Ceremonies

by T E. D Klein

  The pieces are there, simply waiting to be fitted together into what, from the start, they were meant to be: a set of instructions for the Ceremonies.

  Carefully the Old One wraps the book in tissue paper and tapes it closed. He leaves it on the table in the hall. He will send it off tomorrow, in the box he's prepared.

  He hopes that Carol likes his little gift. Dancing is supposed to be her specialty.

  Bwada's walking better now, seems more affectionate than ever toward the Poroths – even lets Deborah pet her, which is something new – amp; has an amazing appetite, though she seems to have difficulty swallowing. Some minor mouth infection, perhaps; she won't let anybody see. Sarr says her recovery demonstrates how the Lord watches over the innocent; affirms his faith, he says. Quote: 'If I'd taken her to Flemington to see the vet, I'd just have been throwing away good money.'

  Later this week he'll have his mother over to take a look at her. She healed Bwada once before, amp; maybe she can do it again.

  But even without her, the swelling on Bwada's side is almost gone. Hair growing back over it like mildew growing up my wall, spreading fast.

  Mildew. I'm all too familiar with it now. Every day it climbs higher on the walls of this place, like water rising; glad my books are on shelves off the ground. So damp in here that my note paper sags; books go limp, as if they're made of wet cloth. At night my sheets are clammy amp; cold, but each morning I wake up sweating. My envelopes have been ruined – glue's gotten moistened, sealing them all shut. Stamps in my wallet are stuck to the dollar bills. When I wrote a letter to Carol today, I had to use the Poroths' glue to stick the thing together.

  Spent a lot of my afternoon in here rereading 'The Turn of the Screw,' which I hadn't looked at since my undergraduate days. Seem to be alone in finding it the single most pretentious amp; overrated ghost tale ever written (though perfect for the ML A crowd); Clayton's film version, which I showed in class this year, is ten times as effective. Searched in vain amid the psychological abstractions for an authentic chill amp; found only one image that moved me: his description of a rural calm as 'that hush in which something gathers or crouches… '

  Outside, another drizzly day. Soggy-looking slate-grey skies, gloomy evening, thunder. Hasn't let up since Saturday night, amp; depressing as hell, like something out of Cold Comfort Farm. One huge cloud seems to have settled over the landscape like a bowl. A few pale shapes – seagulls again? – high overhead, but no other birds around, amp; no sign of the sun.

  Wandered around the farm late in the afternoon, bored with sitting still. The Poroths were out pulling weeds among the shoots of corn amp; were blessedly silent for once. Was tempted to join them but didn't feel like getting my hands dirty, much less spending an hour or two bent almost double.

  Rainy night. After dinner, reluctant to come out here amp; be alone again so soon, hung around the farmhouse with the Poroths, earnestly squinting through Walden in their living room while Sarr whittled amp; Deborah crocheted. Rain sounded better in there, a restful thumping on the roof; out here it's not quite so cozy.

  Around nine or ten Sarr went to die kitchen amp; hauled out the radio, amp; we sat around listening to the news, cats purring around us, Sarr with Azariah in his lap, Deborah petting Toby, me allergic amp; sniffing. (My 'total immersion' experiment isn't working.)

  Nice to have a radio, though, amp; feel that tenuous contact with the world out there. Even Sarr must recognize the attraction. Remember hearing how, up in Maine, some poor families spend each Sunday sitting in their car parked in their yard, listening to the only radio they own.

  Guess I'm just not cut out to be a modern-day Thoreau.

  Halfway through some boring farm report I pointed to Bwada, curled up at my feet, amp; said, 'Hey, get her. You'd think she was listening to the news!' Deborah laughed amp; leaned over to scratch Bwada behind the ears. As she did so, Bwada turned to look at me. I wonder what it is about that cat that makes me so uneasy.

  Rain letting up slightly. I'm sitting here slouched over the table, trying to decide if I'm sleepy enough to turn in now. Maybe I should try to read some more, or clean this place up a bit. Things soon grow messy out here, even though I don't have much to keep track of: dust on windowsills, spiderwebs perennially in corners, notes amp; clippings amp; dried-up rose petals scattered over this table.

  I think that the rain sound is going to put me to sleep after all. It's almost stopped now, but I can still hear the dripping from the trees outside my window, dripping leaf to leaf amp;, in the end, to the dead leaves that line the forest floor. It will probably continue on amp; off all night. Occasionally I think I hear a thrashing in one of the big trees down in the direction of the barn, but then the sound turns into the falling of the rain.

  July Twelfth

  Carol staggered into the apartment, fanning herself with a creased copy of Spring: 'Start Fresh with Our Three-Part Summer Makeover.' Her Tuesday-evening dance class had been exhausting, and the ride back downtown no better: twenty-five minutes on a crowded bus with inadequate air conditioning.

  Here there was no air conditioning at all. As soon as I have the money I'm buying one, she reminded herself. It must be a hundred and ten in here. No sooner had she locked the door behind her than she was unbuttoning her damp clothes, dropping them to the floor in a heap as she made for the bathroom.

  She felt a little better after showering. She brought in the cheap Woolworth's fan from her bedroom and planted it by the TV.

  Switching both of them on, she settled back naked on the couch, eyes half closed, and listened to the reading of the news.

  Except for the weather, it had been a normal day. The city was closing another hospital; vandals had defaced a statue of Alice in Wonderland in Central Park; blacks were charging police brutality in the arrest of a so-called 'voodoo priest'; the mayor had presided at a fashion show; a girl's head had been found in a trash can near the Columbia campus; and Con Ed was warning consumers to 'go slow' this week on the use of air conditioners. The catalogue was curiously soothing, a meaningless litany. It was almost enough to sleep to.

  'Fireman in the Brownsville section of Brooklyn battled a six-alarm blaze that took the lives of at least seven persons, all but two of them children. And now-'

  Behind her the buzzer sounded. She roused herself and went to the intercom.

  'Package from a Mr Rosebottom.'

  She buzzed him in and, stepping into the bedroom, wrapped herself in her bathrobe. A minute later the doorbell rang; she turned down the TV and went to answer it.

  'Sign here, please,' said the delivery boy, handing her a flat grey cardboard box, then a slip of yellow paper and a pencil. He seemed bemused at finding an attractive girl in her robe waiting for him and looked as if he were struggling to think of something clever to say. She felt his eyes on her as she scribbled her name, and pulled the bathrobe tighter. 'Thanks, honey,' he said, a flicker of a smile. 'Enjoy it.'

  She saw, when she'd gotten the box open, that Rosie had sent her another dress. It was old-fashioned looking, cut similarly to the first – maybe if she felt ambitious she could take it in a bit – but the color, this time, was dark green. Consider this a replacement, he had written in a note. At least this one won't show grass stains!

  In the box with it, wrapped in tissue paper, he'd enclosed a second-hand book, a slim brown antique-looking volume whose spine had long since been rubbed clean of lettering. The title page read, The Ridpath Dance Series, Volume TV. On the Folk-Dances of Umbria and Tuscany. Newly translated into English. New York, 18J7. Idly she flipped through it. There were several crude line drawings of peasants dancing in various ungainly costumes, faces utterly expressionless, but most of the book was filled with diagrams, a mass of footprints and black arrows. She thought she recognized a few simple steps – there was one promenade that seemed right out of 'The Cunning Vixen' – but it was difficult to imagine what most of the others must look like. She put the book aside; probably Rosie would know.


  Once again the dress bore no label – Wherever does he find these things? she wondered – and, as before, the material felt like silk. Shrugging off her robe, she slipped the dress over her head and examined herself in the mirror on the closet door, pressing the cloth against her belly, breasts, and hips. Like the first dress, now safely packed off to the cleaners, its hemline was cut rather high, and she realized that, once more, she was going to have to keep her knees tight together when she wore it. Maybe Rosie found her legs exciting; or else he just didn't know the length young women were wearing their skirts these days.

  She would have to call him to thank him – he's really spoiling me, she decided – but she was feeling too tired now. Still in the dress, she returned to the couch. The cloth felt smooth and cool against her bare skin; there was something a little bit sinful about it. She lay back and stretched her legs. The TV, with its volume down, was practically inaudible.

  'Unprecedented temperatures,' someone was saying. 'Freak storms. .. ' She ran her hand inside the collar, touching her neck. 'Warm air masses over New Jersey… '

  New Jersey. Visions of the countryside, the peaceful blue skies of the farm, came back to her in the breeze from the fan. She remembered tiny silver fishes darting in the stream, the fields of young corn, Sarr and Deborah and the kittens.

  'Reports of thunder,' the TV was saying. 'Changes in the atmosphere… ' She ran her hand deeper beneath the dress, closed her eyes, and thought of Jeremy.

  Thunder last night, but heard no rain. Wonder if the weather's affected the stream, because walking by it today, I noticed it's becoming clogged with algae.

  Chicken amp; dumplings for dinner. Had three helpings. Deborah didn't seem to mind.

  Northanger Abbey, Jane Austen, 1818, chapters one through seven. Not the parody I'd expected – the mock-Gothic bit obviously isn't central to the story – but witty nonetheless. Fun to picture Deborah in the leading role.

  Love stories tend to bore me, but this one's proved quite bearable so far.

  Bwada seems to be almost completely healed now, at least outwardly, though still may have some sort of throat obstruction. When she miaows there's a different timbre, a kind of huskiness. Sarr's mother is coming tomorrow to look at her.

  Read some more Le Fanu in bed. 'Green Tea,' about a phantom monkey with eyes that glow, amp; 'The Familiar,' about a staring little man who drives the hero mad. In neither case – cf. de Maupassant's 'The Horla' – is the hero sure just why he's been singled out.

  Not the smartest choices right now, the way I feel, because for all the time that fat grey cat purrs over the Poroths, she just stares at me. And snarls. I suppose the accident may have addled her brain a bit, or perhaps she somehow blames me for it, or has forgotten who I am, or something… Can a cat's personality change like that?

  Petted Toby tonight, the little orange one – my favorite of the bunch, the one I like to play with even though my nose gets clogged amp; my ears tear. Came away with a tick on my arm which I didn't discover till I undressed for bed. A tiny flat thing, paper thin, like a squashed spider; it was dull red, no doubt from having made a meal for itself on my blood. As a result, I can still feel, even now, imaginary ticks crawling up amp; down my spine.

  Damned cat.

  July Thirteenth

  Another poor night's sleep. Awakened sometime shortly before dawn by thunder, not so distant now. Once or twice I swear it shook the ground. No sense to it at all; the weather had been mild enough when I went to bed, amp; it's just the same right now, with not a sign of rain. Maybe the noise was caused by 'heat lightning' – you sometimes read about such things; but though I sat up for half an hour last night peering through the screens, I saw no lightning.

  I did hear someone singing (or trying to) very late, out toward the farmhouse and the road. Possibly just an old tramp out on some night-time excursion, but it didn't sound like one. It's hard to tell, though, when you're half asleep; maybe it was only Sarr or Deborah gargling in the bathroom.

  I've been thinking a lot about Deborah lately – about how little Sarr seems to appreciate her. Sure, he grabs her all the time amp; obviously likes having her around, but I wonder if he wouldn't feel the same way toward any woman within reach. Still can't decide if anything went on between him amp; Carol.

  For that matter, I wonder just how much Deborah really cares for him. He's tall amp; powerfully built, sure, if you happen to like that type. (And I guess most women do.) But guys like that can sometimes be so goddamned boring…

  Of course, Deborah might not mind being bored. Anyone who could spend all day shelling peas, or shoving seeds into holes, or praying on her knees, obviously has a pretty high boredom threshold. Still, I can't help thinking that Deborah's interested in me. She's certainly attentive enough, giving me all that good food, taking my side against Sarr whenever disagreements arise. And she certainly is looking good these days, the more I see of her. That long black dress may cover her up to the neck, but the cloth is thin (thank God for summer!), amp; I'm sure she wears nothing beneath it.

  I know it's wrong to have these thoughts, no doubt the loneliness is getting to me, but I can't help wondering if Sarr ever goes off by himself in the evening – a night out with the boys, maybe. I sure wouldn't mind being alone with Deborah some time…

  This morning, though, all three of us were together, up in the work area Sarr's constructed in the attic of the barn. The two of them were cutting strips of molding for the extra room upstairs, and I was helping, more or less. I measured, Sarr sawed, Deborah sanded. All in all I hardly felt useful, but what the hell?

  While they were busy I stood staring out the window. There's a narrow flagstone path running from the barn to the main house, amp; Toby amp; Zillah were crouched in the middle of it taking the morning sun. Suddenly Bwada appeared on the back porch amp; began slinking along the path in our direction, tail swishing from side to side. When she got close to the two little ones she gave a snarl -1 could see her mouth working – amp; they leaped to their feet, bristling, amp; ran off into the grass.

  Galled this to the Poroths' attention. They claimed to know all about it. 'She's always been nasty to the kittens,' Deborah said, 'maybe because she never had any of her own.' (I thought she sounded a bit wistful.)

  'And besides,' said Sarr, 'she's getting old.'

  When I turned back to the window, Bwada was gone. Asked the Poroths if they didn't think she'd gotten worse lately. Realized that, in speaking, I'd unconsciously dropped my voice, as if someone might be listening through the chinks in the floorboards.

  Deborah conceded that, yes, the cat had been acting a bit odd these days, ever since the accident. It's not just the kittens she fights with; Azariah, the adult orange male, seems particularly afraid of her.

  Sarr was more helpful. 'It's sure to pass,' he said. 'We'll see what my mother thinks.'

  Mrs Poroth arrived while they were eating lunch. The three of them had been seated at the table, talking about the general store. 'It wasn't always a co-operative,' Sarr was saying. 'Years ago, before my father ran it, it was owned by just two families, the Sturtevants and the van Meers. It did quite well in those days, so I've been told, but then there were several bad years in a row. The rain was poor, some crops around here failed, and the price of corn fell off. 'Twas just a streak of bad luck. Nobody was at fault, and nobody could have predicted it-'

  'Some folks could.'

  They turned to see the hard, unsmiling woman standing in the doorway to the hall.

  'Mother,' said Sarr, rising, 'how did you-'

  'I let myself in through the front door,' she said. She walked into the kitchen and looked around. 'The animal's outside?'

  'I'll get her,' said Sarr. He walked out to the back porch. They heard him hurry down the steps.

  'Mrs Poroth,' said Deborah, 'this is Jeremy Freirs. Jeremy, this is Sarr's mother.'

  'Glad to meet you,' said Freirs, standing.

  The woman nodded, barely looking at him.

  'J
eremy here's from New York City,' added Deborah. 'He's our summer guest.'

  'Guest?' The woman eyed him coldly. 'I thought he was a tenant.'

  Freirs flinched, but Deborah did not. 'We've come to think of him as a guest,' she said. 'He's been a big help to us. Why, just this morning-'

  At that moment Sarr came through the back door carrying Bwada. The cat lay cradled sleepily in his arms, but its eyes were wary as they surveyed the people in the room.

  Freirs looked from the cat to Mrs Poroth. He'd been surprised by the woman's behavior – and was just as surprised now to see her regarding the animal with an almost ferocious intensity. She seemed to be staring directly into Bwada's eyes.

  At last she shook her head. 'This isn't the kitten I nursed.'

  'Well, of course not, Mother,' said Sarr. 'That was ten years ago. You've seen her a hundred times since.'

  'That ain't what I mean.' She came toward him, reaching for the cat. 'Give her here.'

  The animal seemed to grow limp in Sarr's arms; its eyes closed further, as if it were about to fall asleep. But Freirs thought he heard, from deep within its throat, a low, forbidding growl.

  Mrs Poroth's hands closed firmly around the animal. Freirs was sure he heard that growl now – it had grown higher, more menacing – but the woman appeared not to notice, or at least not to care. She picked the cat up and held it in the air before her face.

  And suddenly the animal exploded. With a howl of rage it twisted in the woman's grasp and slashed out at her face. Deborah screamed. The woman's hand went to her cheek. The cat dropped to the floor and raced shrieking round and round the kitchen, while Sarr and Deborah jumped back in alarm.

  Freirs glanced at Mrs Poroth. To his astonishment the woman appeared to be smiling. There were four bloody lines across her cheek, but she no longer seemed to notice. With a single swift movement she stepped to the screen door and yanked it open. In an instant, like a silver-grey projectile, the cat disappeared through it and down the back steps. Through the window they saw her racing toward the woods.