Thomas Tryon - Harvest Home

“She’s an unusual child.” I wondered who the father had been.

“Yeah. She is. She don’t make much trouble for me. We get on fine. It’s hard tryin’ to talk to her sometimes. I mean it’d be nice to have someone who understands what you’re saying.” She sat again. From the sink came the slow drip of water. “Darn that leak,” she said.

“Needs a washer.”

“Lots of things around here need lots of things.”

“You knew Gracie Everdeen?”

Her brow shifted slightly. There was a pause. Then: “You’re full of questions, aren’t you? You interested in Gracie Everdeen?”

“Just trying to get the village history straight.”

“I’ll get it straight for you. Sure I knew Gracie. If it wasn’t for her, we’d still be living where you’re living. It was her who brought the Waste, her who ruined my father, ruined so many around here. She was a sly one, Gracie. Thought she had it all. And she did, for a time. Had Roger, got to be Corn Maiden; she was queen of the May, all right. But things didn’t work out for poor Gracie. I got Roger, I got to be Corn Maiden, and there’s Gracie pushing up daisies in the churchyard. If you want to know what I think about her, I hope she burns in everlasting hell. She ought to have killed herself, or if she hadn’t, someone-” She broke off, controlling her anger. She leaned on her elbows; the scoop of her blouse slackened; I could see the deep firm line between her breasts.

“If you want to know the truth, Gracie was dippy. Pure dippy.”

“You mean crazy?”

“I mean crazy. Crazy with love for Roger, and crazy she couldn’t marry him. That’s what sent her off the deep end.”

“What happened?”

“She was supposed to marry Roger. Then Mrs. Everdeen revoked the banns. That’s what drove Gracie crazy, because her mother wouldn’t let her marry Roger.”

“Why didn’t she want her to marry him? Wasn’t he good enough for her?”

“He was a Penrose! Lived just off the Common. Roger was poor, but the Everdeens never were any great account in the Coombe. People think the Penroses are-” She touched her temple. “But in this case it was the other way around. Gracie’s brains went to pudding.”

“How?”

“Lord, Roger’d picked her for Corn Maiden. That was an honor. What did she do? She tossed the honor back in all our faces, the little fool. Nothing she wouldn’t do to shock people or make them think ill of her, she who had everything, Roger included. Know what she did on Agnes Fair? Roger was shinnying up the pole on the Common, and there goes Gracie up the flagpole in front of the post office in about the same time. They wasn’t watching the Harvest Lord then, let me tell you; they were watching her. Then, when Roger was wrestling, out comes Gracie from the platform and throws a hammer lock on him and tosses him to the ground in front of the whole village. The Corn Maiden putting down the Harvest Lord? She was crazy, I tell you. Then she marches up to old man Deming and curses him out, swearing like a trooper. It wasn’t any wonder she ran off, after that.”

“And you were Corn Maiden in her place.”

“Yes. I was. And I’d be again, if I could. Sophie Hooke, for heaven’s sakes. Why, she and Justin are married . That’s not right. I don’t think that’s right. Nobody does.” She reached for my glass. I did not release it immediately and I could feel the light tracery of her nail against the back of my hand.

“What’re we talking about Gracie for? People’d like to stop thinking about her, if they ever could. You’re got good hands. Nice fingers. Long. I guess that means you’re an artist.” She was rubbing her fingertips over the dark hairs. “Nice,” she said in a husky voice.

“Nice?” I let go the glass. She took it to the sink and put some ice cubes in.

“Nice. I mean, sitting around my kitchen. It’s not often I have gentry sitting at my house.” The cat stirred again as she poured two stiff fingers from the stone jug and brought the glass back, bending over my shoulder to place it on the table. I could smell her scent, not just the perfume but the whole womanly, feminine scent of her. I looked up, felt her hair brush across my eyes. I started to turn away; she leaned insistently and the red mouth came closer, the lips moist, parted. She kissed me. I slid an arm around her neck and held her mouth to mine. I released her in confusion, and she shuddered, burying her lips in my shirt collar, then stepping away. “I knew,” she murmured, and her head nodded as though in private conversation. “I knew.”

It had grown dark outside. I rose. “Sorry. I guess that was starting things that shouldn’t have gotten started.”

She leaned back against the sink, her breasts straining against her blouse. “Shouldn’t have? I’ve been waiting these months for you to start something.” She was running cold water in the sink; her red-nailed fingers sparkled under the gushing faucet. She turned the tap, shook her fingers, and came to me; her arms were around my neck, her face tilted to mine. “I’ve been waiting, and now it’s happened. I knew it would.”

There was a light in her eyes that was not mere lust, but a gleam of triumph. I could feel the drops rolling from her fingertips onto the nape of my neck. I reached up and unclasped her hands. She took them away and placed them on my chest.

“I can feel your heart.” A smile grew from the corners of her mouth. I felt unsteady on my feet, locked my knees so I wouldn’t stagger. “The old stuff getting to you?” She laughed lightly. “You can have a high time on the old stuff.” The invitation was now not only in her eyes but on her lips, in the caress of her fingers as they toyed with the fabric of my shirt under my jacket.

I returned her look with the same level gaze, trying to keep my balance. “Sorry, lady-you have the wrong guy.”

“Don’t want to play?”

“In my own back yard.”

“Do you?” The curve of her brow rose, a mocking curve, questioning the truth of my statement. “Lots of play in your back yard? Sandbox and everything? Tin pail, shovel-playmate?”

“Why not? I’m married-remember?”

Her laugh became hoarse, unattractive. “Still waters don’t run very deep in your case, do they?” she said, half choking, half laughing. “I thought at least you’d like to go wading.” She looked at me another moment, then threw her arms about me, smothering me in her embrace. “I want you.” I could feel the warm throb of her against my thighs. Her mouth was all over my face, then across my lips, my cheeks, kissing my eyes, my brow, the tip of her tongue drawing a wet path to my ear, down the side of my neck.

I grasped her forearms and forced her away from me. Her arms bent, her hands came up, wilted in my grasp. Then they took on a tension, resisting my force. Her eyes flashed, and she ran her tongue over her lips.

“You bastard!” she whispered. The fingers convulsed, became claws, as they sought my shirt and tore at the buttons. I stepped backward, struck by her fury, keeping myself steady only by grasping the back of a chair. “You son of a bitch! Get out of here! Go on, get out.” As she came at me, I retreated to the doorway. She snatched up the glass from the table and dashed the liquor and ice at me. Her face had gone white, contorted in rage. She used words I had never heard a woman speak before. Now she flung the glass at me; I threw up an arm as it grazed my head, and it splintered against the door-jamb. The cat sat up. Tamar stood there looking at me, her fury ebbing. I held my hands up, palms outward, a gesture of futility.

“Sorry, lady,” I said. Turning, I saw her hand come up to her mouth and cover it, the long red nails taking sheen from the light. “Sorry,” I repeated dully. The cat meowed, and I turned to the back-porch doorway and stared in horror.