by Thomas Tryon
“Yessir, we got us a bounteeful day, girls, so let’s make hay while the sun shines. How’s your pig, Irene?” He tipped his hat to Mrs. Tatum. “Girls, lookee here what I got. One of a kind, a pure original, you’ll never see another one like it.”
“Don’t you know this is the Sabbath, Jack Stump?” Irene Tatum bawled. “Since when do we allow Sunday buyin’ or sellin’? You got some dispensation? No? Then haul your contraption off and don’t go merchandisin’ at the very church door when people’s just finished speakin’ with the Lord.” Her anger was as righteous as if she were Christ driving the money-changers from the temple.
I nodded to the Hookes, who now descended the steps; Justin was immediately surrounded by a ring of admirers, while Sophie stood aside with resigned good humor. I moved back as Tamar Penrose, fishing a key from her bag, passed close by. She gave me a sullen glance, then turning quickly, she crossed the roadway onto the Common.
Mrs. Green was speaking to Mrs. Zalmon. “Look at them tatty beads,” she said as the peddler palmed the necklace off on Betsey Cox. “A body can’t set much store by what he trades in.”
“Ayuh,” Mrs. Zalmon agreed, making her words significant. “He’s not a likely person, is he?”
Mrs. Green’s mouth drew down. “Not likely at all.”
The Widow laughed. “Oh, I like Jack Stump. He’s independent. Folks have to be independent—gives ’em character. I like a fellow who thinks for himself. People are so busy today trying to be just like all the others. I like people who has peculiarities.”
Justin offered to drive her home in his El Camino, and she asked him to wait while she went into the churchyard and spent some time with Clem. As was evidently her habit, she had been inviting certain of the gathering to come to her house and be sociable before Sunday dinner. Justin accepted the invitation, then disengaged himself from the ladies and took Sophie off down the sidewalk.
“You come along for those scraps in a while,” the Widow told Beth, and lifting her skirts, she went into the cemetery, shears dangling at her waist.
Maggie said, “Ned, take Robert down to the Rocking Horse for a drink; then we’ll go to the Widow’s.” While she and Beth turned to talk quilting with Mrs. Green and Mrs. Brucie, I gave Robert my arm and led him along the sidewalk toward the tavern.
“Another local custom?” I asked.
“One with the deepest significance. Ladies not welcome.”
Passing the churchyard, I saw the solitary figure beside Clem Fortune’s grave. It made a striking picture, I thought, the old woman in her widow’s weeds and white cap, standing among the ancient tombstones, head bowed, her lips moving.
It was indeed a grand day. The broad New England sky was sunny and bright, the air nimble with the slightest hint of autumn in the brisk breeze that tumbled leaves along the roadside. Groups of people were strung out along the sidewalks, enjoying the fine weather and discussing Mr. Buxley’s sermon. The belled sheep grazed on the Common, cropping the turf, their coats woolly and thick for winter shearing.
“What are those ridges in the grass?” I asked Robert. He angled his head as though to look.
“Bonfire circles. When the grass burns away and they reseed it the next spring, it always seems to come up a different color.”
“Bonfires?”
“On Kindling Night, just before Harvest Home. A farm custom. Up in Maine and New Hampshire, they still have big fires on Election Day, which is somehow mixed up with the British Guy Fawkes Day, though I don’t suppose they remember quite how. Here they have a fire to mark the end of the growing year, and they dance around it.”
“What kind of dance?”
“What’s known as a chain dance. It goes back to the ancient Greeks—you can still see vases in museums with chain dancers painted on them, some of them dating back to the Bronze Age or further.”
I saw Missy making her way through the sheep, the incredible-looking doll in her hand. Her mother stood in the doorway of the post office, and I had the feeling that as we walked along, both pairs of eyes were fixed on us. At the tavern, the village males—Sunday suits, collars opened, ties yanked—moved aside to permit the blind man to reach a place at the end of the bar nearest the door. In the corner at our right sat Amys Penrose, drinkless, but looking hopeful. Amys, I had discovered, was regarded as the village eccentric. Caretaker of Penance House across the way, he also looked after the sheep on the Common, swept the street, and was church sexton, bell ringer, and grave digger. A typical Yankee, he kept himself beholden to none, never kowtowed to the village elite, came and went as he pleased, and, being a Penrose, was maybe a little “tetched.”
As we sat down he hiked his stool over to accommodate us. “Mornin’, Professor.”
“That you, Amys? Your bells sounded fine this morning.”
“Ringin’s ringin’, and drinkin’s drinkin’.”
Though blind, Robert knew when he was being cadged. “Have a beer on me, Amys,” he offered. We ordered drinks from Bert, the bartender, and while they were being brought I heard one of the farmers in the vicinity speaking to a group around him.
“I guess Gracie’s ears were burnin’ today.”
“If the hellfires haven’t burned her first.”
Again I wondered what Grace Everdeen had done to merit such general censure.
Robert was speaking to Amys: “I was telling our friend here about the chain dances on Kindling Night.”
“Kindling Night.” Amys used the spittoon. “Crazy notion. They been doin’ them fool dances ever since I can recollect.” Like the Ancient Mariner, he seemed to compel me with his glittering eye. “You stop around here long enough, you’ll see lots of things.”
I sipped my drink, my head bent slightly so I could see off across the Common. Tamar Penrose was still in the post office doorway. “Why does the post office have such a large chimney?”
Amys took his face out of his beer mug. “Hell, that ain’t been the P.O. for no time a’tall. Used to be the old forge barn to the Gwydeon Penrose place, over there where I live.” He pushed his hat back, leaned his elbows on the bar, and ground some peanuts between his bony jaws. “Cagey feller, old Gwydeon. Once, during an Indian attack, he barricaded himself and his family inside that forge. Them Indians tried to burn him out, but he’d built the place of stone, so fire wouldn’t touch nothin’ but the door. When the Indians finally got in, all ready for scalpin’, they wa’n’t there. Foxy old Gwydeon’d dug a tunnel months before, and he got out and his whole family, too. ’Course, the forge ain’t been a forge for years. After the Revolution, the barn was sold and it became a general store; then we got the P.O.”
“Tell me another thing, Amys,” I said. “Is it true what they say about Missy Penrose?”
The bell ringer’s brows darkened and his mouth curled sourly. “Depends on what they say, son.”
“I was talking about her freckles. Do they form a constellation?”
“There’s fools aplenty ’round here who’ll believe anything you tell ’em. If they care to think that whatnot child’s got the evil eye—why, then, I guess she’s got the evil eye. ’Cept I’d put my money on the mother, not the daughter.”
“Easy, now, Amys,” Robert said soothingly.
Amys drew himself up and pounded on the bar. “Listen, if it comes to that, you tell me why the Reverend takes after a dear soul like Gracie, and never points a finger at the likes of her.” He jabbed his thumb in the direction of the post office. “Never a gooder girl than Grace Everdeen, and for her sins she comes to grief, while that one, no better than she ought to be, is your fancy miss post office lady. And blast Roger Penrose, who couldn’t tell the gilt from the gingerbread.” His voice had risen to an angry quaver, and heads in the vicinity swiveled to stare at the old man. “Never mind, around here you can’t teach your grandmother to suck eggs.”
“Easy, now,” Robert repeated. To change the subject, I inquired if there were any boats on the river available for rowing. The old man confided
that he kept one in a particular spot, and said I might borrow it anytime, a snug craft that needed no bailin’. He thanked Robert for the beer and left, and when we had paid the tab we stepped outside to find the peddler’s rig drawn up at the roadside, where Jack Stump was exhibiting for a gathering the identical one-of-a-kind piece of cheap beadwork he had purveyed to Betsey Cox in front of the church. “Sunday special, ladies,” he began, “a chunk of gen-u-wine Victorian, that’s whatcha got here. Victorian, ladies, which means it’s practically a antique, if you figure by years, because anything that’s Victorian means it goes back to before Columbus discovered America.”
The crowd laughed and someone called out, “Tell us, Jack Stump, what came before Victorian?”
“Before Victorian you had your Dark Ages, which was when them fearsome Tartars come across the steppes of Russia and tried to rule the world. But they used the back steps so they wouldn’t get caught.” Jack wheezed at his joke.
“And what came before that, Jack?” Robert called good-naturedly.
“Hell, Professor, you orta know. You had your religious age, when Martin Luther spiked his thesis to his front door.”
“Who was Martin Luther?” a voice demanded.
“Why, Martin Luther was a Lutheran. That’s what it means, a Lutheran is someone named Luther.”
“My name’s Luther, and I ain’t no Lutheran,” said one of the Soakes boys, lolling in the tavern doorway, a can of beer in his hand.
Jack chose to ignore him. “And Martin Luther told folks the Pope was nothin’ but a greedy cuss and any Christian worth his salt ought to show them roguey priests the door. Said Cath’lickism was nothing but organized crime, and folk shouldn’t have no more to do with ’em.”
“Ain’t no Cath’lics this side of the river,” called someone in the crowd.
“I heard that, Grandmaw,” Luther said. “Ain’t no call to talk that way.”
“Ain’t no call for some folks to be off their own side of the river,” replied another.
Roy Soakes, the defeated wrestler, stepped out. “We come and go as we please. We don’t want no trouble.”
Jack Stump tossed the beads aside and out flew another drawer. “Soap, soap, ladies? Pretty little balls, shaped just like a pineapple, mighty pretty for the bathroom—no? Whatcha say, Sophie? Justin? How’s married life treatin’ you? Honey, if you’re lookin’ for a new dress for the huskin’ bee, I got some mighty lofty goods.” He snatched a bolt of fabric from a shelf. “You’d have to go some to find a dress pretty as this here’d make.” He unrolled the bolt partway and offered it to Sophie, draping the end of it over her shoulder. “And here’s needle and thread, pins galore, if you’ve a mind to do your own sewin’.”
“Use ’em yourself, old man,” Roy said. “Use ’em to zip your lip.”
Jack put on a knowing expression as he returned the stare. “Well,” he retorted slyly, “maybe I orta zip, ’cause if I didn’t I bet I could tell of some might’ funny doin’s in them woods.”
“Peddler, mind your business,” Old Man Soakes said, shoving Luther out of the way and taking up a hulking stance in the doorframe. His voice had a hollow boom that silenced general comment as he pointed his finger at Jack. “Them woods is private property. That land is been Soakes land since before the first Continental Congress and it’s Soakes land to this day. We don’t like trespassers.”
“Ain’t your land,” someone said. “It’s ours. We’re corn, you’re tobacco.”
“’Tain’t called Soakes’s Lonesome for nothin’,” the old man maintained stolidly. He turned to Jack again. “You’ve had your warnin’.”
“You don’t scare me,” the peddler retorted.
Roy’s look was murderous as he shook up his beer can and tossed it at the cart, sending wet foam in all directions. Jack danced around in a circle, holding out the bolt of cloth. “Lookee—you splattered all over! What d’you want to do a thing like that for? Maybe you fellows need for me to call the police?”
“You do that, peddler,” Old Man Soakes said darkly.
Roy laughed. “Don’t recall they got police over here. Cornwall Coombe must be gettin’ all the latest conveniences.”
Luther sauntered behind the peddler and bent down on all fours, and Roy gave Jack a shove that sent him tumbling in the dust. He scrambled away with a crab-like movement, then shouted as Roy skidded under the rig and lifted his back against the undercarriage to tip it over.
In a flash, Justin Hooke was on him, arms around his waist and yanking him from beneath the cart. Roy rose, then swung, knocking the farmer on the side of his head as three of his brothers lunged out the tavern door and joined in the attack. Jack Stump took several brutal blows in succession, which dropped him to the roadway. When he cried out, I sprang forward, grabbed Luther, and sent him reeling. Roy came at me and I threw two quick jabs, following them up with a heavy blow to the gut. Justin, meantime, had recovered himself and now ran to put his back against mine, waiting for the others to rise.
Even at double the odds, it was no contest. No sooner would one get up and step in for a swing than he would be knocked down again.
I grinned over my shoulder. “I didn’t know country boys knew how to use their fists.” Justin swung again; Luther took his third tumble. “This country boy does!” Justin was enjoying the fight.
Not so Jack Stump, who had taken a merciless beating. He lay in the dust struggling to get up, and as Old Man Soakes raised a foot to roll him over, a figure like a dark avenging angel confronted him.
“Give over, Mr. Soakes!” commanded the Widow Fortune, standing before him, her face hot and angry. Almost as tall as he, and as broad, she stared him down while the sons dropped their fists, waiting for the father’s signal.
“Whether they be your woods or not, we do not require the peace of our Sunday to be disturbed.” Her voice rang out loudly in the silence.
“I come to buy corn,” said Old Man Soakes, who had removed his hat and was inching the brim through his fingers.
“Then buy your corn and go home. Fight on your own doorstep, and leave peaceable folk to theirs.” She waited until the group had moved back to the tavern entrance and the crowd closed in; then she bent to look at Jack Stump, who lay at her feet.
“Well, Jack, are you mortally wounded?” She turned to me. “Help him up and give him a dusting; then bring him along to my house and we’ll see what we can do to repair him.”
10
“BRAWLIN’ IN THE STREETS,” the old lady exclaimed, sitting Jack Stump down in one of her kitchen chairs and bending over his battered face. Pale and shaken, the peddler felt his jaw and winced as he tried to move it. It appeared badly dislocated, and though he offered no complaint I could see it was causing him intense pain. Beth, Kate, and I stood watching as he entrusted himself to the Widow’s capable care.
“Here, now, Jack,” she said in a kindly tone, “lay your head against the back of the chair—that’s good, just so.” She peered down at him through her spectacles; then, standing behind him, she laid a hand on either side of the jaw, her sensitive fingertips probing their way along the mandible bone until they had located the desired spot. Her back muscles tightened, she gave a quick yank, and there was an audible sound as the jaw snapped back into place and Jack’s face went white under the stubble of beard.
“Lord, Jack,” she told him, “can’t a man shave for Sunday? There, now, how’s that suit you?”
He felt his jaw again, wiggling it back and forth, then nodding.
“And now you’ll be tellin’ me they started the fight, them Soakeses.”
Jack nodded vigorously while I related the details, including the episode of the flying beer can which had precipitated the attack. The Widow darted me a look.
“You’re as bad as him—and Justin, too. The three of you. What’ll Mr. Deming say?” She clucked behind her teeth and asked Beth to hand her the black valise from the counter; she selected one of the labeled bottles, poured some of the liquid on the
cotton, and cleaned Jack’s swollen eye.
“You’ll be a fine sight tomorrow, you will. And a fat lip to boot.” She touched the swollen tissue lightly. “Now, then, I won’t hurt you. You’ve had enough hurtin’ for one day. That eye’s goin’ to need a poultice. Kate, put the kettle on.”
Kate filled the copper kettle and set it on the burner, while the Widow employed some fragrant-smelling ointment, carefully dabbing it on the injured lip. Then she slid a small tin of it into Jack’s pocket, with instructions for use.
She took a mixing bowl from the cupboard, and a cloth bag from a shelf, measured out a handful of what looked to me like plain corn meal, and added to the contents a pinch from one jar of herbs and a pinch from another, until the kitchen became one delicious amalgam of aromas. When the kettle began singing, she poured some boiling water into the bowl and mixed up a mash which she put into a piece of cheesecloth and rolled into a poultice. Letting it cool slightly, she gently tilted Jack’s head back again, and laid the poultice on the half-closed eye, tying it there with a strip from a rag. “Jack, you look piratical. Right debonair, y’are.” She gave him a pat and dispatched him to bring in the used clothes he had for her, then showed us into the parlor while she dug out scraps for Beth’s quilt.
If the homely character of her kitchen told much about the Widow, her parlor told more. A room I suspected to be a repository for all her “best” pieces, it was cozy and comfortable-looking, and well used. Without ever looking shabby, the furniture showed long wear, and the rugs, hand-hooked or braided, were thin in spots, testament both to the feet that had trod them and to the years of treading. I asked if she had made them.
“Beth, you’ll most likely find that rocker comfortable. Kate, try the sofa. Yes, I done ’em, every last one. Keeps me busy through the winters when I’m not makin’ scarecrows.”
I went to the bay window, which was filled with potted plants, and looked at the neatly carpentered bench that bore beautifully carved Roman numerals from one to twelve.