Ceremonies

You may find yourself with a very nice little career, by the time we're done.'

'Wow wouldn't that be incredible!'

She reminded herself that the old man was probably just trying to impress her, or else he might simply be mistaken. But what if he was right? Wouldn't it be wonderful to make a real contribution to scholarship, to be respected at last as an authority on something, her work studied by the sort of earnest souls who came to Voorhis every day? That institution's miseries were temporarily forgotten; she was thinking, instead, how the tedious little summaries she prepared twice weekly for Rosie, the abstracts of papers and journal articles, might be worthwhile after all.

By the time they reached her house, he was mopping his forehead repeatedly with a large white handkerchief. 'Lordy,' he said, 'I can't remember when it's been so hot.'

'It is pretty awful,' she conceded. 'I hate to think of what's still in store.'

'Do you think I might come up and cool off?' He dabbed wearily at his throat.

'Oh, of course you can. I'll give you some iced tea. I have to warn you, though, it's probably hotter up there than it is here on the sidewalk.'

Rosie smiled. 'Well, I'll take my chances.'

He continued to smile mysteriously as they rode up in the elevator. By the time they'd reached the door to her apartment, she'd begun to grow uneasy.

Unlocking the door, she pushed it open. A wave of cool air bathed her face. From the living room she heard the soft churning of a motor. She turned to him, eyes widening. 'Rosie, did you-?'

He nodded, chuckling. 'Had it installed this afternoon, while you were at work.'

'Oh, Rosie, this is the nicest surprise I've ever had!'

She rushed into the living room. There, fitted into the window, was a glossy white Fedders, two round vents regarding her like eyes.

Rosie followed her in and stood grinning at his handiwork. 'It should make the place a bit more livable, don't you think?'

'God, will it ever!' she said. 'But how in the world did you get in here?'

He shrugged. 'Your super was very understanding.'

Carol breathed deeply of the cool air and let the chilly breeze caress her face. She wished there were some way to repay him, or at least to show her gratitude. 'Well,' she said finally, 'it's certainly going to be more comfortable to read in here, thanks to you. I'll be able to work twice as hard now.'

'You know, I do believe you have a point. In fact' – he surveyed the room – 'there's something the two of us could work on tonight. Here, give me a hand with this.' He began tugging the coffee table toward the wall.

'What are you doing?' she asked, already coming forward to help him.

'Clearing away some of this furniture,' he said, grunting with exertion. 'It'll give us more room.'

'Room for what?'

Rosie smiled. 'Why – to dance, of course!'

But it was only Carol who danced that night.

Opening up the book of folk dances seemingly at random, he chose one near the back. 'Here,' he said, handing it to her, 'this one looks interesting.'

'II Mutamentos (The Changes),' she read. 'Of unknown origin.'

This dance is said to mimic, in symbolic terms, the transformation of a worm into a butterfly.

It may be performed either singly or in pairs.

'It looks a little monotonous,' said Carol, studying the diagrams. 'All this spinning…'

'Nonsense,' said Rosie, 'just give it a try. You'll find it more fun than you imagine. Here, I'll play shaman, and you can be the nubile native girl.' Clapping his hands, he began singing in a frail old-man's voice, softly at first, as if to himself, but then with growing enthusiasm.

'Da'moghu… da'foe moghu… riya daeh… '

Shamans? Native girls? What was the old man talking about? 'Wait,' said Carol, trying to hear the beat before taking a step, 'that doesn't sound like Italian.'

'A dialect,' said Rosie, still clapping his hands and nodding 'From Tuscany.'

'Oh.' Carol peered over his shoulder at the book, still hesitant to begin. 'Look, couldn't we do some of the others, instead? The ones near the front look more like fun.'

Rosie smiled patiently and stopped dapping. 'Don't worry, Carol, we'll get to it. We'll get to all the others, if you like.' Gripping her shoulders in a fatherly way, he moved her into the center of the floor. 'But this is the one I think you should try now. Just a practice run.'

'But-'

He raised his hand for silence. 'Believe me, Carol,' he said, 'it's your dance. It's for you.'

And he clapped his hands again, and cocked his head, and sang. And in the center of the little room, to the interminable churning of the air conditioner, she danced.

July Fourteenth

Taking a bath at Poroth Farm was a three-step operation, and Freirs had become adept at it. First it was necessary to turn up the flame on the modern gas-powered hot water heater – a round white tubular affair nearly as tall as a man, which took up much of the bathroom -while simultaneously twisting a faucet in the unit's side, releasing more water into the tank. One then waited half an hour or more, doing chores or checking through whatever assortment of seed catalogues and Bible tracts the postman had brought, or, as was usual in Freirs' case, celebrating the end of morning exercises by snacking on some likely morsel discovered in the cool of the root cellar, where most of the perishables were stored. When the water supply was hot and ready, one returned to the bathroom, turned down the flame and the water, and opened the spigots in the huge old bathtub, stained with age and big enough for three, which stood beside the heater. Finally, after another wait, one could climb into the tub and enjoy a long-overdue soak. It was a somewhat tedious process, but an ultimately rewarding one. Freirs went through it almost every day.

It was half past ten and he was about to perform the first step in the operation. The day was hot and overcast, and as he trudged across the yard toward the farmhouse, his towel around his neck, he found himself wishing once again that he had a car at his disposal – something to take him away from the confined, landlocked atmosphere of the farm. Maybe it's ridiculous to think of spending the entire summer out here, he told himself, not for the first time. I'm clearly not cut out for it. But where, then could he stay? He couldn't just kick that couple out of his apartment; they had it, by rights, till September. And the Poroths were depending on his ninety a week.

The two of them were singing – chanting, praying, he couldn't decide what function it actually served – while they weeded the narrow field adjoining the road. They didn't see him go by. Two of the younger cats and the older tiger-striped male, Azariah, were curled like spectators in the grass, watching them. The field itself, bare when Freirs had first arrived at the farm, was now well covered by a tangle of cucumber vines. 'These are fast growers,' Poroth had told him confidently. 'I figure they'll be ripe by the end of August -just in time to put 'em in your salad.'

Well, maybe he'd still be around then. He would see…

He climbed the steps of the back porch and entered the kitchen. Across the room, one of the wooden chairs was propped against the bathroom door. Without thinking he moved the chair away and pulled the door open.

There was a scrabbling sound. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a grey shape dart past his feet and across the kitchen floor. It was Bwada.

For an instant he deliberated whether he should try to catch her -he knew how wicked those claws could be – but then, to his amazement, the cat dashed herself against the screen door, throwing it open. Moments later she had vanished outside. Jesus! he said to himself, thats a trick she didn't know yesterday.

Sarr and Deborah were standing ankle-deep among the broad leaves of the cukes when, behind them, they heard a commotion. An orange blur was zigzagging through the grass with a silver-grey shape streaking just behind it. Suddenly Azariah came tumbling toward their feet with Bwada practically riding on his back in a frenzy of clawing. In less than a second the two had become a snarling ball of orange and grey, spitting, screaming, with an occasional glimpse of flashing claws and teeth.

A few seconds more and Sarr was upon them, screaming with a rage as great as theirs. A brawny arm stabbed down, and Bwada was hauled twisting and struggling into the air, gripped around the neck. Sarr stalked back toward the house with her, brandishing the animal.