by T E. D Klein
There was a moment of silence; Freirs decided that Poroth had been speaking to him. He forced a smile. Keep it light. 'Oh, physical labor's all right, I guess, if that's what turns you on. But as the philosopher said to the farmer, "While you're feeding your hogs, sir, you're starving your mind." '
He glanced sidelong at Carol for approval and caught a smile. Maybe the night was still salvageable.
'By the way, have I told you about the exercises I'm doing?' While Deborah set aside the jug and brought out Rosie's wine, he launched into a description of his daily routine: the sit-ups, the push-ups, the stretching motions for the back. 'I've also done a little jogging,' he heard himself say. 'It's more interesting here than in the city, and a lot more private. Maybe I'll explore the other end of this road, or hike in the direction of those hills… '
He listened to himself talk on aimlessly, inconsequentially: perfect New York small-talk. Yet perhaps he'd overplayed his hand, for Carol, he saw, had turned back to Sarr, who, all the while, sat silent and unsmiling. They're sharing something I can't touch, he decided.
Deborah was smiling at him sympathetically. 'Sounds okay to me,' she said. 'A lot more fun than washing dishes.' She got up from the table and began collecting their bowls.
Carol seemed to shake herself awake. 'Oh, can I give you a hand with that?'
'Won't say no!' Deborah tossed her a towel. 'You can do the drying up.'
Neither Poroth nor Freirs made any move to help. Freirs had offered a few nights ago and had been politely rebuffed by Deborah; such work, she'd said, was 'women's work.' It had shocked him at the time to hear her say such a thing, but he'd been content to let her have her way. If she was so big on tradition, he sure as hell wasn't going to dissuade he.
He seized the opportunity of being alone with Sarr. Digging into his wallet, he extracted a ten-dollar bill. 'For tonight's dinner,' he said in a low voice. 'Thanks a lot. It was great.'
Poroth smiled wanly and shook his head, not even looking at the money.
'Go ahead,' said Freirs, 'take it. I want to reimburse you. It's for Carol. I mean, let's face it, she's not your guest, she's mine.'
Poroth did not appear to take the hint. In fact, Freirs thought he looked hurt. Maybe he'd been more sincere all evening than Freirs had realized.
'Put away your money, Jeremy,' he said quietly. 'It's well meant, I know, but I can't accept it. Our hospitality's for everyone; your guest is also ours. Truth is, I sore regret every cent we've had from you already. I like to think of you as a guest here, and I only wish we could treat you as a guest deserves.'
God damn it, thought Freirs, isn't that just like a Christian! Just when you've decided that you hate his guts, he goes and makes you feel guilty about it.
Drying her hands with the dish towel, Carol yawned and realized how tired she was. She would probably fall asleep as soon as her head touched the pillow. And with the thought of bed, she remembered the present Rosie had given her for Jeremy, and the book she'd brought out for him. It was meant to be read only at bedtime, the old man had emphasized, and surely bedtime would not be long in coming. She turned to Deborah at the sink beside her. 'I'm just going upstairs for a moment,' she said, lowering her voice, though at the table the men were still talking. 'A friend of mine gave me a little gift for Jeremy.'
She saw him look up as she left the kitchen. He looked concerned, probably afraid she wasn't coming down.
'I'll be right back,' she said.
The living room was small and low-ceilinged, with simple oak furniture grouped around a braided rug. Several not-very-clean-looking farm implements lay scattered on the floor beside a wooden bench, patches of metal gleaming from their rust, as if polishing these tools was the usual evening's pastime. In the corner near the stairway stood a tall grandfather clock whose ticking, when all else was silent, could be heard throughout the house. A narrow wooden writing desk stood in the opposite corner, its dusty bottom shelf stacked with books, many of them college texts; Carol noticed a
Fundamentals of Social Change and a volume of inspirational verse. It was apparent from their position that they were never removed, yet clearly Poroth had been unable to bring himself to throw them away or store them in attic or cellar; perhaps they were a source of pride, perhaps one of temptation.
By the other wall a corn-husk broom and iron tongs leaned against the stones of the fireplace. There was a smell of wood and lemon oil in the room and, behind it, one of charcoal; though the fireplace must have stood empty for some time now, it had obviously seen much use during the winter months. Venturing closer, Carol stopped to read the crude wooden plaque that hung by the chimney, with a motto from someone named Cowley burned into the wood: A Plow on a Field Arable Is the Most Honorable of Ancient Arms. On the mantelpiece below it lay a garland of dried flowers, a group of china cats (several chipped or broken), and a little wooden weather house with the man out in front. He looked a lot like Sarr.
Taking a lamp that stood burning on a table in the corner, she hurried upstairs. In the flickering light the Man in the Moon gazed down at her benignly from the wall as she rummaged through her tote bag for the parcel and the book. Outside the window, the real moon lay hidden by a cloud. Pressing her face to the glass, she tried to pick out the long, low guest house and the barn. They were hard to find. She'd forgotten how dark it got in the country once the sun went down.
Jeremy would be out there alone tonight… Well, it simply couldn't be helped. There was no way she'd dare offend the Poroths by sneaking off with Jeremy, on whatever pretext. Besides, she was far too tired to contemplate sleeping with him now, tired from the drive out, the wine, the tensions of their silly conversation. She had felt Sarr's eyes boring into her all evening and had felt herself, for a moment at least, the more desirable woman in the room. Jeremy had suddenly seemed too abrasive, too eager.
But in fact, her mind had been made up all afternoon, ever since she'd seen that awful grey-brick building he was living in. The thing was ugly even for a chicken coop; it reminded her of something abandoned by the army. Jeremy had tried, of course, to brighten it up a bit – the blankets had been folded, the furniture polished, the books all put away – but somehow that had only made it more depressing. A vase of roses he'd placed by the bed had failed to disguise the pervasive smell of mildew (her nose wrinkled in recollection) and a hint of insect spray; and just outside, their shadows falling across his pillow, a group of trees had stood peering in at them like spectators waiting for a sacrifice. Just as well she'd be spending the night here in the farmhouse.
Downstairs the two men were still slouched at the table over the wine, Sarr fiddling with a worn-looking pipe while Deborah mopped the counter by the sink. Both Poroths looked tired, though Jeremy sounded awake and animated as always. Well, not as always: she'd noticed, earlier tonight, that his leg no longer swung nervously beneath the table, as it had back in New York. At least the country was having some effect.
'-or that line of Butier's,' he was saying – God, he never stopped!' – 'about how "I'd rather buy milk than own a cow." And let's face it, there's some truth to that. For instance, speaking for myself, I'd rather rent a room than own a house.'
'On the other hand,' Deborah called back, giggling, 'I'll bet you'd rather have a wife than-'
They looked up as Carol came in.
'Jeremy,' she said, 'I just wanted you to know that I didn't come here empty-handed today.' Smiling, she stood beside his chair. 'In fact, I have two things I'm supposed to give you: this book you wanted' – with mock gravity she laid it on the table before him -'which, according to my instructions, you're to open at bedtime. And this gift from Rosie' – she placed it beside the book – 'which you're to open now.'
Deborah came to the table. 'Oh, Jeremy,' she said, 'lucky you!' She ran her fingers over the book's embossed yellow covers. 'They sure made them nice in those days.'
'What book is it?' asked Sarr. He made no move to touch it.
'Oh, I remember now,' said Fr
eirs, unwrapping the small package. 'It's a story collection, that's all. I need a couple of things in it for my project.'
'I borrowed it from Voorhis,' Carol added. 'I'm supposed to take it back with me tomorrow.'
Deborah picked it up and examined the spine. 'Oh, I see,' she said, 'it's a library book. The House of Souls' She smiled at Freirs. 'This looks like it'll send you off to dreamland, all right!'
Freirs had undone the white paper and was examining the slim cardboard packet inside. ' "Dynnod," ' he read, puzzling out the ornate gold letters on the front. He opened the flap at the end. 'Hmmm, it's a set of cards of some kind.'
'Rosie says they're like the tarot deck,' explained Carol, peering over his shoulder; she'd never actually seen the cards before. 'Dynnod's Welsh for "images," he says. They're supposed to correspond to the twenty-two whatever-you-call-ems – picture cards.'
'The Greater Arcana,' said Sarr.
They all looked at him. 'You know what these are, honey?' asked Deborah.
'I know the tarot, yes. But not these.' He eyed them dubiously. The card on top bore a round yellow face and the words The Sun. 'Or at least, I'm not sure. I'd have to look them up.'
'Sarr has read more weird old books than any twelve people,' said Deborah, seating herself beside him. 'He knows almost as much as his mother.'
He shook his head.
'I'll bet you do, honey,' she said. 'It's just that she gets it all without reading.'
'I've never heard of this sort of thing,' said Freirs, who had been studying the box. 'It doesn't say "Welsh" on the label. It just says "Made in U.S.A. Crystal Novelty Co., Cranston, R.I.," and "Instructions included." But there don't seem to be any instructions.' He showed them the empty box.
'God, how annoying!' said Carol. 'Isn't there anything printed on the back?'
He turned it over. 'Nope. Nothing except "For entertainment purposes only." ' Looking to the deck, he slid the top card off; the one below it showed a crescent moon. 'I guess they mean it's not supposed to be used for gambling.'
'Well, of course not,' said Carol. 'It's for fortune-telling. Isn't that right, Sarr?'
He shrugged. 'Maybe. What did your friend say?'
'You mean Rosie? He didn't say. But isn't that what a tarot deck's for?' She sat down and reached for the moon card. The pale crescent shape was faceless against the purple sky. Between the two horns gleamed a star.
'A tarot has seventy-eight cards, though,' Sarr said guardedly. 'This only has – did you say twenty-two?'
'Let's see,' said Freirs. One by one he began going through the deck, counting each card as he came to it while Carol, beside him, read the title at the bottom.
'The Sun.'
The face, she decided, was mysterious and cruel – anything but sunny.
'The Moon.'
'Look,' said Deborah, 'look where that star is. Isn't that impossible?'
'There's something like that in the Ancient Mariner,' said Freirs, with a whispered two to himself. 'At one point he looks up and that's what he sees.'
'But it isn't natural.'
'It's not supposed to be natural.'
'The Book.'
'Gee, it looks just like this one,' said Deborah, pointing to The House of Souls. The book in the picture was fat and mustard-colored. It bore no visible title.
'The Bird.'
A graceful white shape with a splash of red at its breast.
'The Watchers.'
'It's just a group of pussycats,' said Deborah.
Carol studied it a moment. 'Hmmm, you're right. I wonder why they give it that title.'
Freirs revealed the next card. 'The Moth.'
It looked more like two green leaves stuck together, Carol decided. She was still disappointed by the oddness of Rosie's present – which, in a way, had become her present. The illustrations weren't very pretty, just rather lurid lithographs; and what was the point, anyway, seeing as they'd forgotten to include the instructions?
'The Wand.'
Black as ebony, and shiny-looking.
'Odd,' said Freirs. 'It seems to have holes along the side.'
'The… Dhol.'
'The what?' Deborah craned forward to see; Sarr squinted at it suspiciously. The thing on the card was dirty black and had four legs; beyond that it looked ragged and half-formed, a papier-mache mouse.
'It must be a misprint,' said Carol. 'For mole, maybe. Or vole.'
'Honey, maybe you can look it up later.'
'The Serpent.'
A pale, snakelike thing. Funny, thought Carol; she'd have expected a typical red Welsh dragon.
'The Mound… The Lovers.'
A man and woman, smiling.
'The Eye.'
A single staring eye amid the branches of a tree.
'The Rose.'
It was hard to say why the picture was so disturbing, thought Carol. Perhaps it was the inner row of spiky petals that looked so much like teeth.
'The Marriage.'
Odd, the thing standing beside the woman looked like the molelike creature from the earlier card.
'The Pool.'
Greenery all around…
'The Tree.'
'It's the same picture we saw before,' said Deborah. 'It's "The Eye." '
'You're right,' said Carol, more disappointed than ever. 'It must be another misprint.' The deck was unusual, all right, but obviously rather cheap.
Freirs slid up another card.
'Hmm,' said Carol, 'this one doesn't even have a tide.'
The card bore a simple design of three concentric rings slashed by a vertical red line.
'Maybe it's like the Joker,' said Freirs. He turned another card.
'Spring.'
The card showed a landscape, but done entirely in white.
'This is weird,' said Carol. 'White's supposed to be for winter.'
'Summer.'
A landscape all in green.
'Fall.'
All in red.
'Ah, here it is. Winter.'
The land was black, like the aftermath of a fire.
'Here's the last one,' said Freirs. 'Twenty-two.'
'The Egg.' Carol made a face. 'Is this supposed to be some kind of joke?'
The picture was of a globe of the earth, the familiar continents clearly visible.
'Well,' said Freirs, as if trying to inject a note of heartiness, ‘your friend Rosie comes up with some pretty unusual presents. I'll have to write him a nice thank-you.' He tapped the edges of the cards against the table, lining them up evenly once more. From the one on top the sun's face glared toward the ceiling. ' "A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun," ' said Freirs. 'Does anyone want their fortune told? I have no idea what these damned things mean, but maybe I can improvise something.'
'No thanks, for me,' said Carol. 'I'm exhausted after all that driving. You know how it is when you get away from the city.' Pushing back her chair, she stood up. God, she really was exhausted! 'And I think I had a little too much wine. I guess I'd better just go on up to bed.' She saw Jeremy's smile fade.
'We're pretty tired too,' said Sarr. 'We'll be up in a few minutes.'
Carol stood looking down at Jeremy, feeling awkward. She handed him the yellow book. 'And don't forget this,' she said, trying to cheer him up. 'I've got to take it back with me tomorrow.' He stared at it miserably, as if it were his own death warrant.
'Oh, yeah. Thanks.' He didn't look up.
'Well, then- ' She made her goodnights to them all, and, on impulse, leaned over and kissed Jeremy on the cheek, wondering as she did so what he'd think of it and, more, what Sarr would think. Nonsense, she told herself, surely these people can't disapprove of that! She felt Sarr's eyes on her as she turned to go but couldn't tell what he was feeling.
Jeremy, though, was no mystery. Looking through her bedroom window when she got back upstairs, she saw him leave the kitchen and walk dejectedly across the lawn, the book tucked beneath his arm. For a moment he was outlined in the kitchen light; then the night c
losed over him like a shroud.
If Rochelle hadn't had that second glass of wine and the remainder of a joint, she might have taken more notice of the fact that the lock on the door of her building was broken again for the second time in a week. The door swung open as she leaned against it, and closed behind her with an echoing of metal up and down the tiled hall. The hall itself appeared more dimly lit than she remembered; two bulbs at the other end had been removed – stolen, probably – since she'd come through here earlier today, leaving the passage to the elevator obscured by shadow.
But it was late. She was in no condition to recognize signs such as these, and in no mood to heed them. Shrugging off the darkness that had settled upon the street, she pushed her way inside and moved wearily down the hall.
She felt cheated. Buddy had not shown up tonight, nor had she been able to reach him by telephone. The party had proved enjoyable enough without him – she had known most of the people there and had given her phone number to one of the host's friends who'd been eyeing her all evening and had come to her near the end – but afterward, on the cab ride home, she had grown depressed again, weighed down by a vague sense of betrayal. Carol was away for the weekend, all excited over some guy she hadn't even slept with, and for the first time in months she and Buddy could have had the apartment to themselves without the need to keep their lovemaking out of Carol's sight or to endure her lonely envy. Instead, she was coming home alone; the night was all but wasted.
The streetlamp by her doorway had been dead almost a week. The moon had long been lost behind the rooftops. Her mind still fogged by alcohol, she had overtipped the driver and stumbled from the cab, bruising her knee as she stepped down. She paused now in the middle of the hall to rub it, then walked blindly on. Something shrank within her as she remembered what awaited her upstairs, the dark and silent rooms, the emptiness beside her in the bed.
Turning toward the elevator, she nearly tripped again over a shapeless bundle of rags that, hidden by shadow, had been heaped up against the rear wall. She mouthed a curse. Just as soon as she got the money together she was going to move out of this rat hole. She'd had enough of garbage in the halls.
