Harvest Home (48 page)

I drove to the curb and helped Robert onto the sidewalk, looking up at the Widow, who was shading her eyes against the sun, peering up the street we had just driven down. Soon I saw a vehicle making slow progress under the trees, and the crowd shifted as it approached, forming two lines outward from the church steps to the roadway where Justin’s El Camino halted. He got out, lowered the tailgate, and came bearing his burden between the silent lines, moving up the steps, then bending before the Widow and placing at her feet the dead body of Sophie Hooke.

The Widow had not moved, but remained where she was, looking down at the still form, an enigmatic expression on her face. “What did she do?” I heard a voice asking. The Widow made a slight movement, acknowledging the question but offering no answer. Mr. Buxley stepped forward.

“She hanged herself.” He clamped his mouth in a grim line, then continued. There would be no reading from his Book for the repose of Sophie’s soul, nor would she be buried in the churchyard. She would rest outside the iron fence, and I pictured the real grave beside Gracie Everdeen’s false one.

I watched the faces around me as they heard the pronouncement. Sally Pounder’s mouth opened and closed in blank perplexity; Betsey Cox scowled and bit her thumb; Tamar Penrose, standing behind Missy, held herself in a breathless attitude of waiting, a kind of exultation on her face, expectant, transfixed.

Nowhere did I hear anyone say “Poor Sophie,” nor indeed did anyone appear to be struck by the tragedy, or even by the fact of her death—only that she was dead
now, today
.

“Of all days,” said one.

“Not a thought for anyone else,” said another.

“Amys shouldn’t have rung,” said a third. “Dead by her own hand.”

Justin Hooke stood stolidly, looking at the Widow as if for guidance, but saying nothing.

“Should have known better—” a third put in.

“A sinner’s heart!” It was the Widow, who had lifted her head and begun speaking. Though she did not shout, her voice reached all quarters of the assembled crowd. “She has done away with herself. She has done it in spite and in malice. She has lived a foolish child and she has died one. I brought her into this world with these hands, and would that I had sent her from it with the same. Mr. Buxley is right—she will find no resting place in our churchyard.
She is bane
.”

“What will happen?” Sally Pounder called out.

“Yes, what will happen now?” It was Margie, the beauty parlor operator. “Will there be a Harvest Home?”

The Widow’s features drew together. “Don’t talk nonsense, girl, of course there’ll be a Harvest Home. It’s the seventh year—got to be!”

“But who’ll be the Corn Maiden?”

“Never doubt the Corn Maiden will wear her crown tonight.” Her voice was strong and angry. “But it’s late. There’s little enough time. Missy, come up. Tamar, send her to me.”

As the child went up, I pushed through the throng, mounting step by step until I was eye to eye with the Widow. The child retreated toward the doors, her pale eyes fixed on me as I addressed the old woman.

“You speak of bane. If there is bane in this place, it comes from you. Not from your herb basket, but from yourself, from your stories and tales and talk. Sheep’s blood and corn crowns and holy God knows what else.” I turned on the crowd, “How can you listen to her? How can you let her do it? Can’t you see what she is?”

The Widow was not angry. She turned her smile on me, a profoundly sad smile, as though she had lost a dear one; the ironic, knowing smile of fanatics whose beliefs are so ingrained it is impossible to communicate with them. She folded her large hands below her bosom, two fingers toying with the ribbon from which her shears were suspended.

“It appears your sarcasm is lost on these people here,” she began, “bein‘ simple folk. But simple though they may be, this is their village, their home. Their ancestors founded it for them and it’s been kept as they wanted it, and it don’t seem to me they’ll take kindly to such criticisms from an outsider. We let you come and let you stay, if that was what you wanted. We gave you the old Penrose house and let you fix it up and make a place to paint your pictures, if it was what you wanted. We don’t believe in meddlin’ with other folks, long as they don’t meddle with us.” She turned her vindictive look to the crowd below. “We were his friends; aye, and Justin was, too. Our Harvest Lord. But there are things beyond friendship. This man is a fool. He don’t care for our ways. The old ways.” She turned back to me. “You didn’t come only to fix up a house; you come to make trouble. You come to nose around in places folks should know better than to go. You come to make your wife unhappy—aye, and your daughter, too—and you come to get drunk at public affairs where only the kindness of the village admitted you through the portals. And when you was done with that, what did you do? You tried to suborn Worthy Pettinger, him that was chosen. And now you have the temerity to come here in front of these folk and laugh at the things they believe.”

She raised her closed fists in a swift denunciating gesture. “Let it be understood,” she called out in a thunderous voice, “this man is pariah. Henceforth, in this village he is an outcast and will remain so. Let us turn our backs on him, and our hearts. Let us lock our doors to him, and hide our children from him. Let none of us, neither the youngest nor the oldest, show our face to him again. Let us shun him as we would the rabid dog, the venemous serpent, the leper. He is forbidden. He is anathema.”

With outspread arms, she invoked what powers lay beyond the bright blue span of sky to sweep me from her sight, drawing her shawl from her shoulders and muffling her features so only the implacable, remorseless eyes—the Cornwall eyes— showed as she turned her back and faced the vestibule doors. One by one, those below followed suit, turning where they stood, and, looking down, I saw only backs, no faces other than Robert’s, his chin drawn down, his glasses black circles in his face.

Then the bell began again. A clang; another, louder, more resounding; another and another, increasing in rhythm and clangor. They turned back, looking past me to the vestibule where the child was tugging wildly on the bell rope. Her feet touched, she sprang up again, and again it rang; she performed a demonic sort of dance as she struggled against the weight of the bronze. Again her feet touched, again her body leaped; again the bell.

Her mouth was frothing, her eyes bulged. Tamar rushed up the steps; the Widow’s arm blocked her passage. “Let her be.” The child continued. Ring! Ring! Ring! Then she let go the rope, dropped to the brick floor, and while the bell echoed, she came from the vestibule; coming, she pointed; pointing, she screamed.

“He is there! He is among you! Guard him or you will be sorry!” Her head lolled back, then snapped forward, and she turned the full vent of her insane fury on me. “
And you will be sorrier!
” She seized my hand and sank her teeth into it, drawing blood as she had from the sheep, from the chicken, to feed vampire-like upon it, to feed her prophecy.

I tore my hand away, lifted it, and brought it down. She reeled and fell beside the outstretched form of Sophie Hooke.

Justin’s eyes flashed fire as he grabbed me and pinioned my arms. I struggled, but no strength of mine could match his. With overt menace, the crowd pressed closed around the steps.

“Kill him. Kill him.”

Merle Penrose and Morgan Thomas, my scarecrow masters of the night before, took me in custody and dragged me roughly down the steps, Mr. Zalmon following. Below, Sally Pounder pushed her way through the throng.

“But who will it be?” she cried. “Who will be the Maiden tonight? Who will make the corn?”

The Widow turned to Justin. “You must choose another.” He shook his head. Looking down at the fallen child, she gestured for the men to carry her away. “The Harvest Lord will not choose. Then we must vote!”

Tamar stepped forward, her hands clasped over her breast, a turbulent, ecstatic look on her face. Sally Pounder stared at her sullenly, her mouth falling open. “But Tamar’s been. For Gracie Everdeen. It ought to be someone else. Me—”

“Or me,” Margie Perkin’s face appeared before me. Others clamored.

“Tamar makes the corn better,” someone shouted. Tamar —Tamar—Tamar.

The name swept through the crowd, and looking back as I was led across the Common, I saw Tamar Penrose lift her head proudly and enter the church to be voted upon, while the Widow, who had been speaking with the minister, spun swiftly, her skirts flying out in a black swirl, her hands again raised in a hieratic gesture, of both benediction and blasphemy.

Then she, too, went into the church and Amys Penrose closed the doors behind her.

The clock, an oaken one, clacked monotonously over the wall calendar above the Constable’s desk, steadily marking off the minutes. I knew I had little time. The Constable sat across from me in the swivel chair. Tamar Penrose came in with two cups of tea, set them on the desk, and went out. I remembered the teakettle on the hot plate—the teakettle she had used to steam open Worthy’s letter.

I unwrapped two cubes of sugar and dropped them in the cup, squeezed the lemon and tossed it in the wastebasket. There was no spoon.

“Must be in a hurry, Tamar,” the Constable said. He slurped at his tea. Outside it was growing dark; I could see through the iron grille on the window. The Constable switched on the light and got up and went out, carrying his cup.

I could hear them talking in the post office room—the Constable, Morgan Thomas, some others. The outer door opened and I heard a woman’s voice: Maggie Dodd. The Constable opened the office door and she came in carrying a tray.

“I got Bert to fix you something at the Rocking Horse.” She set the tray down on the desk and looked at me. Then she came around the desk and touched my shoulder sympathetically. “I’m so sorry, Ned. Robert told me what happened. I’ve been in the city all afternoon, picking out some music.” She drew off her gloves and took the Constable’s chair.

“Hello, Maggie.” Suddenly I felt sheepish. “Seems I’ve been given a ticket-of-leave.”

“What happened, Ned?”

“I guess you’d have to ask Missy Penrose—”

She made an impatient gesture as though to do away with the thought of the malign Missy Penrose.

I asked, “What time did you go to the city?”

“This morning.”

“Did you see Beth?”

“Yes. Didn’t you?”

“No. She wasn’t there when I got home. Where’d she go, Maggie?”

“I’m not sure. I know she had some quilts to go to New York. Perhaps she took them down herself, after she dropped Kate off.”

“Kate?”

“She was driving her over to Ledyardtown to stay the night with a school chum. Then—” She made a gesture of futility. “I don’t know—she said she wanted to think things out.”

“She didn’t go to the Widow’s?”

“Not that I know of. She might have. I can stop on my way home and see, if you want.”

“I’ve got to get out of here.”

She gave her rueful half-laugh. “Certainly you do. I’ve never heard of anything so ridiculous. I’m sure tomorrow—”

“I’ve got to get out of here tonight. Help me, Maggie.”

She watched me with a bland expression. “How, Ned?”

“Get the wire cutters from my studio and bring them to the window. You can cut the screen.”

“Stay here tonight, Ned. It’s all a tempest in a teapot, anyhow. I’m sure by tomorrow things will have cooled down.”

“I’ve got to get out of here tonight.”

“Why tonight?”

“It’s Harvest Home. The women are going to Soakes’s Lonesome—”

“Which women, Ned?” Smiling, she had adopted a patient tone, as if speaking to a child or a madman.

“All of them—”

“All?” Still she smiled, but the amusement had turned visibly, and horribly, to scorn. When she spoke again, her voice was hard, dispassionate. “ ‘All’ would include me, wouldn’t it?”

I stared at her. “You?”

“Of course, Ned, dear. Have you forgotten? I was born here.” She laughed, nicking the empty fingers of her glove against the edge of the desk. “You want to go to Harvest Home, is that it? Curiosity killed the cat, remember.”

I stared; was it possible?

“You are a fool.” Low, contemptuous; the kind Maggie-eyes were gone; in their place a small burning defiance, a triumph, as I had seen in Tamar’s face when she went into the church for the voting. I could not believe it; Maggie, our friend. I felt something like an electrical jolt, as if I had sustained a physical blow. I drew a dry shuddery breath and shoved my hands in my pockets. The swivel chair squealed as she rose and began putting on her gloves. I took a step toward her.

“It was you, wasn’t it? On the other side of the hedge. That day you were planting bulbs—”

“Go on,” she said.

“You heard Worthy telling me he was going to run away. You told Tamar to watch for a letter from John Smith. You got him killed.”

“Killed?” She worked the gloves on, finger by finger. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Ned. Nor would anyone else. Mrs. Zee drove Worthy to the turnpike to get the bus to New York. If he didn’t arrive there—well…” She shrugged.

“And you took the doll—”

“No—
you
took the doll. I merely returned it to the place it was supposed to be—in Justin’s field. It was put there for a purpose.” Her eyes narrowed appraisingly. “You may not have noticed, Ned, dear, but you have about you a certain air of— futility. You look tired. What you must do is eat and get some rest and not try to do anything. About
anything
. Then things may look different.”

“After tonight.”

“Yes. After tonight. After Harvest Home. If you are careful, and do not interfere, if you try to understand and be a good husband, things may look different. They may look different to Beth as well.” She rose, picked up the napkin from the tray, and offered it to me. “Dinner?”

“The condemned man ate a hearty meal? Thanks, no.” I stared at her, thinking of how she led me on all along the way; Robert, too. He had known, had been in on it all. Pretending, like the rest of them.

I turned back to the window. I heard her picking up the tray; she kicked her toe at the door and the Constable unlocked it. She handed someone the tray, looked back, then went through the door. The Constable came in.