'Well,' Freirs said, 'there's just one more item to search for.' Shoving the book back onto the shelf, he withdrew one still earlier, marked 1877.
It was a curious sensation, looking through these volumes in reverse. Time was running backward, and Hunterdon County grew younger. New Jersey, he saw, had been a rather wild place in '77; he read of cattle rustling, stable fires, and hunting accidents. A Milford boy had died in February from the attack of a 'mad bull,' another from the bite of a snake. In Flemington in March one Deto Turo, described as 'an Italian bootblack,' had stabbed three men in a bar. In June a Moses Rehmeyer, four years old, had fallen down a cistern and drowned, and a man had been sentenced to twelve years' imprisonment for horse stealing. One of the lead stories in July, Died from Drinking Too Much Milk, told of a cook 'employed on Gen. Schwenck's large dairy farm' who'd drunk herself to death after having become, in the words of the article, Very fond of fresh milk.' He wondered what the temperance crowd had made of that.
There were dozens of reports of fires – civilization in those days seemed to have been one colossal tinderbox – but it wasn't until he saw the notice Tragic Fire in Gilead, near the end of the volume, that he knew he'd found what he'd been searching for.
'Here it is,' he said.
The report was a brief one, buried near the bottom of the page.
Gilead, Nov. 1. – The farm of Isaiah Troet, 38, was the scene of a terrible tragedy last night when sparks from a wood stove apparently ignited combustible material in the kitchen. Eight of the family are believed to have perished in the conflagration that destroyed their home. Among the dead were Troet, his wife Hanna, and six children, all of whom were apparently asleep when the fire broke out. The volunteer fire brigade arrived too late to save the unfortunate family. Authorities from Annandale and Lebanon picked through the charred remains this morning and attributed the fire to 'an act of God.' The only survivor, nine-year-old Absolom Troet, had been outside at the time of the blaze, attending to a sick calf in the barn. Authorities say the boy will live with relatives.
'Can't we go now, Jeremy?' whispered Carol. 'This tiny print's beginning to give me a headache. Or maybe it's just thinking about all those poor people.'
'Sure,' said Freirs. 'Sorry for taking so long.' He slipped the book back on the shelf and wiped the dust of the old paper from his hands.
He thought about Absolom Troet all the way back to the farm. And he kept wiping his hands.
Sarr and Deborah were in the house when we got back. They were all fired up amp; full of the Holy Spirit; even when I was out here in this room, I could hear them clattering through the kitchen, humming little snatches of hymns. I suppose that when you don't have any Broadway shows around, or movies or TV, you take whatever entertainment you can get.
They both told me over amp; over how 'exalted' they felt, but as far as I'm concerned they might just as well have said 'exhausted,' since they'd apparently spent the last four hours praying on their knees, rising to sing, kneeling, standing again… Good preparation for planting seeds, maybe, but not the sort of religion I'd choose.
They were both very nice about my birthday, though – why hadn't I told them, Deborah would have baked me something special, etc. etc. She actually kissed me on the side of the mouth. (Could feel her breast brush against my arm. I don't think she wears anything beneath that dress.) Sarr put down the wicked-looking scythe blade he was honing amp; contented himself with an earnest shake of my hand.
Wish I knew how Carol felt about him. Of course, nothing could have gone on between them last night (notwithstanding a few fantasies I had when I came out here), but I still sense a certain interest there, at least on Carol's part. As for Sarr, I'm now convinced he has his mind on God and eyes for no one but his wife. But who can say? Who can say what's in another person's head?
I twisted Carol's arm a bit, amp; she agreed to stay for dinner, despite lots of moaning amp; groaning about the drive back to New York. It was a nice meal, one that Carol, this time, could eat: cheese omelet, garden salad, amp; that cake of Carol's for dessert. She amp; I finished off the Geisels' wine from last night; both Poroths declined. I guess one night of transgression is enough for the weekend.
Deborah, as usual, spent the meal laughing amp; carrying on amp; generally having a good time – she obviously craves company – but Sarr tended to withdraw a bit as the evening wore on. He sat there like one of his own cats, getting all silent amp; brooding amp; inscrutable. Maybe it's because I made the mistake of asking him about those murders.. .
'God's my witness, Jeremy,' he said, 'you know more about those things than I do. I'm just plain not interested. I wasn't around in 1939, and I certainly wasn't around in 1890. I've heard my mother had some sort of premonition about the one in '39, but I'm not really sure. She was a young girl then. I told you about the gift they say she has.'
Freirs nodded. 'Obviously in this case the gift didn't help.'
'I guess not,' said Poroth. He sounded somewhat downcast. 'My mother seldom speaks of it. I expect it's troubling to her.'
'What intrigues me most,' said Freirs, 'are the legends these things give rise to. I gather people claim they've seen ghosts in the woods where the murders occurred.'
Poroth shrugged. 'Some claim that. Personally, I don't hold with such tales. I believe they're probably in error. Still, there could be something to it. It's not for us to say.'
Freirs decided that he liked the idea of having a haunted place so nearby. It was just the sort of thing he could take back to his classes, evidence of modern superstition.
Carol was gazing at Poroth sympathetically. 'You don't believe in ghosts yourself, then?'
'On the contrary,' he said. 'I know full well that they exist, as sure as there are eggs and fireflies and angels. I just don't think they stay out there in the woods.'
Freirs decided that he hoped they did.
Carol wanted to leave before eight, to give herself plenty of daylight to navigate the dirt road amp; the way back to Gilead, but the Poroths' clock has gone off amp; I'd left my watch inside here, so she probably didn't start till close to nine, when it had already begun to get dark. Hope she makes it okay; she was really nervous about the goddamned driving.
Was sorry to see her go. Never really got as close to her as I'd wanted to, amp; don't know when she'll have another chance to come out here. There's a kind of genuineness in her I don't find in most New York girls; she makes me feel like a teenager again, which isn't really as bad as it sounds, esp. for an old man of thirty.
'Oh, come off it,' says another voice. 'You just want to get laid.'
Could be. (Sigh.) Maybe I'll try to see her in the city next time, in my own environment, Tather than out here on someone else's turf.
Came out here after she left amp; tried to do some work. Started on Melmoth the Wanderer by the Rev. Charles Robert Maturin. Powerful stuff, but after the Lewis book I'm getting a little sick of all the Catholic-baiting. No doubt it's great fun for the connoisseur of atrocity scenes – still more mothers clutching the wormy corpses of their infants (a Gothic staple, I suspect), starving prisoners forced to eat their girlfriends (that's a new one on me) – but the Inquisition's over now, the villains dead amp; gone, amp; all a book like this can do is put you in a rage. Fine for getting me through tomorrow morning's pushups, no doubt – a drop of adrenaline works wonders – but otherwise quite useless.