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you are thinking about it. Take your time. But think about it. It would mean very much to him.”
    He leaves, walking down the path to the sidewalk, a black cane in his hand that he taps against the bricks.
    “Miss Gus, Mr. Weems is asking after you.” Emma stands in the door of the bedroom, eyeing me up and down. Her eyes move away when I look at her.
    “Is he with Eli?”
    “Yes, ma’am.”
    “I’ll go to him.” Emma leaves the door open and goes downstairs. She must think I’m losing my mind, pacing back and forth in my room.
    I tap softly at Eli’s door, and Weems opens it immediately.
    “Mrs. Branson, please come in.” He smiles with his lips pressed tightly together and pushes his spectacles up his nose.
    Eli is still on the cooling board, but his edges are softened. His cheeks are no longer sunken, but puffed and marked with patches of pale pink. His hair is combed and slick across the top of his head. His hands are folded across his swollen belly. How can he have done this to me?
    The rear wall is lined with canisters that have coiled tubes coming out of them, some of them streaked the color of rust inside the translucent yellow rubber. One canister has a tall pump attached to the top with a black rubber ball dangling from it. A hand pump. How much did Weems take out? And how much did he put in? The air is acrid with the bitter almond scent of arsenic.
    “My boy will remove these shortly,” he says, nodding at his equipment. “Mr. Branson looks as if he could be sleeping, doesn’t he? Dr. Holmes could not have done any better.”
    “Yes, indeed, Mr. Weems. Thank you so much for your care.” Eli does not look at all as if he is sleeping, though he certainly does not appear dead. He seems waxen and rouged. His whiskers have been smoothed against his jaw in an improbable way.
    “Yes, ma’am. It is an art as much as it is a science. Some may sneer at the trade, but it is a valuable comfort we provide to the living. To see once again those they loved as if they still had the breath of life in them. Perhaps it is a deception, but it is a comforting one.”
    “Yes, I can see that.” A comfort for some people, I suppose. After Hill was killed at Nashville, his body never made it home. Must you see someone dead to believe he is dead? I feel my brother next to me so often, like a ghost in the house with me, and I know it is because his body never came home. “Is there anything more? I have so much to prepare.”
    “I understand.” Weems nods and crinkles his eyes behind his glasses. “Did I hear the voice of your kinsman Mr. Heppert downstairs?” Weems’s lips stretch thin across his face. “Does he have any objections? I know of his preference for the more traditional practices.”
    “Not at all, sir. On the contrary, he is very pleased.” A lie can’t hurt. What does Judge or Weems care either way?
    “That is gratifying.” Weems’s smile is sour. “Although Mr. Heppert often hides his actions behind his words.”
    “Yes, well. Is that all?”
    “We may put people in the ground, Mrs. Branson, but we cannot put the past in the ground. As long as we remember the past, it is not dead and buried. Just like Mr. Branson. I know he will live on in your heart.”
    “Yes, of course.”
    “Mr. Branson knew that, too. That we must not forget the past. Mr. Branson did not forget. He was a man very much aware of it, which is why he was so successful—to a point. I would not support him in some things. I do not believe the Negroes are capable or deserving of the vote. Still, I had a great deal of admiration and respect for him.”
    “Thank you, Mr. Weems. It means a great deal to me to hear that. If you’ll excuse me, I’m sure you can find your way out when you are done here.”
    “It is a pleasure, Mrs. Branson.” He nods and almost bows to me. I will not offer him my hand—not after what he’s been doing with his.

Four
     
    THERE SHOULD BE HUNDREDS of acres of land. A warehouse by the depot