“Listen,” Mickelsson said, raising both hands, “I’m not interested in this.” He might have mentioned the cold they were letting into the house, but he said nothing, embarrassed at not inviting them in. Maybe that was why they wore no gloves or hats, part of the strategy worked out in Utah. Eastern States. Zone B.
“I realize you’re busy,” the blond one said, and gave him a smile as general and mechanical as the smile of an orphan, “but I’m sure if you could give us just three or four minutes—”
“I’m sorry, I really can’t,” Mickelsson said, and started to close the door.
Suddenly the one with black hair spoke up—the back-up man, the hard-sell. “Everyone’s busy,” he said and, smiling genially, cut the air with the side of his hand. “If we told you we could teach you a foolproof system for living to be a hundred, that might be different, right? Or if we told you we could make you a millionaire, no ifs or buts, no tricky fine print, you’d jump at it—anyway most people would!” He laughed, almost handsome. Mickelsson closed the door a few more inches, but the boy was no fool; he knew if Mickelsson had really meant to close it he’d have closed it. “You think I’m going to tell you that spiritual things are more important than earthly things like health and wealth. That’s what other faiths will tell you. But the way we look at it, the whole thing’s interrelated. You’ll understand what I mean, Professor. Aren’t you the author of Survival and Medical Morals?”
The hair on the back of Mickelsson’s neck stirred.
The boy went on quickly, smiling hard, no doubt sensing that he’d set off a wrong reaction, “Survival’s what we’re here to talk about, Professor.” Again he gave the air a slow, sideways chop. With the gesture, his craned-forward head moved like a snake’s. “Isn’t it possible that if people live as God intended them to live, they’re likely to live longer, much healthier lives? Let me quote you some statistics about the Church of Jesus Christ Latter-Day—”
“Wait a minute,” Mickelsson said, feeling his face flush, his right hand closing the lapel of his robe against the cold. “I know the statistics. I know the whole pitch. I already told you I’m not interested. Now good-day.”
The boy blinked, then nodded. After an instant he said, “Thank you. Good-day, sir.” He smiled in a way he apparently intended to seem friendly, but he didn’t quite make it. Sour grapes, scornful superiority crept in.
The blond one showed relief. “Thank you for your time, sir.”
Mickelsson closed the door.
The unpleasant aftertaste stayed with him for hours, like the indistinct memory of a nightmare. It was still at hand, coming over him in occasional flashes, when John Pearson drove up around four that afternoon, with the long-haired black dog in the seat beside him in his pickup. He got out stiffly, held the door for the dog, then closed the door and stood looking at the house. Some kind of object, a forked stick—a dowsing rod—dangled from his angular right hand. Mickelsson went out to meet him. “Hello,” he called as the old man approached.
“Hod-do,” Pearson said. He gestured to the dog without speaking, and at once it sat down beside the old man’s left boot and stared as if thoughtfully at Mickelsson.
“Fine weather we been having,” Mickelsson said.
Pearson seemed to consider the remark, glancing at the sky—gray, wintry clouds, yellow western light shooting under them, capping the mountains. “Had a little time on my hands,” he said. “Thought I’d try to rustle you up that water.”
“Good,” Mickelsson said. “Anything I can get you?”
“Gaht it all right here,” he said, and gave an impatient jerk to the dowsing rod. He looked up at the field behind Mickelsson’s house, then, after a moment, back at Mickelsson. “Everything going all right here?”
“Everything’s been fine,” Mickelsson said. He gestured toward the trash bags, scraps of lumber, and crumbled shards of sheetrock piled more or less neatly near the firewood. “Been trying to fix the place up a little,” he said. He was aware that his smile was less than modest. Anyone who glanced through the windows would be sure he’d had professionals in.
Pearson puckered his gray lips, not quite bothering to nod. Then, pointing to the woodpile: “I guess you know that wood ain’t seasoned.”
“Isn’t it?” Mickelsson said.
“Burn that stuff in your stove, you’ll wreck your chimley.” He walked over to the wood—the dog moved with him—and, reaching down with two fingers, twisted off a small branch from one of the logs. “Pure green,” he said. “Two months ago this stuff had birds in it.”
“I guess I didn’t realize,” Mickelsson said.
Pearson shook his head as if in wonder, one side of his mouth pulled back. “Better let me bring you down some seasoned,” he said. “Leave this just set here for a year or so.” He glanced at Mickelsson. “I guess you ain’t used to country livin.” He grinned.
“Not for a long, long time, anyway,” Mickelsson said.
“Wal,” Pearson said. He looked up at the field behind the house again, then down at the dowsing rod, getting ready to start. The dog sat watching him, waiting for some command.
Mickelsson asked, “You mind if I come along and watch?”
“Suit yourself,” the old man said.
They started up across the yard, past the overgrown garden, toward the field.
The old man walked with a look of concentration, his lips pressed together, the dowsing rod straight out in front of him, level with his pelvis, his thumbs aiming straight forward on top of the rod’s two arms. Occasionally the end of the rod dipped, but apparently not to the old man’s satisfaction. He walked with stiff, long steps, as if he were pacing something off. For all his concentration, he seemed to see nothing in the low weeds on the ground ahead of him but stepped awkwardly on small rocks, sticks, and ant-hills, adjusting his step without noticing. He walked straight across the field, parallel to the road, then, at the stone wall along Mickelsson’s north line, turned and set off at an angle, up toward the woods. At the top of the hill, almost in the woods, he stopped pacing and, after a moment, sat down on a stump to rest. The dog sniffed his boots, then trotted away, darting here and there, keeping them in sight, searching for birds or rabbits.
“Seems like the land’s gaht a spell on it,” Pearson said.
Mickelsson studied him, trying to make out whether or not he was joking, but the old man’s face showed nothing, staring out across the brightly painted valley in the direction of the viaduct. It seemed unlikely that he could see that far, with those blurry eyes. The river, under the gray sky, was silver and mirror smooth. Pearson turned his head to look at Mickelsson. “Funny you ain’t seen them ghosts yet.”
“I guess I’m not the type,” Mickelsson said.
The old man grinned, then turned away. “Everbody’s the type,” he said. “Most likely you see ’em and don’t notice.”
Again Mickelsson said nothing. It was queer, he thought—though not all that queer, at Mickelsson’s time of life—that in the classroom he stubbornly resisted ideas that made no sense, ideas half formed, unjustifiable, while here, standing in damp yellow leaves, he accepted John Pearson’s crazy opinions as if nothing could be more obvious or natural. Or was he kidding himself, talking of a classroom Mickelsson who no longer existed? When was the last time he’d insisted, in class, on his students getting anything right?
Pearson’s thought had drifted elsewhere. “Down there right acrost the road from your house,” he said, pointing, glancing for a moment at Mickelsson to see that he had his attention, “they use to have the Susquehanna ice-house. Pond was a whole lot bigger then. Use to skate there, when I was a boy—me and all my friends. Used the ice-house to warm up in. They had apples there too, crates and crates of ’em; keep ’em cold through the winter. Sometimes kept bodies there, for burying in the spring. That was supposed to be a secret. Summertime we’d bring a bunch of boards and nails and make a diving-board. All that land there growin up in woods use to be pasture then—smooth p
asture except for some thistles and boulders, right down to the edge of the pond. Old brother and sister that use to live in your house had a cowbarn and a silo right by that pear tree. Maybe you can see the foundation, if your eyesight’s good. Burned down the same night the ice-house did. Drunken kids, likely; some of them rascals from up above the woods past my place. That was a long time after the murder and all. People use to come here from miles arownd just to swim in that pond.” Again he glanced at Mickelsson. “Sometimes the brother and sister would set on the porch and watch, though they’d never talk to you, never said a word, and nobody never said a word to them neither. Strange people, not right in their heads. I guess a little slow.”
“Sprague, you said their name was?” Mickelsson said.
“That’s right. Can’t quite recall their given names. I think the woman’s was somethin like—” He looked at the sky for a moment, then said, as if reading it, “Theodosia.”
Mickelsson raised his eyebrows.
“Yep. Some kind of religious name. All them old-timers had religious names. More strange religions in these pahrts than a man could shake a stick at.”
“I believe I’d heard that,” Mickelsson said. He remembered his visitors and asked, “Are there many Mormons left? I had a couple drop in on me this morning.”
Pearson’s look was rueful. “Not many, but people say they’re comin back. You see a lot more of ’em on the road, these days, and I hear they been dickerin for a big old house in Montrose”—he turned his head, one eyebrow raised, to examine Mickelsson—”Quackenbush place, up against the church, white house with pillars and a big round porch in front. Back in 1900 it was a bank, they say. Oldest house in Montrose. They won’t get it. Nobody likes to sell to ’em.”
Mickelsson nodded. “I’ve seen the place.”
Pearson looked down at the dowsing rod. After a minute he said, “Cryin shame.”
When it was clear that he wouldn’t continue unprodded, Mickelsson asked, “About the Mormons, you mean?”
“They’re clubby,” Pearson said, and squinted. “There’s somethin unnatural abowt people all hangin together like that. The Baptists, now, they may be mean sons of bitches, but there’s no way they’re ever gonna take over the world. Too ornery. Can’t get along well enough to get organized. Even the Catholics, they don’t really make you nervous. Half the things they do in the world the Pope says they shouldn’t, but they go right ahead and do it anyways. You don’t have to worry about people like that, at least no more’n you’d worry about a common Presbyterian. But the Mormons, now—” He stared at the dowsing rod, lips compressed, trying to come up with exactly what he thought, and at last brought out, “Clubby.”
“Well, they’re healthy, you’ve got to admit that,” Mickelsson said, and grinned. “They live practically forever.”
“Yup.” Pearson nodded. He looked out over the valley for a minute, then turned to squint up at Mickelsson again. “You seen those churches the Mormons gaht?” he asked. “I saw a picture of the one down in Washington, D.C. Big white thing, looks like they built it for one of them science-fiction pictures. Bunch of white spires that go pokin up like fork-tines, golden angels on top blowin trumpets. I tell you, I don’t think I’d care to do business with a God wants a church like that. Wants to scare you and let you know your place—right under his boot. Those churches over in Europe, now—those cathedrals—they’re a whole different thing. They make you think of a God that’s mighty powerful, mighty impressive, but they let you know he’s gaht some human in him; there’s a chance if you talked to him he might know English. Same with the Methodist and Presbyterian churches, they let you know God’s gaht his human side; and the Baptist churches, hell, anybody that can do card-tricks could take over for that God. But the God that thought up the churches of the Mormons”—Pearson shook his head as if sorry he had to say it—“he must’ve come down here from Pluto.”
“Well, I imagine the Mormons do a great deal of good in the world,” Mickelsson said, glancing toward the woods.
“Sure they do. Same as ants and bees.” He leaned forward and, after a moment, stood up. “I suppose they’re all right,” he said. “Somebody thinks he knows how to get through this world alive, I take off my hat to’m.” He held out the dowsing rod, adjusting his grip, preparing to march down the mountain.
“I take it you’re neither a Mormon nor a Baptist,” Mickelsson said, smiling. “Or a Catholic or Presbyterian,” he added.
Pearson turned to stare at him. “I’m a witch,” he said. “They didn’t tell you that?”
Mickelsson stared, for the hundredth time uncertain whether or not he was having his leg pulled. “I guess I heard there were one or two of those around,” he said, carefully not giving Pearson the satisfaction of a questioning look.
Pearson nodded soberly, staring down at the forked stick in his hands. If he’d been teasing, the mood had now left him. “This country’s seen it all,” he sighed, and slightly shook his head. “I imagine it’s something to do with the darkness, the way the clouds are always there, or if they happen to break for a half a day it’s like a miracle.” He raised his head to look across the valley. “People joke about it having a spell on it, this country, specially fahrm people tryin to make somethin grow out of them rocks. But it does have, I always thought. Maybe gaht a whole lot of spells on it, layer on layer of ’em, clear back to the time of the Ice Age. Prehistoric animals, when they were driven owt, put a spell on it; Indians, when the white people came along, they put a spell on it. Then the Pennsylvania Dutch, then the railroad people, now the Polish and Italian dairy fahrmers … Course none of the spells do a thing, that’s the truth of it.” He narrowed his eyes to slits. “Mountains don’t care,” he said. “They’re like a old lean cow, they give you what they can, and if it ain’t enough they let you die and they forget you. Maybe dream you, once in a while, that’s my theory—bring you back for a minute, like the Spragues down there.”
“There’s more life in the place than you’d think, though,” Mickelsson said, falling in with the old man’s mood. “Every night around dusk the deer come out, great big herds of ’em. They stand up there grazing almost to the first morning light.”
“Yup,” Pearson said, “lotta deer, all right. Bear too, though you’ll never see ’em. Plenty of skunks, too—them you will see, owt crawling around your woodpile, lookin for bees and beetles. Coons, possums, thousand different species of birds …”
“Rattlesnakes,” Mickelsson said.
“Hob-goblins,” Pearson said.
They looked at each other as if reassessing. At last Pearson grinned and looked away.
It was dusk when Pearson finally found strong water, or claimed he had, right beside the garden fence. They marked the place with a stake and went into the kitchen to settle up. The dog stood just outside the door looking abused, and in brief consternation Mickelsson wondered if by country manners he should invite the dog in. Immediately he dismissed the thought. It was odd how in everything he did with the old man he felt foolish. A problem of the different languages they spoke, no doubt, every word and gesture half foreign. While he was writing the check, Pearson fingered the scraped place on the door.
“I see you scratched off the hex sign,” he said.
“Yes,” Mickelsson said. “You think it was a bad idea?”
Pearson shrugged. “It’s yore howse now.” He hung his rough hands on the bib of his overalls and looked into the livingroom. “You got a buckled floor,” he said. “I don’t recall seeing that before.”
“I’ve got to fix that, if I can figure out how,” Mickelsson said. “According to the doc, there’s a spring under the house.”
Pearson’s mouth dropped slowly open and he pointed at the floor as if imagining it was he who was having his leg pulled. “You gaht a spring,” he said slowly, “right under the howse?”
“That’s what I was told,” Mickelsson said.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” Pearson said. He pointed toward
the kitchen door and the darkness beyond. “You got a spring right there under the floor, and I spent half the afternoon owt there wandering around in the weeds with a stick. …”
“Jesus,” Mickelsson said, dawn breaking.
Pearson’s eyes widened, and then suddenly both of them were laughing. The old man’s normally gray face darkened and he laughed as if he could barely get his breath. Mickelsson leaned on the refrigerator, shaking.
“Jehoshaphat!” the old man said, clacking his false teeth.
Mickelsson bent over. He brought out, “Talk about city slickers!”
“Lord, I should charge you triple!” Pearson roared.
“I told you I’ve been away from the farm a long time!” Mickelsson said.
“Long time is right!” He drew back now, both of them getting their laughter into partial control. “Well,” Pearson said, “if it was anybody else I’d say you owed me a drink!”