paused. 'Ain't that right, Lise?'
His wife didn't look up from her knitting. She was a Poroth and, consequently, inclined to be more sympathetic. 'Seems to me Sarr's doin' all he can with that place,' she said, 'and I think he's doin' right by his woman. At least he's agreed to take in a boarder.'
'Yes, I saw the fellow at the store,' said her husband. 'You remember, Bert, 'twas last Sunday. Fat fellow, kinda soft lookin', but he seemed likely enough. Got a little insolent with Rupert.'
Steegler nodded. 'Struck me that way too. Young Sarr seems to speak well of him, though. Brother Rupert, now, he's got little good to say for a fellow who doesn't earn his keep.' He paused. 'Of course, Rupert would talk that way, wouldn't he?'
'Now don't be unchristian,' said Amelia. 'We're goin' to be guests at Brother Rupert's house tomorrow morning, don't forget.'
There were nods all around. Worship that week was going to be held at the Lindts'. The following Sunday would see it at Ham Stoudemire's, and then would come the Poroths' turn.
Elsi van Meer looked up. 'You suppose Lotte Sturtevant will be there? She's gettin' awful close to her time, from the look of her.'
'She's got a few weeks yet,' said Amelia. 'But I'll grant she's sure swelled up. Never seen the like. It will be a son, I'll wager – and a mighty big one.'
'She ain't due till the end of the month,' said Lise Verdock. 'It may well take till August.'
Van Meer paused in his rocking. 'Let's hope so,' he said. 'Let's hope it goes past Lammas Eve.'
'Amen,' they all said hurriedly, and nodded. 'Amen,' said Bethuel Reid, who had just come back out to the porch. He shuffled across to the old wicker couch and sat heavily beside his wife.
Van Meer resumed his rocking. His wife shooed a bug from the pitcher of iced tea. Lise stared meditatively at the rain falling in thick cascades from the eaves of the porch. In the distance came the sound of thunder.
'Really comin' down,' she said. 'Funny how nobody predicted it. 'Twasn't the sort of day for rain.' She paused.' 'Bout time we had some, though. Corn's been needin' it.'
The others turned to stare out at the night. Once again they heard the rumble of thunder. Past the farther side of the house, beyond the line of trees, they could hear the rain beating against the tombstones in the cemetery.
'Amen,' Reid said again.
July Tenth
Sarr and Deborah were going to spend the whole day at worship; they had walked toward Gilead hours before Freirs woke up. He was left to share the farm with the animals: the seven cats, four hens, and rooster, the birds that sang unseen behind the leaves, the bugs that whirled frenziedly in the heat. The sun itself was hidden behind a lowering grey sky; the ground was still damp from last might's rain and had a stagnant smell. On days like this the earth seemed capable of breeding insects, like the carcasses of horses were once believed to do.
From the window he could see Bwada and Rebekah chasing after something near the barn, the grey cat in the lead despite her greater age. Lately they'd taken to stalking grasshoppers, which swarmed around the cornfield in abundance.
Foregoing his exercises, he went into the farmhouse and made himself some breakfast in the kitchen, leafing gloomily through one of the Poroths' religious magazines, and then returned to his room out back for some serious reading. He picked up Dracula, which he'd started the night before, but couldn't bring himself to scribble more than a few lackadaisical notes.
Tried to settle into the Stoker, but that soppy Victorian sentimentality began to annoy me again. The book begins marvelously, on a really frightening note – Harker trapped in that Carpathian castle, doomed to be the prey of its terrible owner – but when Stoker switches the locale to England amp; his main characters to women, he simply can't sustain that initial tension.
For that matter, what's so bad about becoming a vampire if it means you live forever? Wish one would come amp; bite me. I'm sure I'd develop a taste for blood eventually.
Besides, the story's spoiled for me: I keep picturing Carol in all the female roles amp; find myself wanting her. Dear Carol, weather is lousy, wish you were here…
With the Poroths gone he felt lonely and bored. He found himself staring at the cobwebs in the corner of the ceiling, the mildew on the walls, the dying roses drooping in their vase. It was hard to concentrate. Though he'd brought shelfloads of books to entertain him, he felt restless and wished he owned a car; he'd have gone for a drive, visited friends in Princeton, perhaps even headed back to New York… But as things stood he had nothing to do but take another walk.
He picked two sprigs of pennyroyal from the garden where Deborah had shown him and stuck them behind the earpieces of his glasses. They tickled as badly as the mosquitoes they were supposed to ward off, and even with no one to see him he was conscious of how silly he must look. When he reached the stream he tossed them in the water.
He followed the stream's twisting path back into the woods. Even though he'd seen it only once before, the way already seemed familiar. Ducking once more beneath the arch of vines and branches, he winced as he prepared to get his feet wet. To his surprise the water seemed less cold this time. Thin wisps of greenish scum floated here and there on the surface.
The pool, though, when he reached it, was as clear as he'd remembered. There were some new animal tracks in the wet sand. Ringed by oaks, the place seemed strangely beautiful, yet even here, somehow, he felt bored. Again he waded into the center of the water and looked up at the sky through the trees. In the center of his vision, directly overhead, a flock of gulls were heading westward, their great wings extended. He could almost hear them shrieking.
The gulls passed. Feeling himself alone once more, he recalled the excitement he'd felt that night on the roof of the barn and, by way of experiment, made a few of the same gestures with his face and hands. .. but his memory failed him, the moment had passed, and these half-hearted movements seemed awkward and unaccountably robbed of their power. Standing there up to his ankles in water, he felt foolish.
Worse, upon leaving the pool he found a bloated red-brown leech clinging like a tumor to his right ankle. It wasn't large – a long way from the 'cluster of black grapes' that some Faulkner hero he'd read about had found dangling from his groin – and he was able to scrape it off with a stone; but it left him with a little round bite that oozed blood and a feeling, somehow, of physical helplessness. The woods had once again become hostile to him and, he was sure, would forever remain so. Something had ended.
Listlessly he followed the stream back to the farm. When he reached the edge of the woods he heard, once more, a distant shrieking overhead and saw another line of gulls, if that's what they were, sweeping high across the sky. How can gulls be all the way out here? he wondered. We're so jar from the sea.
When he looked down, he saw, out of the corner of his eye, a familiar grey shape. It was Bwada – but Bwada as he'd never seen her before. She was crouched on the other side of the brook among the rocks and weeds, frozen like an animal in a museum diorama caught just before it springs. Her eyes were wide, glazed, and somehow astonished-looking, as if she were staring at something directly in front of her but seeing nothing. All at once her body gave a tiny jerk, a kind of hiccough, and Freirs saw strands of pink foam at the corners of her jaws. He realized, suddenly, that she was hurt.
He remembered Deborah's warnings about rabies, but dismissed them. Rabies didn't take effect so fast; he'd seen Bwada racing through the grass only an hour before. More likely she'd simply eaten something that had disagreed with her.
He stood watching the cat for a moment, uncertain what, if anything, he should do. Insects buzzed around him in the stillness; from the cornfield behind him came the shrill cawing of the crows. 'Are you okay, girl?' he said at last, with a warmth he didn't feel. 'You all right?'
She continued to stare directly ahead of her, the empty gaze never wavering. He saw with surprise that her claws were extended; they were gripping the rock she clung to as if at any moment it might rise up and shake her loose. Abruptly she gave another hiccough, and her body seemed to tremble.
Bwada was the only cat he actively disliked, the only one that regularly hissed at him, but with the Poroths gone he felt responsible for her. Frowning, he walked to the water's edge, picked out a flat rock in the middle of the stream, and in two long strides was standing on dry land beside her. Hesitantly he reached out his hand. The animal's gaze remained turned away from him, but suddenly her Up curled back and he heard, above the murmur of
