Mr. Riggs. Elder of the community in need undertaker.'s Arc

Chapter 1 of 1

Mr. Riggs waited on the porch of the funeral home for a mourner who did not come. The stone walls behind him held the quiet of a full day's work already done. He had washed the last body at dawn, a farmer's uncle nobody claimed until the sheriff sent word. Now the sun sat low and the road stayed empty. He was the town's undertaker, and he was old. His wife had been dead two winters. The community he helped raise from stumps and mud had forty-one roofs now, a schoolhouse, a bank, a library. It had everything except a reason for anyone to sit with him after supper. He locked the front doors and walked toward the small wooden church at the end of the lane. The bell tower threw a long shadow across the steps. Pastor Jeff was inside, sleeves rolled, wiping down the rail where the injured woman had lain for three days. The young pastor looked up through his glasses and smiled the same careful smile he gave everyone. "Evening, Mr. Riggs. You need something?" Mr. Riggs stopped in the aisle. He had come to ask about a hymn for Sunday. That was the reason he told himself on the walk over. Standing there, he could not make his mouth shape it. "I came to sit a minute," he said. "If that's all right." Pastor Jeff set the rag down. He did not fill the silence. He sat on the pew across from Mr. Riggs and folded his hands. "My wife used to pick the hymns," Mr. Riggs said. "I've been picking them alone. I pick them badly." Pastor Jeff nodded. "You've buried three people this month." "Four." "Four." The pastor's voice did not rise. "Who buries with you?" "No one. It's my trade." "That isn't what I asked." Mr. Riggs looked at his hands. The knuckles were swollen from lifting. He had lifted alone for two years. He had eaten alone longer than that. "I don't have a reason to keep company," he said. "A nod at the market. A hand at the door. That's the shape of my day." Pastor Jeff was quiet a long moment. Then he stood and crossed to the small desk by the pulpit. He came back with a thin ledger and a pencil. "The chapel needs someone to sit with the grieving before I get to them," he said. "I can't reach every house in time. You already go to those houses. You already know the door." He held out the pencil. "Take the visits before the burial. Sit with them. Drink their coffee. I'll write your name beside mine on the roll." Mr. Riggs took the pencil. His hand was steady. "I'll start tomorrow," he said. He signed. The polite nods were over. He had a reason now to stay in a room.