DO UNTO OTHERS.

Every morning that God made, she set off for the long trek to town. She walked down from her dilapidated
stone house with the moss covered, tile roof and the dead tree in front. Looking neither left nor right, she
stared straight ahead. She came down the winding hill and those that saw her muttered: “There she goes.” or
“It must be 8:00 am” or “How does she do it? Every single day?” The trip to town was a good twenty miles,
round trip! She walked past the small grocery store and the village square. No one greeted her or waved. Had
anyone done so, she would have ignored them as she had done for over sixty years. If she had been a man,
she would have been dubbed the village ‘Idiot’ but being a woman and a mother, she commanded a small,
very small, measure of respect. However, this did not stop the snide comments, the base derision and outright
mockery. Spoken behind her back in loud whispers, she acknowledged none but heard them all and always
remembered the authors.

She reached the bottom of the hill and the bridge. A metal trestle bridge, her footsteps resounded in tinny
echoes as she crossed. She reached the main road and turned right without hesitation. The bus was coming.
She smiled to herself as she ignored the bus driver’s persistent honking. He slowed thinking her a potential
fare but he soon recognized her and stomped on the gas. As the bus roared by, she was briefly enveloped in a
cloud of dust and diesel smoke. As was her custom, she held her breath and closed her eyes but continued
walking.
Sometimes, during her daily trek, she caught herself taking little naps along the way. It was as if her feet and
legs knew the way and consciousness wasn’t really needed. What she did in town was anybody’s guess, but
she left with a large, bulging, mock leather satchel clutched in her right hand and when she returned, the
satchel was limp and flat.
In the village, speculation about the contents of the satchel ran wild. When those who claimed knowledge were
pressed for details, it quickly became apparent that no facts supported their assertions. It became a game, a
diversion: “I’ll tell you what’s in that damn bag of hers, it can only be...” It fueled dinner conversations in the
winter, when the days were short and fresh news was a precious and rare commodity.

When she was younger, even the weather did not stop her from making her daily trek. Nowadays, when the
chill of advancing years got into her bones, she would not emerge from her house. Sometimes even the
shutters would remain closed. People also wondered what it was like in there. The house had no electricity and
no plumbing. The only living villager to ever enter the house was a retired carpenter who had helped bring in
some wood when he was ten. She had been in her twenties back then and still spoke to some people. He had
told everyone about the chaos that reigned inside. The mounds of junk and trash in each of the three rooms.
She must have heard about it and never spoke to anyone again or allowed anyone else inside. How she got
pregnant was another mystery. There was talk of a passing salesman but no one knew for sure. She waddled

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to town even when, by local reckoning, she was seriously past due. She had her baby and the first anyone
knew about it was when they saw her going to town with a small squealing bundle strapped to her back. It must
have attracted the notice of the authorities as well. One day, early in the morning, they came and took the baby
away. No one had ever seen her daughter after that.

It was in the spring, that word spread through the village: She had not been seen in over a week. After
repeated poundings on her door went unanswered, they sent for the constable. He too, was unable to elicit a
response and left. He returned the next day with a locksmith and a unassuming little man, all dressed in black,
who had thinning hair and wire glasses perched on the end of a pointy nose. He brandished official looking
papers. A creature of dim corridors and musty offices, he looked uncomfortable and out of place, outside,
under an open sky. He impatiently urged the locksmith on.

The lock finally yielded and the door swung open. The three men staggered back as fetid and corrupt odors,
imprisoned inside for over a week, leapt for freedom and suffocated the callers. After the air had cleared, they
searched and found her among the towers of old magazines and stacks of rusted and unrecognizable junk.
She lay on her bed, a smile on her wrinkled, leathery face. She looked the same in death as she had in life.
They took her away and sealed the door that very afternoon, as a light drizzle began to fall. The story spread
throughout the village like wildfire. Rumors embellished then supplanted the truth. This had not been a natural
death! The house had been ransacked! Hoarded treasure had been stolen! She had been murdered! Savagely
beaten AND murdered! The sheet covering the body was dripping with blood! The walls of the room where the
body was discovered were covered in gore! And so on, and so forth. The more fantastic the tales, the more
readily they were believed.

The obituary in the local paper had been anticlimactic. Many villagers, not knowing her real name, did not
notice it. Older folk however, recognized it immediately and passed the information on. Much talk was
generated by the discovery of her name. “Nicole? Her name was Nicole? Who knew? She didn’t look like a
‘Nicole’! More like Addie or Hilda, what do you think?” And so it went...
She had died of a stroke, the paper reported. No murder, no bludgeoning nor beating. The treasure story was
more hard lived. A lawyer had come by, accompanied by a policeman from the city. They knew he was a lawyer
as that is how he introduced himself when he had asked for directions to the house. The policeman was in
uniform. They had stayed less than an hour and had left without a word. The house was sealed once more.
More grist for the rumor mill.

One afternoon, a truck and a van had pulled up in front of the house. A thin mousy woman with short stringy
hair walked up to the door. She took out a key and worked the lock. It protested loudly but finally relented.
Obviously forewarned, she placed a handkerchief over her mouth and walked in. A few people gathered. It was

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hard to see with the truck blocking most of the view. The shutters and windows were opened. More people
gathered. Two large men got out of the truck and proceeded to empty the house into the truck. It took several
hours during which time, the entire village gathered out front. When they were done, the thin mousy woman
closed the windows, latched the shutters, locked the door and left in the van. The truck followed close behind.
She had not acknowledged anyone in the crowd that watched them leave. Still more grist for the rumor mill.

A few days later, a notice appeared on the town hall bulletin board. The entire village was invited to a funeral to
be held that Friday. There was to be a reception afterwards and all were encouraged to attend. It was all
anybody talked about until that Friday morning. The florists were the first to show up. when they left, the church
looked like a fairy tale garden! Huge towering bouquets of flowers all but obscured the altar. Every row of pews
had a spray of flowers hung at each end. Garlands of flowers hung over the doors. Even the baptismal font
was adorned with ivy and baby’s breath. If not for the black and purple ribbons on the numerous wreaths, one
would have thought a wedding was being prepared rather than a funeral service. The churchyard was filled to
capacity when at the stroke of eleven, the hearse arrived. Gleaming in the morning sun, it stopped in front of
the towering church doors. Four attendants emerged and solemnly waited as the back was opened. They
reverently removed the casket and carried it slowly to the church altar. There it rested on an elevated platform
covered in purple velvet drapes. Behind the casket walked the thin mousy woman. She sat in the front row
then stood during the entire service forcing everyone else to stand. When it was over, she followed the casket
out and walked behind the impressive hearse, all the way to the small cemetery. After the casket had been
lowered to its final resting place, she threw a handful of dirt on it and then walked to the town hall where the
reception was to be held. The entire village followed her and whispered questions still went unanswered.

The town hall’s drab meeting room had been transformed. Many of the flowers in the church had found their
way here and adorned the room tastefully. Chairs lined the walls. At the front of the room stood a long table
covered with a white linen tablecloth. At one end, snacks and little plastic cups surrounded a large punch bowl.
The rest of the table was covered with envelopes.

The thin mousy woman sat behind the table and looked down as people filed in, one by one. When the room
was full, she stood and whispered conversations stopped abruptly. She cleared her throat and addressed the
crowd.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, thank you for coming. I will be brief. My mother left specific instructions regarding her
funeral and this reception. She left these letters for you. Her lawyer, Mr. Lemesurier,” she motioned to a man
on her right who bowed slightly, “will call out your name. When all the letters are handed out, please feel free to
partake of the refreshments and snacks provided.”
She sat down and the lawyer began calling out names in alphabetical order. When he was done, he placed the
unclaimed letters in his briefcase and waited. The thin mousy woman stood and said: “Thank you again for

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coming.” She got up and left, followed by the lawyer. The crowd parted and she walked on, looking neither left
nor right, staring straight ahead. They got into a van and drove away. The crowd in the meeting hall was
stunned. Slowly they recovered. Some left quickly, clutching their letters to their breast. Others read them right
there and seeing what they contained, quickly hid them from their nosy neighbors. A few, more aloof, gathered
round the punch bowl and chatted in muted tones. Eventually the room emptied. The flowers, tablecloth, punch
bowl were taken away, it was cleaned and restored to its usually drab and nondescript appearance.

That afternoon, all activity that normally animated the village was conspicuous by its absence. In the evening, a
few inhabitants ventured out and congregated around the fountain, on the village square. These gatherings
were normally jovial and lively. Not today! The few that spoke, did so in muted tones punctuated by sharp
gestures and sidelong glances. The letters killed the village. Decades of closely held secrets and evil or under-
handed doings, had been revealed and revealed to those who stood to gain or lose the most. Nicole had been
silent for all these years, but not deaf. Now, from beyond the grave she spoke and her words struck fear and
dread in the hearts of the villagers. The first family moved out after less than a month. Long held suspicions
about them, now confirmed. Their departure heralded the beginnings of an unrelenting exodus. “For Sale”
signs sprang up like weeds. In less than a year, the village was a ghost town. The small grocery store was
shuttered, the fountain, dry and the streets, deserted.

Once a month, the thin mousy woman parked her van outside her mother’s shuttered house. She would open
the windows and let the wind sweep out any lingering memories. She would then drive down to the cemetery
and kneel by her mother’s grave. She sometimes stayed till dark. Afterwards, she would get into the van and
slowly drive through town, a grim, dry smile on her lips.

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