corpse; but Theodore printed a thousand kisses on her clay-cold hands… '
Somehow this stuff doesn't really grab me. Castles, monks, giant helmets… Maybe I shouldn't have started so far back.
Or maybe it's just the glare from this goddamned desk lamp. Must get a proper shade for it next time I'm in town, otherwise I'll go blind. Would walk back inside amp; ask the Poroths for one, but don't think they'd be much help, since – bless their masochistic hearts -the two of them seem determined to make do with gas lamps amp; kerosene lanterns. (Something I deliberately neglected to mention in letter to Carol.)
Anyway, thank God for Thomas Edison.
Nighttime now. The Poroths already have their lights off, amp; a million moths are tapping at my screens. One of them's a fat white fellow the size of a small bird. Never saw one like it. What kind of caterpillar must it have been?
Jesus, I hope the damned things don't push through the wire.
Wonder if the dampness brings them out. There's a line of hills not far away, but here the elevation's low amp; the night air smells of water. Already I've noticed a greenish band of mildew around the bottom of my walls.
Bugs, too. Lots of them. This place is really infested. (Something else I neglected to tell Carol. Ditto dampness, musty smell, wasps near smokehouse, etc. etc. Why turn her off the place before she comes?) Seems to me the Poroths might have taken a bit more time to clean it, instead of waiting till I got here; I had to go over the entire room twice after Deborah'd left, amp; each time I found new ones. God knows what they were. Sure as hell don't care to look them up in the guide.
Worst of all are the spiders, esp. near the screens. Think I got most of them by now, but had to use up half a roll of paper towels squashing the bastards. Must buy more the next time I'm in town, amp; a can or two of insect spray.
Killing spiders is supposed to bring bad luck -
'If you wish to live amp; thrive,
Let the Spider walk alive'
– but I'll be damned if I'm going to sleep with anything crawling around in here. Anyway, too late now: I'm already a mass murderer. They can add up the total in heaven.
Still hard to know just what to make of the Poroths. Everything they do seems to have a special meaning that outsiders can't begin to understand. Even the farm itself has a kind of religious significance. It's supposed to bring the two of them closer to God – here they can be 'in the world, but not of it,' Sarr says – amp; they're supposed to find satisfaction in the day-to-day labor, rather than in the money it might bring. That's why they have no restrictions against working on Sunday, amp; why progress is such a dirty word to them: it means escape from toil.
Deborah seems to work as hard as Sarr does. She was cleaning up in here when we arrived, on her knees scrubbing the floor. Some- thing curiously erotic about a woman in that position, exerting herself while you're at your ease.
Sarr tried to pitch in amp; help for a while, but finally he excused himself and left. He was probably relieved to get back to the fields; he's sure not much on small talk. At dinner tonight he gave me a blow-by-blow chronicle of this morning's service – apparently the whole community meets each Sunday in someone's back yard, with the Poroths' turn coming up next month – amp; then launched into a long, earnest explanation of the various theological differences between the Brethren amp; the general run of Mennonites, differences he claimed were extremely deep. (For a silent type, he really talks a lot when he gets going.) He lost me after the first minute or two. As far as I'm concerned, they're all just fundamentalists amp; they all wear funny clothes. I've even noticed an occasional 'tis or 'twasn't creeping into their conversation, esp. when they're going in for Bible talk. I gather the townfolk are even more prone to it.
Made my first mistake at dinner tonight. Sat down amp; started to eat, then heard Sarr saying grace. Hastily apologized, of course, amp; waited till he was done, but I find that such things don't embarrass me the way they used to. Maybe that's because I'm nearing thirty.
(Shit, only one goddamned week left. Somehow I dread that moment. Better not to think of it.)
The food, at least, was even better than I'd hoped: chicken, peas, amp; baked potato, with spice cake for dessert. Homemade, too. Deborah obviously likes to cook.
I'll bet she makes Sarr a damned good wife. He kept reaching out to touch her every time she passed where he was sitting. I guess planting makes people horny. Can't say I blame him; I felt almost the same this afternoon, when she was scrubbing my floor. Not that she makes the slightest attempt to be seductive.
I'd like to see her with her hair down. Still can't get that picture of her out of my head, standing there waving goodbye to me, naked beneath that long black dress.
She seems to be the perfect Bountiful Housewife: full breasts, wide hips, always filled with energy. Looks as if she'll bear a lot of children.
Right now, though, those damned cats are the closest thing they've got, amp; they fuss over them as if they were real children. One of them, Sarr's cat, may be a bit of a problem. She's the grey one, the oldest of the lot. She also happens to be the meanest. Maybe she's jealous of the rest, or maybe she was just born with an evil disposition. All I know is, she's the only cat that's ever bitten anyone -various friends amp; relations, including some local bigwig named Brother Joram – amp; after seeing how she snarls at the other cats when they get in her way or come too close while she's feeding, I decided to keep my distance. Fortunately, she seems a bit scared of me amp; retreats whenever I approach.
Probably best to keep away from all of them, in fact. Sneezing, itching eyes, whenever they're around. Should have gone to that allergist when I had the chance.
The Poroths seem pretty catlike themselves. Interesting case of people resembling their pets. Sarr is inclined to be morose amp; somewhat taciturn – a solemn, slightly suspicious tomcat – while Deb is bubbly amp; talkative, as animated as one of the kittens. Clearly a case of opposites attracting, despite the similarity of appearance.
At dinner Sarr said that some of the locals still use 'snake oil' for whatever ails them. Asked him how the snakes were killed, slightly misquoting line from Vathek: 'The oil of serpents I have pinched to death will be a pretty present.' We discussed the wisdom of pinching snakes. Learned there may be a copperhead out back, over near the brook. Somehow the Poroths neglected to mention this on my first visit. Will watch my step. (Though according to my field guide, far more people die each year from bee and wasp stings than from snakebites. Insect venom is more toxic.)
Supposedly there are frogs amp; turtles out there too. Have yet to see any. Maybe they only come out at night.
Over coffee, Sarr talked of the house he hopes to build someday, when the two of them have children. He'll build it out of stone, he said, 'three floors high amp; three feet thick.' Then he shut up, amp; I had to keep the conversation going through dessert. Hate eating in silence: animal sounds of mastication, bubbling stomachs. Didn't some Balzac character claim talk aided digestion? Probably true.
By this time they both looked ready for bed (though I doubt if sleep was the only thing on their minds), so it seemed wise to get out of their way. Brushed my teeth – not forgetting dental floss – amp; took the usual vitamins, just in case.
As soon as I left their place amp; came back here, I began to feel sort of lonely. Still some light left in the sky, but the lawn behind the house was already swarming with fireflies. Never saw so many. Knelt amp; watched them for a while amp; listened to the crickets. That's one sound the city doesn't have. Too bad Carol isn't here; she'd appreciate it.
Wonder if she'll actually come out. Hope my letter made the place sound inviting; hope I didn't lay it on too thick. Maybe I should have been more honest with her. Just as well I didn't mention how narrow my bed is, though – really no more than a cot. That's the sort of thing she can discover on her own. (Also, incentive for losing a bit of weight this week.)
Must remember to get a haircut if I can get into Flemington. May be my last one for quite some time.
Later: After making it through Otranto (not the most auspicious start), wasted nearly an hour arranging my books. First tried putting them in chronological order, since that's the way I hope to read them; but copyright dates can be ambiguous with the older works, amp; too many authors get broken up. Then tried chronologically by date of author's birth, but I didn't know most of these, amp; no way to find out. So back to boring old alphabetical order by
