Free The Last Days of Dogtown by Anita Diamant

yarns ever. Stanwood claimed that he pulled both the teeth neat and clean. “I’m thinking of going into the business,” he said. “Set myself up as a dentist. Make some real money.”
    But if only his friends could have been there to see how he pretended to stop when the job was half done! And how the old witch turned all womanish and carried on weeping and wailing. “She’s not near as tough as she pretends.”
    Stanwood enjoyed many a free pint in exchange for that story. The men slapped their knees whenever he described Tammy’s eyes rolling around in her head, cussing him out, then weeping and begging, scared for no reason. It was sweet revenge to imagine her thus repaid for all the shakedowns and shaming she’d done them through the years.
    The story that passed over the teacups lacked some of the vivid, bloody details, but there wasn’t much pity for Tammy among the ladies, either. They shared a shiver of satisfaction over the comeuppance of Cape Ann’s most poisonous gossip, before smoothly turning the conversation to the subject of teeth, and whose were false, and whose were rotting, and whether powdered charcoal or burnt bread made a better dentrifice.
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Strange Sightings
     
     
    T HE SETTLEMENT of Dogtown was more and more like a cracked pitcher. In the three years following Abraham Wharf’s death, the village leaked life at a steady pace: Mary Lurvey passed away, as did Granny Day and a few other unmourned widows. Hannah Stanwood married and moved into town.
    Meanwhile, Oliver built himself a lean-to on the side of Tammy’s house, where he slept better for the wall between him and his only living relation. Judy Rhines’s hair turned gray while Easter went entirely bald under her cap. None of these small details — not even the deaths — got much notice in Gloucester, which had no need of such weak beer when there were far more intoxicating stories about indiscreet young ladies, foreclosures, and barroom brawls.
    But the summer of 1817 saw Dogtown’s stock rise briefly, at least in terms of gossip, thanks to a strange convergence of unusual sightings and odd visitations. Judy spotted a black swan in Goose Cove, and within a week John Wharf plowed up a stone that looked exactly like a rabbit. Oliver Younger was clamming on the beach near Wheeler’s Point when he came across a huge pile of shells and ashes from a driftwood fire, prompting talk of an Indian decampment. Black Ruth made a rare appearance in town, too.
    But chatter over these things and virtually everything else came to a halt with the sighting of a serpent in Gloucester Harbor.
    Easter didn’t believe it at first. A twisted ankle and a string of rainy days had kept her from hearing it sooner. “You’re having fun with a poor cripple!” she said, her ankle propped on the bench and wrapped in an old tea towel.
    “It seems to be true,” said Judy Rhines, who’d brought the news along with a jar of preserves. “More people say they’ve seen it every day.” Boats were out hunting the beast with spyglasses, hooks, and nets at the ready. A fellow named Cheever Felch had come up from Boston and was making a name for himself, claiming that the monster was 100 feet in length and dark brown in color, with white markings at the throat.
    Judy had overheard Reverend Felch herself. A man of the church and a self-taught naturalist, he’d been repeating his story to a young Boston newspaperman, who scribbled it down amid a crowd of jostling boys on Front Street. A group of town ladies had been drawn to the scene, too. Judy had thought them lovely in their straw bonnets and white cotton summer frocks, freshly pressed and spotless. Soft Moroccan slippers peeked out from beneath their clean hems, prompting her to pull at her gray skirt to hide the unfashionably pointed brogans on her feet.
    “You sure it wasn’t a whale?” Easter said. “Sometimes those whales can fool you.”
    “It weren’t no whale,” said Ruth, who’d been