T Klein: Ceremonies

'Now this looks good,' said Freirs, seating himself across from Poroth. He poured himself some milk from a ceramic pitcher and washed down the pill, some local version of Contac.

'Yesterday, I want you to know, that milk was in the cow,' said Deborah. 'It's from Sarr's uncle's dairy.'

'Sure, I remember. We passed it on the way.' He swallowed a large bite of bread and cheese. 'And I'll bet this bread's homemade.'

She nodded, pleased. 'I haven't bought bread since we lived in Trenton. It's all baked right here.'

'In that thing?' Freirs nodded toward the huge black wood-burning stove that stood beside the Hotpoint, already seeing pictures out of Norman Rockwell, Currier amp; Ives. 'It looks at least a century old.'

'It is,' said Deborah. 'It's as old as the house. But it's hard to regulate. We only use it for heating in the winter… and for certain ceremonial occasions.'

'Does this place get very cold in the winter?'

'The attic needs work,' said Sarr, obviously looking forward to it. 'I'll have to put new insulation in this fall.'

'It gets cold here all right,' said Deborah. 'You've heard people talk about three-dog nights, when you need all three dogs in the bed? Well, this January, Sarr and I had a couple of six-cat nights!'

Freirs winced, but not at the idea of such cold. His eyes were still red and he hadn't stopped sniffling. 'God,' he said, 'I probably wouldn't survive the night! Though I guess on a farm like this six cats must have their uses.'

'Seven,' said Deborah. 'You probably haven't seen Bwada yet. That's his cat.' She nodded at Sarr.

'And where is he?' asked Freirs.

'She,' said Poroth. 'She stays outside all day – sometimes nights, too. She's more adventurous than the others. I've had her since she was a kitten.'

Deborah added, 'She's fat and just plain mean. That's why she sleeps by herself. Now, these are the nice ones, Jeremy-' And until dessert she proceeded to furnish him with detailed biographies of the other six, complete with ancestries. They all had names like Habakkuk, Tobias, and Azariah, names which sounded as if they'd been taken from obscure portions of the Bible and which Freirs immediately forgot. He was too busy thinking of Deborah. It would be heavenly, he imagined, to pile into that big soft feather bed they must have up there and he beside her on a long winter night, slipping the flannel nightgown above her waist and breasts, feeling her warmth against the cold and darkness outside.

Dessert was a tart red rhubarb pie and a plate of lacy brown molasses cookies, the kind he bought at block fairs in the city. He wondered, over his second cup of coffee, if all the meals were going to be this elaborate. If so, he wasn't going to lose much weight out here, but he'd probably be content just the same.

Once coffee was over, Poroth wiped his mouth, pushed back from the table, and offered to show Freirs around. 'You may as well see what you came for,' he said, stretching as he rose so that his fingers bent back against the ceiling.

'You can see my garden from here,' said Deborah, pointing out the window at a small brown fenced-in plot beside the house. 'It doesn't look much right now, but by summer there'll be squash, tomatoes, peas, cucumbers, carrots… We'll be eating well, I promise you that.'

Clearly they were trying to sell him on the place. They must be counting on his ninety dollars a week.

'We're starting awfully late this year,' said Sarr, as the two of them descended the steps from the back porch, Deborah having elected to remain in the kitchen. A pair of cats scampered out behind them just before the screen door slammed. 'We'll probably just have enough for the three of us. But by next year we expect to produce enough to sell.'

Even that prediction seemed somewhat optimistic. The garden looked far from flourishing, though there were small shoots where the carrots were coming up and green wooden stakes standing in hopeful rows above the young tomato plants. The adjoining lawn, by contrast, looked surprisingly hardy, as if the land's true destiny was to be one of the suburban estates that were already taking up so much of the county.

Across the lawn, and well off to one side, lay the weed-strewn wreckage of an old wooden outhouse, grass growing over the doorway. Freirs wrinkled his nose as they approached, but the air smelled of nothing but damp earth and pine. 'You're free to use it if you like,' said Poroth, making one of his infrequent jokes. 'I believe it's still in working order.'

'Wonderful!' Freirs peered through the gaps in the planks. The bench inside was the double-seater sort, for the ultimate in rural togetherness. Welcome to Appalachia. He thanked God that the farm had modern plumbing.

Farther down the slope, its back to the surrounding wall of forest, was the low, barracklike outbuilding he'd be renting. It was the one he'd glimpsed from the front of the house; he recognized it immediately from the photograph.

'Am I right,' asked Freirs, 'in assuming that the place was originally a chicken coop?'

'True enough,' said Poroth. 'We've never used it as one, though. We keep our chickens in the barn.'

The building looked somewhat more cheerful in the spring sunlight than it had when the photo was taken, though ivy now covered the walls more thickly and was curling over the edges of the windows, an ever-shrinking green frame.

'It's not completely fixed up yet,' said Poroth, looking it over with a critical eye. 'I still have to put up the screens. Still, I suppose we ought to go in.'

Inside, the place was surprisingly dark, ivy blocking much of the sunlight. 'I'll have all that trimmed away before you get here,' Poroth said, snapping on a shiny new wall switch that turned on the overhead light. 'If I did it now it would just grow back by summer.'

There was nothing inviting about the room; the best Freirs could do, by an exercise of imagination, was to see it as a kind of monk's cell, unromantic but suited to the intellectual labors he hoped to perform this summer. It had a pale blue linoleum floor with a slightly uneven seam down the middle and was empty save for a sturdy-looking bed (room for just one, Freirs saw), a chest of drawers, and an oppressive-looking old wooden wardrobe standing like a watchman in the corner. There seemed to be only one closet. 'Later this spring I'm going to build some bookshelves in here,' said Poroth, eyeing one of the bare plasterboard walls, 'and we can move in a table for you to use as a desk.' He seemed happy to leave.

The other half of the building, with an entrance of its own at the opposite side, was being used as a storeroom. Its cement floor was packed haphazardly with lumber, battered-looking furniture, and dusty steamer trunks. The air smelled of mildew. Along the front windowsill, a row of dirty Mason jars collected cobwebs and dead flies.

'Deborah wants to fix this up too,' said Poroth, 'since we've already brought in the electricity. She'd like to turn it into another guesthouse.'

Freirs was peering at a pile of old books, their covers warped and faded. The Law of the Offerings. Footsteps of the Master. God's Providence and Gospel. Religious tracts. 'And how do you feel about that?'

The other paused. 'I'd rather see how things work out this summer.

He turned to go, but Freirs had pushed past the furniture to a door in the far wall. 'What does this lead to? A closet?'

'Open it and see.'

Freirs pulled it open, then smiled. He was looking into the other room – his room. With surprise he realized that, in his imagination, he'd already taken possession of it. The familiar linoleum floor and narrow bed looked almost welcoming.

As they strolled outside, Poroth eyed him hesitantly. 'So,' he said at last, 'do you think you want to rent the place?'

'Yes, I do,' said Freirs, though he hadn't really made his mind up till that moment. 'It seems to be just what I'm looking for.'