Aurora 2022-Final

Addison Hughes The Strange Funeral of Reverend Edgar Thomason

Addison Hughes

One thing was certain: Reverend Thomason deserved a better funeral. Sheriff Pettin recounted the day’s events to himself, fiddling with his badge in frustration. Although a skilled reader, the apothecary could hardly sermonize like Thomason had; the Reverend relayed Biblical messages as though he had personally broken bread with Christ at that final meal, and could perorate on them as naturally as the ranchers could complain about the heat or lack of rain. The apothecary could hardly do more than read the verses verbatim— occasionally pausing to offer a definition or translation—with the same zealless stupor one would expect from a diagnosis of lumbago. At the end of it, the apothecary raised a dingy handkerchief to his mouth, proffered up a dry cough, and concluded with a mournful “Amen.” After that, the schoolmarm led the gathering in a chorus of “Nearer, My God, to Thee.” Her voice, old and fraying like her hair and the threads of her dress, bore none of the awe of Reverend Thomason’s. His, though not exactly melodious, was rich and booming, exuding a confidence that Pettin imagined most hymns had been designed for. This song felt like a question, as though the congregation had only heard of Heaven that morning. Finally, they lowered the old man into his grave. This, Pettin thought, was the greatest injustice of all; no amount of cactus flowers or hand-hewn crucifixes could turn the arid, dusty sands of the graveyard into an appropriate representation of the lush vistas of Zion Thomason had evangelized. Monochrome fistfuls of dry ground landed on the Reverend’s coffin, slowly burying him. Pettin regarded the mound of dust that covered the Reverend; a strong breeze kicked up, carrying some of it off towards the mountains. The wives had prepared some food for after the service, but the apothecary took longer than expected delivering his passionless speech. Pettin chewed morosely on cold rabbit stew, scanning the dull faces of a similarly dis pleased town. Next to the cauldrons of flat sustenance was a small table, where the bartender, Steven, presided over a few bottles of Old Crow whiskey—Pettin coldly regarded those red-nosed men who partook, laughing and trampling over graves. He glanced across the field, eventually resting his gaze on a stone. His eyes, wet and old, didn’t need sight to remember its markings—Rachel Pettin. He lingered for a moment; the plain metal band on his left hand burned, calling for its lost partner. When he was sure no one would disturb her, Pettin returned to his bowl of unappetizing slop. Just as the late afternoon transitioned towards evening, a hoarse twang rose over the dissolving crowd. “John Pettin, that was quite a service!” The

sheriff ’s muscles tightened, and he brushed the cold pistol hanging at his hip. In Pettin’s adult life, only three people ever used his given name—two of them were underground, and the third was Billy Cohen, who presently took a seat across from Pettin. His six-foot frame barely fit at the table, and his stew looked tiny in his large, calloused hands. Cohen affixed a dirty-red handkerchief around his neck, and laid his sun-bleached leather hat on the table next to him. He flashed a toothy grin—dazzlingly bright in contrast with his light brown skin—and scrunched up his nose, misshapen by one too many hard punches. His eyes were red—with drink, Pettin thought. He was the very picture of a man unfit for society, let alone a funeral. The sheriff stiffened and sat straight in his seat. “Cohen.” He said the name without the usual venom, in an effort to remain in control. “What in blazes do you think you’re doing here? You know you ain’t welcome ‘round these parts.” “Relax, sheriff.” That last word came out with an ounce of irony—just enough to frustrate Pettin greatly. “I’m here on friendly business, on account of the good Reverend’s passing.” There was a moment of tense silence. He sighed, knowing that avoiding a conflict would be better. “Okay,” the sheriff said wearily. “But if I hear one complaint about you, I won’t hesitate to chase you all the way to Delaware.” Cohen nodded solemnly, and took a bite of his food, before letting out a guffaw. “John Pettin, you must agree—this is the worst stew ever made!” Pettin willed his expression to remain unchanged. After a moment, he let himself speak. “Come on, Cohen, cough it up. What are you doing here?” “I told you,” said the outlaw. “I’m here to pay my respects. Thomason was a good friend to me.” Pettin scoffed, unable to keep the disbelief from his face. “What kind of friend? He try to save your soul or something?” “Not exactly,” Cohen laughed. “We were drinkin’ buddies.” Pettin stared at Cohen in shock. “Really. Sometimes—once or twice a month—he’d ride down to my camp, and we’d drink and talk for hours.” Pettin was about to react in protest, but decided to play along with what was surely a tasteless joke. “What would you…talk about?” “Cards, mostly,” Cohen replied. “Most times, we’d play friendly, but sometimes the good Reverend would bring some disposable income to bet. He was good—beat me more often than not!” He laughed wistfully, as though fondly remembering a friend. Pettin was, at this point, firmly convinced that Cohen was trying some strange trick—a mind game, although to what end was unclear.

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