Ceremonies

'I am.' He stood and headed for the cellar.

'Let me know when you're going into town,' said Freirs, 'and I'll come along.'

The other looked dubious. 'You're sure you want to come and see Aunt Lise? I don't think that would be wise.'

Freirs shrugged. 'Maybe, but there are a few things I'd like to pick up before Carol and her friend come out – and I'll be glad to chip in on the rest.'

Sarr nodded morosely. 'I'll not say no to help like that,' he said. 'Thanks.' He left the room; they heard him descending the cellar steps, and then the clatter of broken glass.

'It's a shambles down there,' said Deborah. 'An unholy shambles. Even the things that weren't in jars got spoiled somehow. I did manage to save the bacon and potatoes, though. Why don't I add some to last night's stew – there was a lot left over. Sarr's been off his feed lately.'

'Great. Never let it be said that I require milk and cereal for breakfast.' He ate heartily, not minding that, like last night, it didn't taste up to Deborah's usual standard. She, too, must be a little off her feed.

Afterward, he went to the living room and watched the cats at play; the four had moved inside this morning, away from the cold drizzle and the breeze. But the animals and their ceaseless quest for amusement now depressed him. A moving sock, the sound of a slither or scrape – anything seemed to excite them for a moment, then ultimately bore them. He, too, felt bored. Borrowing the radio and holding it under his shirt, he walked back to his room. He reopened The Possessors and came close to completing it, but soon his mind began to wander to all the books he hadn't yet read that summer, and the thought of them all so depressed and tired him that he laid aside the novel and turned on the radio. He found a New York news station, but though he listened for half an hour, there was once again no mention of the previous night's earthquake. We're too small to count out here, he decided. He felt abandoned. He switched to a local station, but it was the old religious bit. Maybe, though, they would give the news; weren't they required by law to do so every hour?

He listened for a few minutes, trying sporadically to read amid the usual half-heard biblical injunctions, but his mind drifted. 'There is none beside me,' the radio was thundering. 'I am the Lord, and there is none else. I form the light, and create darkness: I make peace, and create evil. I the Lord do all these things.'

In that case, Freirs thought dully, you certainly aren't much use to anyone – and drifted off to sleep.

The rain, for the moment, had let up. Tiptoeing down the back steps, Poroth slogged through the drenched grass and peered in the window of the outbuilding. Freirs was asleep. Just as well; he hadn't wanted anyone to come with him. His plans today were secret. Silently he moved toward the barn.

Slamming the door of the truck, he twisted the ignition key and jammed his foot on the gas pedal. The engine ticked over once, twice, three times, and died. The next time, it caught. He pulled out of the barn and over the swampy grass, circling around the side of the house and down the dirt road now turned to mud, truck wheels sinking into the water-lined ruts.

He had told Freirs the truth; he was going to stop at the store and to pay a prayerful visit to poor Aunt Lise. But there was another reason for his haste, and for the trip itself. He had an additional appointment – with someone whose advice he craved.

It is a most extraordinary vision. Distractedly he seats himself on the steps of the nearest building, oblivious to the wet concrete or the rain that falls around him like a cage, and from beneath his umbrella he stares at the swirling puddle in the gutter, watching the scene that has taken control of his fancy.

There is the farmwife standing pink and naked in her bath, and the man fully clothed and nervous by her side, and now she has seized his arm in an iron grip and is pulling him into the tub with her. He struggles, off balance, the bathroom rug sliding beneath his shoes; he reaches out blindly to steady himself, but his groping hand encounters only space, then her warm and slippery flesh, and there is nothing to lean against, nothing to break his fall as his knees strike the hard white side of the tub, echoing, and he tumbles head first into the warm water.

He splashes wildly, the water drowning his screams. It is clear, even as she drags his head down and holds it jerking beneath the soapy surface and settles her knees on his heaving chest, that he still cannot believe this is happening.

Deborah on his mind, he trudged grimly up the sloping lawn toward the little stone cottage. Rainwater ran down the back of his collar and flowed in rivulets through the terraced flower beds toward the stream far below, beside the road where his green pickup stood parked. Before him, like three guard towers, rose the boxlike wooden beehives; he gave them a wide berth as he passed, shielding his face when, despite the rain, several insects circled buzzing round his head. The usual welcoming committee, he thought. He waited till they were gone, then hurried onward, arriving at last before the front door. He knocked three times, pounding his fist against the dark wood, then stepped back.

'Mother?' he called, his voice reverberating from the stony walls, the vines that, with thorns and blossoms, climbed in profusion up the sides of the house, toward the little second-story window in the peak of the roof.

The door swung open. 'Good,' she said briskly. 'I've been waiting for you.'

The wind had picked up again, and the rain had come back, a dull monotonous drizzle. Freirs roused himself and looked at his watch. Though it looked like early evening, it was just after two; Sarr would be leaving soon. He forced himself to his feet and hurried toward the house. Halfway there, shielding himself against the rain, he came to a bare patch in the yard and saw tire tracks filling with water. Shit! he thought. I’ll bet he left without me. He looked back to where the barn stood. There was no sign of the truck, but perhaps it was hidden inside. Rather than run all the way back, he continued up the walk to the house.

The kitchen was deserted. 'Sarr?' he called.

'Gone.'

The voice was hoarse, nearly inaudible. It had come from the bathroom, just off the kitchen. The door stood partly open, outlined in light from within.

'Deborah?' He drew closer. 'Sarr left already?'

'Yes.'

Freirs stopped awkwardly several feet away. Through the crack in the door he could see a little slice of bathroom. It looked steamy in the lantern light.

'Jeremy?' Her voice was softer now.

'What is it?'

'Come here, Jeremy.' He didn't move. 'I have something to tell you.'

Slowly he pushed the door open. The room inside was misty; warm moist air bathed his face, smelling of rose-scented soap.

She was lying back in the tub with just her head above the surface of the water. Through swirls of steam his darting glance took in the pale pink length of her body, the dark nipples of her breasts blurred beneath the soapsuds, the widening dark shadow where the black hair curled between her legs.

She lay content beneath his gaze. 'Do you remember,' she said, after a pause, 'how you offered to scrub my back?'

'Yes.' He stood hesitantly in the doorway, wondering if he dared take a step closer.

'And do you remember what I said?'

'Uh, I'm not sure. Something about 'some other time.' '

She nodded, half smiling. 'Some other time when my husband wasn't here.'

'Uh-huh.' He swallowed nervously.

'He's not here now.'

Slowly she began sitting up. Her shoulders rose above the surface, milky water lapping at the tops of her breasts. Soon, unsupported, they hung heavy and full, water dripping from them, while her glistening black hair fell wetly down her shoulders like a shawl.

She was seated upright now, the water about her waist like a nightgown she'd sloughed off; and still she continued to rise, tucking her legs beneath her and getting to her feet.

'Come on, Jeremy,' she said, standing before him. 'You're just the one I need.'

Rain pounded against the cottage's stone walls and rattled the windows of the parlor. Inside, in the dim light, listening to his mother's words, the farmer felt a chill. The woman seemed farther away than ever. The room, like the entire house, was hers alone and held no place for him. It was the refuge of her widowhood; she'd moved in while he'd been away. He had visited her here many times since his return, but he always felt like a stranger.

'You've come to find out about Deborah,' she was saying. 'You feel a change in her. A distance.'