T Klein: Ceremonies

'Prosperous-looking place,' said Freirs.

'Verdock's dairy,' said Poroth. 'More relations. Lise Verdock is my father's sister.'

The cattle all faced the same direction, as if in prayer. A few were moving idly among the others in what seemed slow motion; the rest were as immobile as creatures on a billboard. Freirs, smelling grass and manure, breathed deeply. This stuff was supposed to save him.

'They stand tail to the wind,' Poroth was saying, 'so when they all look east like that, it means good weather.' He nodded toward a more imposing house beyond the dairy farm, at the top of a long tree-lined drive. 'Sturtevant,' he said. 'Brother Joram has considerable influence in these parts.'

'And does your father have a farm out here too?'

'No, he died ten years ago this fall. And he was never a farmer; he ran the Co-operative. So did his father and his father. Now the Steeglers run it – Brother Bert and Sister Amelia. Bert's mother was a Stoudemire, which makes him… let's see, a third cousin once or twice removed.' He grinned. 'See, it gets complicated.'

'Maybe I should just regard everybody as one big happy family.'

Poroth seemed to consider this a moment. 'Yes,' he said at last. 'Yes, happy.' He nodded, though it seemed as much to himself as to Freirs.

Freirs watched the scenery roll by, the dark fields corduroyed by rows of early corn. So Poroth was taking to the land again after generations in town. That made him, in a way, as unfamiliar with farming as Freirs was himself. It was somehow good to hear.

They turned right and continued downhill, a shade more steeply now. At the bottom, Poroth swung the truck abruptly to the left, the road following a shady, swiftly flowing stream half hidden from view by trees along its banks. Through the open window Freirs could hear the contented percolation of the water as it passed among the rocks with a sound like something singing to itself.

'Wasakeague Brook,' said Poroth, raising his voice to be heard. 'A branch of it runs past our land.'

They kept to the brook as it wound by straggly orchards, cornfields, and an occasional ancient-looking farmhouse, the sort where strangers knocked on wintry nights and fires blazed within. It felt like a scene in some book from his childhood. 'Boy,' said Freirs, 'I feel as if New York's a thousand miles away.'

Poroth eyed him quizzically. 'And is that a good feeling or a bad one?'

'Good… I think.' Freirs smiled. 'I'll let you know at the end of the day.'

The road cut through a stand of beech and cottonwood. Branches snapped against the truck's hood; leaves flattened themselves against the windshield. Freirs moved back from the window as the foliage rushed past.

'As for me,' Poroth said suddenly, 'a thousand miles away's exactly where I like it.' He sounded like a man with something to get off his chest. 'Even two thousand would suit me just fine.'

'Oh?' Freirs was still concentrating on the flashing branches. 'Wouldn't that make getting in and out a little inconvenient?'

'Yes, I imagine it would! But you see, I don't go in and out. I saw the place for the first time around ten years ago, and I've never set foot there since.'

Uh-oh. For a moment he'd forgotten where he was: among the apple-knockers. Garden State variety. These people voted against cities at election time and probably preached against them too.

'Sounds like you had a bad experience.'

'Memorable, anyway. I'll tell you about it sometime.'

'And how old were you then?'

'Let's see, I would've been… just seventeen.'

So Poroth was actually younger than he. Hard to believe – and hard to believe a young man of normal curiosity could grow up so close to New York without ever hopping on the bus to see what it was like.

'It's a big world out there, Sarr. Don't you think you ought to give it another chance?'

Poroth shook his head. 'I've already seen the world – as much as I want to see, anyway. I spent seven years out there. How many have you spent around here?'

'Why, none, of course,' said Freirs, with a shrug. 'It's hardly the same thing.'

'I disagree,' said Poroth. 'You've only seen one side of the world. I've seen both. But I'm home now, and it feels right.'

'Home for good?'

'Yes, sir! I intend to die right here in Hunterdon County.'

'And Deborah,' Freirs said carefully, 'does she feel the same?' He already suspected that she didn't.

'No, Deborah's a bit more… adventurous than I am. And not so quick to judge, I'll grant her that. She's visited the city a few times, and I can't pretend she shares my feelings about it.'

'I guess it was Deborah, then, who put the ad in the library.'

Poroth looked blank. 'What library?'

'The Voorhis, where I'm doing my research. That's where I saw your ad – on the bulletin board.'

Poroth took his eyes from the road and turned a suspicious glance on Freirs. 'You mean the notice that Deborah wrote out?'

'That's right. On some kind of recipe card, I think.'

He shook his head. 'Impossible. I put it up myself – at the bus depot over in Flemington. I wasn't sure, at first, that we'd want anyone from too far away.'

'You mean, from New York?'

'At the time, yes. You see, we'd never done this before – it seemed safer to start with someone who already knew the area. The ad was kind of an experiment. I figured someone passing through Fleming-ton might see it at the bus stop.' He paused. 'That's where I thought you'd seen it.'

'Nope. I'd never been to Flemington in my life, before today.' He was as much in the dark as Poroth but found something curiously enjoyable in the other's bewilderment. 'All I know is, I saw it in New York. I guess somebody just decided to move it.'

'Sure, but who?’

Freirs shrugged. 'Some do-gooder, maybe. Or maybe it was fate. Unless you've got a better idea.'

Poroth, staring distractedly down the road, fingers drumming on the steering wheel, said nothing.

He was still silent when, minutes later, the trees thinned out. Ahead of them the road forked to the right and led onto a crossing. Halfway up a hill above the opposite bank, guarded at the back by a line of aging cedars, stood a small stone cottage, squat, slate-roofed, and overgrown with vines. Battalions of flowers separated the house from the surrounding expanse of lawn. Additional rows had been planted in front, forming a series of terraced steps that led down to the stream.

Spanning the stream, and constructed of the same stone as the cottage, rose the arch of an old stone bridge only wide enough for one car to pass over at a time. Its railings were low and no doubt insubstantial, mere slats of wood; you'd hear them bend and crack before your car went off the edge, but they wouldn't keep you from falling. Freirs inadvertently held his breath as the truck rumbled across, but Poroth drove without pause or hesitation – perhaps, even, with a touch of bravado.

On the other side, unexpectedly, he slowed, following the road as it encircled the hill, the cottage from this vantage point looking like a kind of outpost meant to warn those farther inland of encroaching civilization. The flowers that surrounded it were sleeping sentries, ready at any moment to snap to attention.

'Nice-looking little place,' remarked Freirs, as they were passing.

Poroth nodded. 'My mother's. I expected to see her out in the garden. She's usually there this time of day.' He scanned the yard, looking for a sign that she was home, and seemed vaguely troubled when he found none. Or perhaps that business of the ad was still on his mind.

'What are those things?' asked Freirs, nodding toward a trio of upright boxes on legs, like midget armoires, that stood in the yard on the side farthest from the stream.

'Beehives,' said Poroth. 'She even had 'em when we lived in town. My father and I used to get stung all the time.' He shook his head, remembering.