But I can’t go through that again.”
“And what,” Lucy asked, “if she was showing you the truth?”
“I think,” said Edward, “that I’d rather not accept that as a possibility.”
Lucy scraped the last of her cereal up methodically and swallowed it. “That’s fair, I guess. Will you at least help me with my kitchen garden?” She licked the bowl of her spoon sensuously like a big, lazy cat.
“Unfair tactics, and not strictly necessary. Of course I will.”
“Good. I’m going into town and look up Mr. Calvin Culver, our Sower and tell him I’m in if they’ll have me. You can work off a little of the spare tire you’re accumulating by getting the grass up from that plot I marked near the back steps.”
And with that, Lucy was gone.
Spare tire? And who had been feeding him such rich meals, as if fattening him up for a sacrifice? Was there no justice?
Edward did the breakfast dishes and went outside.
Even this early in the morning, the June sun was overpoweringly hot, a celestial bonfire. Soon Edward had his shirt off. The sharp, untried, shiny blade of the pointed shovel easily severed the ancient turf demarcated by stakes and string. Edward picked up each heavy clod by its green hair—disturbingly like a severed head—shook the moist earth from its roots, and tossed it aside. Fat and juicy flesh-colored earthworms, some truncated by his blade, wriggled away into the earth.
After some time, Edward had exposed a square of black earth some twenty feet on a side to the suns curious stare. The gaze of the deity was already turning the soil a different, lighter shade as it dried. The pile of turfs made a small warrior’s barrow.
Edward was resting on his shovel, his back glistening with sweat, when Lucy called out. “Hello! Come help me!”
Rather wearily, Edward went around to the front of the house. Lucy was struggling with some handled device sticking out of the car’s trunk.
“I rented a Rototiller,” she explained. “It’ll save us some work.”
“Us?”
“We’re a team, aren’t we?”
Edward wrestled the machine to the ground. “And your role on the team is—?”
“I’m the fructifying force.”
Edward stopped in midmotion, astonished. “‘Fructifying’? Where the hell did that come from? Good old Calvin Culver? Are you sure you don’t mean—”
“Don’t say it. You’ve got a filthy mind. Just do a good job, and you’ll get your reward.
“Oh, by the way,” she added as he wheeled the machine off, “I’m a Grange member now.”
The Rototiller, despite its noise and stink, did make the job easier. Still, there were what seemed to be thousands of stones to bend over for and pluck from the newly turned earth. In a couple of hours they formed a companion cairn to the sod barrow.
When it was over, Edward had never felt so tired in his life. Every muscle in his arms and legs and back ached. So this was the pastoral life. Ah, Arcadia! The city had never looked so fine.…
“Edward,” called Lucy from the back porch. He turned, hoping she had brought something cool for him to drink.
She wore a circlet of daisies in her hair. And nothing else. Her body glowed white and tan as if lit from within. She stepped down the stairs with a motion like water falling. The air around her appeared to shiver. She crossed the lawn, her bare feet seeming to imprint the grass with a brighter greenness.
Edward was mesmerized. He felt hot and cold at once. Then his unknown wife, her eyes filmed with a cool light, was upon him, unbuckling his pants, finding him unsurprisingly ready, and pulling him down to the broken soil.
The earth was cool and moist beneath his knees and palms. He wondered briefly what it felt like to supine Lucy. Then there was nothing left of him to wonder.
When it was over, Edward had never felt so refreshed in his life. Every muscle in his arms and legs and back throbbed with vitality. So this was the pastoral life.…
“You don’t pay the
“And what,” Lucy asked, “if she was showing you the truth?”
“I think,” said Edward, “that I’d rather not accept that as a possibility.”
Lucy scraped the last of her cereal up methodically and swallowed it. “That’s fair, I guess. Will you at least help me with my kitchen garden?” She licked the bowl of her spoon sensuously like a big, lazy cat.
“Unfair tactics, and not strictly necessary. Of course I will.”
“Good. I’m going into town and look up Mr. Calvin Culver, our Sower and tell him I’m in if they’ll have me. You can work off a little of the spare tire you’re accumulating by getting the grass up from that plot I marked near the back steps.”
And with that, Lucy was gone.
Spare tire? And who had been feeding him such rich meals, as if fattening him up for a sacrifice? Was there no justice?
Edward did the breakfast dishes and went outside.
Even this early in the morning, the June sun was overpoweringly hot, a celestial bonfire. Soon Edward had his shirt off. The sharp, untried, shiny blade of the pointed shovel easily severed the ancient turf demarcated by stakes and string. Edward picked up each heavy clod by its green hair—disturbingly like a severed head—shook the moist earth from its roots, and tossed it aside. Fat and juicy flesh-colored earthworms, some truncated by his blade, wriggled away into the earth.
After some time, Edward had exposed a square of black earth some twenty feet on a side to the suns curious stare. The gaze of the deity was already turning the soil a different, lighter shade as it dried. The pile of turfs made a small warrior’s barrow.
Edward was resting on his shovel, his back glistening with sweat, when Lucy called out. “Hello! Come help me!”
Rather wearily, Edward went around to the front of the house. Lucy was struggling with some handled device sticking out of the car’s trunk.
“I rented a Rototiller,” she explained. “It’ll save us some work.”
“Us?”
“We’re a team, aren’t we?”
Edward wrestled the machine to the ground. “And your role on the team is—?”
“I’m the fructifying force.”
Edward stopped in midmotion, astonished. “‘Fructifying’? Where the hell did that come from? Good old Calvin Culver? Are you sure you don’t mean—”
“Don’t say it. You’ve got a filthy mind. Just do a good job, and you’ll get your reward.
“Oh, by the way,” she added as he wheeled the machine off, “I’m a Grange member now.”
The Rototiller, despite its noise and stink, did make the job easier. Still, there were what seemed to be thousands of stones to bend over for and pluck from the newly turned earth. In a couple of hours they formed a companion cairn to the sod barrow.
When it was over, Edward had never felt so tired in his life. Every muscle in his arms and legs and back ached. So this was the pastoral life. Ah, Arcadia! The city had never looked so fine.…
“Edward,” called Lucy from the back porch. He turned, hoping she had brought something cool for him to drink.
She wore a circlet of daisies in her hair. And nothing else. Her body glowed white and tan as if lit from within. She stepped down the stairs with a motion like water falling. The air around her appeared to shiver. She crossed the lawn, her bare feet seeming to imprint the grass with a brighter greenness.
Edward was mesmerized. He felt hot and cold at once. Then his unknown wife, her eyes filmed with a cool light, was upon him, unbuckling his pants, finding him unsurprisingly ready, and pulling him down to the broken soil.
The earth was cool and moist beneath his knees and palms. He wondered briefly what it felt like to supine Lucy. Then there was nothing left of him to wonder.
When it was over, Edward had never felt so refreshed in his life. Every muscle in his arms and legs and back throbbed with vitality. So this was the pastoral life.…
“You don’t pay the
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