Harvest Home Part 28

She stared a moment longer, as if she thought I might truly help. Then, "No-you can't. No one can." With a wild, despairing look, she spun and ran across the strip of lawn into the field, stumbling along between the gathered corn shocks, her pale hair streaming behind.

When I had gathered my things together, I went into the kitchen and telephoned Dr. Bonfils in Saxony.

Strangely, he seemed to be expecting my call.

When I came out again, Sophie was a small figure in the distance, crossing the field toward the road as the Widow Fortune's mare appeared around the bend. The buggy slowed, then stopped, and the old lady got down from the seat, and when Sophie came to her she put her arms around her, the blond head resting against the black dress, and I saw the Widow's large hand as it made comforting gestures about Sophie's shoulders.

I started up the drive to my car, then turned back, looking again at the pear tree. I decided that when I painted it I would make it bloom for Sophie Hooke. As it would in the springtime.

The Eternal Return...

Dr. Bonfils had agreed to see me if I could come to his office during his lunch hour; I had said it was important. When the nurse showed me in, he was having a "takeout" hamburger and chocolate milkshake at his desk. "Well, Ned," he began quickly, "I'm sorry. As I told your wife, as right as the old lady is most of the time, unfortunately even she makes mistakes. I'm sure it's a disappointment but surely one you can bear up under, eh?" He opened a little foil packet and squirted ketchup on top of the hamburger. I stared at him.

"I'm sorry, Doctor, I'm confused-what are you talking about?"

"Your wife. She came to see me yesterday. I'm afraid there's been a mistake. She's not going to have a baby."

"Not?"

"No. I'm sorry, but the examination was negative." He took a bite of his hamburger, allowing me time to absorb the shock of his news. "She didn't tell you?"

Beth pa.s.sing me yesterday on the Old Sallow Road. Maggie telling me she had an appointment. Worried that I had been right; which I was.

"She was disappointed, naturally," the doctor went on. "All the signs were there. She's not the first case, of course. A woman wanting a baby, showing all the symptoms of conception. It's a form of physical hysteria."

"Doctor, can you do a test on me? To find out if I'm sterile?"

"Of course: Do you think you might be?"

I told him of Beth's obstetrical problems, but that I had always thought it might be the mumps I had caught from 'Cita Gonzalez when I baby-sat for her.

While we waited for the results of the test, I told the doctor my real reasons for having come to see him. "I wanted to ask if you remember a girl named Grace Everdeen."

"I remember her well. What do you want to know about her?"

"During the summer of 1958, while she was living over at Mrs. O'Byrne's, you were treating her, isn't that so?"

"I was treating her a good while before that."

I looked at him, surprised. "You were? Was she pregnant?"

It was his turn to show surprise. "Pregnant? No, nothing of the sort. As a matter of fact, as far as I know, Grace was still a virgin when she-ah, died."

"You knew she killed herself."

"Certainly."

"Do you know why?"

"I believe I do."

"Was it because of Roger Penrose?"

"Indirectly, I suppose-" He broke off. "Mr. Constantine, what exactly is your interest in the case?"

I said I was a friend of Mrs. O'Byrne's, and that through her I had taken an interest in the tragic story, and was trying to substantiate for her and for myself the facts of Grace's death. The doctor listened, and then, wiping his mouth and fingers, he said, "Grace Everdeen killed herself because she had contracted an incurable disease."

I leaned forward. "Which was-?"

"Acromegaly. It's a not uncommon condition. Did you know Grace was Swedish?"

"No."

"On her mother's side. For some reason, acromegaly seems to have a high incidence among Swedes. It is a condition arising from a hypersecretion of the growth hormone. A pituitary disorder."

"Is it fatal?"

"Often. In its early stages, it can induce in the patient the ability to perform extraordinary feats of strength. Then, as the disease takes hold, the patient suffers a gradual enfeeblement. He becomes emotional, distraught-manic, even. As it was in Grace's case-she was subject for some time to acute depression and delusions. Those are some of the mental stresses. In regard to the physical aspects, in extreme cases acromegaly can produce a giant."

"A giant."

"Indeed. When the adult body has attained its full growth, it stops. But with the incidence of acromegaly, the extremities continue to become enlarged, the hands and feet, the bones and cutaneous tissues of the face. Where skeletal overgrowth happens, the fingers may become excessively long or thickened. The frontal ridge of the head becomes enlarged, the jaw prognathous, the cheekbones k.n.o.bby. It may, as in Grace's case, set the teeth wider apart. The tongue often becomes gross, causing difficulty in talking, and the lips thicken. Generally, the condition produces a monstrous physical change in the patient."

"How long does it take?" The irony of the situation struck me: all this medical information-I had come to find out one thing, and was on the point of discovering several.

"Sometimes the manifestations are slow to reveal themselves; in other cases-like Grace's-it can come fast after the initial onset."

"Not a fairy fairy, but a horse horse," I repeated softly.

He glanced at me, crumpled his napkin, and tossed it in the basket. "In a short while, Grace Everdeen would have been an extremely unfortunate-looking young woman. If she had not run away, I might have been able to arrest the symptoms, but during her absence the disease had taken a fierce hold on her. I reinst.i.tuted the course of X-ray treatment, and I administered large doses of estrogens to slow down the pituitary action. The radiation, however, had to be repeated at two-month intervals, and by the time Grace returned, it was already too late. If you could wait a moment-"

"Of course." He finished his milkshake, then went out, dropping the carton in the wastebasket as he pa.s.sed. When he came in again, he was carrying a large manila folder.

"I kept the X-rays. It was such an unusual case." He flipped a switch on a light panel and ranged half a dozen negatives on the rack. Several showed the entire figure, several the head and torso. One was of the hands, another of the feet. In some of them the light form of the ring chained around the neck appeared.

"Is something wrong?" he said. I was staring at the remarkable shape of the ring.

"No- Please go on."

Before he had completed his comments, his nurse came in with a printed form which she placed in front of him. When she went out, the doctor studied the report for a moment, then looked at me.

"It's as you thought."

"Sterile?"

"I'm afraid so. There weren't any little fellows swimming around. Undoubtedly the mumps."

Well, there it was. Me, mumps: sterile. Such a stupid disease. Much more stupid than Grace's. And less far-reaching. I couldn't have a child. Grace had died. But, leaving the doctor, I knew now that he was wrong about one thing. Grace Everdeen had not chosen to do away with herself. She had been murdered. On the night of Harvest Home.

In the outer office, I paused to ask him one final question. "Tell me, Doctor, how is the Widow's health?"

"Mary Fortune? Why, it's the best. She's old, but she's got a sound heart. At the rate she's going, she's good for a lot of years yet. Providing she doesn't overdo."

I intended to make it my business that the Widow Fortune should not overdo.

I crossed the Lost Whistle Bridge again, and drove back along the Old Sallow Road. Fred Minerva's wagon was pulled up along the roadside where some men were clearing a path through the brush. Others were unloading the kegs of mead and carrying them into the woods. Though several glanced at me, none offered any sign of acknowledgment. When I got to Irene Tatum's orchard, I drove my car behind a shed, ducked across the road, and entered the woods. Hurrying, I found the blazed trail and quickly picked up the stream. I had little time; I knew where the kegs were being taken. When I got to the gap, I went through, scrambled onto the bank, and from there walked into the clearing.

The crow sat in the dark shadows of the pine branches. No wind poured through the gap; there were no moans today. We have skeletons in our closets same as other folks We have skeletons in our closets same as other folks, the Widow Fortune had said. But her skeleton was in no closet; it was hidden in the hollow tree-not the supposed bones of the missing revenuer, but those of the murdered Gracie Everdeen. Then, approaching, I saw the skeleton was no longer hidden; it was gone. The tree tomb was empty.

I might have expected as much. They had come and taken the evidence away. They had killed Gracie and hidden the corpse from chance prying eyes by putting her in the hollow tree, under the vines. But why? Why hadn't they buried her body, or sunk it? Why in the tree, here in the grove? Prying eyes had found it-Jack Stump's. And for that he had been silenced. As I would be, if they learned I knew of it. But the corpus delicti had been removed elsewhere. Yet I knew there was a piece of evidence they had forgotten existed. One that Jack Stump knew of, and still had in his possession.

I fled the grove, the scene of Gracie's murder, and headed toward the river instead of the road. I did not want to go back to the village and to Beth-with the truth I knew I now had to tell her. Following the path of the stream, I tried to work it out. There had been the brutal cranial fracture, where I had supposed the Soakeses had struck down the revenuer with a heavy object. Someone had hit Gracie, causing her death. She had come to Harvest Home, and had been a "disruptive influence." She had been killed then, not two nights later. They had waited two days and then had Irene Tatum say she found the body under the bridge. Then they brought the corn-filled coffin to the cemetery to be buried, while Grace's body had been hidden in the tree.

The stream widened; ahead I could see the river through the trees. I came out on a gra.s.sy bank and looked down into the cove where Beth and I had swum that day. I saw the log I had leaned against. Across the river were the bare tobacco fields, the sheds low against the line of trees rising behind. I lay down on the gra.s.s and leaned my head against the log, thinking.

Beware.

The all-prevailing night.

The filthy bird hanging from her hand. Chicken blood and madness. It was I who was mad. Or if not, I had to do something.

Do something.

We all make our own fate, Robert had said. We all have choices; the thing to do is make the choice. We all have choices; the thing to do is make the choice.

Right or wrong, make the choice.

I felt a tickling in my ear, then along my neck. I looked down to see small insect shapes swarming from the log, pouring out of the pulpy fibers onto my shoulders and down my back. Jumping up, I began stripping off my clothes, then ran down the bank and plunged into the water, rubbing at my skin to dislodge the insects. When I was free of them, I did not come out immediately. I swam, trying to tire myself, and when I came out I lay on the sand in the shallow water, feeling the sun on my body, the water sluicing along my shoulders and legs. I took deep breaths, trying to relax. I placed my hands on my stomach muscles, felt them constrict. I splayed out my fingers, bent them back against the wet sand to relax them, felt the smooth knuckle joint where the wart had been.

What had happened on that night of Harvest Home fourteen years ago? Fourteen years ago tomorrow night? How had Gracie Everdeen been a "disruptive influence," for which she had been killed? Killed? Or executed? Where were her bones now? My speculations, like circles, went round and round, always coming back to the women. What do you talk about at the Widow's? What do you talk about at the Widow's? Oh, just girl talk. Superst.i.tions? Country notions? Perhaps. And in Justin's cornfield, the face with the staring eyes. The little corn G.o.d. G.o.ddess. Mother Earth. Bountiful harvest. Moon. Circles. Choices. Oh, just girl talk. Superst.i.tions? Country notions? Perhaps. And in Justin's cornfield, the face with the staring eyes. The little corn G.o.d. G.o.ddess. Mother Earth. Bountiful harvest. Moon. Circles. Choices.

"Circles," I repeated aloud.

"You're talking to yourself." The voice, followed by a laugh I recognized. I turned my head, looking up at the bank behind me. Tamar Penrose stood in the gra.s.s. She had been wading, her skirt was tucked up; I could see her legs white and glistening, her thighs, her melony b.r.e.a.s.t.s. Her red nails flashed as she tossed her hair back.

Not in shame but in contempt, I rolled onto my stomach, resting my head along my arm, the water sliding around my mouth.

"I talk to myself sometimes," she said. I glanced up at her as she sat in the gra.s.s and dangled her legs over the edge of the bank. She plucked an autumn daisy and twirled it between her fingers. I ventured my question.

She was pulling the petals from the daisy. "Loves me, loves me not. Gracie? How should I remember? I'm too busy with parcel post to keep track of people's comings and goings from this world to another. Loves me, loves me not..."

"What happens on Harvest Home?"

"'What no man may know nor woman tell.' I guess that's the oldest saw in the village. You want to know about Harvest Home? I'll tell you."

She had put flowers in her hair, and the blossoms trailed down among the dark tendrils to her shoulders. She lifted the corn necklace at her breast. "This. This is Harvest Home. And these"-touching the flowers in her hair-"and this"-scooping some earth from the bank and lumping it in her hand. "It's to celebrate this." She opened her hand and looked at it, her voice curiously pitched.

She tossed the lump of clay and it fell near my shoulder. She rose and came slowly down the bank. I put my head down again. I could hear the light splash of her feet and felt a coolness on my back where her form eclipsed the sun. She bent, gently running the tips of her nails between my shoulder blades. I felt her hair brush against me as she came closer. I could feel her knowing fingers toying at the base of my neck.

"You don't say what happens."

"I'm not going to." There was an allure in her voice, as though she wanted me to urge her. "It's just what people do."

I shrugged her fingers away. They immediately returned, kneading the cords of my neck. Despite the coldness of the water, against the sandy grit, I could feel a stirring: loin l.u.s.t. I pulled away. "And Jack Stump. Is that what people do? Savage their fellow-man?"

"It was necessary." She spoke lightly, as if the matter were of no consequence.

"Why not have killed him?"

"I could have. I'm very strong. Feel how strong."

"You b.i.t.c.h."

"Yes." An affirmation, a caress, both.

With my head turned away, I called her other names.

"Yes. But feel me. Feel my skin." She took my hand and invited my touch. "Feel how soft." I s.n.a.t.c.hed my hand away, swore at her. She accepted my abuse willingly, her fingers gliding over my flesh as I accused; and as I accused, beneath me I could feel myself growing harder.

I spoke angrily. She had silenced the peddler, had cut his tongue and st.i.tched him. Still she caressed me. Yes, she answered in a small voice, she had done these things. "With these hands." Ran them over my shoulders, down my spine to my b.u.t.tocks, my legs. I pulled away. "Grace Everdeen died on Harvest Home."

"Yes."

I could feel my hardness in the sand, and as though knowing it, she murmured things that sent the blood coursing to where she commanded it.

"She didn't kill herself," I said.

"No."

"She was murdered." I looked at her quickly, saw the answer in her eyes. "You killed her."

"Yes."

"Jesus."

"Jesus saves. But not Grace. She came. To Harvest Home. Where she had no right. She was diseased. Unclean. She couldn't be Corn Maiden, and she didn't want me to be. She came to blight the crops. To blight Roger, if she could. But she couldn't have him. I did. She came, and I hit her with my hoe. Here." She had straddled me, her hair brus.h.i.+ng my shoulders as she bent and laid her fingers on my temple, showing me the place. "I killed her like she should have been killed. She was put in the tree so she would be there for all the Harvest Homes that came after. So she could watch. You want to know what happens at Harvest Home? I'll tell you. They make the corn."

"They-"

"Make the corn! Not like in the play. But really-truly make-the-corn. Roger and I, we made the corn together. Missy is Roger Penrose's child. We made her that night. At Harvest Home. Justin will make the corn. With Sophie. If Sophie can have a baby from it, it will be good. Then there'll be a surer chance of good crops."

"You had a baby and there was a drought."

Her eyes flashed. "The drought was Gracie's! And Missy's the best thing ever happened to this village!"

I loathed her. Her fleshy weight made my stomach heave.

I spread my palms against the pebbles and thrust upward, toppling her sidewise into the water. A light danced in her eyes, a triumphant gleam. I rose to my knees and she uttered a tiny mewling whimper as she saw what her touch had erected. She put out her hand; before she could reach me I leaped up; she lay back with a moan. I stood over her, the sun at my back, my shadow slicing her in half.