Ceremonies

It proved to be a steaming Indian pudding which had lain nearly three hours in the stove. Made of cornmeal and molasses, it was served with thick fresh cream from the Verdocks' dairy in town. 'Now, Carol,' she said, 'I sure hope you'll have no objection to this.'

'Not the slightest,' said Carol. Her eyes widened as Deborah ladled out a generous serving for each of them. 'God, it's a wonder the two of you can even stand!'

Freirs nodded ruefully. 'I'm still trying to figure out how they stay so thin.'

'I have to watch that man like a hawk!' said Deborah, laughing. 'He'd eat everything in the bowl if I let him.'

Pensively Poroth licked the spoon clean and looked up. 'They warned me about that when I married you,' he said. 'They told me, 'Sarr, that woman from Sidon's going to starve you!' ' He eyed her with affection. 'But the truth is, we work hard, Deborah and me. We're at it all day, seven days a week. Keeps a body from getting fat. We don't believe in sitting on our duffs.'

There was a moment of silence; Freirs decided that Poroth had been speaking to him. He forced a smile. Keep it light. 'Oh, physical labor's all right, I guess, if that's what turns you on. But as the philosopher said to the farmer, 'While you're feeding your hogs, sir, you're starving your mind.' '

He glanced sidelong at Carol for approval and caught a smile. Maybe the night was still salvageable.

'By the way, have I told you about the exercises I'm doing?' While Deborah set aside the jug and brought out Rosie's wine, he launched into a description of his daily routine: the sit-ups, the push-ups, the stretching motions for the back. 'I've also done a little jogging,' he heard himself say. 'It's more interesting here than in the city, and a lot more private. Maybe I'll explore the other end of this road, or hike in the direction of those hills… '

He listened to himself talk on aimlessly, inconsequentially: perfect New York small-talk. Yet perhaps he'd overplayed his hand, for Carol, he saw, had turned back to Sarr, who, all the while, sat silent and unsmiling. They're sharing something I can't touch, he decided.

Deborah was smiling at him sympathetically. 'Sounds okay to me,' she said. 'A lot more fun than washing dishes.' She got up from the table and began collecting their bowls.

Carol seemed to shake herself awake. 'Oh, can I give you a hand with that?'

'Won't say no!' Deborah tossed her a towel. 'You can do the drying up.'

Neither Poroth nor Freirs made any move to help. Freirs had offered a few nights ago and had been politely rebuffed by Deborah; such work, she'd said, was 'women's work.' It had shocked him at the time to hear her say such a thing, but he'd been content to let her have her way. If she was so big on tradition, he sure as hell wasn't going to dissuade he.

He seized the opportunity of being alone with Sarr. Digging into his wallet, he extracted a ten-dollar bill. 'For tonight's dinner,' he said in a low voice. 'Thanks a lot. It was great.'

Poroth smiled wanly and shook his head, not even looking at the money.

'Go ahead,' said Freirs, 'take it. I want to reimburse you. It's for Carol. I mean, let's face it, she's not your guest, she's mine.'

Poroth did not appear to take the hint. In fact, Freirs thought he looked hurt. Maybe he'd been more sincere all evening than Freirs had realized.

'Put away your money, Jeremy,' he said quietly. 'It's well meant, I know, but I can't accept it. Our hospitality's for everyone; your guest is also ours. Truth is, I sore regret every cent we've had from you already. I like to think of you as a guest here, and I only wish we could treat you as a guest deserves.'

God damn it, thought Freirs, isn't that just like a Christian! Just when you've decided that you hate his guts, he goes and makes you feel guilty about it.

Drying her hands with the dish towel, Carol yawned and realized how tired she was. She would probably fall asleep as soon as her head touched the pillow. And with the thought of bed, she remembered the present Rosie had given her for Jeremy, and the book she'd brought out for him. It was meant to be read only at bedtime, the old man had emphasized, and surely bedtime would not be long in coming. She turned to Deborah at the sink beside her. 'I'm just going upstairs for a moment,' she said, lowering her voice, though at the table the men were still talking. 'A friend of mine gave me a little gift for Jeremy.'

She saw him look up as she left the kitchen. He looked concerned, probably afraid she wasn't coming down.

'I'll be right back,' she said.

The living room was small and low-ceilinged, with simple oak furniture grouped around a braided rug. Several not-very-clean-looking farm implements lay scattered on the floor beside a wooden bench, patches of metal gleaming from their rust, as if polishing these tools was the usual evening's pastime. In the corner near the stairway stood a tall grandfather clock whose ticking, when all else was silent, could be heard throughout the house. A narrow wooden writing desk stood in the opposite corner, its dusty bottom shelf stacked with books, many of them college texts; Carol noticed a

Fundamentals of Social Change and a volume of inspirational verse. It was apparent from their position that they were never removed, yet clearly Poroth had been unable to bring himself to throw them away or store them in attic or cellar; perhaps they were a source of pride, perhaps one of temptation.

By the other wall a corn-husk broom and iron tongs leaned against the stones of the fireplace. There was a smell of wood and lemon oil in the room and, behind it, one of charcoal; though the fireplace must have stood empty for some time now, it had obviously seen much use during the winter months. Venturing closer, Carol stopped to read the crude wooden plaque that hung by the chimney, with a motto from someone named Cowley burned into the wood: A Plow on a Field Arable Is the Most Honorable of Ancient Arms. On the mantelpiece below it lay a garland of dried flowers, a group of china cats (several chipped or broken), and a little wooden weather house with the man out in front. He looked a lot like Sarr.

Taking a lamp that stood burning on a table in the corner, she hurried upstairs. In the flickering light the Man in the Moon gazed down at her benignly from the wall as she rummaged through her tote bag for the parcel and the book. Outside the window, the real moon lay hidden by a cloud. Pressing her face to the glass, she tried to pick out the long, low guest house and the barn. They were hard to find. She'd forgotten how dark it got in the country once the sun went down.

Jeremy would be out there alone tonight… Well, it simply couldn't be helped. There was no way she'd dare offend the Poroths by sneaking off with Jeremy, on whatever pretext. Besides, she was far too tired to contemplate sleeping with him now, tired from the drive out, the wine, the tensions of their silly conversation. She had felt Sarr's eyes boring into her all evening and had felt herself, for a moment at least, the more desirable woman in the room. Jeremy had suddenly seemed too abrasive, too eager.

But in fact, her mind had been made up all afternoon, ever since she'd seen that awful grey-brick building he was living in. The thing was ugly even for a chicken coop; it reminded her of something abandoned by the army. Jeremy had tried, of course, to brighten it up a bit – the blankets had been folded, the furniture polished, the books all put away – but somehow that had only made it more depressing. A vase of roses he'd placed by the bed had failed to disguise the pervasive smell of mildew (her nose wrinkled in recollection) and a hint of insect spray; and just outside, their shadows falling across his pillow, a group of trees had stood peering in at them like spectators waiting for a sacrifice. Just as well she'd be spending the night here in the farmhouse.

Downstairs the two men were still slouched at the table over the wine, Sarr fiddling with a worn-looking pipe while Deborah mopped the counter by the sink. Both Poroths looked tired, though Jeremy sounded awake and animated as always. Well, not as always: she'd noticed, earlier tonight, that his leg no longer swung nervously beneath the table, as it had back in New York. At least the country was having some effect.

'-or that line of Butier's,' he was saying – God, he never stopped!' – 'about how 'I'd rather buy milk than own a cow.' And let's face it, there's some truth to that. For instance, speaking for myself, I'd rather rent a room than own a house.'

'On the other hand,' Deborah called back, giggling, 'I'll bet you'd rather have a wife than-'

They looked up as Carol came in.

'Jeremy,' she said, 'I just wanted you to know that I didn't come here empty-handed today.' Smiling, she stood beside his chair. 'In fact, I have two things I'm supposed to give you: this book you wanted' – with mock gravity she laid it on the table before him -'which, according to my instructions, you're to open at bedtime. And this gift from Rosie' – she placed it beside the book – 'which you're to open now.'

Deborah came to the table. 'Oh, Jeremy,' she said, 'lucky you!' She ran her fingers over the book's embossed