Mrs. Greening nodded.
“Something Isom left. Fetch it to her, Sol.”
Sol disappeared into the dread parlor where Isom lay, and came back with a large envelope tied about with a blue string, and sealed at the back with wax over the knotted cord.
“It’s Isom’s will,” said Sol, giving it to Ollie. “When we was makin’ room to fetch in the coffin and lay Isom out in it last night, we had to move the center table, and the drawer fell out of it. This paper was in there along with a bundle of old tax receipts. As soon as we seen what was on it, we decided it orto be put in your hands as soon as you woke up.”
“I didn’t know he had a will,” said Ollie, turning the envelope in her hands, not knowing what to make of it, or what to do with it, at all.
“Read what’s on the in-vellup,” advised Sol, standing by importantly, his hands on his hips, his big legs spread out.
Outside the sun was shining, tenderly yellow like a new plant. Ollie marked it with a lifting of relief. There would be no rain on the coffin. It was light enough to read the writing on the envelope where she stood, but she moved over to the window, wondering on the way.
What was a will for but to leave property, and what need had Isom for making one?
It was an old envelope, its edges browned by time, and the ink upon it was gray.
My last Will and Testament. Isom Chase.