Thomas Tryon - Harvest Home

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 damn 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 passing 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 space 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 tits.”

“You’re right there, Jack. Tits 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. Snatching 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.”

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 assess 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 breasts 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.