Harvest Home

away, the crown from her head, hearing hisses and sharp whispers, the children stopping, drawing back in shocked surprise, some crying out, attracting the attention of the rest, an angry murmur arising among the men, a rustling among the old women like wind through dry grass, then my glimpsing an angrier face under a white cap, risen from a chair, eyes flashing in flesh gone pale, closed fist uplifted as though to strike, a sibyl become harpy, the dancing women never pausing but whirling by, giving me deadly looks, Tamar’s face a mask of loathing; but, angry, confused, not knowing I should turn my head away in shame, still dragging Kate, I propelled her to the entrance where I stopped, not letting go her hand but then, astonished, releasing her as the music ceased-not all at once, but by degrees, the dancing as well-all heads turning to see who stood in the lighted doorway, and I blinked in perplexity as I stared at Mr. Deming and the Constable, each gripping an arm of the thin, dark figure between them, and I shouted and lurched toward them, trying to break their hold on the prisoner, staring at Worthy Pettinger’s pale defeated face, and reeling again or spinning or being pushed and the pale face vanishing, the remaining faces no longer friendly as rough hands seized me, shoving me out the hallway and down the steps to sprawl in the roadway while on the porch moths spiraled in pale dementia around the light under the harvest symbol and unsmiling faces aligned themselves in drained fury and they flung cobs at me without passion but remorselessly, and even then I would not turn my head away but lay there, bloodied and astonished, wondering what it truly was I had seen that night.

23

Next morning, a deadly hangover. Vague recollections of disaster, of something-what? Couldn’t remember. Downed Alka-Seltzer, aspirin, took one shower, then a second. Some better; not much. Still couldn’t remember. What had I done? Kate: Skip it, Daddy; it’s all right. Beth: Don’t worry, darling, it was nothing. Giving me a smile, a pat, and I could smell Pears’ soap when she kissed me lightly. About midmorning I remembered dancing with Tamar Penrose; bits and pieces of the evening impinged fractionally on my memory. Still dazed, I found the copy of the New English Bible and, confronting Beth in the bacchante room, swore on the Book never to have anything to do with Tamar again.

“Ned, I don’t want your promise.”

“But I want to promise,” I said. “I want to swear I’ll never have anything to do with her, never even talk to her again.”

“Don’t be so dramatic. It doesn’t matter-really it doesn’t.”

But it did to me, and so I promised, and I felt better for having done so. My earnestness must have made some impression on her, for she laughed and acted sympathetic and was the indulgent wife.

She got up from the sofa and raised the window; she had noticed before I had: the yellow bird had flown. It was curious how silent the locust tree and the drive had become. “Robert says it will be back in the spring; it always comes back.”

“The same bird?” I asked.

“Yes. The very same one. The Eternal Return.” She turned and looked at me. “When it comes back-” Again the complacent smile; I knew what she was thinking.

“There’ll be the baby.”

She nodded, went into kitchen. I followed.

“Are you sure? I mean-”

“Certainly.”

There seemed no doubt of it. The morning sickness had begun; her breasts were swelling, and her belly. Still-

“Don’t you think maybe you ought to see Dr. Bonfils?”

“Ned-don’t worry. I don’t want to see Dr. Bonfils. It’s all right. I know. The Widow says so. And Missy. No-don’t look shocked. It’s true. She says there’s to be a baby in the spring.”

And if Missy, the village idiot, prophesied it, who was I to contradict? For whatever reasons, Beth seemed so certain, so safe and sure in her belief, so happy in it, that I would not have contradicted in any case. As she had made so many other things possible, the Widow Fortune had made this possible, too, for us to have another child.

But for me the prevailing wind that blew through the village of Cornwall Coombe remained one of mystery. I could not fathom the intensity of feeling against Worthy Pettinger’s defection. It was as though they considered him somehow their property or the subject of their demands; as though regardless of his personal wishes, he must conform to theirs. I considered it a much-ado teapot, for they had their replacement, Jimmy Minerva, whom everyone seemed to regard favorably. But Worthy’s anger had taken him beyond the bounds of reason, and his damning of the corn had shaken the village to its foundations. It was considered the worst of omens; Missy Penrose was being frequently and avidly consulted for prognostications, while in church Mr. Buxley offered prayers.

Even Mr. Buxley.

When my thoughts were not with the boy, I found myself, in spite of everything, returning yet again to what I was beginning to call-in my mind, at least-the Mystery of Gracie Everdeen. Some facts seemed clear enough. She had run away because her mother forbade the marriage. She had come back, and her sweetheart had got her pregnant. She had thrown herself from the Lost Whistle Bridge into the river, which was low, and dashed herself on the rocks. Irene Tatum had found the body, which had been buried without ceremony outside the church precincts.

It seemed simple and tragic, both. Still, I wondered. Phrases in the pathetic letter kept popping up in my mind: What has happened isn’t my fault… It will die when I die. What no man may know nor woman tell. In no way was I able to decipher the meaning of the words. And I wanted to be there to make the corn with you. I had seen the “making of the corn” in the play, the ritual tilling of the earth, Sophie jumping over the plowshare; but Gracie’s reference remained lost on me. I recalled the shoes in the box-unusually large for a girl, and the gloves as well. Yet Amys had remembered her as pretty, girlish, delicate. And Mrs. Everdeen-why hadn’t she wanted Gracie to marry Roger? Because he was poor? Because the strain was tainted? And why had she wanted Gracie to give Roger’s ring back? And why had Gracie kept it? And, more important, why had she waited until two days after Harvest Home to do away with herself? Where had she spent the intervening time?

Putting these thoughts from my mind as best I could, I turned to the task at hand, the completion of Justin’s portrait in the time promised. I drove out to the farm for a sitting; Justin’s normally sanguine attitude was at first tinged with a slight coolness, and, though she was sympathetic, Sophie’s demeanor also seemed altered. Her usually bright face was dull, shadowy, clouded by some kind of worry. I observed a growing sense of urgency in her; her actions were composed of quick, brittle movements, and she seemed impatient with the slow thoroughness of my work. I had set up my easel on the lawn between the drive and the harvested cornfield, and I could hear her in the kitchen, banging and rattling pots and pans.

I felt it necessary to make some remark about what had happened at the husking bee, though I was then still having difficulty putting the pieces of the evening back together. Justin laughed good-naturedly, and said I was not the first to have gotten a snootful and made a fool of himself. “I think Fred and the boys were out to get you, anyway.”

“Out to get me?”

“To see how well you could stand up to the old stuff. I guess you didn’t pass the test. They’re annoyed with you, but it won’t last. They’re not down on outsiders as much as they seem to be.”

“I’m a fair drinker, but-”

Justin agreed. “It’s pretty strong.”

“And it leaves you with a blank.” I tried to explain the curious impression I had of something ominous growing out of the dance. He said I was imagining things.

“It’s just one of the old ways, you know. If you transgressed, it was against them, not against the people.”

“What are the ‘old ways’?”

He was friendly and casual. “Well, let’s say they’re the things that are-handed down. Maybe they’re not the