Ceremonies

by T E. D Klein

  'Sure, I remember. We passed it on the way.' He swallowed a large bite of bread and cheese. 'And I'll bet this bread's homemade.'

  She nodded, pleased. 'I haven't bought bread since we lived in Trenton. It's all baked right here.'

  'In that thing?' Freirs nodded toward the huge black wood-burning stove that stood beside the Hotpoint, already seeing pictures out of Norman Rockwell, Currier amp; Ives. 'It looks at least a century old.'

  'It is,' said Deborah. 'It's as old as the house. But it's hard to regulate. We only use it for heating in the winter… and for certain ceremonial occasions.'

  'Does this place get very cold in the winter?'

  'The attic needs work,' said Sarr, obviously looking forward to it. 'I'll have to put new insulation in this fall.'

  'It gets cold here all right,' said Deborah. 'You've heard people talk about three-dog nights, when you need all three dogs in the bed? Well, this January, Sarr and I had a couple of six-cat nights!'

  Freirs winced, but not at the idea of such cold. His eyes were still red and he hadn't stopped sniffling. 'God,' he said, 'I probably wouldn't survive the night! Though I guess on a farm like this six cats must have their uses.'

  'Seven,' said Deborah. 'You probably haven't seen Bwada yet. That's his cat.' She nodded at Sarr.

  'And where is he?' asked Freirs.

  'She,' said Poroth. 'She stays outside all day – sometimes nights, too. She's more adventurous than the others. I've had her since she was a kitten.'

  Deborah added, 'She's fat and just plain mean. That's why she sleeps by herself. Now, these are the nice ones, Jeremy-' And until dessert she proceeded to furnish him with detailed biographies of the other six, complete with ancestries. They all had names like Habakkuk, Tobias, and Azariah, names which sounded as if they'd been taken from obscure portions of the Bible and which Freirs immediately forgot. He was too busy thinking of Deborah. It would be heavenly, he imagined, to pile into that big soft feather bed they must have up there and he beside her on a long winter night, slipping the flannel nightgown above her waist and breasts, feeling her warmth against the cold and darkness outside.

  Dessert was a tart red rhubarb pie and a plate of lacy brown molasses cookies, the kind he bought at block fairs in the city. He wondered, over his second cup of coffee, if all the meals were going to be this elaborate. If so, he wasn't going to lose much weight out here, but he'd probably be content just the same.

  Once coffee was over, Poroth wiped his mouth, pushed back from the table, and offered to show Freirs around. 'You may as well see what you came for,' he said, stretching as he rose so that his fingers bent back against the ceiling.

  'You can see my garden from here,' said Deborah, pointing out the window at a small brown fenced-in plot beside the house. 'It doesn't look much right now, but by summer there'll be squash, tomatoes, peas, cucumbers, carrots… We'll be eating well, I promise you that.'

  Clearly they were trying to sell him on the place. They must be counting on his ninety dollars a week.

  'We're starting awfully late this year,' said Sarr, as the two of them descended the steps from the back porch, Deborah having elected to remain in the kitchen. A pair of cats scampered out behind them just before the screen door slammed. 'We'll probably just have enough for the three of us. But by next year we expect to produce enough to sell.'

  Even that prediction seemed somewhat optimistic. The garden looked far from flourishing, though there were small shoots where the carrots were coming up and green wooden stakes standing in hopeful rows above the young tomato plants. The adjoining lawn, by contrast, looked surprisingly hardy, as if the land's true destiny was to be one of the suburban estates that were already taking up so much of the county.

  Across the lawn, and well off to one side, lay the weed-strewn wreckage of an old wooden outhouse, grass growing over the doorway. Freirs wrinkled his nose as they approached, but the air smelled of nothing but damp earth and pine. 'You're free to use it if you like,' said Poroth, making one of his infrequent jokes. 'I believe it's still in working order.'

  'Wonderful!' Freirs peered through the gaps in the planks. The bench inside was the double-seater sort, for the ultimate in rural togetherness. Welcome to Appalachia. He thanked God that the farm had modern plumbing.

  Farther down the slope, its back to the surrounding wall of forest, was the low, barracklike outbuilding he'd be renting. It was the one he'd glimpsed from the front of the house; he recognized it immediately from the photograph.

  'Am I right,' asked Freirs, 'in assuming that the place was originally a chicken coop?'

  'True enough,' said Poroth. 'We've never used it as one, though. We keep our chickens in the barn.'

  The building looked somewhat more cheerful in the spring sunlight than it had when the photo was taken, though ivy now covered the walls more thickly and was curling over the edges of the windows, an ever-shrinking green frame.

  'It's not completely fixed up yet,' said Poroth, looking it over with a critical eye. 'I still have to put up the screens. Still, I suppose we ought to go in.'

  Inside, the place was surprisingly dark, ivy blocking much of the sunlight. 'I'll have all that trimmed away before you get here,' Poroth said, snapping on a shiny new wall switch that turned on the overhead light. 'If I did it now it would just grow back by summer.'

  There was nothing inviting about the room; the best Freirs could do, by an exercise of imagination, was to see it as a kind of monk's cell, unromantic but suited to the intellectual labors he hoped to perform this summer. It had a pale blue linoleum floor with a slightly uneven seam down the middle and was empty save for a sturdy-looking bed (room for just one, Freirs saw), a chest of drawers, and an oppressive-looking old wooden wardrobe standing like a watchman in the corner. There seemed to be only one closet. 'Later this spring I'm going to build some bookshelves in here,' said Poroth, eyeing one of the bare plasterboard walls, 'and we can move in a table for you to use as a desk.' He seemed happy to leave.

  The other half of the building, with an entrance of its own at the opposite side, was being used as a storeroom. Its cement floor was packed haphazardly with lumber, battered-looking furniture, and dusty steamer trunks. The air smelled of mildew. Along the front windowsill, a row of dirty Mason jars collected cobwebs and dead flies.

  'Deborah wants to fix this up too,' said Poroth, 'since we've already brought in the electricity. She'd like to turn it into another guesthouse.'

  Freirs was peering at a pile of old books, their covers warped and faded. The Law of the Offerings. Footsteps of the Master. God's Providence and Gospel. Religious tracts. 'And how do you feel about that?'

  The other paused. 'I'd rather see how things work out this summer.

  He turned to go, but Freirs had pushed past the furniture to a door in the far wall. 'What does this lead to? A closet?'

  'Open it and see.'

  Freirs pulled it open, then smiled. He was looking into the other room – his room. With surprise he realized that, in his imagination, he'd already taken possession of it. The familiar linoleum floor and narrow bed looked almost welcoming.

  As they strolled outside, Poroth eyed him hesitantly. 'So,' he said at last, 'do you think you want to rent the place?'

  'Yes, I do,' said Freirs, though he hadn't really made his mind up till that moment. 'It seems to be just what I'm looking for.'

  Poroth nodded. 'Good.' He sounded, Freirs thought, as if he meant it, but he wasn't smiling, and there was uncertainty in his face. Freirs felt faintly disappointed. 'And when do you think you'd want to come?'

  'Probably right after my last class ends. There's a Friday evening course I'm teaching that doesn't get out till the twenty-fourth of June. I figured I'd come out here that weekend.'

  'AH right. We'll try to be ready for you.' Instead of turning back toward the house, he was moving in the direction of the fields and obviously expected Freirs to follow. 'By the time you come out, I should have this land cleared off all the way back t
o the brook.' He gestured toward the line of distant trees. 'And it'll be under cultivation.'

  To the west a row of stumps showed where Poroth was engaged in cutting back a column of encroaching pine. Immediately ahead the land was bare, but marked by scattered mounds of ashes where great piles of underbrush and weeds had been burned. It looked like the aftermath of a battle.

  'Of course, this place needs plenty of work,' said Poroth, gazing around with apparent satisfaction. 'That's what happens when land lies idle for so long. Deborah and I are already behind in our labors. Most of the Brethren finished planting weeks ago, beneath the last full moon.'

  'That sounds quite picturesque. What do you people grow?'

  'Corn. That's what this land is made for. "Therefore God give thee of the dew of heaven, and the fatness of the earth, and plenty of corn and wine." Of course, the Indian corn I'll be planting isn't what old Isaac had in mind.'

  'Ah. Hmm.' What the hell was the guy talking about? 'Are you people allowed to drink wine?'

  'In moderation.' He turned. 'And you?'

  Freirs patted his stomach. 'Like I said before, my vice is food.'

  Poroth smiled, but only for a moment; then his face resumed its old preoccupied look, and he continued walking.

  Before them rose the huge, sagging shape of the barn and, beside it, a gnarled old black willow with scales like a dinosaur, practically touching the overhanging roof, as if tree and barn had grown up together. Beyond it the still-uncleared land lay covered with the same ropy-looking weeds and homely little saplings that Freirs had seen in New York vacant lots.

  The barn was where Poroth kept his truck at night. Flies buzzed over the ancient hay still scattered on the floor, though it had obviously been many years since livestock had sheltered here. Leaning against the wall lay a rusty collection of farm implements and, in the shadows at the back, an antiquated mowing machine that Poroth said he planned to repair. They all looked to Freirs like museum pieces; it was hard to picture anyone actually using them.

  Along the left side of the barn, on a loft platform as high as Freirs' head and reachable by means of a trapdoor and a simple wooden ladder, Poroth had constructed a chicken coop. At the moment it housed only four fat hens, all recent purchases, and a pugnacious-looking black rooster who glared at Freirs accusingly, as if aware that under normal circumstances it would have been inhabiting Freirs' quarters.

  'They're from Werner Klapp's farm right here in Gilead,' Poroth explained. He shooed away a cat that was pawing the ladder. 'They're not laying regularly yet, but by summer we should be getting all the eggs we need.'

  By summer. By summer. This was the Poroths' refrain. It was rather inspiring, how optimistic they were, as if the two of them, those earnest children, could make this place a paradise all by themselves. Freirs almost believed it might be possible. He knew he couldn't do it, couldn't repair houses, move masses of earth, apply the magic that would make the land yield its secret stored-up fruit. But these were rural people, country-born despite their lack of experience. Who could say what they'd be capable of?

  Near the barn stood a small grey-shingled smokehouse covered with brambles and vines, its door hanging partially open. 'I wouldn't go poking around there,' said Poroth, giving it a wide berth.

  'Why?'

  'Wasps.' He nodded toward a few black insects hovering like guards above the doorway. 'They've got a nest in there, just below the roof. I mean to clean them out as soon as I get the chance.'

  Freirs peered inside as they passed. The ceiling, like that of the porch at the Go-operative, was arrayed with wicked-looking iron hooks where probably, years before, hams and bacon had hung.

  Down the slope from it lay the shallow brook he'd seen from the back porch. Flowing past rocks and fallen trees, it curved out from the woods and ran a meandering course past the acres of stubble that might some day be a cornfield, until it lost itself again in the swampier woods to the west. Legally the Poroths' property extended far beyond its banks, but all the area on the other side was forest now – a dense wilderness of pine, oak, and maple that, in this century, at least, had never known a woodman's axe – so that the brook effectively marked the southwest border of the land.

  It also marked the limits of the afternoon's tour. Poroth, taking a position at the water's edge, stood with arms folded, surveying the-brook's winding path as if he contemplated rerouting it. 'We've got minnows here, frogs, a few turtles,' he said. 'Still, it's no trout stream.'

  'In that case I won't bring my fishing pole.' Freirs stared idly into the brook's clear depths. He was eager to get back to the farmhouse, and maybe spend some more time with Deborah before returning to the city. He glanced at his watch: nearly a quarter to five. They would have to be starting back soon. Already the sun was sinking toward the western pines. He thought of the work he'd meant to do by Monday that would be waiting for him in the heat of his apartment.

  Poroth had seen him check the time. 'Well, there's really nothing more to show you,' he said morosely. 'We may as well be – ah, here you are!' He was looking down at a large grey cat by his feet. 'This is Bwada.' He bent down and began scratching her head, an attention the animal seemed merely to tolerate, for though her eyes closed momentarily as if in pleasure, she soon moved out of reach.

  Freirs watched her uncertainly. She was fat and sleek, with fine grey fur halfway between charcoal and silver. Placid-looking enough, but you never knew about these animals. Hesitantly he reached out to stroke her, but she backed away – mostly, it seemed, out of fear, though as his hand drew closer she made a menacing sound deep in her throat. He decided it was best to keep his distance.

  'She's the oldest of the cats,' said Poroth, 'and it takes her a while to get used to people. She's not even sure of Deborah yet.' With a sigh he squinted at the sun. 'Well, we should probably be heading back. I want to get you into town in plenty of time.'

  Freirs followed him up the grassy slope through the lengthening shadows. Looking back, he saw Bwada crouched on the bank, eyes wide as she followed the bobbing flight of a dragonfly above the stream. Inching forward, she thrust out her paw and dabbed tentatively at the moving water, as if testing whether the surface were strong enough to walk on, then settled back again to watch and wait.

  'She's found a way to cross the brook by some fallen logs over in the woods,' said Poroth, who had turned to see why Freirs had stopped. 'She's afraid to try and cross anywhere else. She really hates the water.'

  His stride had an athlete's spring to it as he continued toward the farmhouse, rising up onto the toes of his boots with every step, arms swinging easily at his sides, as if drawing upon some private source of power. Strong ankles, too, no doubt. Freirs himself was beginning to feel bushed. It couldn't be just the walk, he told himself; he walked farther every day in the city. The antihistamine, maybe, or something to do with the country air. The air seemed healthy here, but maybe it was only an illusion. Though you had to admit those pines smelled sweet and good, down by the brook, nothing like the disinfectant pine smell he was used to, in aerosol and after-shave. You only smelled the real stuff in the winter, walking past a sidewalk stand of Christmas trees.

  As they rounded the barn, they saw that a second pickup truck was parked in front of the house. Freirs felt a sudden rush of disappointment. 'That's Brother Matt Geisel,' he heard Poroth saying. 'He and Sister Corah are our closest neighbors. They live up the road, just past the turn.'

  The man was in the kitchen with Deborah when they came inside, leaning stiffly against the counter as if his limbs were too long to fold into a chair. 'Hello there!' he said in a gravelly voice, beaming from

  Poroth to Freirs. 'We still had a few winter parsnips left over, and I thought you folks might find a use for 'em.' He looked about sixty or seventy, his face lined and deeply tanned, like patches of leather stitched together.

  'Matthew's brought us enough for a full-size family,' said Deborah, nodding toward a pile of greens and pale carrotlike vegetables on the coun
ter by the sink. She made a mock frown. 'I wanted to give him some of these cookies, but he says he's getting too fat.'

  Geisel grinned broadly, displaying a mouthful of small stained teeth. 'It ain't just me that says it. Corah, she says it too!' He blinked. 'Anyways, we got ourselves a cellar full of parsnips from the winter, and with the weather like it is, pretty soon they won't be good for much. No sense wasting 'em.'

  'Brother Matthew,' said Poroth, 'I want you to meet Jeremy Freirs.'

  Solemnly the old man took Freirs' proffered hand. His grip was as steely as Freirs had expected. 'You the fellow from New York City?' he asked, cocking his head and glaring at him with – Freirs had caught on now – the humorous gruffness that old codgers like this sometimes assumed.

  Freirs nodded, playing the game. 'Four fifty-two Bank Street, right in the heart of Greenwich Village.'

  'Jeremy's going to be renting our guest house this summer,' added Poroth.

  Deborah's face brightened. Casting a quick inquiring glance at her husband, who nodded to confirm the news, she turned to Freirs and grinned. 'Good, Jeremy! I'm so glad.' Freirs felt his skin grow warm; in less formal company, he'd almost have expected her to hug him.

  But already her expression had changed. 'Uh-oh, don't we have to get you back to town?'

  'I'm just about to take him in,' said Poroth.

  Geisel ambled forward. 'Well, I'm heading up to the Co-operative myself,' he announced. 'I'll be glad to give your young friend a ride.'

  'Thanks,' said Freirs, and, seeing that Poroth appeared pleased, he added, 'Yes, I'd appreciate that.' He glanced at his watch. Nearly five o'clock. 'But I think we're going to have to leave right now.'

  As they filed out to the porch and down to where the trucks were parked, he surreptitiously touched his wallet, wondering, suddenly, if the Poroths were going to hit him for a deposit.

  'So it's all straight now, right?' he said, standing beside the trucks. 'I'm aiming for the weekend I told you, the twenty-fourth of June. Of course, I'll get in touch before that. And you'll be able to pick me up again at the bus stop?'