Thomas Tryon - Harvest Home

“Hi, sweetheart.” I lay down my sketching case and kissed her, dredging up a semblance of cheerfulness.

“Hi.”

“Nice day?”

“Yes.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” She picked up my case from the table and laid it on the counter, then stood with her back to me. I went to her and turned her, holding her face between my hands. She looked pale, a little tired.

“Nothing?”

“Honest-nothing.”

“Where’s Mom?”

She nodded toward the closed door of the bacchante room, beyond which I could now catch the low sound of the T.V. set.

Kate placed something in my hand: my pencil flashlight. “I borrowed it from your studio.”

“O.K.”

She started out, stopped in the doorway with a look I couldn’t read. Then she went out through the hall.

I dropped the flashlight into my jacket pocket and opened the bacchante room door. Beth did not look up as I came in, but sat on the green velvet sofa, hands folded in her lap.

“Hello,” I said.

“He llo .” An imprecise emphasis, betraying nothing of her present mood.

“No martini?”

“No. I didn’t think so. Tonight.”

“Guess I’ll have a Scotch.”

“All right.”

“Anything wrong with Kate?”

“No.”

I made a drink, then sat down in the club chair. A small fire crackled in the grate, and a large bowl of fresh chrysanthemums bloomed on the Victorian sideboard. I moved a copy of House and Garden and put my feet up on the coffee table. “Have a nice day?” I asked over Walter Cronkite’s voice.

“Umm.” She placed her palms together and rubbed them with a slow rotary motion. “Did you?”

I tried to force my voice to sound casual and light. “Yeah. I was out at the Hookes’.”

“How are they?”

“O.K. I guess. Sophie seems upset for some reason. I wanted to make a couple of sketches of the pear tree for the painting.”

In the light from the screen, I could see a little furrow of impatience appear between her brows. She picked up the remote control and switched off the set. I sipped my drink, watching the firelight play on her face.

“Cozy,” I said.

She turned on the floor lamp and pulled her work basket to her.

“You all right?” I asked.

“Yes. Of course.” She gave me a quick glance, then drew the quilt onto her lap and pulled the needle out. I listened to the ticking of the Tiffany clock.

“Coming right along,” I offered, referring to the quilt.

“Yes. I should have it done by Christmas.”

I held my glass up, watching the play of firelight in the swirl of amber Scotch and ice cubes. I caught her staring at me. Her eyebrows lifted the faintest fraction, then she resumed her work. Something was terribly wrong, I could tell. Her face was pale; she needed lipstick.

“And-?” she said.

“Hm?”

“And then what did you do?”

“After the Hookes’?”

“Yes.”

“I-uh, I went to see Dr. Bonfils.”

She gave me a quick, tight glance, then looked down again at her work. I put my glass on the table and sat beside her on the sofa, trying to take her hands.

“I’m sorry, Bethany.”

“Sorry?”

“About the baby.”

“He told you.”

“Yes.”

“He shouldn’t have. He should have let me.” She made a futile gesture with her shoulders, then laughed. “It appears I’m a wishful mother, nothing more.”

“Beth-”

“Please. I don’t want to talk about it.”

“It’s not you, it’s me.”

She shook her head uncomprehendingly. “There’s no fetus. Nothing growing in me-”

“I know. I’m sterile. It was the mumps. The doctor did a test. You can have children, but I can’t. It’s my fault.”

“It’s-not-me?”

“No. Me.”

She paused, holding herself rigid, motionless. Then she visibly relaxed. She dropped her head to hide the tears in her eyes. “It’s all right. It doesn’t matter. Any more.” She spoke calmly, matter-of-factly, dismissing the topic as if we’d been discussing an unfortunate change of weather.

I stood up and looked around the room. It suddenly seemed different-not a room we had made, part of our house, but-simply a room. I glanced at Beth; she seemed different too, somehow. A stranger-wife. I knew she was upset about the baby, but there was something else as well, something she had not said yet.

She raised her head. “What is it, Ned?”

“I was wondering…”

“What?”

“If maybe we ought to move.”

She looked at me, then around the room, then shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t understand.”

“I mean, I’m thinking maybe we ought to leave Cornwall Coombe. Sell. Get out.”

“What on earth for?” She laid aside her work and gave me all her attention.

“I don’t know. I just have this feeling.”

“Where would we go?”

“Mm-back to New York, maybe. Europe, maybe.”

“But we’ve been so happy here.”

“Have we?”

“I thought we were. And if we haven’t-really, Ned-I don’t think you’ve given this much thought, have you? I mean, it isn’t exactly fair to Kate. Taking her out of school again. And there’s all the work we’ve done on the house. The money that’s been spent.”

“We can get it back.”

“On a resale? I don’t think so.”

“Why not?”

“Because they won’t- because somebody isn’t just going to buy us out and move in.”

“Why?”

“Because.” She looked at me. “Because they won’t let anybody. Not just anybody.”

“Weren’t we ‘just anybody’?”

“No. We weren’t. You know that. They wanted us.”

“The hell they did.”

“Yes, they did. It took some time, but they did. The Widow wanted us.”

“Did she?” I set my glass down rather sharply.

“You knew that.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Well, she did. That was the reason Maggie called us. It was all because of-”

“The Widow. You mean, she arranged it.”

“Yes.”

“She can arrange for somebody else, then.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Bethany, listen. I don’t know what’s happening around here, but I don’t like it. I don’t know what’s happened to you, or to us, or to anything. I want to get out. Now! Get the hell out while we still have the chance. Can’t we? Beth, remember Paris? And the lilacs?”

“I remember.”

“We could go back to them again.”

“You’ve got lilacs outside that window, if you can wait until spring. Besides, who can ever go back again? Can we?”

“Sometimes it’s not a bad idea, going back.”

“I want to go ahead.”

“To where?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Bethany?”

“Yes.”

“Do you remember that night?”

“Which?”

“ That night. The ‘experience.’”

“Yes.”

“That was arranged too.”

“Who-?”

“Who do you think? When I came into our bedroom, you had been watching, hadn’t you? I mean, you’d seen?”

“Seen what?”

“Whoever it was that came out of the cornfield.”

“No. I didn’t see anyone. I was waiting for you. I was-”

“What?”

“Dreaming, I imagine. Ned, listen. Some things are better left not talked about. Some things are better left-”

“Unsaid.”

“I like it here. You’ve liked it here. Kate does, too. It’s the first time I’ve felt-”

Safe. I saw it then. In Cornwall Coombe she had found a place. She was secure. And not only secure, but changed. It had become more and more apparent. Not only city mouse into country mouse; she seemed in some way on the brink of something, as though poised for some indefinable leap. I saw her as she had been, blazing with unfulfilled yearnings, something she had been searching for. Baby-loss-