“Your priest friend is here to see you,” Jack shouted. “Your children are disgusted with you, Maggie, and I am too. Locking yourself in a bedroom like this. Have some consideration for your family!”

“Fuck my family,” I said, but not loudly. Then I was horrified. How could I have even thought anything like that?

“Tell Father Jackson I’ll be down in five minutes.”

I waited until I heard Jack clumping away before going to the bathroom. Then I dressed quickly and was downstairs in not much more than my announced time.

“I’m sorry to break in on you like this,” Father Jackson said. He was wearing his Roman collar.

“I invited you, didn’t I? Or at least I knew you were coming. Have some breakfast with me.”

I steered him out to the kitchen and into a chair while I prepared an enormous breakfast—bacon, eggs, sausage, five or six pieces of toast. Jack came to the doorway a couple of times to look in on us suspiciously, but I didn’t speak to him and the second time I thumbed my nose at him. Father Jackson was embarrassed, so I went over and ruffled his hair and kissed him. Then he was even more embarrassed.

“Are you going to eat all that food?” he asked.

“I am if you’re not going to help me.”

And I did. He had a cup of coffee and watched me gorge myself. Then, when I had eaten all I had cooked, I went to the refrigerator and polished off some cold roast beef and a bowl of tapioca pudding.

“Now I feel better,” I said. “I’m ready to go out and do some digging.”

“It’s illegal,” Father Jackson said.

“Nonsense. This is private property. Our graveyard belongs to us.”

I left the dishes on the table and went out to the barn, Father Jackson following reluctantly. As a matter of fact I knew what I proposed to do was foolish. I was sure I wasn’t going to find anything. However, I was enjoying Peter Jackson’s discomfort.

I found two long-­handled shovels and a pick among the rusting tools. The blade was half gone on one shovel and the handle was cracked on the other.

“These will do,” I said. “There isn’t much clay in this ground.”

I led him to the graveyard and the place where Dr. Tully had said Margaret Dorn was buried. Without preamble I went to work, driving my shovel into the earth.

“You’d better take off your coat if you’re going to help,” I told him.

He didn’t know what to do. He stood by the fence for a while, watching me and growing more agitated. Finally the gentleman in him prevailed. He took off his coat, draping it carefully over a tombstone, picked up the shovel with the broken blade and lifted about a tablespoonful of earth.