Mankillers

“Sir,” Buck called out.

The man started to run away, clumsily climbing over an overturned piano bench that was missing a leg.

“Sir,” Buck called out again, hoping he sounded less threatening. “Can you help me, please?”

The man stopped, froze, listened, then turned, as if to an old friend. “How may I assist you, sir? I’d offer you a chair, but—” he peered around, as if confused “—I don’t know where they’ve put them. I must find Lucy Jean’s picture.” He resumed his pawing through broken shards of china and glass.

“Be careful,” Buck warned. “Can you direct me to the nearest undertaker?”

“Jeffcoat’s? She’s not there anymore. We buried her.”

“Where?”

“In the cemetery, of course. Weren’t you there?”

This poor man, Buck thought. Who was Lucy Jean? His wife? His daughter? But he didn’t have time to dwell or help the elderly gentleman. Jeffcoat’s. He remembered now. The name of the largest funeral home in Columbia. Just a few blocks from here.

After a short drive he arrived in front of what appeared to be a typical southern mansion, columns painted a dull white and fronted by a manicured green lawn. Only a large stone etched with the word “Jeffcoat” identified it. He jumped down from the seat, tied the wagon’s reins to a metal post, then turned to Sarah and her mother. With her arms around her daughter’s waist, Mrs. Greenwald gazed at Buck for a moment, then life came to her swollen eyes.

“Where are we?” Before he could answer, she took in the stone tablet and the building. “Oh. Yes, of course.” Sarah sat without moving until her mother whispered in her ear, “We need to get down, dear.”

“Let me help you.” Buck extended his hands.

Sarah reached for them, then made a mewing sound and pulled back. Firmly grasping her waist, Buck lifted her from the carriage and gently deposited her on the ground. As he did so, the older woman glanced at the clothing-covered outline of her dead husband. Then, without a word she accepted Buck’s help and stepped into the street.

“Sarah,” she said, “let me see your shoulder. Good, it’s stopped bleeding,” she noted with approval.

“Nevertheless,” Buck insisted, “we have to clean and dress it quickly.”

He placed his arm around Sarah’s waist and guided her toward the imposing façade. While her mother held her daughter’s hands, Buck knocked sharply on the front door.

An impeccably attired black man opened it immediately. “Yessir, may I help you?”

“I’m Dr. Thomson. A lady has been injured. I require a private room with a washstand, warm water, soap and a clean cloth. Then I need to see Mr. Jeffcoat right away.”

“Yessir. Y’all come in, folks. I’ll go fetch Mr. Jeffcoat directly.” He led them to a small reception room across from the massive staircase and hurried out to complete his assignment.

Before Buck could help Sarah and her mother to the settee, a stocky, balding man with a brown-dyed handlebar mustache, wearing a black frock coat, gray vest and striped pantaloons, hurried to meet them. His visage was one of practiced concern, his voice soothing as trickling water.

“Good evening, ladies, sir. I’m Otis Jeffcoat. How may I assist you?”

Buck offered his hand. “Permit me to introduce Mrs. Greenwald and her daughter, Mrs. Drexel. I’m Dr. Buck Thomson. I must attend to Mrs. Drexel’s shoulder immediately. We’re also in need of your services.”

The black man appeared in the doorway, carrying a basin with a pitcher in it, a towel slung over his arm and a piece of soap balanced on top of it. With amazing dexterity he deposited them on a side table and removed a roll of white cloth bandages from his vest pocket.

“Doctor,” Jeffcoat said, “when you’re finished, Dolfus will be waiting outside the door to escort you to my office.”

Observing the appropriate modesty, Buck engaged the assistance of her mother in removing enough of Sarah’s clothing for him to properly attend to her injury. Impressed by the young woman’s uncomplaining compliance with his directives, which undoubtedly caused her pain, he proceeded to cleanse and dress the wound. After giving her a few moments to rest, Buck opened the door and they followed Dolfus to the funeral director’s office down the hall.

#

When everyone was seated in the tastefully appointed room Ruth Greenwald allowed Dr. Thomson to recount the events that had brought them there. He did so concisely and with professional detachment. Buck then deferred to the older woman.

“Are you familiar with Jewish burial customs, Mr. Jeffcoat?” she asked.

“Madam, I’ve had the honor of handling the funeral arrangements for all the Jewish families here in Columbia. With your permission, I’ll send a messenger immediately to Rabbi Myron Mendelssohn, who, I’m sure, will be a great comfort to you in this difficult time. Do you have any relatives here in Columbia with whom you can sit Shiva?”

Ruth was pleased that the officious man was apparently as knowledgeable as he claimed. “Not relatives but friends. But first there’s the matter of a burial plot.”

“I’m sure Rabbi Mendelssohn can be of assistance in that regard.”

Buck raised his hand. “Perhaps you could also send a message to Gus Grayson and his wife. Miriam’s Jewish.”

“The banker and his wife! Yes, yes!” the undertaker agreed. “I know them well. I’ll send someone to notify them straightaway.” He paused, then inquired of the physician in almost a whisper. “And the present location of the deceased?”

“In the wagon out front.”

“If you’ll excuse me a moment.” He started for the door.

“There’s one other thing, Mr. Jeffcoat,” Buck said, stopping him before he was able to escape. “Our driver—I know him only as John—is also in need of your services.”

“Sir, rest assured this also will be handled appropriately. Dolfus,” he called out, “pull the wagon from in front around . . .” His voice trailed off as he closed the door behind him.

Ruth murmured. “I haven’t seen Miriam and her husband for so long, and now to impose on them like this—”

“Momma, you know Miriam, if you didn’t call on her she’d be offended. Wouldn’t you be if circumstances were reversed?”

“You have the wisdom of a mother,” she said with a smile, then put her hand to her mouth. “Sarah, baby, forgive me.”

“A compliment is kindness, Momma.”

Buck could feel Ruth studying him as he observed her daughter. Sarah was sitting in the fiddle-back chair at the corner of the desk, pale and weary. She hadn’t yet cried, and he had to admire her stoicism, but he also wondered how much more tragedy she could endure. She’d already suffered the loss of her brother in the war, the less-than-honorable demise of her abusive husband in a Yankee prison camp, and now the senseless murder of her beloved father in front of her eyes. Not to mention being shot herself.

“I’m glad you know the Graysons,” Buck said. “Miriam’s a good woman who’s at her best in a crisis. Until she arrives, is there anything I can do for either of you? A glass of water? Brandy perhaps?”

“Nothing, thank you.” Sarah bowed her head. “You’ve been so kind already—” her voice trembled “—and you saved my life.”

She’s so brave, so beautiful, and I’ve brought nothing but pain and death to her and her family.

“If only I could have saved your father,” he said.

“You have no cause for regret, doctor,” Ruth assured him. “My husband left this life quickly, and I believe, painlessly. He was a good husband and a wonderful father. I’m comforted by the belief that God is closest to those whose hearts are broken. Had Jacob lived, I fear the time ahead would have been very difficult for us all.”

Sarah finally broke down and began to weep silently.

Jeffcoat hurriedly reentered the room, wiping his brow with a silken kerchief. “Can I get anything for you ladies, brandy perhaps?”