Strange Seed

by Stephen Mark Rainey

  “Paul, I am not a weak woman. I’ll be able to make the adjustment.”

  “I didn’t say you were weak, only…”

  “You’ll just have to take my word for it. If you can make the adjustment, then so can I.”

  Five minutes later, sooner than she had hoped, she’d convinced him.

  Chapter Two

  Rachel struck the match; it flared briefly and went out. “Damn it!” she murmured.

  She straightened. There were just a few matches left, and it was unlikely, even if one stayed lit, that she’d be able to get a fire started; she had never used a wood-burner, had seen them only as museum pieces. And besides, the firewood piled next to the huge, black iron stove—firewood left here by the Newmans—was probably too damp. Why, for God’s sake, hadn’t Paul cut some fresh wood before going into town early that morning with Marsh? He could have shown her how to use the stove—if he knew.

  No fire meant no hot water, and that meant she wouldn’t be able to scrub the kitchen walls. The vandals had spattered the normally yellow walls with fireplace ash, mud, and what had proved to be a mixture of urine and feces. Cleaning the walls would go a long way toward relieving her of the pessimism that gripped her.

  It must, she mused, have been a parting act of vandalism. The walls in the other rooms, except for the living room’s south wall—the other side was the kitchen’s north wall—remained virtually untouched. Yes. The artist signing his work. She caught herself on the thought: Paul had been right when he’d referred to “the bastards,” more than one. And he’d been right when he’d pointed out that the vandals had doubtlessly come to the house from one of the “neighboring” farms, or from town, expressly for the purpose of vandalism; the narrow unpaved road in front of the house ended a quarter mile north, and there were no other houses on it along its three-mile span. Quite obviously, the house had not been the random target of some transient pack of vandals—the vandalism had been purposeful.

  Rachel wince as she remembered the string of vicious obscenities that had erupted from Paul when he’d first seen the house. John Marsh, who’d driven them the ten miles from Penn Yan—because their own wretched eight-year-old Ford wagon had failed there; it was now awaiting a new carburetor; “Coupla days, Mr. Griffin. It’s got to be ordered,” the mechanic said—had merely looked dumbfounded. “I dunno,” he mumbled. “I dunno.”

  “You were supposed to keep an eye on the goddamned place!” Paul shouted at him.

  Marsh continued to look dumbfounded. He said nothing.

  “My uncle and I paid you to keep an eye on it!”

  “I dunno,” Marsh repeated. “I dunno.”

  “That,” Paul snapped, “is obvious!”

  “I come up every week, Mr. Griffin. Sometimes two times a week. And I never seen nobody around,”

  “Well, it’s clear you didn’t use...”

  “Paul, please,” Rachel had cut in. She looked at Marsh. “I apologize for my husband. He’s understandably upset—“

  “I’ll do my own apologizing,” Paul interrupted, “if it’s necessary. And I don’t think it is.” He got out of the car and faced the house with his hands on his hips. “Jesus Christ!” he muttered. “Jesus goddamned Christ!” He glanced around at Rachel and Marsh. “Well, c’mon,” he said. “We might as well see what the bastards have done.”

  Certain aspects of the vandalism, Rachel reflected now, had mystified her and Paul and Marsh. Although smashing each of the house’s dozen windows had been rather a pedestrian thing to do—windows were made to be smashed—defecating on every article of furniture, except for the red overstuffed couch in the living room, had been a bit less pedestrian, though it took little imagination, and tearing each of the house’s four inner doors off its hinges, then smashing each one beyond any hope of repair, indicated some larger purpose, a purpose beyond mere senseless vandalism.

  In the decrepit, apparently never used second-floor front bedroom they had found the remains of the animal.

  “Looks like a coon,” Marsh observed. “Got caught in a trap would be my guess from the condition of its hind leg there.” He pointed stiffly. “It must have chewed itself loose. Some animals do that, you know—they chew right through the bones and all.”

  Rachel grimaced at the remark. Coupled with the condition of the house and the gloomy prospects for its livability once the damage had been repaired, the remark had forcefully punctuated a fact she had, up to that point, been reluctant to admit: Here, at the house, she was very much out of her depth. What she had known—until her marriage to Paul six months before—had been a small stiflingly warm apartment on Seventy-fifth Street near Broadway, a wearisome sales job at the West Town House—dealers in expensive and essentially useless wicker and rattan furniture—a tall, hairy-chested, unfriendly man named Rinaldo who weekly took one-third of her paycheck for not quite a week’s worth of groceries, and several very polite, very gay young men who seemed to take turns walking her home if—as often occurred—she had to work late. (That confusing routine started shortly after she had begun working at the West Town House two years before, about a month after she’d come to New York from Rochester, near Lake Ontario. It had been a move designed to put a lot of painful memories behind her, if only physically: So many amateur philosophers and psychologists said that that sort of thing never worked, but it had. At least in her case. Or perhaps it had only been a matter of time.)

  She met Paul a year after her arrival in New York, when the city was on the verge of becoming, as she saw it, either “her city” or “that hateful city.” And she had almost decided “her city” because it was, after all, only a very big city filled mostly with very small people, like herself.

  “Hi.” Paul, on Seventy-first Street, in front of The Red Apple, Rinaldo’s Grocery. It was an uncomfortably warm evening in April. “You’ve dropped a can of something there.”

  She turned, smiled warily, politely.

  He pointed to just behind her. “Here let me get it,” he said. “Your hands are pretty full, aren’t they?”

  “Yes,” she managed. “Thank you.”

  And it started.

  Several nights later, Paul invited himself to her apartment.

  He managed a small department store, he said; “Griffin’s,” owned by his Uncle Harry. He had managed it long time, too long—had lived in New York most of his life, ever since his father died. What did she do? he wondered. How long had she been in New York (he seemed to sense she was not a native)? What were her long range plans? So little about himself. A born salesman, she’d thought at the time. Make the other person talk. Be the listener. Everyone wants to talk about himself. How transparent. Just another stud on the make—he was only a little more charming, a little more introspective, a little more intelligent (and so, more dangerous) than the others.

  But, happily, though he was more charming, intelligent, introspective, he hadn’t been trying to use those virtues to his advantage. He had been genuinely interested in her, genuinely liked her, genuinely wanted to get to know her better.

  He succeeded.

  A half year after their first meeting they were married.

  A month after their marriage, Paul made his announcement:

  “Ever been upstate, Rachel? In the Naples, Penn Yan area, I mean. It’s nice country. A bit poverty-stricken, maybe, but nice.”

  “I’ve driven through it.”

  “Did you like it?”

  “It was okay, I suppose. Why?”

  “We’re going to live there.”

  Silence.

  “I’ve been planning it for quite a while, Rachel. I’ve got it all worked out. The house, everything.”

  “But… I thought New York…”

  “Was my city?”

  “I suppose…”

  “Yes, it is. You might call me a ‘hard-core New Yorker.’ “ He frowned. “And because of that—how do I put it?—because of that hard-core New Yorker in me I feel…unclean. Jaded. Do you understand?”


  “I don’t know.” Hesitantly, confusedly. “I guess so.”

  “I wasn’t born here.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “I was born at my father’s house. Our house now. Have I ever told you about that house?”

  “You’ve mentioned it. You said it was ‘primitive.’”

  “A good word, under the circumstances. It’s a turn-of-the-century farmhouse. Low ceilings, small windows, no…amenities, though the last tenants did install a gasoline-powered electric generator.” He grinned.

  “Sounds terrific, Paul.”

  “Please don’t be sarcastic.”

  “I only wish you had mentioned these…plans before.”

  “I’m mentioning them now. And I have hinted at them, haven’t I?”

  “If you did, you were very subtle about it.” She paused briefly. “You’re telling me now. And I don’t know if I like that. I’d like to have been consulted.”

  “You don’t want to do it?”

  “I didn’t say that. You’ve got to give me some time to think about it. And you’ve got to give me reasons.”

  “Well, I’ve already given you reasons. They may seem kind of flimsy…” Rachel smiled. “But they go deeper,” he continued. “Much deeper. Call them emotional ties, if you want.”

  “You can’t go home again, Paul.”

  “Oh, c’mon. Of course you can.” His tone was severe and impatient, as if Rachel’s remark had been impossibly inane.

  She said nothing, appeared hurt.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap at you. But I really do have this whole thing worked out. I’ve put a chunk of my paycheck away each week for the last six years, ever since I took over ownership of the house from my uncle.”

  “And what about when your savings run out?” What do we do then?”

  “Oh, that’s the best part.” His face lit up with enthusiasm. “We’re going to live off the land, Rachel.” He paused. “Isn’t that a nice phrase,” he continued, “live off the land.”

  “And I repeat,” Rachel said, “how terrific.”

  “Yes, it is,” he countered, his enthusiasm still strong despite her remark. “But that doesn’t make it impossible, does it? No. It doesn’t. It simply makes it…difficult.”

  “You aren’t a farmer, Paul. You’re kidding yourself.”

  “Maybe not. I’ve taken some agriculture courses and such. I have a working technical knowledge of the whole thing, though it won’t really be commercial farming, of course. Just enough for us to live on, maybe a little more. And I could always get a part-time job in town, I don’t know. But you may be right. Maybe, at heart, I’m a New Yorker and nothing more. But, dammit, I’m going to find out for myself. It’s a move I’ve wanted to make for a long, long time, Rachel.”

  After a week of what Paul called discussion, and Rachel called argument, plans for the move from New York City to the farm were underway.

  Rachel set the box of matches on top of the stove, went over and peered out the kitchen’s small black window.

  Well, she thought after her eyes had adjusted to the sunlight, it was all rather pleasant, wasn’t it? Something like Central Park. Though, of course, a great deal larger. Larger, and far more colorful, and obviously wilder. Much wilder.

  She reconsidered. There was, she sensed, a kind of order and symmetry here. It was difficult to pinpoint, almost subliminal, but present nonetheless. A curious thing.

  She frowned. Take me back, she thought. Paul come home and take me back to what I know.

  She realized—though she would not have admitted it—that the words formed a very gentle, unimpassioned plea. That she was vulnerable.

  This place, the land around the farmhouse, was moist with life. Life had been allowed to run rampant, unchecked, and it had sought its own level. There was a certain frantic harmony to it, understandably discomforting, she reasoned, to a person like herself whose only previous acquaintance with harmony had been at Carnegie Hall, at the Metropolitan Opera, and in poetry. But those were imitations. The harmony of fields and forest and color had been their model. But, understanding this—albeit in a vague, oblique way—didn’t make it any less discomforting. The frantic harmony she sensed here—had sensed, she knew, from her first moment at the house—was at odds with what she’d grown accustomed to.

  She fingered the top buttons of her blouse. Yes—she smiled—they were fastened.

  She froze. Those were footfalls, she realized, on the steep and dry-rotted back steps.

  *****

  Henry Lumas hoped that Rachel would react differently than the Newman woman had. “No, no,” the woman had repeated over and over again—either out of anguish or an unlikely embarrassment, Lumas had not been sure—and clutching stupidly at her bosom all the while, as if protecting it or denying it. A minute later, Lumas had found himself standing before a closed and locked door.

  Well, he considered, he came bearing the gift of firewood this time, and an offer of his services as a carpenter. How could the young woman refuse him?

  He studied the house. From this distance, there was little evidence of the violence it had sustained. It was a small house, some would have called it quaint. The aged green-shingled walls and gray-stone roof blended nicely with the surrounding land. Indeed, Lumas remembered, near sunset on certain nights—especially when the house was empty, as it had been for two years—it became invisible, as if the earth had taken it back into herself. It was only when you drew very close to it, day or night, that the illusion of oneness with the earth faded. People had built it and lived in it. The rough, yard-wide area between the bottom of the crude back steps and the two wooden poles twenty feet away was a place where nothing grew, not even the heartiest weeds—several generations of women had hung their just-washed clothes between those poles. And there were narrow spaces along the cobblestone cellar wall where cementing material seemed not quite as weathered as it should; these were once-empty spaces, the homes of wasps that had been destroyed by one of the house’s many tenants. At the front of the house, some young romantic had carved initials “HF,” and, below it, the name “Grace” in the trunk of the huge century-old elm that had recently lost one its primary limbs to a vicious electrical storm. Someone—the Newmans, Lumas supposed—had applied a coat of light brown paint to the frame of the kitchen window, probably the start of an abortive attempt to repaint and re-shingle the entire house.

  Lumas was roused from his reverie by movement at the window. He looked closely. There was face at the window. Had the husband returned so soon? No, he saw, it was the woman, Rachel. There—the gentle slope of her shoulders, the dark oval face, the darker hair falling to her breasts. As still as she was, she looked like a permanent fixture in the window. Lumas shuddered a little at the thought: Near the end, the Newman woman had presented much the same picture at the larger, second-floor window. At first, he’d thought the woman had been offering herself to him but, drawing closer to the house, had seen that her gaze had not been on him, that her nakedness had been—it was hard to imagine—somehow for her own benefit, not his. After many minutes, Lumas remembered, she’d become aware of his presence and, with an oddly low-pitched shriek, had violently pulled the shade closed.

  Lumas hefted the awkward load of firewood he carried in his arms. Better to walk the weed-choked and heavily rutted path a hundred feet to his left, he thought, than these fields. A heavy rain three nights before had made walking them precarious.

  Chapter Three

  The buck had lived off the vegetation in the forests and fields for eight years. He was one of the hunted, but man had done away with his hunters—the mountain lion and the wolf—or had driven them farther north, into Canada. So the life of the buck, in comparison with many of the other wild creatures, had been peaceful. His knowledge of death, and the necessity of it, was negligible. He’d seen men, but only from a distance, and he’d wondered, in a vague, instinctively cautious way, what sort of creatures they were. But men had never lain eyes on him.<
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  The buck nibbled contentedly at the choke-cherry bush. As he nibbled, he half-listened to the small sounds around him; there, a raccoon shuffling through the grass to wash itself at the stream a few yards away; there, the tapping of a woodpecker against a large sycamore near the edges of the forest; from far above, the endless screeching of a hawk; all around, the drone of a million insects.

  The sounds coalesced. They were morning sounds and the buck was familiar with them. There was no danger in the sounds.

  The buck stopped nibbling. He listened, his body tense and ready for flight, to the sounds of something heavy and not quite as graceful as himself moving toward him from behind, from the area of the stream. Above the sounds was the hawk, and nothing else. All the other creatures had quieted. The leaves of the choke-cherry bush rustled a little in a tentative wind, masking the slight sounds of the thing behind.

  Chapter Four

  Paul looked askance at the new bed. “It won’t do, will it?” he said. “It’s too big.” He had chosen a huge, dark oak four-poster that dominated fully one-third of the small square room. “I’ll take it back, Rachel. I’ll get another one.”

  Rachel sat on the bed and pushed on the mattress with the palms of her hands. “Don’t be silly,” she said. “It’s perfect. I love it.”

  “No,” Paul said. “You think it’s cumbersome.”

  “I think we’ll be able to sleep on it. That’s what I think.”

  “Uh-huh. And get lost on it, too. I don’t know what possessed me to buy the damned thing.” He shrugged, abandoning the subject. “I talked to that man about the windows,” he went on. “He said something about a month’s wait for the window glass, that I should have taken measurements. I told him that was his job, wasn’t it? And he said it was, but that it would require two trips out here instead of one, that the extra trip would cost me twenty dollars, and if I wanted to save that twenty dollars I should take the measurements and telephone him. I told him we didn’t have a phone and he said something about ‘foolish back-to-the-landers.’ Then he asked where I was from, I told him New York City, and he started chuckling. Anyway, he ended up saying we wouldn’t last six months here.”