by Thomas Tryon
Out on the field, the horse-drawing contests continued. When each team had pulled the skid as far as it could, it was unhooked and another was put in place, and so on. After each round, more sacks of sand were added to the load, which became increasingly difficult to pull.
It came Justin Hooke’s turn again; his horses strained under the burden, their flanks streaming, their forelegs buckling. Unlike the others, Justin did not use a whip, but coaxed the animals ahead by manipulating the reins and calling to them. The stoneboat moved a good distance, and a cheer went up among the spectators. Mr. Deming, the chief elder, after measuring out the last distance, pronounced Justin the winner.
As the teams were withdrawn from the field, the sound of Worthy’s tractor was heard. Looking around, I saw that he had vanished, and now his head appeared over the crowd as he drove the John Deere onto the field. He had hitched chains behind, which he quickly attached to the stoneboat, then resumed his seat and began throwing levers. The front end of the tractor nosed up in the air and the tracks dug into the ground, then, obtaining purchase, began to slide the load. Shifting quickly, the boy skillfully sent the tractor forward, and when he had got up speed the stoneboat went jouncing over the grass, the crowd parting and closing behind until stoneboat, tractor, and driver were lost from view.
“Oh, dear,” Mrs. Buxley muttered, “Mr. Deming’s not going to like that at all. See how the grass is all chewed up. Worthy ought to know better. I hope there won’t be trouble again. James—?” She gave her husband a piercing look. Mr. Buxley opened his mouth to speak, then closed it, and suddenly remembered his socks needed pulling up. Mrs. Buxley rose. “There’s the Widow, James. We must go and say hello. See you in church.” She waggled her fingers and—the Reverend Mr. Buxley trailing after with the chairs—she went to greet the Widow Fortune.
When they had gone, Robert chuckled and shook his head. “Leave it to Worthy to rile things up around here. You won’t get him set in his ways, not while he’s got that tractor.”
Worthy came back to take Kate to the platform for the wrestling matches, and since we had a good view from our picnic spot, the Dodds, Beth, and I remained under the tree. The Widow Fortune, carrying her own chair, came and set it down close by, adjusting her things around her.
“Why does a tractor stir up such consternation?” I asked Robert.
“You get plenty of resistance around here to new ways. I suppose Cornwall Coombe’s always been a world unto itself.” He paused briefly while Maggie held a match for him to relight his cigar.
“Look,” she said when she was done, “here comes Justin onto the field.” Shading her eyes, she described to Robert the action that preceded the wrestling matches. Roy Soakes shuffled out onto the turf, where he took off his shirt and stood around looking surly and sweaty, rubbing the palms of his hands on his jeans. There was a pause, then a tumultuous shout went up. Justin Hooke appeared, stripped to the waist, looking more gigantic than ever as he surveyed his opponent. Raising his arms in salute to the crowd, he advanced with long, rapid strides to the platform, where he bowed to Sophie and all the girls, then returned to the field and shook hands with his opponent. The referee spoke to them, stepped back, and the bout began.
It was wrestling of an order I had never seen before, the good old-fashioned country kind, with no holds barred. Whenever Soakes got the upper hand, he received no encouragement from the crowd, though his father and brothers suggested mightily, “Kill the guy!” “Break his arm, brain him, Roy!” And for all that Roy had weight on his side, Justin’s strength carried the first round, then the second, then the third. When at last Tobacco City’s finest went limping from the field, Old Man Soakes angrily shoved another of his offspring out in his place, and, after taking off his shirt, he faced Justin. Without waiting, the newest opponent shot out his foot, tripped Justin up, and dropped on top of him. There were boos and catcalls at such dirty tactics, and Jack Stump darted out on the field to protest to the referee, but Old Man Soakes came roaring after him, seized him by the collar, and tossed him back into the crowd.
Even with the unfair advantage, it was no contest. Heaving himself up, Justin threw Soakes to the side, fell on him, and put a half-nelson around Soakes’s neck until his eyes rolled up. Then he released him and stepped away. As Soakes got to his feet, Justin whirled and gracefully planted a well-placed kick on his backside, which sent him sprawling. Amid cheers and laughter Justin left the fray.
Justin took a towel from Worthy and wiped himself down, then went to the platform where he talked with Sophie and the girls, waiting for the next event to begin. At one point, he stooped and cordially spoke a few words to Kate, who was seated on the steps. When the whistle blew, announcing the next contest, he handed her his towel, then ran lightly onto the field again, accompanied by Worthy and half a dozen other young men. It was time for the pole-shinny.
The referee held up his hand and the first contestant readied himself at the base of the pole, testing its surface with his palms until the whistle blew and up he went. He touched the top, then slid down, and Jimmy Minerva took his position while the referee called out the time from his stopwatch. He signaled again, and Jim went up and came down. Third to go was Justin, moving with dexterity for a man of his height and weight, quickly arriving at the top, where he paused briefly, then slid down. Applause followed the announcement that his time had beaten the first two. On the platform, Sophie and her girls had risen, also Kate, who was standing on the steps, caught in the excitement of the moment as Worthy addressed himself to the pole. He spat on his palms, rubbed them together, and grasped the wooden shaft, waiting, his knees bent so they almost touched the ground. Hearing the whistle, he came up out of his crouch in a slick leap and, hand over hand, feet gripping, he went up like an agile monkey to tap the top of the post.
He waited, grinning down at the crowd, until the referee called out the time, well under Justin’s. Holding on with one hand, he waved, and I saw Kate waving back at him excitedly. He did not come down immediately but, grasping the tip of the pole with both hands, he began to sway with it back and forth. Mr. Deming hurried out on the field gesticulating, while the crowd murmured excitedly, watching Worthy’s body describe an ever-widening arc against the sky. Kate rose from the steps, staring wide-eyed, fearing for his safety.
Using the pole as a fulcrum, the boy extended his body outward in a horizontal position. Suddenly there came a single, loud report, almost like a pistol shot. Dropping to the vertical again, Worthy began sliding down, but when he had got less than halfway another cracking sound, was heard as the pole continued to split. Without looking below, he flung himself outward in a graceful movement, and plunged to the turf. I was certain he must be hurt, but in another moment Justin had him on his feet, dazed but laughing and shaking his head. He was hoisted aloft and borne around the field, until Mr. Deming stepped up and ordered them all off. Glancing over at Kate to catch her reaction, I saw only the back of Sophie’s dress as she bent above a crumpled-form on the steps. I started at a half-run, then stopped as the Widow Fortune seized my hand.
“No,” she said, pointing to the valise beside her chair. “The black bag—bring it!” She hurried toward the platform while, unnoticed by the others under the tree, I snatched up the black bag and dashed after her.
Kate lay collapsed against the steps, and when I arrived Sophie was cradling her in her arms while the Widow leaned over her listening to her heart. Kate’s face had gone livid; the blue veins in her forehead bulged and throbbed. The eyes were wide and glassy in the way I had seen so many times that summer, and her skin was flooded with perspiration. Great gasping noises issued from her throat as she fought for air; her fingers clutched at her neck as though to tear away the invisible hands that were strangling her.
“A doctor—” I looked wildly around. The Widow shook her head, fumbled open the valise, located a bottle, and pulled the cork. Holding the glass neck to Kate’s mouth, she put several drops of liquid between the parted lips, the
n stroked the neck muscles until the drops had been swallowed. She repeated the operation, and in a moment the terrible gasping sounds subsided, to be replaced by a dry rattle. Then the chest became almost motionless, and Kate’s breathing slowed. I seized her wrist and tried to find her pulse; there was none.
As the crowd came toward the platform, the Widow motioned for me to carry Kate into a nearby tent, where I laid her on a table and again tried to find her pulse, cursing myself for having forgotten the Medihaler. I dropped her limp wrist, raced from the tent, and thrust my way through the figures thronging the platform where the elders were making a presentation to Justin’s winning team of horses. Catching sight of Beth, I shouted “Kate!” and jerked my head toward the tent, then pushed on through the crowd. I found the Medihaler in the car, and hurried back. Expecting the worst, I tore aside the tent flap to discover Beth, Sophie, and the Widow grouped around the table where I had left Kate in a paroxysm of agony. I stopped in my tracks at the sight that now greeted me. Kate was sitting up, her hands in her lap, listening as the Widow spoke to her. Beth gave me a wild look; we knew from experience that the attacks usually lasted from an hour to two or three days, but here was our daughter breathing easily if feebly.
I started forward, the Medihaler in my outstretched hand. Beth drew me beside her and I put an arm around her, holding her close, not daring to speak. The Widow stood behind Kate, leaning slightly forward, her head even with the girl’s, her lips close to her ear. The tips of the ancient fingers were working at the cords of Kate’s neck, then at her temples, and as she worked she spoke in low, soothing tones. I felt Beth’s hand fumbling for mine; I took it and held it hard, observing the old woman’s careful but firm ministrations, the movements of her large womanly hands, her intent, grave expression, and I was flooded by a sense of relief and release, relief for Kate’s recovery, release from my own guilt.
Sophie came over to us and, assuring us that all would be well, took us outside the tent. Maggie Dodd was there with Justin Hooke, and together we waited. Then, silent, stricken-looking, Worthy Pettinger joined us. From inside we heard the Widow’s gentle, yet insistent alto voice.
Justin’s head turned and our eyes met. Then he nodded, once, twice. He did not speak, but I could tell he meant us to know what Sophie had already voiced: all would be well.
Shortly we heard Kate’s husky laugh. “All right now?” the Widow asked; there was a sound of assent, and in a moment the flap was raised and Kate appeared, looking pale and shaken. Beth rushed to embrace her; then she and Sophie led her away. With another look, Justin followed with Worthy. The Widow, who had been watching, bit her lip in contemplation, clasping and unclasping her fingers across her apron front, then went back into the tent and reappeared with her black valise.
I remembered how Kate’s attacks would seemingly abate for a time, only to return with increased vigor, and I wondered if this was not merely one of those stages. The old woman seemed to read my mind, for she rested her hand on my arm and exerted a firm pressure, as though to buoy up my spirits.
“She’ll be all right now. Don’t worry yourself, and tell your wife not to worry. And whatever you do, don’t fuss the child. Act as though nothing happened.” Brushing aside my expressions of thanks, she employed the shears hanging at her waist to snip an errant thread from the cuff of her sleeve; then, beaming behind her spectacles, she patted my cheek. When she had accepted Maggie’s arm and permitted herself to be led away, I remained staring at the useless Medihaler in my hand, then absently slipped it into my pocket and followed after the others, wondering how the old woman had effected a cure at once so swift and so miraculous. And though I did not realize it then, it was not the last time the Widow Fortune was to rescue Kate, to rescue Beth, and to alter all our lives.
8
AN HOUR LATER, IT was as if nothing untoward had occurred. Kate went off with Worthy again, while Beth, calm now, talked with the Dodds. The Widow had removed her chair to its former spot under the other tree, and I could see by her impatient gestures how she dismissed among the circle of ladies grouped around her all talk of the earlier incident. With the heat, the women had drawn well into the shade of the overhead branches, digesting their lunch, as well as such tidbits of gossip as still remained unconsumed from the morning’s repast.
Though I could not explain it, I felt that a great weight had been lifted from me, and that the threatening fact of Kate’s illness had suddenly dissolved; the occasional looks the Widow Fortune directed to me as she conversed only served to substantiate this feeling.
Leaving Maggie and Robert engaged with Beth, and taking my sketchbook, I made myself inconspicuous while I ambled closer to the Widow’s group, where I uncapped my pen and began to sketch the group of ladies putting their heads together and talking. The Widow took out her glasses and inspected the lenses for lint, then put them on. “Mrs. Zee, I believe we might bring out our quilts now.” She smoothed down her apron while the other ladies drew their chairs closer and took quilts from their baskets. The complacent bleat of a sheep rose in the torpid air as it stood patiently in a wooden tub while some men washed it. Overhead, the sun flickered through the green canopy of leaves, glinting on the rims of the Widow’s spectacles, the thimble on her finger, and her shears as she scissored out a piece of bright cloth and pinned it to her quilt.
“Wa’n’t Justin the marvel today?” Mrs. Brucie said. Mrs. Zalmon put her hand to her breast. “I’ve never seen such a handsome Harvest Lord.”
“Worthy Pettinger’d be obliged if he didn’t try to make such mischief,” Mrs. Green said.
“Such jackanapes tricks,” Mrs. Zalmon said.
“Don’t it put you in mind of somethin’?” Mrs. Brucie said.
“It surely does!” Irene Tatum pulled up a chair and flopped. She had a piece of newspaper, which she pleated, and began fanning herself. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say Worthy’s gone off his rocker just like the bad one.” A chain of looks went around the circle like small, silent explosions.
“Hush, now,” the Widow Fortune ventured gently.
“I’ve said it before so I’ll say it again: she was a bad one.” Irene Tatum’s tongue was sharp, as if she kept it whetted on a stone, ready to carve on all occasions.
“A bad apple spoils the barrel,” said Mrs. Green.
“Went bad long before Agnes Fair,” said Mrs. Brucie.
“We gave her honors and she flaunted them in our faces,” said Irene Tatum.
“Hush, now, Irene.” The Widow’s needle flashed. “‘The evil men do lives after them, the good is oft interred…’ Some things are best not spoken of. Leave her in peace.”
“Never find no peace, Grace Everdeen,” declared Irene hotly.
“Goodnight nurse!” the Widow exclaimed, then deftly changed the subject. “I never saw such a leap as Worthy made. A daredevil is what he is.”
Mrs. Brucie shook her head. “Devil, yes. The boy holds contrary notions. Let one get ideas, and they’ll all get them, and then where are you? On the verge, on the pure and simple verge. Widow, oughtn’t you to talk to the boy?”
“Worthy?” The Widow looked surprised. “Why, Worthy’s nice as pie. And a good boy, I’ll be bound.” She drew out a length of cotton and rethreaded her needle.
“Well,” Mrs. Green said firmly, “if anyone’s to be chose, it’s sure to be Jim Minerva, mark my word. I’ll put my corn and stock to wager.”
Though I found the conversation puzzling, wondering who was to be chosen and for what purpose, and by what means, I was forced to smile at the agreeable circle.
“Dear sakes,” the Widow said, “if that sheep’s not positively snowy.” The men had rinsed the animal’s coat and one of them lifted it from the tub and set it on its feet to dry in the sun; another retied the bell around its neck. While the women continued together, sewing and gossiping in their group, the unoccupied men likewise drew off together, meditatively picking their teeth, an easy lackadaisical drone to their voices, their att
ention occasionally directed to the sheep’s bell, whose soft tinkle hung in the air as the washers brushed the white woolly coat, none of them speaking, all of them seeming to be waiting.
A little distance away, Missy Penrose stood stock-still, idly staring up at the sky where a silvery jet traced a white contrail across the blue. The Widow called out to a passerby, “Miss Clapp, take her out o’ the sun. Out o’ the sun, I say. It’s too hot. She’ll never last till they’re ready.” Miss Clapp brought the child under the tree, where the Widow took her on her lap. She rummaged in her piece-bag, produced a length of twine which she tied in a loop, and began showing Missy how to do cat’s cradle. The old lady seemed at pains to amuse the child, and when they had played for a time, she set Missy on the grass and resumed her stitching.
Mrs. Green looked up at the church clock. “Soon it’ll be time.”
“Soon,” said Mrs. Brucie.
I felt a touch on my shoulder, and turned to find Beth beside me, watching me sketch. She smiled, then walked across the grass and circled the tree until she stood behind the Widow, where she looked down at her work.
“It’s a beautiful quilt.”
The Widow smiled up at her. “Bit o’ fancywork. A way to pass the time.”
“Why, it’s Noah and the Ark.”
“Aye, dear, it’s only lackin’ two giraffes and the dove.”
“How long does it take to make one like that?” Beth asked.
“Depends. Four or five of us can finish this off before the moon goes a full quarter. What you ought to do, dear, is try a bit of fancywork yourself. Everyone in these parts sews. Set a spell, dear. You start savin’ your hand-me-downs and worn-outs, you’ll have enough to begin quilting right off. Never throw nothin’ away, that’s what my granny used to say.”
I smiled to myself; the idea appealed to Beth, I could tell.