here; nothing to distinguish it from any other day, except for the saying Sarr quoted glumly, 'Fourth of July, corn knee-high.' Alas, since he planted so late the corn isn't even up to my ankle! No wonder he was in such a sour mood.
Managed to brighten things up a bit, I think, by telling them of my 'day's adventures,' i.e., my little outing. In fact, they seemed eager to hear all about it, like parents asking what I did in school. I'm sure they've both been down that exact same path dozens of times, since it cuts right through their property; but then, I always get a kick out of hearing visitors describe their first day in New York, amp; I suppose it was the same pleasure for them: familiar surroundings seen through unfamiliar eyes. So I tried my damnedest not to disappoint them: played up my hatred of the bugs, nervousness at being alone in the wilderness with snakes amp; wolves amp; quicksand pits, etc. May have overdone it a bit, but I think they were amused.
Or at least Deborah was. She told me that next time I go for a walk I should carry a sprig of pennyroyal behind my ear, as somehow this prevents the female mosquitoes from knowing I'm around. (The females are the ones that bite.) She said she'd clip me some; she grows it in her garden.
As for Sarr, I'm not so sure he realized when I was kidding about my day's exploits, amp; for all I know he may have felt secretly contemptuous – though I suspect his main feeling was one of concern. He told me, with great seriousness, that it's just as well I stopped where I did today, at the bend in the stream, since if I'd followed it a couple of miles deeper into the woods I'd have ended up where the stream empties into a marshy backwater amp; it's easy to get lost. Just beyond the marsh, he said, is a place where on certain nights you can actually see clouds of steam amp; swamp gas rising from the ground, amp; will-o'-the-wisps, and trees that, in these parts, you don't expect to find. It's the place the men were talking about in the store yesterday, where those two girls were killed – the place they call McKinney's Neck.
When I think about it now, the whole afternoon seems almost as unreal as a dream. Glad I'm back inside again, four walls keeping out the night, with bed amp; books amp; lamplight here beside me. At times like this the farm seems like a precious little island, amp; no one but a fool would venture out into the darkness where they don't belong.
Feel too stiff now, amp; a hell of a lot too sleepy, to sit up writing anymore. Time to put away this journal amp; turn in. Carol's probably going to bed now too, never knowing how lucky she is to be surrounded by all that concrete amp; brick, those noisy, well-lit streets
… Manhattan may be just another island, but it's nothing like this place. Ten to one I dream of it again tonight – so arrogant, so massive, amp; so safe.
Fourth of July
Dear Jeremy,
Well, it looks like you're not the only one who'll be spending the summer in isolation. When I got back here last night I found my roommate gone, along with most of her clothes. She'd typed me a note saying she was going off on a trip with one of her boyfriends (I've never been able to keep track of them), and that I should hold her mail and water her plants while she's gone. She didn't even say where she was going. I can't understand it, for her to just pack up and leave like that without giving me any kind of warning – it seems so inconsiderate. But I guess it's the sort of thing I should have expected from her. She's always been extremely irresponsible. She did leave me her share of the rent, though, thank heaven, enough for the entire summer, right down to the last penny, in two neat little piles of cash labeled 'July' and 'August'.
Incidentally, in case it wasn't obvious to you, I had a wonderful time this weekend. I really did, you know, it was just what I needed. I'm going to write the Poroths a little bread-and-butter note as soon as I finish this. They were both extremely nice to me, in every way possible, and I do hope I'll get a chance to see them again before too long. They're so different from some of the people you meet in this city, you just can't imagine.
Believe it or not, the ride back to New York took only an hour and a half, and I had no trouble at all in that parking lot uptown. I guess it was because of the holiday weekend; the whole city seems deserted. It was depressing to come back, that's for sure, but I kept thinking about the Poroths, and the countryside, and you and all those cats.
Rosie came down here tonight and insisted on taking me out to dinner. He pointed out how I really ought to be happy for the extra room I'll have now, and for the peace and quiet, not having Rochelle's awful friends running around all the time. I know he's right, and in a way I suppose I am just as happy she's gone, but I still can't help feeling a little bit abandoned. I miss her. Who knows, I may even miss you…
July Sixth
Had she meant the letter as bait? In retrospect Carol was forced to admit that perhaps there had been something slightly calculating about it. But then, she'd merely hoped to be invited back to the farm before the end of summer. Never for a moment had she expected that Freirs himself might show up in the city – and only two days later.
'I thought I'd go by that restaurant again,' he began, telephoning her at work, 'just in case that goddamned book bag turned up.' And then, as if it were an afterthought: 'Anyway, you sounded like you might be in the mood for a little company. So here I am.'
He was calling from the Port Authority bus terminal; it was nearly four o'clock on a hot and muggy Wednesday afternoon. He had gotten a ride to Flemington that morning, shortly after reading Carol's note, and had taken the early bus out. Though he'd be stopping down on Bank Street first, to search his apartment and talk with the new tenants, this evening he expected to be free. Would she care to meet for dinner? He would pick her up at seven thirty.
Two hours still remained before she could leave work, and Carol spent them thinking of what lay ahead. Freirs hadn't said anything about where he planned to stay that night. No doubt he planned to stay with her, in her bed. The thought was a disturbing one, yet undeniably attractive; she turned it over and over in her mind.
What struck her first was his presumption. Did he actually believe that, having put him off once – or twice, if you counted their first date – she now owed him this night? Yes, quite likely he did; for, considering how methodical he could be, how stiff-necked and precise, it wouldn't have surprised her if he were one of those conscientious souls who proceeded according to schedule: first date a kiss, second something stronger, third a night in bed.
But wait, maybe even here she was being old-fashioned. Maybe she was living in the past. After all, Jeremy had been married once, and perhaps for him the usual three days' expectations had long since been compressed into a single busy evening. In which case, Carol realized, she was already in his debt twice over – though it scarcely made the prospect more inviting; she'd be damned if she was going to give herself to him simply out of social obligation. When she took a lover it would have to be someone special, not just an impatient man exacting his due.
And yet… And yet by the end of their weekend together, she had been resigned – no, more than resigned, she had been determined to sleep with him, if not there at the farm, then somewhere else. She'd known it ever since that first evening together: that he would be the one. She had been ready then – and she was ready now.
And how pleasant it would be to he with him tonight, knowing he was there beside her in the darkness, keeping her company in the suddenly empty apartment; to feel his naked skin pressed against hers, warm between the cool of the sheets. Neither of them would have to get up early tomorrow. They could sleep together late into the morning.
The day had so far shown no signs of drawing to a close. Light continued to stream into the room around the tattered edges of the shades; the shades themselves glowed yellow in the sun, and heat had made a prison of the unmoving air. As she knelt to steady the contents of her book cart, Carol felt herself perspiring beneath her blouse, while through her ran a tiny flicker of foreboding. If it was this bad so early in July, what would the rest of the summer be like?
She piloted the overloaded cart through a delirium of aisles and shelves and tables, her mind far from the routine tasks, her footsteps keeping time to the regular squeaking of the wheels. Entering the little glassed-in office to complete a series of subscription forms, she thought that at any moment she might faint: the air conditioner was still broken from last September, and with three desks crowded side by side the room seemed even smaller than it should have, and twice as cluttered. Her own desk lay buried beneath a stack of old Library Journals and an assortment of damaged paperbacks; its lower drawer was stuck fast, its wooden surface clammy to the touch. Carol ran a hand through her damp hair and slumped back in her seat. It was going to be a warm night for making love.
