That case could hold an armful of his books, his handheld glass that made ant-sized words look like cockroaches to my eyes, his comb, shaving cup, razor, a black suit, two pairs of socks—both with the same stubborn hole at their big toe, three white shirts and their spare collars and cuffs, two handkerchiefs, and atop of it all a neatly folded stack of his underthings—every under vests and drawers scrubbed until they were white as the finest sugar and ironed until they were writing-paper smooth. Charlotte could have told me about the years that they would take from me, if I’d only listened.

On his frame, he wore the cleaner of his black suits, shirt, collar and cuffs, cravat, socks that left the same big toe out in the cold, overcoat, shoes—his only pair, always in need of a good polish—and his wide-brim hat, the color of a drab country hare, with a crown like a fallen cake. Underneath it all, hidden and closest to him, his Henrietta cloth, never white enough, never ironed enough, never free enough of their stubborn creases that had plagued Charlotte and then me.

All his things were as good as ghosts now—

No, Miss, there’s nothing more I can tell you about his underthings.

Would the Enquirer readers want to know more about that, Miss? The state of a man’s underthings? It shouldn’t surprise me that they would be drawn to something so common, but if you don’t mind me saying, that isn’t the heart of this story. If that’s what you came here for, you haven’t heard it yet, Miss.

The kitchen was just as I’d left it. I’d made certain not to leave any foodstuff behind that would spoil. I knew Pat, left on his own, wouldn’t step foot in there. But he must have, because I didn’t see the serving platter with the two cabbage roses. My guess was that it broke, and he threw away the pieces. I couldn’t see him tucking it into his traveling case on his way out.

Pat left a note for me in the kitchen. Bill saw it first.

A raven perched on a gravestone, its head turned to one side, the eye looking up at a pumpkin-wedge moon. There were letters written on the gravestone, and I asked Bill to read them to me. He said it wasn’t a word.

Here, Miss. Mr. Anderson thought that you should see the note. The Probate Court will want to see it as well, he said.

Yes, I know what the letters say now, Miss.

“M de M.” At least, Pat had the courtesy not to use my true name when he buried me.

Mr. Anderson says that Pat was two tens and seven, and I was two tens and three, Miss.