Harvest Home

“You know-the fellow in the corn.”

“Was there a fellow in the corn?”

I smiled; she returned my look with one of watchful interest. “Yes, there was a fellow in the corn. A fellow you put there.”

“Why would I do that?”

“I’ve no idea.”

A flicker of disappointment in her expression. “None?”

“Perhaps I have. I’m not sure. The fellow had a-girl.” Giving the single syllable a slight nuance.

“That’s in the natural way, isn’t it? A man and a maid-”

“In a corn patch-”

“You make it sound mighty pedestrian. Who was the- girl?” Duplicating my emphasis.

“I think she’s a sphinx.”

“Oh? Like we said, sometimes it takes awhile to riddle a sphinx. Sphinxes are notoriously puzzling, as we know. But if you saw something-mind I say if-if you thought you saw something, perhaps that something may have given rise to speculation.”

“It has.”

“Then maybe that’s all it was meant to do.”

“‘To discover what is possible?’”

“Certain. But maybe you only dreamed what you saw.”

“That’s possible. What do you spike your casks with?”

She laughed heartily. “A good drink don’t need to be spiked. At least, not what’s in one o’ them casks. Spikin’ generally dulls the senses, don’t it? Take for example that homebrew of the Soakeses. That’ll fog a man in plenty.” She rummaged in her work basket, came up with a bit of crocheting, and proceeded to ply the hook as though her fingers could not bear to be idle. “Anyways, what you saw-or thought you saw-did you enjoy it?”

“Yes. I did. Very much.”

“But-?”

“I didn’t understand it. At least-” I wanted to query her about the identity of the female figure, yet though I was certain she had manipulated the proceedings in some manner, I could see that she didn’t want to be questioned about it, but wished me to resolve what questions I had by myself. Her silver spectacle rims twinkled as she peered over them at the sewing machine on the table. “Amazing invention, a sewin’ machine. Partic’larly since they electrified them. Interestin’-”

“What is?”

“The effects you can get with a little battery. Sparks, and all.” Her look was sly behind her glasses. She returned to her sewing, and step by step led me away from the subject, but more than ever I wanted to solve the riddle of the sphinx, and to comprehend who the figure in the cornfield had been.

“Yes,” she continued, “I believe you have an understandin’ heart. How’s things t’ home?”

I shrugged noncommittally. “Um-”

“You been philandering?”

“No.”

“As I told your wife. You’re not the type. I can spot them ones a mile away.” She moved her chair slightly to take the leg off a worn spot in the rug. “There’s nothing worse than an unforgiving woman.”

“Beth?”

“I s’pose if you’d been sowin’ oats before now, she’d be used to it. Difference is she believes in you.”

“If she believes in me, why doesn’t she forget about it?”

“She’s hurt. It’s been part of her upbringing to believe in the institution of marriage as prescribed by the vows at the altar. Her faith in you was total. I expect the Tamar episode shook it up a bit.”

“How do you know about it?”

“I hear things.”

“You hear talk, ma’am.”

“No need to get testy. Didn’t I just say you were a good man? Beth was brought up a lady; she don’t understand women like Tamar. But she’ll come ‘round.”

“Will she?”

“‘Course she will. She wants a bit of talking to. She’s bringin’ her quilt over tonight. You let me have a few words with her; then you just go out of your way to be nice, and see if things don’t work out. That Tamar’s a devil. I brought her into the world, I’ve seen her grow up, and I know what goes on in that mind of hers. Don’t flatter yourself she wants you. She don’t. Or if she does it’s only because she can’t have you. Tamar’s always wanted what she couldn’t have.”

“Like Roger Penrose?”

“Aye, like Roger. ‘Ceptin’ she got him in the end, just as she said she would. Or she got of him.” I noted the slight emphasis, waited for her to elaborate; she did not. “‘A man’s good as he ought to be but a woman’s bad as she dares.’ That’s Tamar. Still, she got what she wanted.”

“Which was?”

“Wanted to be Corn Maiden. And she was.”

“In Grace Everdeen’s place.”

“A girl like Tamar can be the downfall of man and woman alike.”

She was not altogether cryptic; her remark was not lost upon me. “It’s not what you think it was.”

“Me? Pshaw, I don’t think anything. Haven’t time. Besides, it’s none o’ my affair.”

I smiled again. The Widow was much more interested in the caprice of the weather and the vagaries of nature and what the earth would yield than she was in the common pursuits of her fellow-creatures. What was here yesterday would be here tomorrow, and if it wasn’t it was no great matter. What mattered was the earth and what it could provide.

The telephone rang. “Now, who can that be,” she said, rising. “Never get used to that contraption if I see the millennium.” She excused herself and went into the hall, where she picked up the receiver. “Yes, Mr. Deming,” I heard her say; then, not to be eavesdropping, I carried the new sewing machine into the other room and set it up on a card table.

“Everything all right?” I asked as she came in and I saw her serious expression.

“Sakes, I don’t expect anything’s ever all right, do you? Mrs. Deming’s got a touch of somethin’ or other. I must go and have a look.” She patted the machine, then thanked me again. At the door, she offered me her cheek to kiss and said, “Happy you came by. And”-almost an afterthought-”don’t you worry none. There’s news t’home that’ll take care of all.”

“News?” I had turned, but the door was already closing. The last thing I saw was the twinkle of her spectacles in the light.

I drove away feeling better. News t’home that’ll take care of all. Wondering what this mysterious disclosure might be, I scarcely saw the other car as it swept by. It was coming from the direction of the Common, traveling fast. I glimpsed Constable Zalmon at the wheel, an unidentified man beside him in the front seat. I waited until the car had reached the country end of Main Street and turned onto the Old Sallow Road, then I continued on my way home.

Kate was upstairs in bed; having eaten, she was resting for the husking bee the following night. It would be her first time out since the attack. Beth had decided that evening to have dinner in the dining room, which lately we seldom used. The table had a festive look to it: there were linen place mats on the dark, polished table top, and linen napkins; a small bowl of chrysanthemums; candles. Usually when we ate there, we sat at either end, with Kate between, but tonight Beth had placed herself at my left, and I wondered if this new proximity indicated a change in her attitude. Still, as we ate and talked of inconsequential things, I found her preoccupied and distant.

“I bought the Widow a sewing machine.”

“Did you?”

“From us both. A little present.”

“Did she like it?”

“She seemed pleased. She wants you to show her how to use the automatic bobbin.”