by Thomas Tryon
“Hello, Daddy.”
“How’s tricks?”
“Fine.”
“Can I visit?”
“Sure.”
Beth had gone out. I sat in my club chair beside Kate’s bed, trying to make my voice sound more cheerful than I felt. “How’s the needlepoint coming?”
She held up the piece she was working on, a bouquet of flowers tied with a ribbon. “For Mother’s birthday.”
“Mother?”
“Yes.”
“You usually call her ‘Mom.’”
“I know. Did you have another fight?”
“It wasn’t a fight, Kate. It was just—a discussion.” I watched her small fingers as they threaded the thick needle and carefully worked the yarn through the canvas and drew it out again. “You’ll have that done in no time. Kate, what’s the matter, sweetheart?” I raised her chin and looked at her; tears were welling. “Hey, don’t cry. It wasn’t a fight, honestly.”
“Why did you let him go?”
“Nobody let him go. Worthy went because he wanted to.” The stair tread: she had been listening. “He’s a man, he has to do what he thinks is right for himself. We’d only be selfish if we tried to keep him simply because we wished it for ourselves.” I bent closer and took her work from her hands. “Worthy’s got a lot of growing up to do. Like all boys. There are lots of things he wants to find out about, and when he does, he’ll come back, and by then you’ll be grown up, too.”
“Then what’ll happen?”
“I guess that’ll be up to you and Worthy.”
She shook her head, the stubborn shake that was her mother’s. “He’ll be different and I’ll be different, and we’ll both have met someone else, and it won’t matter any more.”
“There are other boys. Corny Penrose is a nice fellow.”
“He’s a clod. And anyway he sent a cob to Elsie.”
“Do you want to come downstairs and watch television?”
“No, thanks.” She took back her needlepoint and began working again. “You go ahead. I’ll be all right.”
“O.K. I’ll see you before you go to sleep.”
I kissed her and went downstairs. I opened the door of the Victorian cupboard and switched on the T.V. I watched until Beth came home. She put her sewing basket on the floor, then came and kissed the top of my head. “I’m sorry, darling. Forgive me?”
I pulled her onto my lap. “Of course.”
“I guess I’m jumpy—the throes of motherhood are looming. I suppose we’ll have to go bassinet shopping and all those things again. Can you still remember how to mix formula?”
“I can take a refresher course.”
She went up to see to Kate and I started around the house turning off the lights and locking the doors, a habit I still could not get out of.
Coming back into the bacchante room, I saw my sketching case where I had left it on the piecrust table. I remembered the mail I had picked up at the post office, slipped the envelopes out, and glanced through them: a circular from a swimming pool company, a letter for Beth from Mary Abbott, a bill from Bonwit’s, a letter for me from the insurance man, and another.
This was addressed to me in pencil. Turning it over, I read the return address: Mr. John Smith, 245 Franklin Street, Hartford, Connecticut. I slipped the single page out, put down the envelope, and read the lines from Worthy Pettinger. He was fine; he would be sending me another address shortly; next week he was going to New York. I could send him the money for the tractor there. I read the letter twice, then threw it on the fire. The white page burst into bright flame and immediately turned black, curling but preserving something of its original shape as it fluttered on the log. I took the poker and pulled the fire apart, and reset the screen. Then I picked up the envelope, and stood staring at its back, thinking that something was odd. Not that it had been written in pencil, or that Worthy had written it, but odd that the edges of the flap were puckered, and that it had parted so easily from the envelope as I lifted it.
Someone had steamed the letter open.
22
I HAD BEEN RIGHT: Worthy Pettinger had left Cornwall Coombe because he was frightened. He had pledged me to secrecy concerning his whereabouts, inventing the mythical John Smith to protect himself. But someone had found out. Now Worthy was in danger. But what kind? I decided that I would go to Hartford and talk to him, tell him his letter had been intercepted, and try to learn the reason behind his danger. I would go tomorrow, after the husking bee.
For it had begun at last, what everyone had been looking forward to—the four-day celebration of Harvest Home. It was initiated by a grand and enormous feast at the Grange hall, and the husking bee, a prelude to the presentation of the Corn Play. I never got to Hartford, however, never met Worthy there, for it was this fateful night that saw my fall from favor among the villagers of Cornwall Coombe, and the beginning not only of my great disgrace but of the terrible things that followed.
The evening began well enough, certainly. Whatever words the Widow had had with Beth seemed to have brought about the desired effect: she was sweet and warm and loving, and with the news of the baby coming, I felt sure the Tamar issue was a closed book. We arrived at the Grange shortly after seven o’clock—Beth, Kate, and I, in company with the Dodds. The lights of the large building cast warm beams through the tall windows and streamed through the wide-flung doors onto the street, bidding all of Cornwall Coombe to enter and be welcome. On either side of the entrance, close to the kitchen, women were laying cloths on long tables while Mrs. Green and Mrs. Zalmon and others accepted the wealth of covered dishes prepared for the evening’s festivities. At the far end of the hall, the stage was festooned with garlands, giant corn shocks and pyramided pumpkins flanking each side, the curtain painted with harvest symbols. In the middle of the floor was an immense pile of corn ears ready for husking, and in one corner a country orchestra was tuning up, five musicians whose notes competed with the tumult of voices while children ran everywhere, crying, “When do we start?”
In the opposite corner from the musicians sat the Widow Fortune, her look grave as she spoke with Sophie Hooke. When Sophie slipped away we went to bid the Widow good evening. A place was found for Robert, and while Maggie went to speak to the orchestra he exchanged pleasantries with the old lady, who was wearing her best cap and her Sunday dress with the bone brooch pinned at her bosom.
“Well, Mary, this is one of my favorite nights in Cornwall.”
The Widow laughed and winked at a passing crony. “Robert, you think the way to a woman’s heart is through your own stomach.” She laughed again, and began describing for him familiar faces and sights around the hall. There were the Tatum kids, jumping on the corn pile and making mischief as usual; there was Sally Pounder in a new dress; there was Sophie Hooke in another; and didn’t Justin look handsome; and there came Asia Minerva—wasn’t she lookin’ proud; and there went Fred—she guessed she knew where he was goin’, to join Will Jones and them others havin’ a pull at the stone jug in the corner, and yes, the orchestra was tunin’ and you could just see how Tamar was itchin’ to get out and dance; and Missy had brought along her doll; and listen to “Turkey in the Straw”—didn’t that bring back memories of Clem!
Mrs. Deming came to pay her respects and shake Robert’s hand, but there was no sign of Mr. Deming. Other ladies, having finished their work at the tables, drew up their chairs and brought out their piecework. Robert said if it was going to turn into a hen party he and I had better join the men, and we went to the corner to have a pull at the stone jug, too.
While the men drank, the ladies sewed, the young children ran wild, and the older ones talked in the corners; there was activity galore backstage, where last-minute preparations for the Corn Play went forward. Mrs. Buxley’s round face popped out between the curtains to scan the hall—looking, it appeared, for Robert, for now she came hurrying toward us.
“Here you are, Robert—no need to hide that jug, Fred, I haven’t lived here
twenty-three years not to know you can’t have a husking bee without a spot of the old stuff. Robert, come along, I want to be sure you remember your way to the stage for the narration,” and she went away, propelling Robert behind the curtains.
The men passed the jug, tilting it to their mouths on the crook of their elbows and handing it to me to follow suit; I felt the mellow liquor slide down my throat, and accepted the tumbler of water Will Jones offered as a chaser.
A drum rattled, and baskets were brought in and distributed while the men rolled up their sleeves for work, the women fluffed out their aprons, and all began donning corn mitts. When the hands of the clock between the windows pointed to eight, the husking bee commenced, and all of us rushed to attack the giant heap of corn, forming a circle on the floor, stripping off the husks, and shelling the cobs.
In that token ceremonial, it seemed that the village had summoned up all its reserves of bonhomie and good spirits for this merriest of nights; the Grange walls resounded with the good-natured joshing of the farmers, the echoing chatter of the womenfolk, the unquenchable spirits of the children. There was a joyousness in the labor, a highjinks, devil-may-care attitude as though, the summer’s labors done, now they could relax and share a comradeship that stemmed from the symbolic harvest that towered before them, a mountain of security for the coming year. Farmers I scarcely knew came and slapped me on the back and joked with me; their wives, whom I had seen only in church, stopped to exchange pleasantries and say how glad they were our family had come to Cornwall Coombe. Custom and reserve seemed abandoned, all was jollity itself, so jolly that one pull at the stone bottle surely called for another, and when one jug was empty there was another to take its place.
The time passed and we worked unstintingly; the dust from the husks rose in the air, the kernels falling in golden showers into certain of the baskets, the cobs thriftily reserved in others. When the baskets were filled, they were borne away, to be returned empty, ready to be filled again. Meantime the orchestra kept up any flagging spirits with one old tune after another.
I wiped the sweat from my brow, tilted the jug as it was passed again, and went back to work with renewed vigor. If there was laughter, it seemed I could laugh louder; if there was shouting, I could shout louder; singing, sing louder. The pile of corn dwindled, smaller and smaller, and it became a contest to see who would get the last ear to shuck. This piece of good fortune fell to Jimmy Minerva—an omen apparently of the utmost significance—he having engaged in a scuffle with the Tatum boys and several others for the prized trophy. A mighty cheer went up when Jim carried it aloft, crying, “I have’t! I have’t!” And the rest chorused, “What have’e?” “A neck! A neck!” he replied in the traditional Cornish formula, brandishing it as he brought it to the Widow Fortune herself to husk. Taking her cue, she rose and performed with ceremony, letting the kernels sift through her fingers into a basket, returning the cob to Jim, then dusting her hands on her apron and solemnly bowing all around.
By God, I thought, slapping my thigh, the old girl was regal. Reg’lar duchess. I took two short steps, listing slightly, then pulled myself upright. Was I tight? I felt tight. It was hot in the hall. Auditorium chairs were brought out, the dishes on the long tables uncovered, and there were “ooh”s and “ah”s along the lines that formed; nobody had ever seen such a feast as this one.
There were Mrs. Brucie’s famous Boston baked beans and Mrs. Zalmon’s famous German potato salad and Asia Minerva’s famous buck stew and Mary Fortune’s famous blood pudding, to say nothing of a host of other favorites. And when one was already full, there still remained to be eaten Irene Tatum’s famous double-chocolate family-treat cake and Myrtil Clapp’s famous apple cobbler and your choice of Mrs. Green’s famous pumpkin pie or Mrs. Buxley’s famous mincemeat.
I didn’t feel hungry; I was much more interested in finding the stone jug again. Things were becoming a little bleary for me as I staggered out onto the porch. “Smell that air,” I said, and turned to find another amicable farmers’ gathering with another stone jug of the old stuff, and perfectly agreeable to sharing with me. I dribbled slightly as I tilted the jug to my lips, passed it on, then wiped my chin. I peered over the railing. What were those kids doing down there, peeking around the corner of the hall, all got up like cornstalks—the play? Oh, the play.
“Come spring, I’m goin’ to plant corn,” I informed the empty street, hanging on the corner post and swinging. Yessiree, come Planting Day I was going to be right out there with the rest of them, just a-hoein’ and a-plantin’ and a-dancin’—
They gave me the jug again and I raised it high. “Here’s to crime.” They laughed and thumped me again, saying I was a good fellow.
There was another drum roll and we trooped back inside where the eaters who had been corn huskers were now become an audience. The chairs had been rearranged in rows with a wide aisle between the two sections, and without display or haste the villagers moved between the rows to seat themselves—a little solemnly, I thought, a trifle grave. Moving along the back, I slid into the place Kate and Beth had saved for me, taking Beth’s hand and waiting with the others while the last voice trailed off, the hall darkened, and the footlights came up on the curtain and music was heard.
The Corn Play was about to begin.
There was a brief murmur and stir as through the vestibule doors came the youngest Tatum girl, Debbie, looking like a bridal attendant while she ceremonially strewed her way down the aisle with flowers; her steps were slow and measured, the way she had been rehearsed, and she looked neither left nor right but stared straight ahead, pretending she did not know that the Harvest Lord and all his court followed in her train.
My fuzzed brain tried to recall the various figures in the corn quilt the Widow had showed us. These were the courtiers pouring through the doorway, a joyful procession of village boys and girls, singing in clear, melodious voices, and with music—strange music, I thought, but familiar—tambourines and pipes and drums; some shaking rattles, others ringing bells, healthy flesh agleam, expressions eager and delighted. I recognized Sister Tatum and Margie Perkin and Sally Pounder, smiling and not at all shy or modest with the laughing boys whose arms circled their waists, but singing and tossing looks to the audience, the procession becoming a dance as they made their way toward the stage. Great garlands of cornhusks woven with autumn flowers were carried on poles, swagged against the ceiling, while baskets like cornucopias spilled fruit and corn, and those who bore them looked back over their shoulders at who came after.
We all knew who this was: Fred Minerva playing the Harvest Fool—an outrageous country jester decked with bells and tattered ribbons, and for his head a tumbledown corn crown—doing a comical dance that made the people laugh to see someone more foolish than themselves.
Next appeared a lovely figure, all in white, a long shimmering dress trailing to the floor, her head covered by a white veil embroidered with flowers. She stood for a moment in the doorway like a bird poised for flight, then moved down the aisle, almost floating rather than walking, her features hidden, her hands clasped before her.
“The Corn Maiden,” I heard people near me whispering, and I knew this was Sophie Hooke. When she got to the stage her maidens came and led her to her place.
Next came six young village bloods carrying aloft what looked like a giant ear of corn, its contents hidden by a wrapping of husks, and this ear was deposited on the stage.
There was a delay, a stage wait that seemed almost contrived, and the audience strained and fidgeted, as if the suspense was unbearable. “Bring him on!” shouted one man. “Show us him,” called another. “Come and make the corn,” a third urged. “Aye, make the corn—make the corn!” It became a clamor echoing to the rafters, with the women joining in, and I tried to recall where I had heard the phrase used before. A line in Gracie Everdeen’s letter to Roger Penrose? Then, suddenly appearing, there stepped into the light the majestic figure of the Harvest Lord himself, a pleated mantle of brigh
t scarlet swirling behind him. He went down the aisle with a long stride, and when he reached the stage he stood center in a spotlight, arms outstretched in generous acknowledgment, the women in the audience visibly charmed, the men now satisfied, all rejoicing at his presence.
Craning my neck as, with a quick flourish of red, he tossed the end of his cloak over his arm, I tried to discover if the costume beneath was the same the figure in the cornfield had worn. What I saw appeared to be sewn of handwoven fabric, embroidered, a duplicate of the figure in the quilt. Nor was he wearing the odd little corn cap I had seen on the night of the “experience.”
The other players had taken up various positions around the stage: the Corn Maiden sat to one side surrounded by a ring of her ladies, the Harvest Lord beside her, all watching as Robert Dodd entered from the wings and began the story of the growing of the corn.
“And the plow entered the earth,” Robert said, “to make the corn. The furrow was turned, and the seed was planted and the earth was fulfilled. Willingly the earth received the seed and the seed sprouted and put forth its leaf. Rain and sun in their changing but never to be broken cycles nourished the crop and it was good, this peaceful time of waiting till the harvest.”
While the narration proceeded, the actors pantomimed the action. First the Harvest Lord and the Corn Maiden came center stage, facing each other. There was a general sigh of anticipation and an audible whisper of “making the corn” rippled through the audience as the Corn Maiden’s ladies lifted away her veil, revealing the radiant Sophie Hooke. Her long blond hair was entwined with flowers and strings of corn kernels, and her blue eyes were huge and innocent as she looked up at Justin, who embraced her. Then they proceeded to “make the corn.” They walked to opposite ends of the stage while two boys wearing great curving horns came drawing a plow. Justin seized the handles and guided the plowshare across the floor of the stage, and at the opposite end of the furrow Sophie held herself ready, ducking nimbly between the horns as they came at her, then skipping over the plowshare and running to the other end of the stage. The horns turned—the plow, and Justin, too—as he now recrossed the stage and the action was repeated. Sophie was waiting to meet him, and again she passed between the horns and over the plowshare.