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IN 1944, AT AGE SIXTY-EIGHT, Nell Stillman wrote her obituary. (This despite perfectly good health.) Years later, the new owner of the Standard Ledger published the piece in full:
In our town, the custom is that an obituary should be kind. A kind word at the end is a little reward for dying. Never mind that no one spoke well of you before death, nor will hence. Death is a serious business—“The undiscover’d country from whose bourn no traveler returns”—and this one time you are owed.
But, frankly, Helen Ryan Stillman was no better than she should be. So—contrary to custom—I will not reward her for dying.
On October 12, 1876, Helen—Nell, as she was called—was born in Woodridge, Wisconsin, to shanty Irish immigrants—affectionate and gentle Onnie and Donal Ryan, late of Tipperary. Donal being an untutored farmer on unimproved land, the family struggled with poverty.
After high school, Nell worked her way through Milwaukee State Normal School, obtaining teacher certification in 1896. In January of 1897, she married Herbert Bartholomew Stillman of Rhinelander, Wisconsin. They moved to Harvester, settling in an apartment above Rabel’s Meat Market, where Nell would reside until her death. On December 18, 1898, she gave birth to Hillyard Donal Stillman, a soul without stain. He now dwells in Elysian Fields, where—should it mean swimming the length of the River Styx—Nell plans to join him.
In 1909, Nell discovered P. G. Wodehouse, who became her treasured companion and savior. She recommends his books to all who know distress. And, of course, to all who don’t.
But, further, she simply commends reading—Dickens, Austen, Steinbeck, or whom you will. In books are found solace, companionship, entertainment, and enlightenment. The stuff of our salvation.
Mrs. Stillman taught third grade for thirty-seven years in the Harvester Public School.
Preceded in death by both husband and son, Nell Stillman knew the kindness of dear friends and, eventually, the love of a good man.
For days, folks in Harvester spoke of little but Nell’s obituary. Bonita Hansen had never heard of the Elysian Fields. Nor of the River Styx.
Of course, even today—mass communication notwithstanding—there are many things of which people in Harvester have never heard.
Irma Blessing felt that the obituary was eccentric: “A sign of mental instability. I blame it on the Bomb.”
But to Harvey Munson it was “More like egomania. Imagine thinking you were smarter than Mr. Estes at the Standard Ledger, writing your own obituary.”
“‘Eventually, the love of a good man’? What’s that supposed to mean?” milkman Casey Birnbaum wondered.
Out in Elysian Fields, Nell agreed; composing her own obituary was perhaps eccentric and egotistical.
But as for the ‘Elysian Fields’?—look it up.
6:45 A.M., JULY 17TH, 1900.
Wiping egg from his plate with a scrap of toast, Bert cast Nell a dubious smile. “I’m not sure a good Catholic woman oughta enjoy the bedroom.” He reached to pinch her breast. “Like you did last night.”
Nell winced and pulled away. In bed he often treated her like a whore, but if she responded like one, he’d press, “Who taught you that,” though she’d never been with a man before their marriage.
Pushing back from the table, Bert rose to fetch his cap from a hook by the door. Turning, he grabbed Nell’s waist, squeezing it in a sinewy arm even as she stiffened.
“Now, girl,” he said, affecting a brogue, “no wild carryin’-on because y’ miss me. A man’s got t’ put food on the table and clothes on his lad.” He saluted the eighteen-month-old peeking out from behind his mother, clutching her skirt in his two plump hands.
Bert was a physical man, one who had to work off his impulses, and he looked forward to the lifting and hauling and driving of horses that made up his days at Kolchak’s Dray and Livery. Kolchak