“Gracious, that was fourteen years now, hardly seems possible.” She lavished a smile on Beth. “And for you, this will be your first. We don’t see you in church-do we, James?”
Mr. Buxley’s reply was inaudible. Mrs. Buxley wrinkled her brow, her smile becoming one of infinite patience. “And we miss seeing your little girl for Sunday School-isn’t that so, James? You know that I take the Sunday School myself, James has so much work composing his sermons. You like our church, Ned? I may call you Ned? Allow me to see some of your work, may I?”
Her insistent hand slipped my sketchbook from my lap and began leafing through it. “Why, there’s Amys Penrose to the life. And old Mr. Huie! And those
“What are those things?” Beth pointed to several drawings of the corn designs the men were weaving.
Mr. Buxley spoke up for the first time. “They’re harvest symbols. Supposed to bring good luck. You’ll see them on almost every door and chimney in town for the next month.”
“And look how he’s captured that doll,” Mrs. Buxley chimed in. “Ned, wherever did you find it?”
I explained it belonged to Missy, the postmistress’s child.
“Of course. What do they call it, Robert-a ‘gaga’?”
“A corn doll? Yes, a gaga.”
“Gaga? What does that mean?” Beth asked.
“Vaguely, it’s Indian for ‘fun’ or ‘funny.’ Just a child’s plaything.”
“I should think, it’d keep a child awake at night.”
Mrs. Buxley laughed. “One of our little traditions. You’re bound to think us positively heathenish hereabouts- isn’t that so, James?”
“We’ve had our fill of progress,” Beth said.
“Coming from the city and all, yes-they seem to progress right into damnation down there, don’t they? I see you’re wearing some of our earrings-pretty, aren’t they? Imagine, from soup bones. Clever, what our carvers can do. Roger was the best carver, wasn’t he, James? James! Roger
Out on the field, the horse-drawing contests continued. When each team had pulled the skid as far as it could, it was unhooked and another was put in place, and so on. After each round, more sacks of sand were added to the load, which became increasingly difficult to pull.
It came Justin Hooke’s turn again; his horses strained under the burden, their flanks streaming, their forelegs buckling. Unlike the others, Justin did not use a whip, but coaxed the animals ahead by manipulating the reins and calling to them. The stoneboat moved a good distance, and a cheer went up among the spectators. Mr. Deming, the chief elder, after measuring out the last distance, pronounced Justin the winner.
As the teams were withdrawn from the field, the sound of Worthy’s tractor was heard. Looking around, I saw that he had vanished, and now his head appeared over the crowd as he drove the John Deere onto the field. He had hitched chains behind, which he quickly attached to the stoneboat, then resumed his seat and began throwing levers. The front end of the tractor nosed up in the air and the tracks dug into the ground, then, obtaining purchase, began to slide the load. Shifting quickly, the boy skillfully sent the tractor forward, and when he had got up speed the stoneboat went jouncing over the grass, the crowd parting and closing behind until stoneboat, tractor, and driver were lost from view.
“Oh, dear,” Mrs. Buxley muttered, “Mr. Deming’s not going to like that at all. See how the grass is all chewed up. Worthy ought to know better. I hope there won’t be trouble again. James-?” She gave her husband a piercing look. Mr. Buxley opened his mouth to speak, then closed it, and suddenly remembered his socks needed pulling up. Mrs. Buxley rose. “There’s the Widow, James. We must go and say hello. See you in church.” She waggled her fingers and-the Reverend Mr. Buxley trailing after with the chairs-she went to greet the Widow Fortune.
When they had gone, Robert chuckled and shook his head. “Leave it to Worthy to rile things up around here. You won’t get him set in his ways, not while he’s got that tractor.”
Worthy came back to take Kate to the platform for the wrestling matches, and since we had a good view from our picnic spot, the Dodds, Beth, and I remained under the tree. The Widow Fortune, carrying her own chair, came and set it down close by, adjusting her things around her.
“Why does a tractor stir up such consternation?” I asked Robert.
“You get plenty of resistance around here to new ways. I suppose Cornwall Coombe’s always been a world unto itself.” He paused briefly while Maggie held a match for him to relight his cigar.
“Look,” she said when she was done, “here comes Justin onto the field.” Shading her eyes, she described to Robert the action that preceded the wrestling matches. Roy Soakes shuffled out onto the turf, where he took off his shirt and stood around looking surly and sweaty, rubbing the palms of his hands on his jeans. There was a pause, then a tumultuous shout went up. Justin Hooke appeared, stripped to the waist, looking more gigantic than ever as he surveyed his opponent. Raising his arms in salute to the crowd, he advanced with long, rapid strides to the platform, where he bowed to Sophie and all the girls, then returned to the field and shook hands with his opponent. The referee spoke to them, stepped back, and the bout began.
It was wrestling of an order I had never seen before, the good old-fashioned country kind, with no holds barred. Whenever Soakes got the upper hand, he received no encouragement from the crowd, though his father and brothers suggested mightily, “Kill the guy!” “Break his arm, brain him, Roy!” And for all that Roy had weight on his side, Justin’s strength carried the first round, then the second, then the third. When at last Tobacco City’s finest went limping from the field, Old Man Soakes angrily shoved another of his offspring out in his place, and, after taking off his shirt, he faced Justin. Without waiting, the newest opponent shot out his foot, tripped Justin up, and dropped on top of him. There were boos and catcalls at such dirty tactics, and Jack Stump darted out on the field to protest to the referee, but Old Man Soakes came roaring after him, seized him by the collar, and tossed him back into the crowd.
Even with the unfair advantage, it was no contest. Heaving himself up, Justin threw Soakes to the side, fell on him, and put a half-Nelson around Soakes’s neck until his eyes rolled up. Then he released him and stepped away. As Soakes got to his feet, Justin whirled and gracefully planted a well-placed kick on his backside, which sent him sprawling. Amid cheers and laughter, Justin left the fray.
Justin took a towel from Worthy and wiped himself down, then went to the platform where he talked with Sophie and the girls, waiting for the next event to begin. At one point, he stooped and cordially spoke a few words to Kate, who was seated on the steps. When the whistle blew, announcing the next contest, he handed her his towel, then ran lightly onto the field again, accompanied by Worthy and half a dozen other young men. It was time for the pole-shinny.
The referee held up his hand and the first contestant readied himself at the base of the pole, testing its surface with his palms until the whistle blew and up he went. He touched the top, then slid down, and Jimmy Minerva took his position while the referee called out the time from his stopwatch. He signaled again, and Jim went up and came down. Third to go was Justin, moving with dexterity for a man of his height and weight, quickly arriving at the top, where he paused briefly, then slid down. Applause followed the announcement that his time had beaten the first two. On the platform, Sophie and her girls had risen, also Kate, who was standing on the steps, caught in the excitement of the moment as Worthy addressed himself to the pole. He spat on his palms, rubbed them together, and grasped the wooden shaft, waiting, his knees bent so they almost touched the ground. Hearing the whistle, he came up out of his crouch in a slick leap and, hand over hand, feet gripping, he went up like an agile monkey to tap the top of the post.
He waited, grinning down at the crowd, until the referee called out the time, well under Justin’s. Holding on with one hand, he waved, and I saw Kate waving back at him excitedly. He did not come down immediately but, grasping the tip of the pole with both hands, he began to sway with it back and forth. Mr. Deming hurried out on the field gesticulating, while the crowd murmured excitedly, watching Worthy’s body describe an ever-widening arc against the sky. Kate rose from the steps, staring wide-eyed, fearing for his safety.
Using the pole as a fulcrum, the boy extended his body outward in a horizontal position. Suddenly there came a single, loud report, almost like a pistol shot. Dropping to the vertical again, Worthy began sliding down, but when he had got less than halfway another cracking sound was heard as the pole continued to split. Without looking
