Thomas Tryon - Harvest Home

“I bought the Widow a sewing machine.”

“Did you?”

“From us both. A little present.”

“Did she like it?”

“She seemed pleased. She wants you to show her how to use the automatic bobbin.”

“Of course.” A silence.

I said, “Good soup.”

“Black bean. I put some sherry in it.”

“I can taste it.”

I looked at her over the ironstone tureen between us. “It needs a little salt, I think,” she said. I passed her the silver cellar and she added a shake to her cup.

“I was at the Hookes’ today,” I said.

“How are they?”

“Fine.”

She was staring at the monogram on the napkin, an elegantly scrolled “E” in thick embroidery. “Elizabeth,” she said.

“Hm?”

“It was my mother’s name.”

“I know.”

She traced the figure of the letter with her nail. “I can remember her.”

“Your mother?”

She nodded; a little smile. “I can remember the smell of her soap-Pears’ it was-and I can remember her talking to me. She and Father had separate rooms, and in her bedroom there was a blue wicker chaise with a pocket in the arm for magazines or whatever. I can remember the chaise made a sound-the wicker, I suppose.”

“But, Beth, you were only two-”

“I know. But I can remember. She had a tea gown-it was rose-colored pongee, I think, or some kind of silk, and it had lace cuffs.”

I was astonished. I was certain it was impossible for people to have such early memories. “And she sang to me, naturally” — a little half-laugh. “It was a song about a bird. Something about Jenny Wren. Then Father would come in and I would be taken to the nursery.”

“By the nurse?”

“No. Mother. She carried me. There was lace on her collar, too.”

“And then?”

“Then she was dead. She just wasn’t there anymore. Only the nurse, and Father. Don’t let your soup get cold.”

“I’m not.”

She was crying. I was aghast. Big tears shone in the candlelight and rolled down her cheeks. I reached for her hand; she put it in her lap with the napkin.

“Beth-I’m sorry.” She bit her lip, ran her fingers through her hair, laughed, a small inconclusive laugh. She looked around the room, at the walls above the wainscoting.

“I love that paper.”

It was a copy of an antique paper showing ships in a Chinese harbor, with men in coolie hats loading tea aboard. We called it the Shanghai Tea Party. “It’s a handsome room, don’t you think?”

“Yes.” I waited until she got control of herself again. “You’re not sorry?”

“About what?”

“That we came.”

“No. I’m not sorry. I’m very glad we came.” She gave this last an emphasis that had a touch of defiance about it, as though she were determined to make it work at all costs.

“More soup?” I picked up the ladle, heavy monogrammed silver. Another curly “E.”

“Yes, please.”

I filled her plate, then mine. She was quiet a moment, then said, “Look how the leaves are falling. I hate to see them go. It seems so final, somehow.”

“There’s always the spring.”

“The Eternal Return.”

“What?”

“Just a phrase.”

It was; still, I had the feeling she hadn’t coined it, but had heard it somewhere. She started crying again. I put down my spoon. “Oh, Beth-”

“I’m going to have a baby.”

“Huh?”

“A baby. I missed my period. It must have been that night we drank the mead. I’m going to have a baby.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

The Widow had said news, news to home. I couldn’t speak, but reached for Beth’s hand, which now she let me hold.

“How long have you known?”

“Since-since the day of Kate’s accident.”

I saw it then. She had been waiting for me to come home to tell me the news, and when I came it was from Tamar’s house, with lipstick on my shirt and buttons off. No wonder she had got so angry. All these weeks she had been carrying the secret, had been frightened. I knew what she must have been feeling.

“Nobody knows yet. Except the Widow, of course. And Maggie.”

I felt a pang of disappointment that Maggie had been told before me, but I guessed I’d had it coming, after the Tamar business. She let me kiss the clenched knuckles of her fingers, and I told her how glad I was.

“It’ll be born in the spring. Just before Spring Festival.” She fingered the monogram again. “Perhaps Elizabeth.”

“If it’s a girl.”

“Yes. And if it’s a boy-”

“Please, not Theodore Junior.”

She smiled. “No, not Theodore Junior.”

“What, then?”

She folded her fingers under her chin and stared thoughtfully out the window. “I have to ask Missy.”

“What?”

“I have to ask Missy,” she repeated.

I was shocked. “I’m not going to have that birdbrain naming any kid of mine-”

“We must. She wants us to.”

“Who?”

“The Widow.” She caught my look. “That’s little enough, isn’t it?” The terrible picture of the child’s bloodied hands was spinning through my brain. “After what she’s done for us. I want our baby to be special.”

“Of course it’ll be special. But-”

“We’ll have to rake the lawn again.” She laid aside her napkin, rose, and went to the window, where she stood, not saying anything, but just looking out. A long moment passed, and I suddenly had the feeling she had forgotten I was there. I went behind her and put my hands on her shoulders and drew her back to me.

“I don’t know what we’ll do,” she said, “now that Worthy’s gone. All the things that need looking after.”

“We’ll get someone else. When they’ve finished harvesting.”

“Yes.” She sounded faraway. “Harvest Home will soon be here. Worthy won’t be in the play. I wonder where he went,” she added musingly.

“Dunno,” I said. I half heard a noise on the stairs as Beth turned to me. “He just said he wanted to go away and-” I broke off; she was staring at me.

“He told you he was going away?”

“Yes. That day we fixed the chimneys.”

“And you didn’t do anything to stop him?”

“How could I stop him?”

“You could have tried to talk him out of it. You could have told someone so they could have stopped him.”

“Why should he be stopped? I think it’s the best thing he could have done.”

The color had drained from her cheeks. She pulled away angrily and turned her back to me. “A young boy like that, off on his own-”

“He’s almost seventeen, almost old enough to vote, old enough to fight-” I stopped myself, remembering what Worthy said about trying to enlist.

“What’s he going to live on?”

“He’s saved some money. I gave him some more. And I’m going to buy his tractor-”

“You gave him money? That’s just abetting him-”

“God, Bethany, he’s not a criminal.”

“It seems you’re taking rather a lot on yourself, aren’t you? Advising and all. I mean, it’s really none of your business.”

I couldn’t believe my ears. We were having a fight about something that didn’t concern us. I tried to sound calm and reasonable.

“Beth, what difference can it make, if that’s what he wants to do? You’re right, it is none of our business.”

She wheeled on me. “Meddler. You’re meddling in things that don’t concern you. You had no right!” Her hands trembled as she picked up the tureen from the table and went swiftly through the bacchante room into the kitchen.

“Hi, sweetheart.”

“Hello, Daddy.”

“How’s tricks?”

“Fine.”

“Can I visit?”

“Sure.”

Beth had gone out. I sat in my club chair beside Kate’s bed, trying to make my voice sound more cheerful than I felt. “How’s the needlepoint coming?”