Harvest Home

I asked, “What time did you go to the city?”

“This morning.”

“Did you see Beth?”

“Yes. Didn’t you?”

“No. She wasn’t there when I got home. Where’d she go, Maggie?”

“I’m not sure. I know she had some quilts to go to New York. Perhaps she took them down herself, after she dropped Kate off.”

“Kate?”

“She was driving her over to Ledyardtown to stay the night with a school chum. Then-” She made a gesture of futility. “I don’t know-she said she wanted to think things out.”

“She didn’t go to the Widow’s?”

“Not that I know of. She might have. I can stop on my way home and see, if you want.”

“I’ve got to get out of here.”

She gave her rueful half-laugh. “Certainly you do. I’ve never heard of anything so ridiculous. I’m sure tomorrow-”

“I’ve got to get out of here tonight. Help me, Maggie.”

She watched me with a bland expression. “How, Ned?”

“Get the wire cutters from my studio and bring them to the window. You can cut the screen.”

“Stay here tonight, Ned. It’s all a tempest in a teapot, anyhow. I’m sure by tomorrow things will have cooled down.”

“I’ve got to get out of here tonight.”

“Why tonight?”

“It’s Harvest Home. The women are going to Soakes’s Lonesome-”

“Which women, Ned?” Smiling, she had adopted a patient tone, as if speaking to a child or a madman.

“All of them-”

“All?” Still she smiled, but the amusement had turned visibly, and horribly, to scorn. When she spoke again, her voice was hard, dispassionate. “‘All’ would include me, wouldn’t it?”

I stared at her. “You?”

“Of course, Ned, dear. Have you forgotten? I was born here.” She laughed, nicking the empty fingers of her glove against the edge of the desk. “You want to go to Harvest Home, is that it? Curiosity killed the cat, remember.”

I stared; was it possible?

“You are a fool.” Low, contemptuous; the kind Maggie-eyes were gone; in their place a small burning defiance, a triumph, as I had seen in Tamar’s face when she went into the church for the voting. I could not believe it; Maggie, our friend. I felt something like an electrical jolt, as if I had sustained a physical blow. I drew a dry shuddery breath and shoved my hands in my pockets. The swivel chair squealed as she rose and began putting on her gloves. I took a step toward her.

“It was you, wasn’t it? On the other side of the hedge. That day you were planting bulbs-”

“Go on,” she said.

“You heard Worthy telling me he was going to run away. You told Tamar to watch for a letter from John Smith. You got him killed.”

“Killed?” She worked the gloves on, finger by finger. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Ned. Nor would anyone else. Mrs. Zee drove Worthy to the turnpike to get the bus to New York. If he didn’t arrive there-well…” She shrugged.

“And you took the doll-”

“No-you took the doll. I merely returned it to the place it was supposed to be-in Justin’s field. It was put there for a purpose.” Her eyes narrowed appraisingly. “You may not have noticed, Ned, dear, but you have about you a certain air of- futility. You look tired. What you must do is eat and get some rest and not try to do anything. About anything. Then things may look different.”

“After tonight.”

“Yes. After tonight. After Harvest Home. If you are careful, and do not interfere, if you try to understand and be a good husband, things may look different. They may look different to Beth as well.” She rose, picked up the napkin from the tray, and offered it to me. “Dinner?”

“The condemned man ate a hearty meal? Thanks, no.” I stared at her, thinking of how she led me on all along the way; Robert, too. He had known, had been in on it all. Pretending, like the rest of them.

I turned back to the window. I heard her picking up the tray; she kicked her toe at the door and the Constable unlocked it. She handed someone the tray, looked back, then went through the door. The Constable came in.

“Not gonna eat?”

I shook my head. Chewing on his lip, he regarded me, then nodded at the cot against the wall. “You can sleep there.”

“When do I get out?”

“We’ll know tomorrow. But tonight the ladies want you in safekeepin’.” He chuckled, made a circuit of the room, started out. Then he returned, asking me to empty my pockets. I laid my wallet, money, car keys, and penknife on the desk. He picked up the knife, opened the center desk drawer, and tossed it inside.

“Don’t want no more suicides.”

“Why should I commit suicide?”

“There’s worse things.” I heard the men in the other room laugh. He swept the other objects into the drawer, then felt in my jacket pockets, found the flashlight, and dropped that in too, and locked the drawer. He went out, and the door was swung shut and bolted. Feet scraped on the floor, the outer door was closed and locked, and I was left alone, immured in the post office for the night. Was it just for the night? What would happen tomorrow? I looked at the clock again; the moon would be rising soon.

I stared at the door. The lock was old but looked strong- strong and solid like the room itself. I sprang up and rubbed my hand along the stone surface of the walls; small chance of getting out.

But I must get out. I had a plan. I went to the window and opened it, pressing my forehead against the wire latticework. I examined again the surround where the screening was riveted fast.

The clock ticked. I could hear voices out on the street, could just catch sight of the Rocking Horse Tavern; men were coming out and getting into the cars parked in front. They drove off. Bert came out, locked the door, hurried away.

I stared over at the Penrose barn.

Gwydeon Penrose. What had he been like? One of the hardy Cornish forebears, like the rest of the village settlers. Had he believed in the old ways? Certainly, I decided; they all had. Their fathers and their fathers before them. Crafty farmers, clever. I recalled Amys’s story of how Gwydeon had outsmarted the Indians, hiding his family here in the forge, and when they finally broke in they found-

Nothing.

I straightened, feeling the stubble on my chin. They had found nothing. Gwydeon hadn’t been there. Nor his family. They’d escaped-isn’t that what Amys had said? I made a rapid circuit of the room, pounding at the unyielding stone walls. If they’d got out, they’d had to do it from inside. How would I do it? Go up the chimney? I bent, feeling around the metal flanges of the flue. Though the fireplace opening was large, the flue was much too small and there was an ancient metal plate over it.

It wasn’t the fireplace. Where, then? A trap door in the floor. I slid the desk aside and pulled up the scrap of carpet. The floorboards ran from wall to wall, pegged and in varying widths. I pounded with my list, testing; felt the resistance of solid timberwork beneath. I went around the room jouncing my weight. The boards did not give.

I stopped, listening to the clock, my eye taking in the room again. Four walls, ceiling, floor, fireplace, the closet next to it-

The closet!

I turned a small wooden catch and opened the door. It was less than eighteen inches wide and ran from floor to ceiling. It appeared to have been a woodbox, nothing more. Dried mortar had oozed between the stonework. I knelt, examining the floor. The light was bad; the floor appeared to be covered by a square of linoleum