The quarryman’s daughter is back to talk with the sisters. Now Rita and Rosmarge are both answering the door. They like it this way. Today my hands have nothing to do. Nothing to cut. It is almost winter again. Time doth settle. I bring my hands to the peonies growing from my chest. Two peonies where the breasts would be. They start in the spring before the summer of the trouble. They are well rooted. They like the cold of the stone house. They bloom all year here. The cold keeps them. Their smell is light and green. I like to hold them and to smell them. The keeper likes to put his whole hand around each flower. His hand around the neck of a columbine. His whole hand around a patch of forget-me-nots. He does it with the peonies at Rose Head. When they are tight green fists. His hand is the blanket and he is warming them. Later they are so heavy they cannot stand up. His hand is the cup and he is drinking them. Or his whole hand around a lilac. His skin is red and very warm. His fingers never touch a thing. My fingers are on the petals. My hands have nothing to cut. I am listening to the sisters. They talk about people in Little Neck. But they do not talk about the keeper. Not since my first night here. On the first night the sisters want to talk about the keeper. They know him. They know him and want to talk about him. But they are not going to say what they know. What is it that you call him. That is what they ask. He takes good care of you now doesn’t he. Saying and not saying. The room is so cold even though it is August. Don’t have a lot of visitors over at the chapelhouse do you. Going to miss him aren’t you. It is a room of no salt. No dirt. No birds. I close my eyes. When she thinks I am asleep Rosmarge says, She is a quiet one though. And Rita says, Just like Peter. And Rosmarge says nothing. Or she does but it takes her a long time and I am asleep. On that night they seem to love to talk about him. And then not. None of the bereaved talks about the keeper. They come to the stonehouse and they talk to Rita about what they have to do for their dead. They say, Going down to Rose Head. But they don’t say keeper. Or groundskeeper. I do not hear the sisters or the bereaved ever talk about the keeper. Which means there is something to say. I go stand behind the open door to the front room. Now I can hear the sisters and the quarryman’s daughter. They are talking about the Rose family. Someone in the Rose family is dying. The quarryman’s daughter likes to talk about the Rose family because they have big houses. The biggest in Little Neck. The quarryman’s daughter does not ever say the keeper. And I do not hear her say the name Peggy. The name on a gravestone at Rose Head where the keeper’s favorite flowers are planted. None of the bereaved in Little Neck say the name Peggy when they come to the stonehouse. I do not ever hear that name. That gravestone has one name. And dates. And an epitaph. In sorrow across eternity. It is Rosmarge’s work. Now that I am at Marguerite Concrete I know it is Rosmarge who carves that epitaph. And no last name. The stone is at the bottom of the hill in the cemetery’s main part. It is one of only two places at Rose Head with white peonies. The keeper’s favorite. He waits for them. When they open in June it means summer is here. All the rest of the year summer is coming. That is something the keeper says. Not loud. To himself. The words stay in his mouth. Summer is coming. Coming in. The keeper’s voice is quiet and it sounds like he has dirt in his throat. I hear him every spring of my life say it. Summer is coming. I love how the keeper says it. All the words die in his mouth.
The best time to say a word is in the morning when the sisters are having their coffee. I do not talk at Marguerite Concrete. I do not talk to the sisters at all. I nod. Or not. I listen. It is easy not to talk. And today when I say the word it is going to be a surprise for the sisters. Peggy. I am going to say that name. Today is a talking day. A questions day. Peggy’s gravestone. The person choosing the epitaph for her. The person choosing the flowers for her grave. Rita is very good at talking to the bereaved. She is the nicer sister. When the bereaved knock on the door it is Rita they are knocking for. She helps them with the stone. And she helps them with other decisions. With the carpenter. With the gathering. She does not help them with the embalmer and no one asks. But if a bereaved wants something they tell Rita. Then Rita tells Rosmarge. And if Rosmarge asks for something it is done. The bereaved of someone named Peggy tell Rita white peony. She says white peony to Rosmarge. There are going to be white peonies. The word gets to the keeper. But who sends that word about the Peggy grave. There are family names at Rose Head. Jaroslavs. Roses. O’Keefes. Padulas. The dead’s people put the family name on the stone. Or the first name and the family name. Sometimes the dead’s people ask for flowers. The Touissants choose columbine. The Jaroslavs choose lupine. Blue lupine. The wind takes their seeds down into the paupers’ part. There are no names in the paupers’ part but there is blue lupine along its sand road. The keeper’s favorite flower is white peony. There are only two places at Rose Head with white peony. One is Peggy’s grave and one is me. I think with my fingers and sleep with my eyes. My mouth is closed and ready to make the P. I am in the doorway of the side room and waiting for the sisters to look at me. Their eyes are small and old. When I see their eyes I see crabapples on the sand road. The apples sitting in the sun. Getting smaller and blacker. The sisters do not know that I am about to talk. To make the P in Peggy the lips start closed. The face is at rest like the dead. I don’t need to breathe in or out to start the name. The lips look wired shut. Shut by the embalmer. My lips are closed and I do not speak at Marguerite Concrete. My lips are together and now they are opening and the air is about to push out. And then there is a hand in front of my mouth. The wrist on me that is Pearl’s wrist has put my hand over my mouth. All my air is staying in. The surprise is for me. Rosmarge is not the smartest sister. It is Pearl. She is the smartest one. And the righteous shall shine forth as the sun. That is an epitaph that Rosmarge hates. And the righteous shall shine forth. I stand before the sisters. My hand is over my mouth. The skin on it smells like the salt marsh. Was she about to talk. That is what Rita says to Rosmarge. Was she about to talk. Rita says to me, What. What is it. My hand is still over my mouth. There is the sound of a truck outside the stonehouse. It is the slate delivery. Rita says to me, Oh. Yes. We hear it. Rosmarge opens and closes her crabapple eyes.
Darcie Dennigan
Darcie Dennigan writes novels, poetry, and performance texts. Little Neck is her second work of fiction and was shortlisted for the 2022 New Directions Novel Prize. Her other books include Madame X, as well as Commander!, forthcoming in 2026. Her writing has been recognized by Poets Out Loud, the Howard Foundation, the Poetry Society of America, and the Nation/Discovery prize, and has recently appeared in Chicago Review, Annulet, and Fence.