Ceremonies

by T E. D Klein

  'I'll be there,' said Poroth. 'Just let me know the time.'

  Geisel's old black Ford pickup looked even more beat up than the Poroths'. Geisel slapped its rusted fender. 'A beauty, ain't she?' he said, grinning. He opened the door on the driver's side and climbed gingerly into the front seat. 'I'll just slide my bones behind the wheel here… 'Freirs climbed in beside him and waited as Geisel fiddled with the ignition and the choke, the other's solemnity genuine now, an old man operating something he still didn't quite believe in. The motor rattled, turned over, and caught. Freirs waved goodbye to the Poroths, returning Deborah's smile; they made a traditional-looking tableau as they stood waving back, the old grey house rising cozily behind them.

  As the truck began to pull out, easing onto the bumpy surface of the road, Freirs looked back. Sarr was turning toward the fields, already preoccupied with some new task, while Deborah, still waving, had retreated to the porch steps, the late-afternoon sun shining almost directly behind her, outlining her full figure as she stood there, hips cocked, one leg on the higher step. As Freirs gave a last farewell wave, he couldn't help but notice that she didn't seem to be wearing anything beneath the long black dress.

  Crack!

  The axe blade bit deep into the wood, scattering chips of bark. The pine stood trembling; branches shook. The tree was part of God; he felt it testing him. But other matters occupied him now. He swung the axe back for another blow.

  Crack!

  He was thinking about the summer ahead – and about the visitor they'd had today, who'd be coming among them this summer with his books and clothes and city ways. He wondered if he and Deborah had done right.

  Crack! Leaving the axe buried in the tree, he paused to smooth his hair back and wipe away the sweat. Pensively he ran a thumb along his fringe of beard. He felt perplexed. Lord knew they needed the money the visitor would provide, there was no gainsaying it; though it was hateful to ask payment for the things a proper Christian should have offered guests for free, he and Deborah were deeply in debt to the Co-operative, an institution his own father had once run (this is what stung the worst), and he wouldn't be able to hold up his head among the Brethren till all of it was paid. Oh, the money would certainly be useful. And yet…

  He yanked the axe from the tree, hefted it in his hand, and swung it back.

  Crack!

  And yet somehow he had bad feelings about the arrangement. He'd had them from the start. He had been ready – eager, even – to return to the fold from which his family had strayed and to identify himself henceforth as a farmer, a tiller of the earth, a toiler in the vineyards of the Lord. It was the one truly worthy occupation he knew of, in God's eyes and his own, offering a life of piety and independence, a life close to nature. The souvenir plaque above his mantelpiece expressed it all: A Plow on a Field Arable Is the Most Honorable of Ancient Arms. And now – crack! – he was being asked to alter that dream. Though he only half acknowledged it to himself, at the back of his mind was the thought – unworthy, selfish, even snobbish – that he didn't want to play hotelkeeper. It wasn't right; it was degrading. It made him and Deborah little better than servants, peasants in the hire of a godless master…

  Crack!

  He was beginning to think he should never have let Deborah talk him into it. Taking in a lodger had been her idea; she was already pressing him to make room for another. It was she who'd persuaded him to convert the old chicken coop into a guest house; it was she who'd convinced him to bring in electricity ('You show visitors a kerosene lamp out there,' she'd said, 'and they'll turn right around and go home'); it was she who'd written the advertisement and gotten him to leave it on the bulletin board over in Flemington, despite the disapproval of the Brethren, who saw all forms of advertising as devil's work.

  And now – crack! – was come the fruit of her endeavors. A stranger was due to enter their midst, an outsider; someone ignorant of their beliefs who could have but little sympathy for their chosen way of life. True, the man had seemed polite enough, but his

  I godlessness was obvious in his every word, and he'd brought with him a reek of corruption from the city he was so determined to flee. He had already asked too many questions; he had already made too many jests. Of course, he'd sounded educated, in what passed for education among the worldly – was even a teacher, he had claimed -and doubtless it would be good for Deborah to have someone else to talk to. But – crack! – who could say where that might lead? Deborah was a fine God-fearing woman, but sometimes the woman in her nature seemed stronger than the fear of God. She was modest one moment, hot-blooded the next; there was no telling what she might do. What was it the prophet had warned? The heart is deceitful above all things…

  Crack!

  Deborah was inclined to wander from the path, that much he knew, and this smooth-talking teacher might prove a most dangerous influence. Claimed he'd spend the summer among his books… The thought made Poroth downright uneasy. Oh, he'd studied books himself once, far more than the Brethren would have wished, and he still owned a few. He had felt the magic in them, the lure of worldly knowledge, new notions, sweet-sounding words. But with the Lord's help he had put such things behind him; the Good Book was enough for any man. The rest were just invitations to idleness -and idleness was a sin that led to others.

  Yes, the stranger would have to be watched; there was no telling what mischief he might get into. He had all but admitted, back in the truck, that he made it a practice to yield to whatever temptations lay before him. As if his stomach hadn't already revealed as much! And the way he'd looked at Deborah…

  Crack!

  With a groan the tree splintered and came crashing to the earth.

  The old truck bounced noisily toward town, Geisel navigating her like a ship in a storm. He drove slowly, with his head thrust well forward, stretching his long, lined neck as he squinted at the road.

  'Well, Mr Freirs,' he said at last, turning to face him, 'what do you think of our little town?'

  Freirs' mind had been on Deborah. Had it been his imagination, or had she really been naked beneath that dress? And what if she'd known he could see? With a sigh he turned to Geisel. Freirs had been deliberately avoiding conversation with him lest the old man turn the truck over in a ditch while doing exactly what he was doing now, looking away from the road. Just his luck to die here in the wilderness with some old farmer he didn't even know.

  'It is a little town,' he said finally, keeping his own eyes straight ahead. Maybe Geisel would take the hint. 'I was surprised, in fact, how tiny it really is. There's nothing in it but one big general store.'

  Geisel seemed to see that as a compliment. 'Yes, sir, all a man needs is right to hand. Mind you, there's also the Bible school across the street, where they keep the town records. And don't be forgetting the cemetery.'

  'I saw it,' said Freirs. 'Some nice old tombstones there.'

  The old man smiled. 'Been lookin' at our ancestors, have you?'

  'A few, anyway. It's interesting to see the local names.'

  The other gave a genial nod. 'Yep, that's where they all end up around here. You stay long enough, you'll end up there, too.'

  Freirs laughed uneasily. 'Not that long, I hope! I'll only be here for the summer.'

  'I know,' said Geisel. 'Young Brother Sarr's gone and fixed the place up real nice. You should have yourself a mighty comfortable time. I saw how he and Sister Deborah even went and put in electricity.'

  'I guess that's pretty unusual around here, isn't it?'

  The old man scratched his head. 'Well, none of as have it. Fact is, some of the others here in town, some of the oW-timers' – he said this with a hint of smile – 'they've had their differences with the Poroths and their ways. They say the pair of them are too lax on some points.'

  Deborah without her panties, strawberry douche in the medicine chest. Maybe the Brethren, too, had their generation gap. 'And do you agree?'

  'No, sir, not me. Brother Sarr and Sister Deborah are neighbors of
ours, and we stick by 'em. They're good God-fearing folks, you'll find out quick enough. See, that's the strength of our order. It don't look that way to outsiders, maybe, but we like to think we've got room for differences of opinion. The Lord wants for us to live His way, right enough, but He knows we're all just children, and – well, He's always been good to us.'

  He lapsed into silence. They were nearing the stream now, the dirt road well behind them. Freirs was pleased to see that he already had a sense of the distances involved, if not of the actual twisting route they'd been following. The hedgerow-bordered lanes and snug farmhouses seemed almost familiar, viewed in reverse from his trip out, and the countryside somehow smaller, like a room remembered from childhood that one visits after the passage of years.

  The road was winding gradually downhill. They rounded a wall of boxwood and abruptly Freirs saw, on the slope to the left, the small stone cottage where Poroth's mother lived.

  'Now there,' he said, 'is one beautiful little place.' He peered at the windows as the truck moved past but saw no face this time. 'They don't build 'em like that nowadays.'

  'That house is' – Geisel did some figuring – 'more than a hundred and sixty years old. It's always belonged to the Troets.'

  T thought Mrs Poroth lived there now.'

  'Yes, but she's one of them.'

  'Oh, that's right. Sarr mentioned it.'

  'Those Troets.' Geisel shook his head. 'They never were much for breeding, and most of the line's kind of died out over the years.'

  Gnarled hands gripping the wheel, he brought the truck around the base of the hill and onto the narrow stone bridge, which he took far more slowly than Poroth had. Freirs waited till they were across before he spoke again.

  'I saw their monument back in the cemetery, a big granite thing. Sarr said they died in some kind of fire.'

  'Yes, sir. Back in the 1870s, it was. Even before my time.' He didn't smile. 'Wiped out one whole branch of the family.'

  Freirs tried, in vain, to imagine how all those people could have perished in a single fire. It must have been at night… But could anyone sleep that soundly? Mother, father, kids? Blackened bodies in the ashes. 'It's strange,' he said, 'in that list of names, I remember one of them didn't have a date of death.'

  The old man rubbed his chin. 'Well, you see, young Absolom Troet, he didn't die in the fire. Fact is, some folks say 'twas him that set it.'

  'What? You mean he killed his own family?'

  Geisel shrugged. 'Well, that Absolom, he was a queer one, so folks used to say. 'Twas quite a ways before my time, of course, and I ain't so sure of the details. But my old grandma, God rest her, she remembered him. Grew up with him, in fact. She said he was as sweet as can be, to look at him, with a face just like a baby. A likely little feller too, God-fearing as the next… And then one day, just about Christmastime, it was, seems he goes off somewhere, and when he comes back home he ain't quite right in the head. He was always up to some sort of mischief after that. Regular little devil!'

  The wind is blowing steadily now, with the first hint of a chill. The sun is just a dirt-brown smear above the Jersey shore. Top halves of the taller buildings remain illuminated, glowing like pillars of fire. The lower parts are plunged in shadow.

  The old man is tired, but at last his walk is ended. He has come to an area of tenements, ancient warehouses, and shops with foreign names. In the distance the oily river churns. He has reached his goal.

  The cathedral looms above him, grey with soot. Around the great bronze doors at the top of the steps, saints and demons stand awaiting his arrival. On each of the twin towers a cross catches the waning sunlight.

  White birds, the Gheelo, shriek high overhead. Their shadows vanish as the light fades, and the crosses retreat into gloom. The sky is dark as ashes.

  Below his feet the pavement vibrates to the thunder of a subway. The stones of the cathedral tremble. Tucking the umbrella beneath his arm and whispering the Third Name, he starts up the steps.

  Ahead of him, by the great doors, the blind eyes of the saints seem to widen in sudden understanding. The demons grin more boldly from their concrete resting place. A gargoyle laughs aloud.

  Beyond the doors lies the hall of worship; beyond that, the convent. Here he will begin his search.

  It will not be easy, he knows. He will have to be subtle about it. And persuasive. The sisters will be suspicious of a stranger's interest, and reluctant to confide in him.

  He will have to win them over first. It is going to take time.

  After all, he can't just walk into a convent and say, 'I need a virgin.'

  June Twenty-fourth

  Carol was staring out the window of the children's section when the little old man walked in. She looked up with surprise. Most adults remained downstairs, in the library's general reading room, and seldom ventured onto the second floor without a boy or girl in tow. Those who did were usually young mothers with a child home sick, or else had wandered up here by mistake.

  But this man was far from young – he looked sixty at least, perhaps a decade more – and he appeared anything but confused. He made directly for where she was standing, a battered leather briefcase tucked beneath his arm and, peeping from it, the tip of a stubby little umbrella, even though there hadn't been a hint of rain all day. In his baggy blue suit, wisps of fine white hair catching the sunlight, he cut a rather comical figure.

  Carol readjusted the shade and turned to meet him. She decided that he must be somebody's doting grandfather; from the way he gazed at the little girl who ran mischievously across his path, it was obvious he adored children.

  Approaching the window, he brought his face close to hers as if about to offer a secret. Suddenly he smiled, an impish little smile that made his eyes twinkle.

  'I think,' he said, 'you're just the person I've been looking for.'

  It was Friday, the ending of an uneventful week and the prelude to another empty weekend. She had spent the morning in bed, too tired to get up, lying naked on the sheets and staring lazily out her window. Beyond the padlocked grate that stretched across it, beyond the iron railing of the fire escape, she could see the dark bricks of the building next door, the topmost branches of a tree, a narrow ribbon of sky.

  Lying there in silence in the gathering heat, she'd been daydreaming of a ballet she had seen the night before, the whole cast dressed in bright red leotards against a field of snow. How beautiful it had been! – and how unearthly! They had looked like whirling roses

  … She had started a letter about it to one of her older sisters, married and living in Seattle, but had put it aside before finishing the page; somehow, as if disturbing the waters at the bottom of a pond, the very act of writing had stirred memories of a different sort – not of the ballet, but of a dream it had inspired that same night. Not a good dream, either. Something about roses, something better left forgotten… And forgotten it had been; but all morning long a certain apprehension had remained, a flicker of unease, dancing in the shadows just beyond her reach.

  With an effort she had roused herself at last, shaken off the dream, turned her thoughts to job and clothes and food. Her roommate had gone out after having eaten the one remaining orange and the last of the cottage cheese. The refrigerator was practically bare save for half a dozen eggs, and she'd recently begun to wonder if it wasn't wrong to eat even these; she had renounced meat while back at St Mary's. Better not yield to the temptation; God, she knew, would reward her for her strength. She settled for a cup of instant coffee and a thick slice of Italian bread toasted on a fork over the top burner of the stove. Rochelle, she gathered from the emptiness of the refrigerator, was on one of her periodic diets; lately she had taken to calling Carol 'anorexic' with undisguised envy. The girl could be impulsively generous and good-hearted, but Carol had begun to see signs of a selfishness beneath, perhaps even a growing resentment. They had been rooming together for less than a month. Carol suspected, occasionally, that it might have been a mistake to move in wit
h her, and wondered what changes in their relationship the future would bring.

  She herself had always been thin; her goal was to keep her weight just below one hundred, and the last time she'd checked it – old Mrs Slavinsky, whose apartment she had shared until last month, had owned a scale – she'd been pleased to see that she'd succeeded: ninety-seven pounds. Food was, like so many other things in life, a test of will, something to steel herself against.

  As she showered, she ran her fingers through her hair, trimmed almost as short as a boy's now, and felt a wave of relief. Until last week, reluctant to waste a quarter of her paycheck at one of the city's over-priced styling shops where rock music blared and dead-eyed young men and women chattered to one another over the inert heads of their customers, Carol had left her hair long, wearing it pinned up in a style she liked to think of as old-fashioned but which she'd realized, in the end, was just plain ugly. Her roommate had offered to cut it, more in the spirit of adventure, Carol suspected, than of friendship, but the thought of the slovenly Rochelle wielding a scissors over her was enough to discourage such experiments. Finally, one day last week, after returning stiff and sweaty from her dance class, she had gone and cut it herself. This, too, had been an act of will; her hair was, after all, her best feature. She knew that in other respects she was no beauty; she looked as if she might – and did, in fact – have an extremely pretty sister. Yet heads would turn to watch her, even in a crowd, for her hair was thick, silky, and strikingly red: as red, so her father had once told her, as sunset through a stained-glass window.

  She missed her father. Poor old man! she sometimes thought, at odd moments in the day. Old he had been, as long as she'd known him, gaunt and white-haired, the pale skin hanging wearily from his bones. Old to have fathered five children: nearly two decades his wife's senior, and she herself had married in her thirties. That infant after infant had sprung from their loins seemed at once miraculous and obscene. Somehow together they had found the energy to create four daughters, Carol the third of them, until on the fifth try they'd produced a son. Here they'd stopped, presumably contented, but by then Carol's mother was herself a worn-out, shapeless woman with shadows beneath her eyes and hair that Carol had watched go grey; and her father, with the first demoralizing taste of surgery behind him and a series of operations on the way, was suddenly preoccupied with his own mortality. Until ill health had forced his retirement he had made an unsuccessful living selling advertising space on billboards; his only legacy, Carol sometimes thought in anger and humiliation, was an endless parade of ugly highway signs. He had died last December, shortly before Christmas, his energy exhausted. She remembered him in his final days, sitting transfixed before the television and, later still, lying spent in the hospital ward, waiting for death with what first had seemed stoicism but had proved in the end to be mere resignation, something close, even, to boredom, no strength left to be frightened, no strength to contemplate eternal life ahead.