by T E. D Klein
This is when God, or luck, or something, seems to have saved Deborah's life: for all this time she'd had the bread knife by her side, hanging from a loop of her apron; she had carried it downstairs, she said, to cut off a slab of bacon for tonight's meal. Somehow, when she was attacked, she had the presence of mind to grab for the knife. She managed to wrench the animal off her neck amp; with the other hand was able to impale it on the sharp end of the blade.
Judging from the nature amp; position of the wound, I'd say she had even more luck than she amp; Sarr realize, because the tip of the knife must have caught the animal precisely in its old wound, reopening it – to the extent that, when the blade was withdrawn, the flesh bulged out just the way it had before. Naturally I couldn't mention this to Sarr.
It seemed somehow poetically appropriate, when you stop to think of it: that murderous creature finally dispatched – amp; efficiently, too – by the smallest amp; weakest among us. Maybe there is a God after all.
Deborah was weak from shock throughout the afternoon amp; lay upstairs on the bed. When we finally persuaded her to take the cloth away, we were relieved to find that the gashes in her neck were relatively small, the claw marks already clotting. (Thank God that thing didn't get the chance to sink its teeth in.) Sarr was so glad to have her alive that he couldn't do enough for her. He said he heard 'heavenly choruses.' Kept kneeling at odd moments in the corner of their bedroom, thanking the Lord for delivering Deborah safely amp; for ridding him of his curse. For the rest of the afternoon he amp; I took turns bringing things up to her from the kitchen – towels soaked in cold water, etc. At one point, while he was downstairs, she reached out amp; took my hand as I was standing by the bed. 'Thank you,' she said in a hoarse whisper, giving my hand a squeeze. 'Thank you for staying.'
That jolted me. In all the commotion I'd completely forgotten about catching the bus home. I glanced down at my watch; it was already half past one. I'd missed my chance to leave today.
'Well,' I said, as if I'd actually planned it this way, 'I couldn't leave you at a moment like this. I'll think about leaving tomorrow.'
She was still gripping my hand. 'Please,' she whispered, looking up at me, her eyes wide amp; somehow even more beautiful in that pale, bruised face. 'Please stay.'
I hadn't thought of staying; I hadn't even considered it. But it occurred to me now that with Bwada gone – gone for good, this time – the reason for my leaving had been eliminated.
'Well,' I said, still doubtful, 'maybe I can stay a while longer. At least till you're well again.'
She smiled amp; squeezed my hand tighter. 'Good,' she whispered. We stared at one another for a moment or two more, amp; then, hearing Sarr's footsteps on the stairs, we dropped our hands.
He fixed dinner for us tonight – little more than soup, actually, because he thought that it was best for Deborah. She stayed upstairs, resting. Her voice sounded so bad – breath so rasping, words so slurred – that he told her not to strain herself any more by talking.
We had left Bwada's body in the cellar; it's the coolest spot in the house. After dinner I sat with Deborah again while Sarr drove the cat's body into Flemington to have it checked for rabies. (For once he spared us the expected diatribe about veterinarian bills; apparently when it's something as serious as this, his faith in God isn't quite enough to rely on.) He was away for almost two hours, during which time, as Deborah was too overwrought to fall asleep, I did my best to entertain her by reading aloud from one of the books of inspirational verse I'd found downstairs. I could see, from the notes in the margins, that it had belonged to Sarr in college. (Typical that he'd favor humorless old bores like Milton, Vaughan, amp; Herbert.) Most of the poems were dark, somber things, perfect for a Puritan's funeral; the rest were rosily optimistic – Sunday school stuff. Deborah just lay there on the bed listening, watching me rather dreamily ( amp; appreciatively, I hope), smiling but saying nothing, not stirring at all, barely even blinking.
Sarr got back long after dark, looking quite exhausted. He said Bwada's body had begun to stink even before he got into Fleming-ton, amp; now the whole truck smells of her. The vet was surprised at how quickly she'd started to decompose; the dampness, apparently. He took scrapings from her teeth amp; will know by tomorrow if there's any sign of rabies. It'll give the Poroths something extra to pray about tonight.
They were, in fact, doing just that when I left them: Sarr on his knees in his accustomed spot, praying aloud, Deborah watching him silently from the bed but, in her heart, I'm sure, praying along with him.
I can still hear him, more faintly now, as I sit out here. No, he's stopped now; the night is silent again. We had some faraway thunder before, but now that too has stopped. When I think of how nervous I was about staying out here alone last night, I feel a tremendous sense of relief; God knows how many times I've lain here thinking every sound I heard was Bwada. Nice to have that reign of terror over.
Hmm, I'm still a wee bit hungry – that soup we had for dinner didn't really fill me up. I'll probably dream of hamburgers amp; chocolate cake tonight.
I've unpacked all my books New York will just have to wait. Looks like I'll be doing 'the old Thoreau bit' a while longer. ..
Dear Jeremy,
I was so glad to hear from you again. How awful about those two cats. Hope that grey one's gone for good. I never did like her.
I wish the Poroths had a telephone; there are so many things I'd like to tell you, my head's still spinning. I suppose they'll have to wait – but only till next weekend, fortunately, because, taking you up on your invitation, I do hope to come out again and see you. The weekend of the thirtieth, I mean. And I want to bring Rosie. I think the trip would be good for him (and besides, it's his car). He's been ill and is badly in need of a vacation. After not hearing from him all week, I got very worried and last night I got the super to let me into his apartment. The two of us found poor Rosie in a really terrible state, naked on his bed, and I swear we both thought he was dead. And the way he looked -1 just hope I never have to see anything like that again. It really gave me quite a shock. I'm convinced that if I hadn't taken a chance and come in when I did, we would have lost him.
He apologized later – said this had happened to him before, it's just a kind of nervous condition he gets- and I must say he's recovered nicely. You've met him, Jeremy, so you know how easy he is to get along with. I'm sure he won't give the Poroths any trouble at all. He'll sleep anywhere there's room for him, even a living room chair will be all right (he claims he needs only an hour or two a night), and we'll be bringing out extra food with us so that no one will have to go to any added expense.
He's really amazing, in fact, for a man his age. (My guess is he's eighty if he's a day.) He was up and around in less than an hour, after we got some food in him, just as cheerful and energetic as ever and, as you can imagine, very grateful to me. He rested most of the day, but this afternoon he called to say he was sick of being cooped up and wanted to get out; and earlier tonight, though I kept asking him if he really felt up to it, he insisted on taking me to the ballet, just as he'd promised – the Royal Ballet's on tour here now – even though I'd have been perfectly willing to forgo it. I'm glad I went, though; we had great seats, first row dress circle (leave it to Rosie!), and saw, among other things, a beautiful Antony Tudor ballet called Shadowplay, a sort of pagan piece with wood spirits and all, and so continually inventive and lively that I'm sure even you would have liked it.
Afterward we went and had dessert across the street at one of those cafes, the kind I could never afford on my own – they charge $5.95 for a little dish of ice cream – and then he insisted on seeing me home. You can never get a cab around here, so we ended up on the IRT. It was really crowded on a Saturday night, but Rosie somehow manages to turn everything into a game. He had us stand up front where we could watch the tunnel ahead of us through the little window. As we sped along, he told me about some scene in the old King Kong in which the gorilla sticks his head up t
hrough an elevated track and derails an entire train. I never saw the movie, you know I hardly ever had a chance to see anything before I came to New York, but I tried to imagine what the scene must be like and pictured a huge snarling head filling the subway tunnel. And then Rosie said, Okay, but what if it wasn't a head, what if it was just a hand big enough to stop the train? (That's one of the games he plays, the What If game, also called the Riya Mogu or something like that. Whatever the other person says, no matter how outrageous, you have to force yourself to really totally believe in it with all your heart.) I could picture a huge clawed hand sticking up in the middle to the tunnel. And then he said, What if it was just a single finger big enough to fill the tunnel? And I said, How about the claw of such a finger? The tip of the claw? A thing so big it filled the whole tunnel?… Rosie laughed and said, Yes, that's the idea.
But maybe I have too vivid an imagination, because somehow I managed to make myself sick that way, picturing those huge things in front of us; or maybe it was the heat on the train after all that ice cream, and the crowd, and the roaring. I started feeling very weak, all of a sudden, and someone nice got up for me so I could sit down. And just then the train came screeching horribly to a stop, right in the middle of the tunnel, all the lights went out and the air got hot and stopped moving, and I got a sudden icy feeling up and down my spine, so bad I thought I'd throw up. Someone said, Don't you hear it, there's something blocking us, and Rosie went up and tried to see if there was another train up ahead, but he couldn't see through the crowd; he'd been standing next to me and we'd lost our place by the window.
A few moments later the lights came on and the train began creeping forward. Then suddenly it stopped again, and again the lights went out. This jerking, starting, and stopping made me feel even worse. It happened several more times, and each time we ground to a stop I felt my stomach heave like I was going to be sick, even though Rosie was right there beside me with his hand on my shoulder.
The train kept rocking and jerking all the way downtown; it was really nightmarish. I know it was the movement that was making me sick, though the odd thing was that each time I seemed to get this wave of nausea just before we stopped, as if it was the train that was somehow affected by what was happening inside me, rather than the other way around. I told Rosie I was afraid I was going to be sick, and he said, Try to keep it down, we'll be there in a minute or two; and I managed to control myself all the way, fighting down the nausea while the whole world seemed to twist and heave inside me. Keep it down, Rosie kept saying, and it seemed to work; and just as he was helping me off the train he turned to me, smiling, and gripped my hand, and said, Congratulations, Carol, you've passed the test…
Book Nine: McKinney's Neck
There were black terrible woods hanging from the hill all round; it was like seeing a large room hung with black curtains, and the shape of the trees seemed quite different from any I had ever seen before.
Machen, The White People
July Twenty-fourth
Sunday dawned grey and gloomy, mammoth clouds rising on all sides like the smoke from distant fires. Freirs got up early, awakened by voices up at the farmhouse, followed by the slamming of the screen door. Sleepily he remembered: this was Sunday, the morning that the Poroths were to play host to the assembled Brethren. He sat up in bed and looked out. A shiny navy blue station wagon was already parked beside the house. He reached for his eyeglasses, then took his wristwatch from the night table. Seven fifteen – an ungodly hour to be thinking about God. He wondered if plans were being changed in light of Deborah's injury, but probably it was too late for that now.
Slipping on shorts and a T-shirt, he left his building and crossed the damp grass to the house. As he climbed the steps to the back porch, he could hear a gruff voice saying, in a slightly defensive tone, 'We'd planned on walkin' here, but with Lotte's condition- '
As Freirs opened the screen door, the man who'd been speaking fell silent. He was seated at the kitchen table with Sarr Poroth and a slim grey hard-faced woman whom Freirs recognized as Poroth's mother. The two men had mugs of coffee before them. All turned as he came in. Freirs felt like a child who'd blundered into a party where he didn't belong; only Poroth's face showed friendliness.
'Ah,' he said, getting to his feet, 'you've risen early this morning!' He turned to the other man, who was also standing now. 'Brother Joram, this is our guest, Jeremy Freirs. Jeremy, this is Joram Sturtevant.'
'Good morning,' said Freirs.
The man nodded stiffly. 'A good morning to you.' So this was the leader of the sect; Freirs had heard much about him. He was bearded like Poroth, with eyes as dark and piercing, but his face looked older and even more severe. The formal-looking black jacket he wore lent him an air of authority. Freirs waited to see if he would extend his hand, but the man made no further sign of greeting. In the silence Freirs heard voices coming from the living room – children's voices and a woman's. The guests were here early.
'And I know you two have met,' Poroth was saying, with a nod to his mother.
'Yes indeed,' said Freirs. 'Under rather unpleasant conditions.' He turned to the woman, who sat regarding him silently, with no trace of recognition. There were still a pair of thin red lines across her cheek. 'You look as if you're healing nicely.'
She arched her brows. 'If that's God's will.'
Poroth heaved a sigh as he sat down. 'Ah, well, 'tis all in the past now, thank the Lord.'
'The past?' The woman gave a skeptical shrug. 'That's hardly for the likes of us to say.'
Sturtevant cleared his throat. 'With the Lord's help we'll put the wickedness behind us this very morning.' He shifted his gaze to Freirs. 'I'm told the accursed creature had a special… interest in you.'
'Yes,' said Freirs, still standing in the doorway; no one had invited him to sit down. 'I'm not sure why, but it seemed to bear me a particular hatred.'
'And yet for all that, you were never actually harmed by the beast.'
Sturtevant's eyes were subtly accusing; Freirs decided to end the conversation. 'I guess even us infidels have someone watching over us.' He turned to Sarr. 'How's Deborah this morning?'
'Healing well,' said Sarr. 'She's upstairs taking her rest now, but she'll be down. Why don't you have yourself some breakfast while we three move into the living room and wait for the others?'
There was a sliding of chairs, and they filed out of the kitchen. Freirs could see a boy around nine or ten already in the living room, and a large, flushed young woman, obviously very pregnant, who sat slumped in the rocker as if exhausted.
Heating some coffee, he took from one of the cabinets a box of cold cereal he'd bought on his first trip to town. The milk pitcher on the table was almost empty. Picking it up, he took the lantern that hung by the top of the steps and went down to the cellar in search of more.
There was still an inch or two of milk at the base of the metal storage container, but it had gone decidedly sour. The smell pervaded the entire cellar – or was that, perhaps, another smell, the odor of decay? Could the smell of Bwada's body have lingered so long? Passing the farthest shelf as he headed back upstairs, he looked in vain for eggs. The egg rack was empty; the hens still weren't laying. What the hell is this place coming to? he thought. Everything's falling apart.
Upstairs more people were beginning to arrive, some of them pulling up in cars or pickup trucks, others who lived closer arriving on foot. The later arrivals headed directly for the back lawn; those who'd been seated in the living room moved outside to join them, leaving the house to Freirs. He watched black-garbed families congregate outside as he attempted, stomach growling, to make a breakfast for himself out of burnt toast and coffee. He recognized some of the faces that passed beneath the window and noticed family resemblances in others. Matthew Geisel had arrived with a beaming grey-haired woman Freirs guessed to be his wife, and now he recognized Geisel's brother Werner from their long-ago meeting at the Co-op. He saw Bert and Amelia Steegler, the store's manag
ers, and Rupert Lindt, whom he recalled disliking, flanked by a wife and two daughters. One of them, the younger, looked familiar; he stared at her a long time, increasingly convinced that she'd been the girl in the truck that had tried to run him down. Mustn't jump to conclusions, he told himself. With all the inbreeding around here, everyone looks a little bit alike.
In fact, the people assembling on the lawn were hard to tell apart; they were dressed and groomed alike, as well. He felt, more than ever now, like an outsider. He didn't belong here. Better to be back on Bank Street, with the radio playing and the traffic outside. Briefly he considered retreating to the privacy of his outbuilding, but in his incongruously bright clothing he knew he'd feel even more conspicuous crossing the lawn; and then, too, he'd be trapped in his room like an animal in a cage. He decided to stay where he was.
The screen door burst open and Poroth hurried in, looking distracted. He headed for the stairs but called over his shoulder, 'Aren't you coming out?'
'I'm not really dressed for it,' said Freirs. 'I think I'll just watch from in here.'
Sarr paused. 'You'll have to come out eventually,' he said. 'We're performing a Cleansing.'
'A what?'
But the other was already hurrying up the stairs. Freirs could hear him tramping overhead, then the creak of floorboards as he helped Deborah off the bed. Their footsteps as they descended were slow and unsteady. Moments later Sarr appeared with Deborah leaning on his arm. She looked as pale as before, with the same dark rings beneath her eyes, and her pallor was further accentuated by a black scarf wrapped around her throat, concealing her up to the chin. She smiled weakly at Freirs as they passed.
'Sarr, what's this Cleansing you spoke of?'
'Something special,' said Poroth, busy helping Deborah out the door. 'You'll see. Best just to stay inside here till the singing's over.'
