Harvest

by Belva Plain

  The space! The enormous space! How did one ever begin to find anyone or anything in such enormity?

  Yet … yet sometimes it happened.

  Arriving in Taos, he set out through back lanes and courtyards where, so it seemed, every house contained an art gallery, to inquire about Agnes Powers.

  “Why, yes,” he was told, “she does bring her paintings in now and then.” But she was a reclusive person, seen only rarely, and her house was hidden away some fifteen miles or so northwest of town. He would probably never be able to find it.

  Nevertheless, with a rough sketch in hand he set out. To the north lay Colorado. On either side rose vermilion cliffs, tabletopped, among barren wastes covered in scrub and cactus. Sometimes, as the road sharply twisted, steep mountain slopes, richly covered with evergreens, stretched ahead. Now and then he got out of his car to stand at the side of the road and gaze at a stark, motionless immensity in which there was not a sign of human life. He thought he had never heard such total silence.

  He came to a village, a cluster of gray adobe houses. There he inquired of a man with an austere Indian face and was told that yes, he knew the painter lady. She bought supplies at the store.

  Following the man’s directions, he persisted. And so in midafternoon he arrived at the top of a rutted lane cut between great rocks, among which lay a little house colored and hewn like the rocks. He opened a gate and entered a courtyard filled with flowers. A double door of dark brown wood, most beautifully carved in Indian motifs, stood open.

  One could live and die here, he thought before he knocked, without anybody’s knowing whether one was still alive or dead. If anyone wanted to hide …

  “Paul!” cried Agnes. “Paul! I don’t believe it!”

  Barefoot, she was in an Indian dress, a vivid blouse and skirt held together by a turquoise-studded leather belt. Her hair, dressed in a single braid, was almost entirely gray, although she was still in her thirties.

  He followed her into a large room whose adobe walls were hung with blankets, baskets, and paintings. In a corner near the small fireplace stood an easel at which she had apparently been working.

  “I don’t believe it,” she repeated when they sat down. “Whatever brings you here?”

  Not yet ready to state his errand, he answered only that he hadn’t been in the Southwest for years and had simply had a wish to see it again.

  “And how are you, Agnes? You must love it here.”

  “I do. To me it’s the ultimate beauty. I work and I walk. And I have a few friends in houses just like this one, hidden where you’d never find them.”

  “That’s what I’ve been hearing all day, that I’d never find you.” Paul’s mind worked cautiously, feeling the way toward his purpose. “I’d surely like to take a look at some of your work while I’m here,” he said.

  “Of course.” She led him first around the room and then into a small back room in which more pictures were stacked against the wall. They were mostly southwestern pictures, naturally: red cliffs and coarse, brilliant sunflowers, redolent of heat.

  “I know I’m no Georgia O’Keeffe,” Agnes said honestly, “but I intend to keep working and I hope to grow. I feel sure I’ll grow.”

  “They’re well done,” Paul told her with equal honesty, although he had no special interest in their subject. Then he spied a small watercolor propped on a paint-stained table. Quite different from all the rest of her work, it was a picture of goldfish and fronds of sea grass in a bowl, drawn from an odd perspective.

  “I like that,” he told her. “Is that for sale?”

  “Not to you. To you it’s a present.”

  “Not at all. The laborer is worth his hire.” And he wrote out a check for an amount that brought a protest from her. “Ship it home for me, will you? And don’t argue. I told you I like it. This is business.”

  “Well, then, you go sit down while I start some supper. I’m putting a chicken on to bake in the adobe oven. A long, slow bake. It’s delicious.”

  He became anxious. “Agnes, I can’t stay too late. I’d never find my way out of here in the dark.”

  “Who said anything about that? You’ll stay for the night, or as many nights as you want, if you don’t mind sleeping on the cot in that back room with my pictures. It’s kind of messy, but I promise you, it’s clean.”

  “All right. I’ll stay till the morning, then.”

  During the little supper they touched on a variety of subjects from art to Italy and finally to the war in Vietnam, deplored by both of them.

  “Tim sent me a quote once,” Agnes said. “ ‘For war is hell, and those who institute it are criminals.’ ”

  “The trouble is, it’s usually hard to decide just who instituted it.” And Paul added, “But no matter who did, there’s no excuse for some of the violent things the antiwar movement is doing in this country.”

  “People like Tim?” she put in.

  “Well, yes, if you want me to be truthful with you.” When Agnes did not respond, he went on, “Your mother—your whole family, Tom and your sisters, are so concerned about him, having no idea what’s happening, where he might possibly be or—”

  “You want me to tell you what I know about him. That’s why you came.”

  “It’s not why I came,” he lied. “But naturally I would like to know.”

  “The FBI would too, wouldn’t it? You’re asking me to betray my brother, Paul, aren’t you? That’s what you’re doing.”

  So she did know something.…

  “Not that I know anything about him,” she amended quickly.

  He gave his smile a twist of skepticism that would be unmistakable to her and said, “Actually, it’s not Tim I’m seeking. There is a young man, one of Tim’s followers, who happens to be the son of my oldest friends. They are, the mother especially is, in despair.” He looked straight into Agnes’s eyes. “It would mean a great deal to me, more than I can say, if you had any clue, any idea, nothing that would hurt Timothy, it goes without saying. It’s only this young man, this boy. Trust me.” He stopped.

  “What makes you think I have anything to tell you?”

  “I had a hunch. You were always close, two rebels in your differing ways. If he were to need help, it’s you he would come to.”

  “Yes, he would come to me. He’s the only one in the family, the immediate family, who ever really liked me.”

  That was quite true, Paul knew. A strange woman, reclusive, probably a lesbian, she would meet with little understanding from the rest of them. Meg, being kind, would pretend not to know; Lucy, in her smart clothes with her smart wit, would dismiss Agnes as a failure; Thomas would be solemnly disapproving; the Seattle sister, now happily pregnant for the fourth time, would shake her head in sorrow and wonder.

  There was a long silence. It had grown dark, and the mountain wind had risen audibly, shaking the poplars. Agnes got up and lit a lamp.

  She spoke abruptly. “I won’t lie to you. He was here, but it was a while ago, and I have no idea where he is now. Not that I would tell you if I knew.”

  Harboring a fugitive, Paul thought. A very dangerous business, Agnes.

  At Paul’s look of regret Agnes continued, “The last time I heard he was in San Francisco, but that, too, was a long, long time ago, and he has left there. He may well be out of the country.”

  “I only care about the young man,” Paul said again.

  “I can’t tell you any more. I shouldn’t even have told you this much.”

  “Okay. I understand.”

  “Let me fix the cot for you. It’s late, and you said you want to make an early start.”

  He did. It had been a stupid hunch after all, coming across the country for this. It served him right for departing from his normal way of conducting affairs; he had never acted on hunches, and had never been a gambler.

  So he undressed and slept poorly. When he awoke it was only five o’clock, but light was already filling the room, and he was restless. Very quietly, not wa
nting to disturb Agnes, he got up and searched for something to read. On the battered desk lay a scattering of papers and a pile of outdated magazines. Agnes wasn’t much of a housekeeper, that was plain. He had to move a little pile of papers to get at the magazines and, gingerly, in case there might be some reason to keep the papers in sequence, he tried to do so. There was an advertisement from a mail order house, then a grocery list and, on the side, an empty envelope, lying by itself, so that he could not help but see the writing, or rather the printing, on its torn backflap. There was no name, only an address in San Francisco. Turning it over, he saw that this letter had been sent to Agnes many months ago. He turned it back lest she should think he had been rummaging on her desk.

  Then something occurred to him: It’s lying conspicuously, on top. An empty envelope, months old: Why? For a minute or two he stood still, arguing with himself. It’s sheer coincidence; messy habits; she might know a dozen people in that city. On the other hand, she might have wanted him to see it, while yet wanting to keep her conscience halfway clear by not actually giving him the address. Furthermore, since the letter was months old and her brother wasn’t in the city anymore, no harm could come to him if Paul were to go there.

  Such were Paul’s conjectures, and any one of them, contradictory as they all were, might make sense—or no sense at all. Nevertheless, he made a note of the address.

  At breakfast there was no mention of the previous night’s conversation and none afterward until, as Paul got into the car to drive away, Agnes said, “I’m sorry I couldn’t help you, Paul.”

  “That’s all right, Agnes. You would if you could.”

  “I hope you can find the young man. I see that he means a lot to you.”

  He kissed her cheek. “You’re a good soul, cousin. Take care of yourself.” And as the car began to roll, he called through his open window, “I’m going to enjoy the fishbowl!”

  All the way to Albuquerque he kept up an argument: Is this a fool’s errand, or is it worth pursuing? His conclusion, reached as the car approached the airport, was that the clue, if indeed it had been a clue at all, was too slender to act upon.

  “Hello, I’m Paul Werner or John Doe, or the Man in the Moon, and I’m looking for Steven Stern.”

  “Oh, come right in, he’ll be glad to see you.”

  Why, the whole thing was ridiculous, and only an old fool playing Sherlock Holmes would have involved himself in it!

  So he returned the rented car and bought a ticket back to New York. There was a two-hour wait until the next flight out, so he got a newspaper, went to the departure gate, and sat down to read. The first thing he saw was a continuation of the previous day’s news that he had missed because the car’s radio hadn’t been working. Rapidly, he scanned the lead item.

  “Authorities sifting through ruins of the house in exclusive suburban neighborhood north of San Francisco … basement filled with explosives … lead pipes packed with dynamite … woman’s body found in basement workroom with hands blown off and head badly damaged … quantities of SDS literature … leaflets satirizing United States government.”

  A great weight seemed to fall upon him. Sighing, he put the paper away and looked out unseeing at the tarmac and the glittering sky. Young fools! Half cooked! Semieducated even after four years of college; most of them probably knew little or nothing of the ancient world or Asia or even of Europe, and so could have no real understanding of what we have here in America or of how hard it had been to get what we have.

  Half an hour passed before he finally got up and returned to the ticket counter. The same clerk was there and looked mildly surprised at Paul’s request.

  “I’ve changed my mind. I need to go to San Francisco instead.”

  The taxi stopped in front of a wooden house trimmed, like all the rest on the street, with carpenter’s lace. It held a high porch with a railing, which someone had started to paint a searing electric blue and had then, after a halfhearted spattering, abandoned.

  Paul stood and looked through torrential rain down a street that was almost as steep as a ladder. It was an area of small neighborhood stores, of signs announcing various occult, mind-expanding services, tea-leaf readers, tie-dyed shirts, and handmade copper jewelry. Interspersed with these were high, narrow wooden dwellings left over, he guessed, from before the giant earthquake in 1906. A few years ago this had been “hippie country”, what it was now he had no way of knowing, but he had nevertheless “played safe” by leaving his suit at the hotel and wearing khakis with an open-necked shirt.

  Now, at the foot of the porch steps, he paused. A sudden feeling of bafflement overcame him. The crowded city was as frustrating as Agnes’s wilderness had been. He had come on a fool’s errand. Still, having come this far across a continent with a purpose, no matter how foolish a one, would it not be even more foolish to turn around and go home without at least making a try?

  And he tried to refresh his memory, rehearsing his opening, over which he had struggled and puzzled for more than a few hours. Because no other plausible way occurred to him, he simply decided to make a direct plunge.

  “I’ve come from Tim,” he would say.

  If he were to draw a blank, the whole thing would have been an absurd mistake. That would be the worst that might happen. On the other hand, if Agnes’s placement of this address had been deliberate, they might let him in. Then: Why had he come from Tim? Ah! Good question! Well, because … because … Tim had a message for Steve, Steve Stern. He would know by their faces or face whether they had ever heard of Steve Stern. If Steve had been blown up in that house, probably he would find that out too. If not, he would let them talk and possibly—barely possibly—he might find out where Steve was. One unlikely possibility built on another, brick upon brick, or else only air upon air.

  However, he was here. And with a still-pounding heart he climbed the rest of the steps. He rang the bell. The door was opened, and he went into a dim and dingy hall.

  The boy—anyone under the age of forty seemed boyish to Paul—stood blocking him from walking any farther.

  “What is it you want?”

  Paul said quietly, “I’ve a message from Tim.”

  There was a pause during which the two examined each other; the one saw an elderly man, clean and simply dressed; the other saw a stereotype of the times: a young man dressed as Paul himself was except for having long hair and granny glasses.

  “Tim? Who’s he?”

  For answer Paul’s expression spoke alone, saying silently and emphatically, “As if you don’t know perfectly well that I would never, that I am not authorized, that your question is the last thing I would or could answer if my life depended on it!”

  There followed another pause, telling Paul that the other was suspicious and unsure of making a mistake, either by admitting him or by sending him away.

  At that moment another man came down the stairs.

  “Here’s someone,” the first one said to the newcomer, “who says he’s got a message or something from somebody named Tim.”

  The newcomer had a keen, smart face. His manner was immediately assertive.

  “You don’t just walk in off the street and ask to see people. You might be an ax murderer for all we know,” he said with a little mockery of a smile. “As for Tim, I personally am acquainted with three of them—no, four, counting my grandfather.”

  He did not ask Paul’s name. In this business Paul understood that no one ever asked for names. This was a game, caution and wariness playing against each other. He caught the ball.

  “All right. My Tim is tall, about six foot three, very blond and ruddy faced. He’s a baseball freak, a Giants fan, he grew up in New Jersey, his mother’s a veterinarian, his sister Agnes is an artist.…” Paul dug in his memory for facts that would not generally be known, most especially for facts that the “authorities” would probably not know. “He’s a vegetarian, he spent the Christmas before last in Italy, he drinks wine but no hard liquor, and he’s very interested i
n one of his former students, name of Steve Stern.”

  The two, who had moved together toward the foot of the stairs as if to block Paul from going up, were communicating by shifting glances at Paul and back again to one another.

  Presently the second one asked, “What about Steve Stern?”

  At this Paul’s breath caught. For an instant of dread he awaited an attack of the pain that he had not had since that day in Italy. But nothing happened; his breathing regulated itself and he was able to speak.

  “Tim asks whether he’s all right, that’s all. In the circumstances.”

  Again the two glanced at each other. It was almost as if Paul could see straight through their puzzled foreheads and into their baffled thoughts. Here was a man who was obviously well acquainted with Tim Powers. The “circumstances” must naturally refer to this week’s disaster. All of this could make sense. Yet—could this man also be the enemy who had in some way gotten on their trail?

  “I understand,” Paul said next. “You need to talk. You may need to consult with others. And you’re right to do it. So I’ll step out onto the porch until you’re ready.” He moved back to the door, which was still open. “I can give you much more identification if you need it. For example, Tim has a brother, an establishment pig, in the State Department, the Foreign Service. His name is Tom. You see? Just ask me what you want to know.”

  He backed out through the door and, stepping into a puddle that had formed under a leak in the porch roof, soaked his sneakers. The rain, wind driven, teemed in sheets that were almost horizontal, soaking his clothes. His discomfort was great and his feelings mixed. Either he had stepped into a hornet’s nest or he had struck it lucky.

  It must have been ten minutes before the door opened again and he was called back inside. This time there were half a dozen people in the hall. A tall, brusque young woman spoke.

  “We’ve decided to trust you. If it turns out that we’re wrong, you’ll be the one to regret it, not we.”

  Educated, Paul thought ironically. She had used “we,” where the average person would have said “us.” Educated and tough. An impression flitted across his mind: I wouldn’t want to need her mercy. And looking her straight in the eye, that severe, penetrating eye, he smiled slightly.