The Glass Village

“Well, you’ve got me there,” admitted the old man. “We had one gaudy case in 1739 — infanticide by a seventeen-year-old girl who’d made the two-backed animal with a deacon of the church — that church there on the north corner, where your grandfather was baptized, married, and buried from. Then there was a regrettable corpse during the Civil War, the result of an argument between an Abolitionist and a Vallandigham Democrat. And we had a murder only about fifteen years ago... I suppose you wouldn’t say that three in two hundred and fifty-some years constitute much of a statistic, no. For which, by the way, the Lord be praised, and may He continue to stay the hand of Cain ad finem.” And Judge Shinn glowered at his village, a panorama of sunny emptiness. “Where the dickens was I?”

“The complexity of murder in re the back-country Yank,” Johnny said.

“Exactly. You have to understand that the Puritan spirit lies heavy within us, like gas on a troubled stomach. None of your New York or even Cudbury melting pots for us, to reduce us to some watery soup with a furrin handle. We’re concentrated in our substance, and if you set your nose to the wind you’ll get the whiff of us.”

“Not me,” said Johnny. “I’m all scattered to hell and gone.”

“Who said anything about you?” demanded the Judge. “Your disease is as about as close to Shinn Corners as Asiatic cholera. Don’t let your name fool you, my boy. You’re a heathen ignoramus, and it’s historical fact I’m preaching. Let me tell you about the Puritan nature that’s somehow been bred out of you. The Puritan nature boils down to just one thing — privacy. You let me be, neighbor, and I’ll do likewise. Unless and until, of course, the community is threatened. That’s a different pack of pickles. That’s where the contradiction starts operating.”

“Murder,” reminded his New York kinsman.

“I’m getting there,” said Judge Shinn, warming to it. “Murder to folks hereabout is more than a legal indiscretion. We’ve been taught with our mush that killing is forbidden by the Bible, and we’re mighty set on it. But we’re also all wrapped up in the sacred rights of the individual. Thou shalt not kill, but thou hast a powerful hankering sometimes, when your personal pinkytoe’s been trod on. Murder being a crime that wantonly destroys a man’s most precious piece of assessable property, we’re pulled back and forth like Rebecca Hemus trying to decide between her waistline and that extra helping of gravy and potatoes. It makes us sure of one thing: it’s got to be punished, and quick. Puritan justice doesn’t delay.

“Take that case I mentioned a minute ago,” said the Judge. “The one that happened just before the war — not the Korean business, but the big war.”

“Funny thing about wars,” said Johnny. “I was in both of them and I couldn’t see much difference in scale. The one you’re in is always the biggest one ever was.”

“I s’pose,” said the Judge. “Well, in those days Hubert Hemus’s brother Laban helped work the Hemus farm. Laban was a slowpoke, not too sha’p, mostly kept his mouth shut. But he never missed a town meeting or failed to vote right.

“The Hemuses employed a hired hand by the name of Joe, Joe Gonzoli, a cousin of ’Squale Gonzoli’s of Cudbury. Joe made a real good hand for the farmers who didn’t have modern equipment. Back on the farm in Italy, Joe used to say in his broken English, if you needed a new sickle or a hoe handle, why, you just made it. He had curly hair and black eyes like a woman’s, and he always had a joke and a snatch of Italian opera song for the girls.

“Well,” said the Judge, “Joe and Labe had trouble from the start. Labe would make out he couldn’t understand Joe’s English, and Joe would poke fun at Labe’s slow ways. I guess Labe didn’t like being outplowed and outworked; that Joe was a working fool. They got into quite a competition. Hube Hemus didn’t mind. He had a real brisk farm in those days.

“Now Labe had never looked at a woman twice, far as any of us knew,” continued Judge Shinn, “till Adaline Greave grew up to be a strapping fine woman with the build of a Holstein. Then Labe took to taking baths regularly and hanging about the Town Hall square nights, or at church socials when Adaline would be helping out. She kind of led Labe on, too. At least Labe thought so, and everybody said it was working out to something. But one night Laban went looking for Adaline after a church supper, and he found her in the hayloft of the Farmers’ Exchange Feed and Grain barn across from the church, that Peter Berry runs. She was lying in Joe Gonzoli’s arms.”