Harvest Home Part 5

Just now he seemed embarra.s.sed by the flutter his presence was creating as the girls pressed closer about him, and I wondered why all the fuss?

"I've got gooseberry tarts in my basket, Justin," said one of the girls coyly, and another hinted about her raisin pie; a third, making sheep's eyes, asked if he were partial to stuffed eggs.

"Who will it be today, Justin?" the first asked, putting her hand on his arm. "Yes, who will it be?" said the second; then they were all demanding to know of Justin who he thought "it" would be.

There were more voices and laughter as other girls joined the circle, and calls and shouting, and constant comings and goings, and more newcomers. Worthy Pettinger arrived on his tractor, and from the expressions of some close by, it appeared the noisy gusto of his old John Deere was an affront to their ears.

"Ain't Missy the prettiest thing in her dress," cried Irene Tatum in her gravelly voice, while others agreed, parting and forming an aisle through which Tamar Penrose led the child onto the Common. "Did you pick your sheep, Missy?" someone asked respectfully, and "Good Missy," another said, reaching to touch her ribbons.

Pallid, thin, with bony joints and brittle-looking limbs, and oblivious to the interest her arrival was causing, the child was regarding me gravely. Even braided and in ribbons, her red hair looked lank and limp, and I noted again the spattering of freckles across her nose.

Next to appear was Jack Stump. He wheeled his peddler's rig onto the gra.s.s with a cacophony of tinware, sprang from his seat, and hopped about dropping the canvas tatters that pa.s.sed for awnings on his cart and lowering the panels to display his wares. Now he produced a scratched and battered fiddle from one of the compartments, and then a soda-pop box, which he stood on as he began sawing away on the instrument.

The music was suddenly and thoroughly drowned out as, with horn blatting, a car careened in a wide circle at the edge of the Common; I recognized the pink Oldsmobile belonging to the Tobacco City group. Doors banged open and the five big and beery-looking Soakes boys got out; then, from behind the wheel, came bristling Old Man Soakes himself. Their arrival caused evident consternation to the musician, for the fiddling ceased abruptly, the instrument was whisked from sight, Jack Stump scrambled onto his seat, and, with kettle-ware crashing, he disappeared into the crowd.

Old Man Soakes's look was grim as he waited while his offspring freed a galvanized tub of ice and beer from the trunk of the car and lugged it into the shade of a tree, where they flopped on the gra.s.s and began popping tops and pa.s.sing the cans among themselves. Then the father busied himself at the trunk, bending to set out for sale an a.s.sortment of home-sewn stuffed canvas decoys.

Making my way through the crowd that now separated us, I found Beth and Kate talking to Worthy Pettinger.

"Worthy's offered to show us around the fair," Beth said, and as we moved off together I saw that Kate's lively interest in the boy was masked by an elaborate show of indifference as he pointed out various sights. We watched the livestock compet.i.tion, which had already begun; then the pie contest, where Robert Dodd was chief among the judges; then the trained bear; and the Punch-and-Judy show, a small, cheapjack affair that reminded me of one Beth and I had seen years before in Paris. While Judy a.s.saulted Punch from one side of the stage, a white wraith-like figure beat him with a stick on the other, and the sorry victim fended off both spouse and ghost with equal vigor. When we left the tent, I made further reference to the battling phantom, and asked if Worthy had heard tales of ghosts around Cornwall Coombe.

"You mean the Ghost of Soakes's Lonesome?" He shrugged. "Folks around here are dumb enough to believe all kinds of things. I guess ghosts are the least of 'em."

As we went along, Beth's attention was continually diverted by the various home arts and handicrafts displayed at the booths: quilted bedspreads, crocheted counterpanes, hand-woven materials, figures cleverly carved and whittled from pine, little dolls, basketwork. "They could make a fortune selling these down in New York," she said.

Some distance away, I glimpsed the Widow Fortune sitting behind a booth, talking energetically with Sophie Hooke, and at the same time doing a sharp business in the honey trade. Other booths had pickles and preserves for sale, fresh garden produce and dairy things. Strolling among the tents and booths, I was interested in the workmanship embellishing the canvas sides: primitive, country-type designs, crudely but gracefully executed with the naivete of cave paintings. There were suns and moons and stars, various animals, a horse here, a cow there, a barn, a stick-figure man. And, everywhere, corn: sheaves of corn and shocks of corn and ears of corn, people growing, harvesting, cooking, eating, storing corn. Corn not only in its facsimile, but in reality, some of the tent entrances being framed by bound shocks and festooned with garlands of dried husks and leaves, and bunches of unsh.e.l.led ears, their kernels yellow, red, brown, some variegated with all three.

Our guide identified it as Indian corn, breaking an ear off and tendering it to Kate with a smile. He seemed to sense her feeling of awkwardness and kept up an easy line of conversation which, while directed at Beth and me, was designed to make our daughter less self-conscious.

King the Pig, he a.s.sured us, was bound to win the hog compet.i.tion. Farmers thereabouts had a way of letting their pigs stay penned up, leaving them to root among their own filth. He had persuaded Irene Tatum to try a new method, that of building King a movable trailer home. When the ground beneath became soiled, Worthy would drive over with his tractor, hook up, and move the pen to a fresh location.

"Pigs don't like like to be dirty," he explained earnestly, "any more than people do. Feed them grain like a horse, give them plenty of water for washing, and keep them off the dirty ground." to be dirty," he explained earnestly, "any more than people do. Feed them grain like a horse, give them plenty of water for washing, and keep them off the dirty ground."

He went on speaking of the things that were nearest his heart, talking with neither constraint nor pretension, but in a frank, affable manner. He had none of the cruder aspects one might expect in the rural character, revealing a sensitivity to both people and surroundings. Though his frame seemed slight for heavy farm work, his complexion was ruddy and healthy, and he had a lithe, agile way of carrying himself that hinted at untapped reserves of strength.

Next, he pointed out the teams of horses being readied for the horse-drawing contest, and the place where the wrestling matches would be held. One of the largest of the Soakes boys, Roy, had come 'cross-river to take on Justin Hooke, and though Roy had more weight, Justin was stronger, and sure to win. From the way Worthy spoke, I could see Justin was something of a hero to him, too. Still, he planned to take the pole-shinny compet.i.tion himself.

"'Course, it's better for things if the Harvest Lord wins, but he can't win every everything."

"The Harvest Lord?" Beth asked, and Worthy explained. This singular honor had been bestowed on Justin Hooke at Agnes Fair seven years before. He had been crowned at Spring Festival, and it was this traditional role he would continue to a.s.sume through the weeks of harvest; a pageant was to be held in the Grange hall some weeks hence-the Corn Play, as it was called-where his queen would be crowned. She was called the Corn Maiden, and Sophie Hooke had been chosen for this part.

"Who chose them?" I asked.

"Justin was elected by vote, and he chose Sophie himself," Worthy said.

"Oh, look!" Beth had stopped to admire a collection of ivory jewelry on display at a booth. She picked up a pair of earrings and held them to her ears. "Soup bones," Worthy laughed. The pieces-brooches, rings, and the like-were made locally, carved and engraved from odd pieces of bone. They were worked in the elaborate scrimshaw fashion of the old whaling sailors, and the ivory-like patina came from patient sanding and waxing.

By now we had made a complete circuit of the fair and found ourselves back where we had started. Beth leaned on the jewelry booth counter to pick a stone from her shoe. "Listen," she said, "I'm about done in. Why don't I get the picnic hamper and find the Dodds? We can meet under that big tree and see the matches from there."

"Maybe Kate would like to watch from the platform with the other girls," Worthy said, pointing out a wooden structure at the side of the field where the Corn Maiden and her court would be seated for the events. Kate accepted, though she remained silent as Beth invited Worthy to picnic with us. When I had got the hamper from the car trunk and Beth had reminded me not to forget Kate's Medihaler in the glove compartment, she went to find the Dodds.

"Mr. Constantine," Worthy said. "I'd like to take Kate to see King the Pig, if it's all right with you. He's sure to get a blue ribbon." He pushed back the wedge of blue-black hair that kept falling across his eyes, and waited politely for my answer.

I said I supposed that even a Kate could look at a King, so long as she wasn't late for lunch. I watched them go off, then went back to the jewelry booth and purchased the bone earrings Beth had admired.

Nearby, the trunk of the Oldsmobile was still open, and Old Man Soakes appeared to be doing a brisk if sub-rosa trade in the decoy business. One farmer after another stole up to slip him some money and carry off not only a canvas duck but a pint of home-brew as well.

Not far from Soakes sat a group of old men making designs from strips of cornhusks, braiding them into simple but elegant figures, some like pinwheels, others like fans or stars or helixes, still others whose shapes were the product of fancy. I took my sketchbook from my case and my pen from my pocket, and began drawing. One of the men looked up; I asked what they were making.

"Decorations for Harvest Home," he replied; "for good luck."

"Aye, good luck," said a dry voice. It was the bell ringer, Amys Penrose, chewing on a straw, sourly watching the men weaving. "They say the devil makes work for idle hands, so if you fellers can't find the devil one way you'll find him another. Me, I'd spend the rest of my days loafin', if I could."

"Ain't got too many left, have you, Amys?" asked one of the gentlemen, winking at his cronies.

Amys tickled his ear with the tip of the straw and thought a moment. "Well," he said finally, "and if I don't, I wouldn't give up what's left of 'em to be about such d.a.m.n foolishness. Look there, will you."

Some farmers went by leading a sheep on a rope. Missy Penrose suddenly appeared from the crowd, put her doll aside, dropped to her knees, and threw her arms around the animal's neck. The little bronze bell tinkled as she buried her head in its woolly pelt, while pa.s.sing mothers smiled and turned to their offspring. The bell ringer made a shredded sort of sound in his throat, then spat.

"Don't be so irksome all the time, Amys," one of the old men chided, his fingers working nimbly with the straw in his lap. "Content yourself with the s.p.a.ce the Reverend Buxley's reserved for you in his churchyard."

"Aaarch." Amys spat again. "Don't tell me them cheap boxes the church totes us off in ain't goin' straight to worms before year's end. Lookit young McCutcheon-don't you just know them worms is already eat up half that coffin and all of Loren."

"Bury the dead," said one of the men, nodding philosophically. The group worked in silence for a time, and Amys stood hunched against the tree trunk, toying with his straw. I continued with my pen, sketching one face after another, and several pairs of hands.

"Who's it to be today, do you reckon?" one of the gentlemen asked after a time.

"Talk among the ladies allows it's bound t'be Jim Minerva," another responded.

"Still, it's hard to say," a third put in.

"Fine fellow, young Minerva," said the first. "Father's a good farmer, got a new barn, Jim's got growin' brothers to help out. Couldn't go wrong there."

"Some of Fred's bad luck might have rubbed off on the boy," the second replied.

"Luck's luck," Amys observed dourly, "which is what folks around here need the most of."

While this mystifying conversation proceeded, I had turned my attention to Missy's doll, making several quick sketches of its incredible appearance. Her mother pulled her aside as Jack Stump reappeared on his rig, banging a kitchen spoon against the row of kettles and offering jovial nods right and left as he doffed his hat. In his wake came an excited group of women, Irene Tatum among them, proudly showing off a blue satin ribbon with a rosette attached. "Whatcha say, ladies," Jack greeted them. "Whatcha say, Irene Tatum? Congratulations are in order, yes? That's a swell sow you got there. Chinee Polack, ain't she?"

Mrs. Tatum gave a rowdy laugh. "It's a Poland China, Jack Stump, and it's a he, not a she. Can't you tell the difference?"

"He's don't have t.i.ts."

"You're right there, Jack. t.i.ts on a boar hog is 'bout as useful as you are. You know where Poland is, Jack Stump?"

The peddler scratched thoughtfully, hair, beard, armpits.

"Poland's north of It'ly, ain't it? And China's due east, 1 reckon. That what Marco Polo discovered."

A red face appeared among the onlookers. "Marco Polo's the one sailed around the world, ain't he?" asked one of the Soakes brothers.

"You better get yourself back in school, boy," Jack called. "This here Marco Polo's the one fought the heathen and went into China and discovered spaghetti."

"China?" said Edna Jones. "I always thought spaghetti's Eyetalian."

"'Course it's Italian, you bewitching creature." Like a magician, Jack produced a flowered scarf from a drawer and flourished it in her face. "Marco Polo found it growin' in China over the sea and he brought back some seeds and planted them in Rome and that's why spaghetti's Eyetalian. Listen, Doris Duke's got spaghetti plantations all over Honolulu."

"Peddler, you're an ignorant fool!" Old Man Soakes had loomed from beside the Oldsmobile, looking dangerous. "You never been to school, you can't even write your name. Why don't you shut your mouth before someone shuts it for you? Spaghetti's nothin' but flour-and-water paste!"

For a moment I thought Jack would be forced to retreat from this spate of fury, but, taking heart from the crowd, he held his ground, setting up his pop-bottle box and stepping onto it. s.n.a.t.c.hing open a drawer on his rig, he flashed a bright chrome gadget.

"Whatcha say, ladies, lookee here what I got for you, the finest little kitchen helper in the world, garnteed to do twelve -count 'em, twelve-diff'rent household jobs, and all for the price of sixty-nine cents, a fair price which goes with the day." household jobs, and all for the price of sixty-nine cents, a fair price which goes with the day."

Tamar Penrose stood listening to the spiel, holding the child Missy in front of her. During Jack's come-on, I had been made aware of the postmistress, and I took the opportunity to a.s.sess her evident charms.

Scarcely what would be termed a beauty, Tamar Penrose had good skin and a head of rioting dark hair. She was taller than most of the women about her, with a full, firm body, wide hips, but a narrow waist. She held herself in a lazy, though erect posture, so her b.r.e.a.s.t.s strained under the bright print of her dress, showing her nipples to provocative effect. Her lips were very red against the pale skin, and when her hands moved on the child's shoulders at her waist, I saw that the fingernails were lacquered a matching color. And though I never caught her looking directly at me, still I had the feeling she was observing me. As for the child, her pale eyes were now focused on a farmer standing close by, sharpening a sickle on a handstone.

Jack's audience having thinned appreciably, I stepped over to the corner of his cart just as Old Man Soakes came striding up. He grasped Jack by his coat lapels, whisked him around to the back of the cart, and spoke in a rough, angry voice.

"I wasn't doin' nothin," I heard Jack protest feebly.

"Never mind what you wasn't doin'," Soakes replied, "stay out of them woods. You've had your warnin'." He strode back to his place at the rear of the Oldsmobile while Jack reappeared, his fingers shaking as he adjusted his jacket.

"d.a.m.ned grizzly is what he is," he muttered, shooting a look from the corner of his eye. "Them woods ain't private property, y' know." He rubbed the stubble on his chin with the back of his hand.

"What happened in there this morning, Jack?" I asked. He stopped his hand and looked at me closely, as though deciding whether or not to take me into his confidence.

"As strange a thing as I ever hope to see," he said after a moment, his eye on the bent back at the Oldsmobile trunk. "And I seen it with these here two eyes, which is as good as they come. Twenty-twenty vision, I got-"

"But what happened?" I persisted. "What did you see?"

"I seen a ghost," he whispered.

I stepped closer to catch his every word. "What sort of ghost?"

"A ghost that once was dead, but now's come alive. A living ghost, as sure as I stand here. And it was screamin'." He ducked another look at Old Man Soakes who accepted some money from a pa.s.ser-by in exchange for a bottle and then slammed the trunk lid with a loud crash. Straightening, the man cast another baleful glance in our direction.

"Later," Jack whispered; he left me standing by the cart and quickly hopped over to the farmer who was sharpening his sickle with the handstone.

"Whatcha say, Will Jones, whatcha say," he began, flicking a glance to where Old Man Soakes stood at the edge of the crowd, still watching. a.s.suming an air of nonchalance, Jack reached for the sickle and tested its edge with his thumb. "Lemme tellya, Will," he said to the farmer, "you can sharpen up that there sickle a lot faster on a wheel."

"Haven't got one," the farmer replied.

"Come along, I got one on my rig." Jack brought the farmer back to the rig, moving me aside to reveal under a flap a grindstone clamped to a piece of the cart frame. Instructing the farmer to turn the handle, he laid the blade to the wheel and proceeded to grind the edge. Sparks flew up like meteors, and the peddler c.o.c.ked his head this way and that, ostensibly checking the angle, but I could see he had an eye on the departing back of Old Man Soakes. The child Missy left her mother's side and slowly approached, watching the shower of sparks shooting into the air.

"Missy," Tamar Penrose called insistently, but the child paid no attention as Jack put his thumb to the blade to test it. "Hot d.a.m.n, now that's sharp, Will." The blade glistened like a silver crescent.

"Pretty good," the farmer agreed.

"Good, h.e.l.l! It's perfect! There y'are, Will, sharp as a dime and no charge." He handed over the implement, leaped onto the saddle of his rig, and started off.

"Jack," I called, hoping for the rest of his story, but he only shook his head and, without a backward look, pedaled away into the crowd.

When Tamar came to take Missy's hand, the child hung back for an instant, her bleak eye lingering on the gleaming sickle blade in Will Jones's hand. Turning, her look fell on me; she gazed for a long silent moment, and I suddenly felt the hairs on the back of my neck tingle as she continued to stare, her body a trifle stiff, her mouth slack. Then she permitted herself to be led away.

I stood alone for a moment, trying to examine the sensation I had felt, a fugitive feeling I could scarcely define. I moved into the crowd, my eye on the tree where Beth was already laying out the picnic things. Though I saw Beth plainly, it was the child's face that hovered before me; and it was perhaps for this reason alone that I forgot to take Kate's Medihaler from the glove compartment of the car.

7.

"An elegant repast, my dear," Professor Dodd said to Beth, wiping his lips with one of the checkered napkins. "You have found the way to my heart. Now if you're truly good, Margaret will give you her recipe for old New England succotash. Most people use salt pork, but she makes it the old Indian way."

"How did they do it?"

"They baked a dog with it."

"Oh, Robert, really, the Constantines aren't going to believe a thing you tell them if you keep that up." Maggie Dodd took a cigar from Robert's breast pocket, rolled it between her palms, clipped the end, and held the match while he lighted it.

"I a.s.sure you the Indians considered it a great delicacy," Robert continued. Having finished our picnic lunch, we were sitting under the tree-Robert Dodd in a lawn chair, Worthy Pettinger close to Kate-eating Maggie's chocolate mousse. Beth, who was wearing my gift of the bone earrings, stretched and lay back on the gra.s.s, looking up at the sky.

"It's hard to believe places like this exist anymore. It seems like a-" She groped for the word.

"Throwback," Maggie supplied.

"No such thing," said Robert.

"I mean someone found it and forgot to throw it back."

"Margaret's always making jokes at the village's expense," Robert said.

I was quick to recognize the flash of intimate response between the couple as Maggie leaned and took Robert's napkin, shaking off the crumbs and folding it. Watching them, I felt we truly had found friends. To me, Maggie personified that thing I had been trying to express to myself about the villagers, an air of simple, placid grace, with her unmade-up features, her still-clear skin and eyes, her neatly coiffed hair whose style I was sure had not changed since she was a young woman. Her voice was low and serene, with a kind of easy, humorous lilt to it: an imperturbable woman.

"What Robert means," she went on, "is just what you're trying to say: there's a sort of timelessness about Cornwall Coombe that often strikes outsiders-or even newcomers-as unusual."

Beth lighted a cigarette and blew smoke through her nose. "What does it mean-Coombe?"

"It's an English word-Celtic, actually," Robert explained. "Means a valley or a sort of hollow. I suppose it implies a certain remoteness, which we are given to hereabouts. Margaret's partially correct: there are a number of 'throwbacks' around here, like certain of the names which have an ancient and venerable history. Take the Lost Whistle Bridge, for instance, which is a corruption of 'Lostwithiel,' one of the towns in old Cornwall." He pointed his cigar to the house next to the post office. "And when Gwydeon Penrose built that house over there, he named it Penzance House, but it's come down to us as 'Penance' House."

The horse-drawing contests had begun, and presently the Widow Fortune appeared with some friends, seating herself at a table under a nearby tree. The old lady set down her piece-bag, her splint basket, and her black leather valise, then arranged her skirts and shears while others drew around her and opened various baskets and hampers from which they produced an array of provender. Another lady came with a tall gla.s.s of tea, holding it while the Widow reached in her basket and broke off a sprig of mint, crushed it, and put it in the tea.

"Say h.e.l.lo to the Widow, dear," Maggie prompted Robert.

"How do, Widow," Robert called, and she called back, putting her tea aside as one of the ladies offered her an ear of corn in a napkin.