The Last Sitter

by Charles C. Cole

If the community gossip was accurate, and Chick Newley was more right than wrong, bedridden Miss Olive Barden would not survive to see another sunrise. The aggressive cancer in the old widow’s stomach was about to win a most grueling war. Miss Olive, of a remarkably full life, had outlived most of her friends and all her relatives, would have youngblood Swain Clatchee’s company and support tonight, as long as she wanted.

There was an ongoing harvest festival in Lanford, one town over, that Swain had purchased a new straw hat for, but village commitments came first. Swain had a heart twice as big as a silver dollar and a firm grip, like an over-the-moon new papa. Tonight, the closest thing the isolated community had to a preacher, Swain would witness as the emotional guide for Miss Olive as she transitioned from one world to another.

Miss Mamie, Swain’s landlord and the owner of The Dewdrop Inn, had been setting hot homemade cornbread muffins on the table when he embarked on his compassionate knight-errantry. Swain didn’t like to go too early ’cause it made folks feel he was rushing their loved ones into a warm grave, but he knew the rocky one-lane drive up to the Barden Farm was not something to be negotiated on a moonless night when one was fatigued from dancing.

Swain, single and in his mid-twenties, didn’t expect a long wait, not like the time Dag Offerman’s tractor had done an awkward somersault due to his reckless fooling near Devil’s Nob. Nope, one solemn nod from Doc Buckle as he strode off the tired porch told Swain this was the real deal.

“Nice of you to spell me, Brother Swain,” said Doc. “She’s as comfortable as modern medicine can get her. Call if things get rough, but she’s ready as she’s gonna be.”

Swain had arrived early with plans to sit a spell and watch daylight fade over the holler, to ease into the quiet mood the evening required. He tossed a pillow and blanket into the open bed of his red-and-white pickup and climbed up with a battered notebook of favorite poems his mama’s mamma had transcribed before he was born: “Lydia’s Little Country Devotional.”

Except for the seriousness of upcoming events, there was an anticipation in the air like at the start of a family reunion, when distant cousins would camp in tents and tell stories all night around a roaring fire. But Sister Lucy, a spinster of no relation to Olive and with no formal spiritual training, was more than ready for the end of her shift. Distracted by the day’s momentum, Lucy let the spring-loaded screen door slam behind her and pretty much scared herself to death.

After she’d regained her composure, while holding a damp washcloth on the back of her neck, Sister Lucy caught Swain up: “Our dearly departing friend’s fed, much as she’ll eat, and done with her final ablutions. Don’t have the nerve for what comes next nor, I think, does she, poor dear. Her eyes are mostly closed, not wanting to witness her own last breath, I bet. And when they do pop open, they’s big like a horse that’s just been spooked.

“Don’t know if she’s sees things flitting about that I can’t or she’s afraid she’s gonna. Sure, she needs a prayerful baritone and a calm man’s big warm hands to hold tight to, for when life’s hayride starts careening on the downhill side. You know what I mean.”

“I’m all set, Miss Lucy,” said Swain. “Y’all go home now and get some rest. ’I have a firm hold of the baton,’ as my late brother Patch used to say during his relay racing days. I was just gonna read a bit till you called for me. But now’s as good a time as any.”

Swain made his way onto the sun porch that Miss Olive had whipped together as a bedroom after her exhausted legs suddenly stopped climbing stairs.

Swain glanced out the long row of dusty windows. “Miss Olive,” he said, “your tired legs should have gave up years ago. No offense, but this here’s the best room in the house, with the loveliest view.” Her eyes tight closed, Miss Olive smiled weakly with a hint of pride and stretched a thin bare arm toward Swain’s voice, her way of meeting him halfway.

“You telling me to get?” Swain teased. “After I come all this way?”

Olive’s arm dropped like someone pulled a hidden string. Her pale, boney hand patted the bed beside her, gently.

“Can’t ask much nicer than that,” said Swain. “Ok, I’ll stay.” He pulled his chair close and her hand closer. “I’m told, by Doc Buckle hisself, someone’s going on a fancy adventure. And I’m the special one who gets to wave from the shore.” Olive sighed, her breath more relaxed. “Miss Lucy says you’re all packed; the house is in order as if it were listed in a Sears and Roebuck catalogue.”

She smiled again. He noticed her tiny tight lips were chapped. He wanted, hard, to make her giggle once, to maybe pick her up and rock her like a restless baby.

“I can quote some scripture, sing some psalms or lullabies, or we just sit together in silence. You get to choose. And I can’t say no. Them’s the rules, my contract with the boss.”

Olive slid a small familiar book of poetry out from under her pillow. “Ma’am, I got that exact book.” There was a paper tucked in. “Let’s see what we got here. A poem by Leigh Hunt. With a brand new stanza or two by Mr. Swain Clatchee.”

Olive kiss’d me when we met,
Jumping from the chair she sat in;
Time, you thief, who love to get
Sweets into your list, put that in!
Say I’m weary, say I’m sad,
Say that health and wealth have miss’d me,
Say I’m growing old, but add
Swain Clatchee kiss’d me.

With that, Olive smiled her final smile.