple of Masonic lodge meetings and said he belonged to a lodge in Chicago.”
“Very tragic. It looks like murder. He was hit on the head with a sharp instrument. Maybe a shovel. It was something heavy and something with a sharpened blade. You see in his example what I mean by having a doctor examine the body. Here is one the doctor found to be murder.”
“Can I see him?” Pa asked.
“Oh, I am sorry. We are not quite done with him. However, it should not be too much longer. Chances are, when you are through with the sheriff, the remains will be ready for viewing.” The mortician’s voice took on a conspiratorial hush. “The sheriff thinks this is George Baby Face Nelson,” the mortician whispered.
“I wouldn’t know anything about that. I saw him exactly three times in six months. All of those had to do with him bein’ a Mason.” Pa told the mortician.
Pa shook hands with the funeral director. "Can we leave the wagon in back," Pa asked.
"Don't worry about it." The undertaker said. "If we get another customer, we will move your wagon for you. That is, if that old Jenny of yours is friendly?"
"She'll move for you. She's not skittish or anything." Pa said.
"Her name is Sue," Izzy added helpfully.
The five of us headed over to the sheriff's office. Everyone was talking about the undertakers and telegrams to the relatives and newspapers near the relatives and what the obituary would say. "Letha (Neighbors) Daniels died Thurs, Nov 7 near Hackett AR. Funl will be Tue 10 AM First Bap Chch in Hackett. Burl will be at Vaenita Cem following serv." Three abbreviated sentences were the obituary that summed up my mother's life. Of course every letter cost a penny and that times the three telegrams to three towns it would go to tell all our relatives about the service.
As we walked, I dropped an arm around Izzy's shoulder and asked him how he was doing. He looked up at me and said he was glad Mom was in a better place and wouldn't feel the cold anymore. "Thanks for being so brave about it." I told him.
I noticed for the first time in a long time how different I looked from my brothers. All of them and Pa have sandy blonde hair. My hair was black. I had to shave my black beard every morning. It was a dark shadow on my face again by supper. Pa and the older boys could go a week before stubble showed fine hair on their faces. My skin was dark, almost Indian looking. All of them were fair. My Pa said Mom had Indian in her. It was the joke in the family that I was the black sheep. I really stood out today walking with four blonde men to the sheriff's office.
"Ike, I certainly am glad to see you." Sheriff Braxton greeted us. He was older muscular man who was thick in the middle. People got out of his way whether he was dressed as a sheriff or not. "I was sure sorry to hear about your ma. Mighty tough on the youngster, I bet." He looked at Izzy when he said the last bit. News travels in a small town. Nothing happens that the sheriff doesn't find out about pretty quick.
"Come in and let's get the paper work done. I will need to borrow Ike to go to Ft. Smith this afternoon or tomorrow. They caught the guy that likely killed our friend, George Nelson. Bowen's his name. He originally owned that fancy car Nelson had and Bowen was back driving it again. I heard Ike say that he saw the car when Nelson had it. We need him to look through it to see if he recognizes anything as Nelson's that can tie Bowen to the murder."
Pa said either day was OK with him, and it was up to me if I felt like going today or tomorrow. I said today was OK to get it over with. Ft. Smith is about 25 miles north of Hackett. It is a dusty ride anytime.
Pa and the sheriff filled out a couple of forms."To tell you the truth," the sheriff said, "Doc is likely over there looking at Letha now. In small towns things get done when they are needed. You men can go if you want."
"Ike, if you are ready for that trip to Fort Smith, we can be back by dark if we head out now. Zack, I will bring Ike by your place when we are done. No need for him to walk those miles back home." "Zack" is what people called my Pa, though his real name is Isaac Willard Daniels. I am really named Isaac Wesley Daniels. That is why I am "Ike." So, nobody will mix up names of me and Pa. It is a funny thing about bein' named and bein' called.