Harvest Home

by Thomas Tryon

“Amys? She’s not there, is she?”

  He did not reply immediately, and when he did it was with difficulty. “No, sir.”

  “You never buried her, did you?”

  “Yes, sir. I did. Mr. Deming said to dig and I dug. But it was all mud, and water three inches deep in the bottom. Fast as I bailed ’er out, water seeped in again. Only a cold man like Ewan Deming’d consign the unhappy dead to such a place. I told him it was wrong. Deming said, ‘Fill ’er in.’ When the elders left, I pulled out the box and hid it, then filled in the hole. That night I put her on my barrow and took her where she’d be dry and safe.” He turned with a pleading look, his eyes watering. “In the name of God, don’t tell. Please—they’ll—”

  “I won’t, don’t worry. What did you do with her?”

  He looked once again down the slope to the grave marker, then motioned me with his head. I followed him across the Common to Penance House and out back to the barn. He took me behind it to where the sheds were, and, beyond them, the hatchway dug into the ground. Glancing over his shoulder, he crouched at the doors and undid the lock securing the chain.

  Three beams set into the earth served as steps. In the musty dimness, I could make out the earthen sides of a small room lined with bare shelves where roots and vegetables had once been stored for winter use. Along the far wall, I saw a long, dark shape, shrouded by some kind of covering. Amys drew back a dusty tarpaulin and I looked down on the coffin of Gracie Everdeen.

  “It’s dry as the Sahara down here,” he whispered hoarsely. “Never gets no water, never no rain nor snow. There she lies—the last of sweet Gracie.”

  The pine box rested on two sawhorses, and the boards were badly warped and shrunken, so that there were wide spaces between them.

  “Weren’t you afraid someone would find out she’s here?”

  “Nobody comes down here. I got the only key.”

  “It’s not a very big box, is it?”

  “No, sir.”

  “But Gracie was a tall girl, wasn’t she?”

  “But pretty,” he said quickly. “Gracie was pretty as a picture.”

  “I remember you said so.”

  He shook out the tarpaulin, raising a cloud of dust, and I helped him redrape the box. He leaned to smooth a corner, and as he stepped back the toe of his shoe caught on a sawhorse leg, sliding it from under the coffin. The end tilted, then hit the floor with a dry, wooden impact. He bent quickly and lifted the end again, replacing it on top of the sawhorse. As he straightened the tarp again, I saw something underneath, a small pile of some substance on the floor. While I watched, it grew larger, a small cone filling out on the sides like sand in the bottom of an hourglass. I knelt, looking closer. Overhead a faint trickle still continued through a crack where the coffin boards were shrunk apart. I caught them in my palm, brought them nearer.

  Corn kernels.

  Small, infinitesimally shriveled seeds of corn. I moved to the head of the box, motioned Amys to the foot, and together we lifted it. Another trickle of corn fell from the bottom. We shook the box, heard inside the dry rattle as more seeds sifted down, shook it until almost all the kernels had come out, until I was utterly certain there was nothing left inside, that for fourteen years this coffin had contained not the remains of Gracie Everdeen but only a sack of corn.

  Requiescat in pace, Grace Everdeen.

  But where was she resting? Why the carved inscription, the monument, the false grave?

  With a sketch pad open on my knee, I sat on my folding stool, drawing the pear tree under the side window at the Hooke farm. As I laid out on the page the framework of the bare branches, I was reminded of the chestnut trees in the Tuileries in Paris, whose branches are cut back every autumn to grow again in the spring. I was trying very hard to think about Paris, and about anything that might keep me from thinking of what I did not want to think about.

  I had not seen either Justin or Sophie when I came, nor were any of the men I had seen on former visits working on the premises. Justin’s El Camino was parked near the barn, and there was bedding hung out to air.

  I found it difficult to concentrate on my work, and presently it became even harder, for I heard voices coming from the open upstairs window.

  “Don’t, Sophie. Don’t let anyone see you like this.”

  There was a pause, then again the low rumble of Justin’s voice as he murmured something. Then, “You love me,” he said.

  “Yes.”

  “Then it’s enough. For me, it’s enough. If we can have a child, it will be raised as we have wished it, and that will be enough, too.”

  Her murmured response signified nothing to me.

  “In the old ways,” Justin said. “Trust them. Sophie?”

  “Yes.”

  “Trust them.” Another pause. “And tomorrow, when we go to the Common—”

  “I don’t want to go to the Common—”

  “We must. We must be there for them. When the bell strikes twelve, we must be there. You will behave as is fitting. Otherwise they’ll hate you. You’ll spend the rest of your life being hated, like—”

  “Don’t.” I saw a flash at the half-open window as Sophie passed. She whispered something, and I dropped my head down over my sketchbook.

  Justin called, “How’s it going down there?”

  “Fine.” I nodded up to him; he lowered the sash and drew the shade. Soon I could hear them in the kitchen, talking in normal tones again, amid the rattle of silverware and the clink of china. Then something fell and broke, and Sophie was crying again; I heard her running upstairs. In a moment, Justin came out the kitchen door and down the steps. I returned to my work as he crossed the drive and stood beside me; from upstairs came the sounds of Sophie’s sobbing.

  Justin shoved his hands in his pockets. “Spilt milk.” He drew a long breath. “She broke the cow pitcher.” Making no comment about the drawing of the tree, he wandered a short distance away and stood at the edge of the field, looking off. He took his key ring from his pocket and jingled it, his hands clasped behind his back. He ran his fingers through his hair, then recrossed the drive.

  “Well, I’ve got to get going.”

  I looked up. “See you tonight?”

  “Kindling Night.” He shook his head. “I don’t think we’ll be there. We’ve seen lots of Kindling Nights.” He glanced at my page. “Nice tree. You’re a good artist.” He was holding out his hand. I rose and took it. “Goodbye, Ned,” he said simply. I watched him walk to the truck, get in, and drive out around the other side of the house.

  I moved my stool closer to the tree, making a few detail notes of the bark and tips. Then I heard something behind me and turned to find Sophie looking over my shoulder.

  “Hi, Sophie.”

  “Hello, Ned. That’s a beautiful drawing. How is the painting?”

  I said the tree was the last thing to go in, and I would have it finished by tomorrow noontime. “If you and Justin are coming in, you can pick it up, if you like.”

  “Yes. Noon.” She nodded absently, and I could see she was thinking of something else. She went to the tree and put out her hand, running her fingertips along one of the branches. “They never bear fruit, you know.”

  “Don’t they?”

  “No. Just leaves and flowers. I suppose that’s why God gave them to us, just to be beautiful.” She was silent for a moment, and when she spoke again it was with a forced control. “Ned, could you do something for me?”

  “Sure, Sophie.”

  “Could you make it spring?”

  “Spring?”

  “Yes. Paint the tree in spring. Not with the bare branches, but with flowers. Make the tree all white and flowery. With little green leaves?”

  “Well—” It had been part of the design of the picture that the branches be bare, the simple straight lines meant to play off the simple straight figure of Justin. I did not like the idea of putting in the flowers, particularly white ones; they would make the picture too pretty.

 
She saw my hesitation and smiled. “That’s all right. It was just an idea.” She turned away quickly and her hand came up and furtively brushed at one eye. I observed her as she stepped away to the tree and stood looking at the bare branches.

  “Sophie, did you know Grace Everdeen?”

  There was a quick, quivering motion about her shoulders as though a cold wind had touched her. “No.”

  “But you’d heard of her.”

  Still, head lowered, she looked at the lower trunk of the tree. “Yes.” Her face was turned from me; I got up and approached her, saw her hand break off a dead twig from a branch. Her shoulders stiffened, her chin lifted. “She was bad. Grace Everdeen was bad. The baddest anyone could be. Bad—brought bad to the village—” Speaking by rote, as if hypnotized.

  “How?”

  Her eyes snapped, the color rose in her cheeks. “She came back for Harvest Home. She shouldn’t have. She was blighted.”

  “What had blighted her?”

  “She was diseased! That’s why she ran away, so nobody would know. She never should have come back.”

  Diseased. Not pregnant, but diseased. Amys had said she was a fairy creature, Mrs. O’Byrne had said a horse.

  “No one wants a Corn Maiden who’s sick.” Sophie’s hands trembled at her breast. “Grace Everdeen was cursed by God. As I am cursed.” She covered her face to hide the tears. “Jesus help me.” She tore her hands away from her wet cheeks and looked at me, crying, “Help me!”

  “How, Sophie? Tell me. I’ll help you.”

  She stared a moment longer, as if she thought I might truly help. Then, “No—you can’t. No one can.” With a wild, despairing look, she spun and ran across the strip of lawn into the field, stumbling along between the gathered corn shocks, her pale hair streaming behind.

  When I had gathered my things together, I went into the kitchen and telephoned Dr. Bonfils in Saxony.

  Strangely, he seemed to be expecting my call.

  When I came out again, Sophie was a small figure in the distance, crossing the field toward the road as the Widow Fortune’s mare appeared around the bend. The buggy slowed, then stopped, and the old lady got down from the seat, and when Sophie came to her she put her arms around her, the blond head resting against the black dress, and I saw the Widow’s large hand as it made comforting gestures about Sophie’s shoulders.

  I started up the drive to my car, then turned back, looking again at the pear tree. I decided that when I painted it I would make it bloom for Sophie Hooke. As it would in the springtime.

  The Eternal Return…

  Dr. Bonfils had agreed to see me if I could come to his office during his lunch hour; I had said it was important. When the nurse showed me in, he was having a “takeout” hamburger and chocolate milkshake at his desk. “Well, Ned,” he began quickly, “I’m sorry. As I told your wife, as right as the old lady is most of the time, unfortunately even she makes mistakes. I’m sure it’s a disappointment but surely one you can bear up under, eh?” He opened a little foil packet and squirted ketchup on top of the hamburger. I stared at him.

  “I’m sorry, Doctor, I’m confused—what are you talking about?”

  “Your wife. She came to see me yesterday. I’m afraid there’s been a mistake. She’s not going to have a baby.”

  “Not?”

  “No. I’m sorry, but the examination was negative.” He took a bite of his hamburger, allowing me time to absorb the shock of his news. “She didn’t tell you?”

  Beth passing me yesterday on the Old Sallow Road. Maggie telling me she had an appointment. Worried that I had been right; which I was.

  “She was disappointed, naturally,” the doctor went on. “All the signs were there. She’s not the first case, of course. A woman wanting a baby, showing all the symptoms of conception. It’s a form of physical hysteria.”

  “Doctor, can you do a test on me? To find out if I’m sterile?”

  I told him of Beth’s obstetrical problems, but that I had always thought it might be the mumps I had caught from ’Cita Gonzalez when I baby-sat for her.

  While we waited for the results of the test, I told the doctor my real reasons for having come to see him. “I wanted to ask if you remember a girl named Grace Everdeen.”

  “I remember her well. What do you want to know about her?”

  “During the summer of 1958, while she was living over at Mrs. O’Byrne’s, you were treating her, isn’t that so?”

  “I was treating her a good while before that.”

  I looked at him, surprised. “You were? Was she pregnant?”

  It was his turn to show surprise. “Pregnant? No, nothing of the sort. As a matter of fact, as far as I know, Grace was still a virgin when she—ah, died.”

  “You knew she killed herself.”

  “Certainly.”

  “Do you know why?”

  “I believe I do.”

  “Was it because of Roger Penrose?”

  “Indirectly, I suppose—” He broke off. “Mr. Constantine, what exactly is your interest in the case?”

  I said I was a friend of Mrs. O’Byrne’s, and that through her I had taken an interest in the tragic story, and was trying to substantiate for her and for myself the facts of Grace’s death. The doctor listened, and then, wiping his mouth and fingers, he said, “Grace Everdeen killed herself because she had contracted an incurable disease.”

  I leaned forward. “Which was—?”

  “Acromegaly. It’s a not uncommon condition. Did you know Grace was Swedish?”

  “No.”

  “On her mother’s side. For some reason, acromegaly seems to have a high incidence among Swedes. It is a condition arising from a hypersecretion of the growth hormone. A pituitary disorder.”

  “Is it fatal?”

  “Often. In its early stages, it can induce in the patient the ability to perform extraordinary feats of strength. Then, as the disease takes hold, the patient suffers a gradual enfeeblement. He becomes emotional, distraught—manic, even. As it was in Grace’s case—she was subject for some time to acute depression and delusions. Those are some of the mental stresses. In regard to the physical aspects, in extreme cases acromegaly can produce a giant.”

  “A giant.”

  “Indeed. When the adult body has attained its full growth, it stops. But with the incidence of acromegaly, the extremities continue to become enlarged, the hands and feet, the bones and cutaneous tissues of the face. Where skeletal overgrowth happens, the fingers may become excessively long or thickened. The frontal ridge of the head becomes enlarged, the jaw prognathous, the cheekbones knobby. It may, as in Grace’s case, set the teeth wider apart. The tongue often becomes gross, causing difficulty in talking, and the lips thicken. Generally, the condition produces a monstrous physical change in the patient.”

  “How long does it take?” The irony of the situation struck me: all this medical information—I had come to find out one thing, and was on the point of discovering several.

  “Sometimes the manifestations are slow to reveal themselves; in other cases—like Grace’s—it can come fast after the initial onset.”

  “Not a fairy, but a horse,” I repeated softly.

  He glanced at me, crumpled his napkin, and tossed it in the basket. “In a short while, Grace Everdeen would have been an extremely unfortunate-looking young woman. If she had not run away, I might have been able to arrest the symptoms, but during her absence the disease had taken a fierce hold on her. I reinstituted the course of X-ray treatment, and I administered large doses of estrogens to slow down the pituitary action. The radiation, however, had to be repeated at two-month intervals, and by the time Grace returned, it was already too late. If you could wait a moment—”

  “Of course.” He finished his milkshake, then went out, dropping the carton in the wastebasket as he passed. When he came in again, he was carrying a large manila folder.

  “I kept the X-rays. It was such an unusual case.” He flipped a switch on a light panel
and ranged half a dozen negatives on the rack. Several showed the entire figure, several the head and torso. One was of the hands, another of the feet. In some of them the light form of the ring chained around the neck appeared.

  “Is something wrong?” he said. I was staring at the remarkable shape of the ring.

  “No—Please go on.”

  Before he had completed his comments, his nurse came in with a printed form which she placed in front of him. When she went out, the doctor studied the report for a moment, then looked at me.

  “It’s as you thought.”

  “Sterile?”

  “I’m afraid so. There weren’t any little fellows swimming around. Undoubtedly the mumps.”

  Well, there it was. Me, mumps: sterile. Such a stupid disease. Much more stupid than Grace’s. And less far-reaching. I couldn’t have a child. Grace had died.

  But, leaving the doctor, I knew now that he was wrong about one thing. Grace Everdeen had not chosen to do away with herself. She had been murdered. On the night of Harvest Home.

  In the outer office, I paused to ask him one final question. “Tell me, Doctor, how is the Widow’s health?”

  “Mary Fortune? Why, it’s the best. She’s old, but she’s got a sound heart. At the rate she’s going, she’s good for a lot of years yet. Providing she doesn’t overdo.”

  I intended to make it my business that the Widow Fortune should not overdo.

  I crossed the Lost Whistle Bridge again, and drove back along the Old Sallow Road. Fred Minerva’s wagon was pulled up along the roadside where some men were clearing a path through the brush. Others were unloading the kegs of mead and carrying them into the woods. Though several glanced at me, none offered any sign of acknowledgment. When I got to Irene Tatum’s orchard, I drove my car behind a shed, ducked across the road, and entered the woods. Hurrying, I found the blazed trail and quickly picked up the stream. I had little time; I knew where the kegs were being taken. When I got to the gap, I went through, scrambled onto the bank, and from there walked to the clearing.

  The crow sat in the dark shadows of the pine branches. No wind poured through the gap; there were no moans today. We have skeletons in our closets same as other folks, the Widow Fortune had said. But her skeleton was in no closet; it was hidden in the hollow tree—not the supposed bones of the missing revenuer, but those of the murdered Gracie Everdeen. Then, approaching, I saw the skeleton was no longer hidden; it was gone. The tree tomb was empty.