James Kunstler - World Made by Hand

We in the choir took up our places behind Loren at the head of the grave. The New Faith people ended up in a crowd on one side and the Union Grove people on the other. Loren began the burial with a Psalm, number 100:

When Loren had concluded, Brother Jobe took a step forward from his people, cleared his throat in a demonstrative way, and began reciting another Psalm, number 1:

There was more than a little coughing and chuffing among our townspeople as he concluded.

“Thank you, Brother Jobe,” Loren said, “for that interesting choice.”

“The hundredth there that you spoke. That’s on the cheerful side, given the circumstances. Wouldn’t you think?”

“I thought it might reflect the gratitude of we the living.”

“The Lord is busy judging, and by death do we know it.”

“I suppose so. Now, if you’ll permit us.”

Brother Jobe appeared to think better of saying more and stepped back among his people.

“Lord our God,” Loren said, “you are the source of life. In you we live and move. Keep us in life and death, in your love, and, by you grace, lead us to your kingdom through your Son, Jesus Christ, our Lord.”

“Amen,” the crowd said.

“Almighty God, look on this your servant, lying in great weakness, and comfort him with the promise of life everlasting, given in the resurrection of your Son, Jesus Christ, our Lord.”

“Amen.”

Loren turned and nodded to those of us in the choir behind him. We began the hymn named “Africa” by William Billings. It was not about the continent of Africa per se, or any of the doings within it, but it was a very beautiful hymn of the American Revolutionary period. It was a favorite of ours and one that Shawn himself had sung with us many times. His strong baritone was conspicuously absent.

There were five more verses. When we had concluded, out of nowhere, and much to our surprise, the New Faith people raised their voices in song, all seventy-three of them. The song they commenced was an ominous tune I had heard once or twice, called “The Great Day.” It went like this:

The New Faith people sang the hymn in the shape note manner, all modal harmonies full of terror and dread and nasal harshness. It was an impressive display. Our people seemed cowed by it.

When they had concluded, we immediately sang “Shiloh” another hymn by Billings. As we laid down our last note, they answered with “Mortality” by Isaac Watts:

Loren glanced behind at us in the choir and gave a little shake of the head which we took to mean we should not answer with any more music. In this fraught interval of silence, Brother Jobe spoke out.

“Reverend, I’ve always thought the minor key better suited this sort of occasion,” he said. “I can’t help but remark on your employment of the major keys.”

“We sing to honor the beauty of God’s creation and the joy of the living who remain in it.”

“Funeral is a time of sadness.”

“I don’t think we need to be instructed on how to feel.”

“Didn’t mean any disrespect, Reverend. But D-major always puts me in mind of dancing, not burying the dead.”

Not a few of the other New Faith people seemed to titter at that, though they tried to hide their faces. Some of our people turned and began to walk away from the gravesite. Others gaped across the yawning grave in wonder at the newcomers. Britney glanced pleadingly at Loren.

“If you’ll excuse me, Brother Jobe,” Loren said, “we are burying our dead, and we’re doing it in our way.”

“Sorry. Go ahead.”

“Thank you.”

“I’ll just shut up now.”

“If you don’t, Brother Jobe,” Loren said, “I am liable to come over there and bust you in the mouth.”

Brother Jobe recoiled slightly, then lowered his head and did not utter another word. His people likewise looked down.

“Almighty Lord,” Loren said, “we commit the body of Shawn Watling to the peace of the grave. From dust you came, to dust you shall return. Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come, thy will be done on earth as in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread. Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us. Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. For thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory, for ever and ever. Amen.”

“Amen.”

At that, we laid Shawn into the comfort of his everlasting resting place and left the burying ground in silence.

In the days that followed Shawn Watling’s funeral, everyone made an effort to attend the needs of his widow and their daughter. There were no official safety nets in our little society, no more social services, no life insurance, nothing but the goodwill of neighbors. I went over twice: once with Todd Zucker, to get in stovewood for her, using his horse cart to bring maple cut from his dying sugar bush; the second time on my own, bringing five pounds of cornmeal from Einhorn’s store. It was eight o’clock in the evening when I came by, after working a full day on the cupola.

I could see Britney through a front window sitting in the broom shop, but she didn’t come to the door after I’d knocked twice, pretty loudly the second time, so I let myself inside and went to the shop.

“Excuse me for barging in,” I said.

She turned to me as if shaking off a reverie and leveled a gaze my way, as fierce as a kestrel. It was unnerving.

“Just checking to see if you’re okay?” I said.