by Anthology
The meal was good—lamb and noodles. Not bad for twenty dollars a week, since I detest cooking. Spice cake for dessert, home-made, of course. Deborah is a good cook. Handsome woman, too.
Still light when I left their kitchen. Fireflies already on the lawn—I’ve never seen so many. Knelt and watched them a while, listening to the crickets. Think I’ll like it here.
Took nearly an hour to arrange my books the way I wanted them. Alphabetical order by authors? No, chronological… But anthologies mess that system up, so back to authors. Why am I so neurotic about my books?
Anyway, they look nice there on the shelves.
Sat up tonight finishing The Mysteries of Udolpho. Figure it’s best to get the long ones out of the way first. Radcliffe has unfortunate penchant for explaining away all her ghosts and apparitions—really a mistake and a bore. All in all, not exactly the most fascinating reading, though a good study in Romanticism. Montoni the typical Byronic hero/villain. But can’t demand students read Udolpho—too long. In fact, had to keep reminding myself to slow down, have patience with the book. Tried to put myself in frame of mind of 1794 reader with plenty of time on his hands.
It works, too—I do have plenty of time out here, and already I can feel myself beginning to unwind. What New York does to people…
It’s almost two A.M. now, and I’m about ready to turn in. Too bad there’s no bathroom in this building—I hate pissing outside at night. God knows what’s crawling up your ankles… But it’s hardly worth stumbling through the darkness to the farmhouse and maybe waking up Sarr and Deborah. The nights out here are really pitch-black.
* * * *
…Felt vulnerable, standing there against the night. But what made me even uneasier was the view I got of this building. The lamp on the desk casts the only light for miles, and as I stood outside looking into this room, I could see dozens of flying shapes making right for the screens. When you’re inside here, it’s as if you’re in a display case—the whole night can see you, but all you can see is darkness. I wish this room didn’t have windows on three of the walls—though that does let in the breeze. And I wish the woods weren’t so close to the windows by the bed. I suppose privacy is what I wanted—but feel a little unprotected out here.
Those moths are still batting themselves against the screens, but as far as I can see the only things that have gotten in are a few gnats flying around this lamp. The crickets sound good—you sure don’t hear them in the city. Frogs are croaking in the brook.
My nose is only now beginning to clear up. Those goddamned cats. I’ll walk to town tomorrow; must remember to buy some Contac. Even though the cats are all outside during the day, that farmhouse is full of their scent. But I don’t expect to be spending that much time inside the house anyway; this allergy will keep me away from the TV and out here with the books.
Just saw an unpleasantly large spider scurry across the floor near the foot of my bed. Vanished behind the footlocker. Must remember to buy some insect spray.
June 11
Hot today, but at night comes a chill. The dampness of this place seems to magnify temperature. Sat outside most of the day finishing the Maturin book, Melmoth the Wanderer, and feeling vaguely guilty each time I heard Sarr or Deborah working out there in the field. Well, I’ve paid for my reading time, so I guess I’m entitled to enjoy it. Though some of these old gothics are a bit hard to enjoy. The trouble with Melmoth is that it wants you to hate. You’re especially supposed to hate the Catholics. No doubt its picture of the Inquisition is accurate, but all a book like this can do is put you in an unconstructive rage. Those vicious characters have been dead for centuries, and there’s no way to punish them. Still, it’s a nice, cynical book for those who like atrocity scenes—starving prisoners forced to eat their girlfriends, etc. And narratives within narratives within narratives within narratives. I may assign some sections to my class.
Just before dinner, in need of a break, read a story by Arthur Machen. Welsh writer, turn of century, though think the story’s set somewhere in England: old house in the hills, dark woods with secret paths and hidden streams. God, what an experience! I was a little confused by the framing device and all its high-flown talk of “cosmic evil,” but the sections from the young girl’s notebook were…staggering. That air of paganism, the malevolent little faces peeping from the shadows, and those rites she can’t dare talk about… It’s called “The White People,” and it must be the most persuasive horror tale ever written.
Afterward, strolling toward the house, I was moved to climb the old tree in the side yard—the Poroths had already gone in to get dinner ready—and stood upright on a great heavy branch near the middle, making strange gestures and faces that no one could see. Can’t say exactly what it was I did, or why. It was getting dark—fireflies below me and a mist rising off the field. I must have looked like a madman’s shadow as I made signs to the woods and the moon.
Lamb tonight, and damned good. I may find myself getting fat. Offered, again, to wash the dishes, but apparently Deborah feels that’s her role, and I don’t care to dissuade her. So talked a while with Sarr about his cats—the usual subject of conversation, especially because, now that summer’s coming, they’re bringing in dead things every night. Field mice, moles, shrews, birds, even a little garter snake. They don’t eat them, just lay them out on the porch for the Poroths to see—sort of an offering, I guess. Sarr tosses the bodies in the garbage can, which, as a result, smells indescribably foul. Deborah wants to put bells around their necks; she hates mice but feels sorry for the birds. When she finished the dishes, she and Sarr sat down to watch one of their godawful TV programs, so I came out here to read.
Spent the usual ten minutes going over this room, spray can in hand, looking for spiders to kill. Found a couple of little ones, then spent some time spraying bugs that were hanging on the screens hoping to get in. Watched a lot of long-legged things curl up and die… Tended not to kill the moths, unless they were making too much of a racket banging against the screen; I can tolerate them okay, but it’s the fireflies I really like. I always feel a little sorry when I kill one by mistake and see it hold that cold glow too long. (That’s how you know they’re dead: the dead ones don’t wink. They just keep their light on till it fades away.)
The insecticide I’m using is made right here in New Jersey, by the Ortho Chemical Company. The label on the can says, “WARNING. For Outdoor Use Only.” That’s why I bought it—figured it’s the most powerful brand available.
Sat in bed reading Algernon Blackwood’s witch/cat story “Ancient Sorceries (nowhere near as good as Machen, or as his own tale “The Willows”), and it made me think of those seven cats. The Poroths have around a dozen names for each of them, which seems a little ridiculous, since the creatures barely respond to even one. Sasha, for example, the orange male, is also known as Butch, which comes from bouche, mouth. And that’s short for Eddie La Bouche, so he’s also called Ed or Eddie—which in turn come from some friend’s mispronunciation of the cat’s original name, Itty, short for Itty Bitty Kitty, as he was quite small when they got him. And Zoë, the cutest of the kittens, is also called Bozo and Bisbo. Let’s see, how many others can I remember? (I’m just learning to tell some of them apart.) Felix, or “Flixie,” was originally called Paleface, and Phaedra, his mother, is sometimes known as Phuddy, short for Phuddy Duddy.
Come to think of it, the only cat that hasn’t got multiple names is Bwada, Sarr’s cat. (All the others were acquired after he married Deborah, but Bwada was his pet years before.) She’s the oldest of the cats, and the meanest. Fat and sleek, with fine gray fur darker than silver gray, lighter than charcoal. She’s the only cat that’s ever bitten anyone—Deborah, as well as friends of the Poroths—and after seeing the way she snarls at the other cats when they get in her way, I decided to keep my distance. Fortunately she’s scared of me and retreats whenever I approach. I think being spayed is what’s messed her up and given her an evil disposition.
Sounds are drifting from the farmhouse. I can vaguely make out a psalm of some kind. It’s late, past eleven, and I guess the Poroths have turned off the TV and are singing their evening devotions…
And now all is silence. They’ve gone to bed. I’m not very tired yet, so I guess I’ll stay up a while and read some—
Something odd just happened. I’ve never heard anything like it. While writing for the past half hour I’ve been aware, if half-consciously, of the crickets. Their regular chirping can be pretty soothing, like the sound of a well-tuned machine. But just a few seconds ago they seemed to miss a beat. They’d been singing along steadily, ever since the moon came up, and all of a sudden they just stopped for a beat—and then they began again, only they were out of rhythm for a moment or two, as if a hand had jarred the record or there’d been some kind of momentary break in the natural flow…
They sound normal enough now, though. Think I’ll go back to Otranto and let that put me to sleep. It may be the foundation of the English gothics, but I can’t imagine anyone actually reading it for pleasure. I wonder how many pages I’ll be able to get through before I drop off…
June 12
Slept late this morning, and then, disinclined to read Walpole on such a sunny day, took a walk. Followed the little brook that runs past my building. There’s still a lot of that greenish scum clogging one part of it, and if we don’t have some rain soon I expect it will get worse. But the water clears up considerably when it runs past the cornfield and through the woods.
Passed Sarr out in the field—he yelled to watch out for the copperhead, which put a pall on my enthusiasm for exploration… But as it happened I never ran into any snakes, and have a fair idea I’d survive even if bitten. Walked around half a mile into the woods, branches snapping in my face. Made an effort to avoid walking into the little yellow caterpillars that hang from every tree. At one point I had to get my feet wet, because the trail that runs alongside the brook disappeared and the undergrowth was thick. Ducked under a low arch made by decaying branches and vines, my sneakers sloshing in the water. Found that as the brook runs west it forms a small circular pool with banks of wet sand, surrounded by tall oaks, their roots thrust into the water. Lots of animal tracks in the sand—deer, I believe, and what may be a fox or perhaps some farmer’s dog. Obviously a watering place. Waded into the center of the pool—it only came up a little past my ankles—but didn’t stand there long because it started looking like rain.
The weather remained nasty all day, but no rain has come yet. Cloudy now, though; can’t see any stars.
Finished Otranto, began The Monk. So far so good—rather dirty, really. Not for today, of course, but I can imagine the sensation it must have caused back at the end of the eighteenth century.
Had a good time at dinner tonight, since Sarr had walked into town and brought back some wine. (Medical note: I seem to be less allergic to cats when mildly intoxicated.) We sat around the kitchen afterward playing poker for matchsticks—very sinful indulgence, I understand; Sarr and Deborah told me, quite seriously, that they’d have to say some extra prayers tonight by way of apology to the Lord.
Theological considerations aside, though, we all had a good time, and Deborah managed to clean us both out. Women’s intuition, she says. I’m sure she must have it—she’s the type. Enjoy being around her, and not always so happy to trek back outside, through the high grass, the night dew, the things in the soil… I’ve got to remember, though, that they’re a couple, I’m the single one, and I mustn’t intrude too long. So left them tonight at eleven—or actually a little after that, since their clock is slightly out of kilter. They have this huge grandfather-type clock, a wedding present from Sarr’s parents, that has supposedly been keeping perfect time for a century or more. You can hear its ticking all over the house when everything else is still. Deborah said that last night, just as they were going to bed, the clock seemed to slow down a little, then gave a couple of faster beats and started in as before. Sarr examined it—he’s pretty good with mechanical things—but said he saw nothing wrong. Guess everything’s got to wear out a bit, after years and years.
Back to The Monk. May Brother Ambrosio bring me pleasant dreams.
June 13
Read a little in the morning, loafed during the afternoon. At four thirty watched The Thief of Baghdad—ruined on TV and portions omitted, but still a great film. Deborah puttered around the kitchen, and Sarr spent most of the day outside. Before dinner I went out back with a scissors and cut away a lot of ivy that has tried to grow through the windows of my building. The little shoots fasten onto the screens and really cling.
Beef with rice tonight, and apple pie for dessert. Great. I stayed inside the house after dinner to watch the late news with the Poroths. The announcer mentioned that today was Friday the thirteenth, and I nearly gasped. I’d known, on some dim automatic level, that it was the thirteenth, if only from keeping this journal; but I hadn’t had the faintest idea it was Friday. That’s how much I’ve lost track of time out here; day drifts into day, and every one but Sunday seems completely interchangeable. Not a bad feeling, really, though at certain moments this isolation makes me feel somewhat adrift. I’d been so used to living by the clock and the calendar…
We tried to figure out if anything unlucky happened to any of us today. About the only incident we could come up with was Sarr’s getting bitten by some animal a cat had left on the porch. The cats had been sitting by the front door waiting to be let in for their dinner, and when Sarr came in from the field he was greeted with the usual assortment of dead mice and moles. As he always did, he began gingerly picking the bodies up by the tails and tossing them into the garbage can, meanwhile scolding the cats for being such natural-born killers. There was one body, he told us, that looked different from the others: rather like a large shrew, only the mouth was somehow askew, almost as if it were vertical instead of horizontal, with a row of little yellow teeth exposed. He figured that, whatever it was, the cats had pretty well mauled it, which probably accounted for its unusual appearance; it was quite tattered and bloody by this time.
In any case, he’d bent down to pick it up, and the thing had bitten him on the thumb. Apparently it had just been feigning death, like an opossum, because as soon as he yelled and dropped it the thing sped off into the grass, with Bwada and the rest in hot pursuit. Deborah had been afraid of rabies—always a real danger around here, rare though it is—but fortunately the bite hadn’t even pierced the skin. Just a nip, really. Hardly a Friday-the-thirteenth tragedy.
Lying in bed now, listening to sounds in the woods. The trees come really close to my windows on one side, and there’s always some kind of sound coming from the underbrush in addition to the tapping at the screens. A millions creatures out there, after all—most of them insects and spiders, a colony of frogs in the swampy part of the woods, and perhaps even skunks and raccoons. Depending on your mood, you can either ignore the sounds and just go to sleep or—as I’m doing now—remain awake listening to them. When I lie here thinking about what’s out there, I feel more protected with the light off. So I think I’ll put away this writing…
June 15
Something really weird happened today. I still keep trying to figure it out.
Sarr and Deborah were gone almost all day; Sunday worship is, I assume, the center of their religious activity. They walked into Gilead early in the morning and didn’t return until after four. They’d left, in fact, before I woke up. Last night they’d asked me if I’d like to come along, but I got the impression they’d invited me mainly to be polite, so I declined. I wouldn’t want to make them uncomfortable during their services, but perhaps someday I’ll accompany them anyway, since I’m curious to see a fundamentalist church in action.
In any case, I was left to share the farm with the Poroths’ seven cats and the four hens they’d bought last week. From my window I could see Bwada and Phaedra chasing after something near the barn; lately they’ve taken to stalking grasshoppers. A
s I do every morning, I went into the farmhouse kitchen and made myself some breakfast, leafing through one of the Poroths’ religious magazines, and then returned to my rooms out back for some serious reading. I picked up Dracula again, which I’d started yesterday, but the soppy Victorian sentimentality began to annoy me. The book had begun so well, on such a frightening note—Jonathan Harker trapped in that Carpathian castle, inevitably the prey of its terrible owner—that when Stoker switched the locale to England and his main characters to women, he simply couldn’t sustain that initial tension.
With the Poroths gone I felt a little lonely and bored, something I hadn’t felt out here before. Though I’d brought cartons of books to entertain me, I felt restless and wished I owned a car. I’d have gone for a drive; surely there must be plenty of places worth exploring. As things stood, though, I had nothing to do except watch television or take a walk.
I followed the stream again into the woods and eventually came to the circular pool. There were some new animal tracks in the wet sand, and, ringed by oaks, the place was very beautiful, but still I felt bored. Again I waded to the center of the water and looked up at the sky through the trees. Feeling myself alone, I began to make some of the odd signs with face and hands that I had that evening in the tree—but I felt that these movements had been unaccountably robbed of their power. Standing there up to my ankles in water, I felt foolish.
Worse than that, upon leaving the place, I found a red-brown leech clinging to my right ankle. It wasn’t large and I was able to scrape it off with a stone, but it left me with a little round bite that oozed blood, and a feeling of—how shall I put it?—physical helplessness. I felt that the woods had somehow become hostile to me and, more important, would forever remain hostile. Something had passed.
I followed the stream back to the farm, and there I found Bwada, lying on her side near some rocks along its bank. Her legs were stretched out as if she were running, and her eyes were wide and astonished-looking. Flies were crawling over them.
