Thomas Tryon - Harvest Home

I remembered how Kate’s attacks would seemingly abate for a time, only to return with increased vigor, and I wondered if this was not merely one of those stages. The old woman seemed to read my mind, for she rested her hand on my arm and exerted a firm pressure, as though to buoy up my spirits.

“She’ll be all right now. Don’t worry yourself, and tell your wife not to worry. And whatever you do, don’t fuss the child. Act as though nothing happened.” Brushing aside my expressions of thanks, she employed the shears hanging at her waist to snip an errant thread from the cuff of her sleeve; then, beaming behind her spectacles, she patted my cheek. When she had accepted Maggie’s arm and permitted herself to be led away, I remained staring at the useless Medihaler in my hand, then absently slipped it into my pocket and followed after the others, wondering how the old woman had effected a cure at once so swift and so miraculous. And though I did not realize it then, it was not the last time the Widow Fortune was to rescue Kate, to rescue Beth, and to alter all our lives.

An hour later, it was as if nothing untoward had occurred. Kate went off with Worthy again, while Beth, calm now, talked with the Dodds. The Widow had removed her chair to its former spot under the other tree, and I could see by her impatient gestures how she dismissed among the circle of ladies grouped around her all talk of the earlier incident. With the heat, the women had drawn well into the shade of the overhead branches, digesting their lunch, as well as such tidbits of gossip as still remained unconsumed from the morning’s repast.

Though I could not explain it, I felt that a great weight had been lifted from me, and that the threatening fact of Kate’s illness had suddenly dissolved; the occasional looks the Widow Fortune directed to me as she conversed only served to substantiate this feeling.

Leaving Maggie and Robert engaged with Beth, and taking my sketchbook, I made myself inconspicuous while I ambled closer to the Widow’s group, where I uncapped my pen and began to sketch the group of ladies putting their heads together and talking. The Widow took out her glasses and inspected the lenses for lint, then put them on. “Mrs. Zee, I believe we might bring out our quilts now.” She smoothed down her apron while the other ladies drew their chairs closer and took quilts from their baskets. The complacent bleat of a sheep rose in the torpid air as it stood patiently in a wooden tub while some men washed it. Overhead, the sun nickered through the green canopy of leaves, glinting on the rims of the Widow’s spectacles, the thimble on her finger, and her shears as she scissored out a piece of bright cloth and pinned it to her quilt.

“Wa’n’t Justin the marvel today?” Mrs. Brucie said. Mrs. Zalmon put her hand to her breast. “I’ve never seen such a handsome Harvest Lord.”

“Worthy Pettinger’d be obliged if he didn’t try to make such mischief,” Mrs. Green said.

“Such jackanapes tricks,” Mrs. Zalmon said.

“Don’t it put you in mind of somethin’?” Mrs. Brucie said.

“It surely does!” Irene Tatum pulled up a chair and flopped. She had a piece of newspaper, which she pleated, and began fanning herself. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say Worthy’s gone off his rocker just like the bad one.” A chain of looks went around the circle like small, silent explosions.

“Hush, now,” the Widow Fortune ventured gently.

“I’ve said it before so I’ll say it again; she was a bad one.” Irene Tatum’s tongue was sharp, as if she kept it whetted on a stone, ready to carve on all occasions.

“A bad apple spoils the barrel,” said Mrs. Green.

“Went bad long before Agnes Fair,” said Mrs. Brucie.

“We gave her honors and she flaunted them in our faces,” said Irene Tatum.

“Hush, now, Irene.” The Widow’s needle flashed. “‘The evil men do lives after them, the good is oft interred…’ Some things are best not spoken of. Leave her in peace.”

“Never find no peace, Grace Everdeen,” declared Irene hotly.

“Goodnight nurse!” the Widow exclaimed, then deftly changed the subject. “I never saw such a leap as Worthy made. A daredevil is what he is.”

Mrs. Brucie shook her head. “Devil, yes. The boy holds contrary notions. Let one get ideas, and they’ll all get them, and then where are you? On the verge, on the pure and simple verge. Widow, oughtn’t you to talk to the boy?”

“Worthy?” The Widow looked surprised. “Why, Worthy’s nice as pie. And a good boy, I’ll be bound.” She drew out a length of cotton and rethreaded her needle.

“Well,” Mrs. Green said firmly, “if anyone’s to be chose, it’s sure to be Jim Minerva, mark my word. I’ll put my corn and stock to wager.”

Though I found the conversation puzzling, wondering who was to be chosen and for what purpose, and by what means, I was forced to smile at the agreeable circle.

“Dear sakes,” the Widow said, “if that sheep’s not positively snowy.” The men had rinsed the animal’s coat, and one of them lifted it from the tub and set it on its feet to dry in the sun; another retied the bell around its neck. While the women continued together, sewing and gossiping in their group, the unoccupied men likewise drew off together, meditatively picking their teeth, an easy lackadaisical drone to their voices, their attention occasionally directed to the sheep’s bell, whose soft tinkle hung in the air as the washers brushed the white woolly coat, none of them speaking, all of them seeming to be waiting.

A little distance away, Missy Penrose stood stock-still, idly staring up at the sky where a silvery jet traced a white contrail across the blue. The Widow called out to a passerby, “Miss Clapp, take her out o’ the sun. Out o’ the sun, I say. It’s too hot. She’ll never last till they’re ready.” Miss Clapp brought the child under the tree, where the Widow took her on her lap. She rummaged in her piece-bag, produced a length of twine which she tied in a loop, and began showing Missy how to do cat’s cradle. The old lady seemed at pains to amuse the child, and when they had played for a time, she set Missy on the grass and resumed her stitching.

Mrs. Green looked up at the church clock. “Soon it’ll be time.”

“Soon,” said Mrs. Brucie.

I felt a touch on my shoulder, and turned to find Beth beside me, watching me sketch. She smiled, then walked across the grass and circled the tree until she stood behind the Widow, where she looked down at her work.

“It’s a beautiful quilt.”

The Widow smiled up at her. “Bit o’ fancywork. A way to pass the time.”

“Why, it’s Noah and the Ark.”

“Aye, dear, it’s only lackin’ two giraffes and the dove.”

“How long does it take to make one like that?” Beth asked.

“Depends. Four or five of us can finish this off before the moon goes a full quarter. What you ought to do, dear, is try a bit of fancywork yourself. Everyone in these parts sews. Set a spell, dear. You start savin’ your hand-me-downs and worn-outs, you’ll have enough to begin quilting right off. Never throw nothin’ away, that’s what my granny used to say.”

I smiled to myself; the idea appealed to Beth, I could tell.

“Here, dear, let me thread up a needle,” Mrs. Zalmon said. “Mrs. Brucie, pick out a patch there, can you? See-you just pin it on, then it’s ready to be stitched.”

Beth glanced over at me with a smile, her expression clearly saying, My God, look at me-I’m in a sewing circle .

Later it cooled slightly, the shadows began to lengthen as the sun dropped, and the Common settled into somnolence. The air was still and heavy and smelled faintly sour, the odor of weeds or grass cuttings. The pennants hung limp and tired on the booths. No traffic passed, no voices called, no dogs barked. All was silence.