hymns. I suppose that when you don't have any Broadway shows around, or movies or TV, you take whatever entertainment you can get.
They both told me over amp; over how 'exalted' they felt, but as far as I'm concerned they might just as well have said 'exhausted,' since they'd apparently spent the last four hours praying on their knees, rising to sing, kneeling, standing again… Good preparation for planting seeds, maybe, but not the sort of religion I'd choose.
They were both very nice about my birthday, though – why hadn't I told them, Deborah would have baked me something special, etc. etc. She actually kissed me on the side of the mouth. (Could feel her breast brush against my arm. I don't think she wears anything beneath that dress.) Sarr put down the wicked-looking scythe blade he was honing amp; contented himself with an earnest shake of my hand.
Wish I knew how Carol felt about him. Of course, nothing could have gone on between them last night (notwithstanding a few fantasies I had when I came out here), but I still sense a certain interest there, at least on Carol's part. As for Sarr, I'm now convinced he has his mind on God and eyes for no one but his wife. But who can say? Who can say what's in another person's head?
I twisted Carol's arm a bit, amp; she agreed to stay for dinner, despite lots of moaning amp; groaning about the drive back to New York. It was a nice meal, one that Carol, this time, could eat: cheese omelet, garden salad, amp; that cake of Carol's for dessert. She amp; I finished off the Geisels' wine from last night; both Poroths declined. I guess one night of transgression is enough for the weekend.
Deborah, as usual, spent the meal laughing amp; carrying on amp; generally having a good time – she obviously craves company – but Sarr tended to withdraw a bit as the evening wore on. He sat there like one of his own cats, getting all silent amp; brooding amp; inscrutable. Maybe it's because I made the mistake of asking him about those murders.. .
'God's my witness, Jeremy,' he said, 'you know more about those things than I do. I'm just plain not interested. I wasn't around in 1939, and I certainly wasn't around in 1890. I've heard my mother had some sort of premonition about the one in '39, but I'm not really sure. She was a young girl then. I told you about the gift they say she has.'
Freirs nodded. 'Obviously in this case the gift didn't help.'
'I guess not,' said Poroth. He sounded somewhat downcast. 'My mother seldom speaks of it. I expect it's troubling to her.'
'What intrigues me most,' said Freirs, 'are the legends these things give rise to. I gather people claim they've seen ghosts in the woods where the murders occurred.'
Poroth shrugged. 'Some claim that. Personally, I don't hold with such tales. I believe they're probably in error. Still, there could be something to it. It's not for us to say.'
Freirs decided that he liked the idea of having a haunted place so nearby. It was just the sort of thing he could take back to his classes, evidence of modern superstition.
Carol was gazing at Poroth sympathetically. 'You don't believe in ghosts yourself, then?'
'On the contrary,' he said. 'I know full well that they exist, as sure as there are eggs and fireflies and angels. I just don't think they stay out there in the woods.'
Freirs decided that he hoped they did.
Carol wanted to leave before eight, to give herself plenty of daylight to navigate the dirt road amp; the way back to Gilead, but the Poroths' clock has gone off amp; I'd left my watch inside here, so she probably didn't start till close to nine, when it had already begun to get dark. Hope she makes it okay; she was really nervous about the goddamned driving.
Was sorry to see her go. Never really got as close to her as I'd wanted to, amp; don't know when she'll have another chance to come out here. There's a kind of genuineness in her I don't find in most New York girls; she makes me feel like a teenager again, which isn't really as bad as it sounds, esp. for an old man of thirty.
'Oh, come off it,' says another voice. 'You just want to get laid.'
Could be. (Sigh.) Maybe I'll try to see her in the city next time, in my own environment, Tather than out here on someone else's turf.
Came out here after she left amp; tried to do some work. Started on Melmoth the Wanderer by the Rev. Charles Robert Maturin. Powerful stuff, but after the Lewis book I'm getting a little sick of all the Catholic-baiting. No doubt it's great fun for the connoisseur of atrocity scenes – still more mothers clutching the wormy corpses of their infants (a Gothic staple, I suspect), starving prisoners forced to eat their girlfriends (that's a new one on me) – but the Inquisition's over now, the villains dead amp; gone, amp; all a book like this can do is put you in a rage. Fine for getting me through tomorrow morning's pushups, no doubt – a drop of adrenaline works wonders – but otherwise quite useless.
Hmmm, never thought I'd find myself sticking up for the Papists. Must be Carol's influence.
Afterward, wished I'd taken some notes on that story 'The White People,' which Carol took back with her. Already seem to have forgotten most of it, and what I do remember seems oddly confusing amp; repetitive. I did locate, in one anthology, another Machen piece, about a London clerk named Darnell who has mystical visions of an ancient town amp; woods amp; hills.
Our stupid ancestors taught us that we could become wise by studying books on 'science,' by meddling with test-tubes, geological specimens, microscopic preparations, and the like; but they who have cast off these follies know that the soul is made wise by the contemplation of mystic ceremonies and elaborate and curious rites. In such things Darnell found a wonderful mystery language, which spoke at once more secretly and more directly than the formal creeds; and he saw that, in a sense, the whole world is but a great ceremony.
The writing was beautiful, with a real magic to it – yet somehow my mind began wandering. When I was halfway through I looked down amp; saw something squatting sticklike on my pillow, just beneath my nose, something like a cross between a cricket amp; a spider amp; a frog, amp; as I watched the thing began to chatter; it pranced amp; chirped amp; shrieked at me amp; shook its tiny fist, amp; then I woke up. The story was still where I'd left it, amp; a huge white moth, horned like the devil, was tapping at my window.
Must be midnight now, amp; the coldest night so far. Strange, really: it was hot all day, but with evening comes a chill. The dampness of this place must magnify the temperature. Carol complained that it gave her bad dreams last night, but she wouldn't talk about them.
Yes, past midnight; I just checked. Thirty years behind me now, another birthday gone. Where do the damned things go?
July Fourth
You'd never have known it was a holiday. The morning hung damp and overcast when Freirs staggered from his bed and began his morning ritual of exercises. He had skipped them yesterday, and somehow they didn't come easy; instead of doing one more pushup than the time before, he could barely do one less.
He spent most of the morning on Melmoth, but by noon he'd had his fill of corpses and his head was spinning from the novel's convoluted plot, stories within stories within stories – perfect for class assignments, he decided, but exhausting en masse. He was glad to put it aside and break for lunch. Deborah was working in the garden, accompanied by several of the younger cats, but she'd left a meal for him; he sat eating egg salad, gingerbread, and a tall glass of milk while leafing through the seed ads in the Home News.
When he left the kitchen, he saw that the sky had cleared and that a strong sun was beating down, drying the morning's dampness. The temperature had climbed. Absently he searched his room for a distraction. The vase of roses caught his eye, the dark red blossoms vivid as a flame against the pale green of his walls.
Blossoms… It seemed as good an idea as any. Putting on his sneakers, he picked up his Field Guide to the Wildflowers and went for a walk.
He decided, as he turned his steps down the slope of the back yard, to follow the little brook and see where it led; he recalled that, after the water wound north through the abandoned field, it seemed to disappear into the woods, making it a good point for exploration. At the water's edge he saw dozens of little silver fish, several dead ones floating upside down or washed up in the mud. As for the frogs he heard each night, he still could not find one. No doubt they slept all day – a habit he hoped he'd never fall into himself.
At the brook's first bend he heard the sound of thrashing. There in the distance stood Poroth, tall against the sun, head thrust forward, jaw set, swinging a scythe as he cleared the field of scrub. He reminded Freirs of some extra from an Eisenstein film. Or maybe the Grim Reaper, Freirs decided.
He looked up as Freirs approached. 'Hello there,' he said. 'And where might you be off to?'
'Just going for a walk.'
