The Best of Margaret St. Clair

NEW RITUAL

The big white freezer purred away smoothly in the pantry. Marie Bates looked at it admiringly. It was really more company than Henry was, she thought—better-looking, more useful and it made soothing, companionable noises. She was ever so glad she had bought it. It had been a wonderful bargain.

She opened the freezer and dropped in the package of apricots she had just processed. The rest of the ‘cots weren’t ready yet, but she couldn’t resist putting the new freezer to work at once. Frost was already forming on its side.

She went back into the kitchen and began scalding and blanching the other ‘cots. She ought to be ashamed of herself for feeling that way about Henry, she supposed. He was a good husband, a good provider, and he had a lot on his mind—the farm, his lodge work, the new ritual. But…

Would he notice me, she thought suddenly, if I came out in the dining room with feathers in my hair, war paint on my face, and did a little war dance in my bloomers? She giggled at the picture. Wasn’t she silly? She did get the craziest ideas!

She was putting the peeled and pitted apricots in the containers when Henry came in from the barn, where he had been pitching hay, for a drink of water. “Want to see my new freezer, Henry?” she asked brightly. “I got it at Fergus’ sale with the egg money. It was real cheap.” Sometimes she thought that if she just kept talking to Henry, he’d give in and start talking to her too. Even if he was a lot older than she was.

“Uh? No, not now.” He pushed past her and started back to the barn. His short, stolid back retreated rapidly.

He wasn’t angry, he wasn’t annoyed, he wasn’t anything. He just didn’t notice her. Marie stared after him with eyes that were beginning to smart. It was like living with a clam. Wasn’t there anything in the world he’d talk to her about? Not the farm or his lodge work or politics—she knew, she’d tried. Weren’t there any other subjects? Food?

Well, once he’d said a pot roast of hers was good, and once he’d mentioned an angel cake. And when they were first married, years ago, he’d said that his mother had baked wonderful blueberry pies. That was quite a lot of talk on one subject, for Henry.

Blueberry pie. She went on filling the ‘cots into the polyethylene bags. Well, that wasn’t very helpful. Nobody in Ovid grew blueberries. The climate and the soil weren’t right for them, and there wasn’t moisture enough. She supposed there might be some canned blueberries in the store.

She filled the bags and sealed the cartons. She wrote “Apricots” and the date on the outside. How much easier fixing the cartons had been than canning would have been! No steamy kitchen, scalded fingers, nasty cracked jars. And fresh fruit in the wintertime would be 100 percent better than canned. She wished Henry had let her talk about the freezer to him. Oh, well. She stacked the cartons on her forearm and went out to the pantry. She opened the deep freeze.

She halted, surprised. She’d put in the package of apricots herself not more than an hour and a half ago. She’d written “Apricots” on the outside. The package itself, a tiny object in the vast white reaches of the freezer, was just the same as it had been. But now the word “Blueberries” was neatly printed on the cardboard side.

Blueberries! What could have happened? Could she have written that herself by mistake? She was sure she hadn’t. She couldn’t! She hadn’t even been thinking of blueberries. But that was what the carton said.

Cautiously Marie reached into the freezer and lifted the package out. It felt as hard as a rock. The contents must be frozen now. She stacked her load of cartons rather wobblingly on the edge of the freezer, and opened the package that said “Blueberries.”

There were blueberries in it.

She could see them plain as plain through the trans parent polyethylene wrapper. Blueberries! How on earth could they have got there?

One of the as yet unfrozen cartons of apricots, falling from the edge of the freezer with a thump, startled her. She dumped them hastily into the freezing compartment, shut the lid, and went back to the kitchen with her blueberries. She tore off the polyethylene wrapper and pried one of the blueberries from the frozen mass. After a little hesitation, she tasted it.

She’d had blueberries only once or twice before, but they’d had the same inky flavor as this one. They—Marie Bates hesitated no longer. She got out a mixing bowl, flour, salt, lard. She was going to make a pie.

Henry ate two pieces of the pie at supper. Marie watched anxiously, while he chomped stolidly away. At last she couldn’t wait any longer. “How’s the pie, Henry?” she asked, brushing at the crumbs on the tablecloth.

“Pie? Oh, O.K.” He ran his tongue around his teeth. He sucked heavily against his upper plate.

She wanted to cry out, “But it’s blueberry! You said—It’s blueberry!” She didn’t. Silently she picked up the dishes and went out to the kitchen with them. She wasn’t going to cry over it, no, she wasn’t. She was fierce with herself. Those blueberries hadn’t cost her anything.

About 8 o’clock that night Bertha, her sister-in-law, dropped in. Bertha wore size 44 dresses from Sears Roebuck, but she wasn’t very tall. Sometimes Marie liked her and sometimes she didn’t. Tonight Bertha was being nice.

“Heard you got the freezer at Fergus’ sale, Marie,” she said after they had exchanged greetings. “Can I see it?”

“Oh, sure.” Marie led her into the pantry and opened the freezer lid. She had a sudden stabbing fear, as it went up, that the freezer would be full of blueberries, but it wasn’t. Nothing but apricots.

“It’s a beauty,” Bertha said appreciatively. “Nicest one I’ve ever seen. Listen, though, aren’t you afraid to use it? Maybe Fergus kept some of his poison chemicals in it. I’d be nervous about it.”

“That’s silly,” Marie answered. “People in Ovid were always prejudiced against Fergus. I guess he wasn’t a very good inventor—I never heard of any of his inventions working or his making any money out of them—but he wouldn’t have kept poisons in a freezer. There wouldn’t have been any sense in it.”

“Um. Well, you be careful, Marie. Fergus did blow his whole house up and kill himself. That freezer was about the only thing that was left.—Are you going to the church supper tomorrow night.?”

“I don’t think so. I haven’t got anything to wear. I’m ashamed of my old blue rayon dress.”

“Um.” Bertha looked down at the linoleum. She moved one of her black kid oxfords as if she were embarrassed. “You know, Marie,” she said without looking up, “Henry—well, he’s funny in some ways. He doesn’t say much, does he? He didn’t, even when he was a kid. But he always liked pretty things. You know, Marie, I—I think Henry’d like it if you got a pretty new dress.”

Bertha said good night. It was bedtime. Marie, upstairs, began to undress in the bathroom. She combed her hair, slipped into her nightgown. She decided to leave off her facial velvet cream tonight. She hesitated, and then touched her lips lightly with Venetian Rose lip pomade. Her lips did get so dry.

Henry was already in bed. She slid in beside him. He turned off the light.

For a moment there was silence. Then he turned on the light again. “Forgot to take out my teeth,” he said in explanation. There was a sucking noise and then a click as he dropped his plates into the glass of water beside the bed. Once more he turned off the light.

Marie couldn’t get to sleep. She thought, “He doesn’t care about me, really. No matter what Bertha said.” And then in a flood of bitterness, at the final personal devaluation, “Men are supposed to be selfish. They’re supposed to think of just one thing. Henry—Henry never really wanted anything from me.”

What was the use of thinking about it? He was her husband; she couldn’t make him over. She’d better try to get some sleep. She sighed and moved her feet.

She rolled over. The position wasn’t comfortable. She thought about the freezer, the blueberries, her old dress, what Bertha had said. She could have got a new dress, only she’d spent all her money on the freezer. The mo re she thought, the wider awake she got. She wished Henry wouldn’t be so distant, she wished she had a pretty dress, she wished… Finally, a little before twelve, she got out of bed.

Very softly she went to her closet. In the dark she fumbled over the three or four clothes hangers it contained. When she got the hanger with the blue rayon dress—she recognized it by the cotton lace around the neck—she drew it gently off the hanger. With the dress under one arm, she slipped out of the bedroom and down the stairs.

When she got to the freezer she hesitated. What she had in mind seemed suddenly foolish. In the light of the single bulb hanging from the ceiling, the white sides of the freezer looked coldly disapproving and impersonal. The idea she had about the freezer couldn’t possibly be right. She felt so ashamed of her foolishness that she almost turned around and went back.

But… Well, it might be a silly idea, but there was nothing morally wrong about it. The worst that could happen would be that her dress might get a spot or two from the ice on the sides of the freezer. Suddenly resolute, she raised the lid and spread her old dress out full length on top of the packages of apricots.

She turned the light out and tiptoed back up to the bedroom. Henry was still snoring; she hadn’t bothered him at all. She slipped between the sheets cautiously. In ten minutes or so, she was asleep.

Marie didn’t get a chance to look inside the freezer next morning until after the breakfast dishes were done and Henry had gone out. While she dried the last plates and put the forks in the drawer she kept telling herself not to be silly, nothing would have happened to her old dress. The blueberries had been a—a coincidence, that was all. Miracles just don’t happen. She mustn’t be silly.

But when she went out to the freezer, she was so weak with excitement that she could hardly lift the lid.

There was a long pink box lying on top of the apricots. There was no name on the box.

With fingers that trembled uncontrollably, Marie opened it. Inside there were sheets of carefully folded tissue paper. And under the tissue, carefully folded around more tissue, was a printed black and pink and gray silk dress.

It was the prettiest dress Marie had ever seen. The silk was as delicate to the touch as a caress, the colors were soft and subtle and rich. The neck—a V neck—was a little low, maybe, but it was surrounded by rows and rows of elegant self-fabric faggoting. And yet it wasn’t too fancy a dress, or too elaborate, for her to wear.

For a moment Marie stood motionless, breathing deeply. Then she took the box in both arms and ran upstairs with it to the bedroom, where the mirror was. She was so excited that she did not even remember to close the freezer lid.

Oh, what a pretty dress! Her lips parted with pleasure as she looked in the glass. It fitted so nicely, the colors were so soft and becoming! She got up on a chair to look at the bottom part of it and even the hem line was just right. Marie thought, even when I was a young girl, I wasn’t much to look at. In this dress I look prettier than I ever did. And my real age. Why, I’m only thirty-three! That’s not old. And yet I’ve been feeling like an old woman. If Henry likes pretty things…

She decided to take a bath and wash her hair. Luckily she’d bought a bottle of shampoo from the Rawleigh man the last time he’d called. While she was waiting for the water to heat, she went out and fed the chic kens and collected the eggs.

She had always rather disliked poultry, they made such silly noises and had such fussy ways, but now she looked at them cheerfully. If it hadn’t been for her egg money, she’d never have been able to buy the wonderful freezer at Fergus’ sale.

She washed her hair and pushed a wave into the damp, fresh locks. ‘While it was drying, she planned her campaign. She’d have something or other for lunch—it didn’t much matter what—but for supper she’d get a really nice meal. Chicken and slaw and butterbeans and the rest of the blueberry pie. She’d wear her lovely new dress and fluff her hair out around her face so the gray didn’t show. She had powder and rouge, though she didn’t use them much, and even a bottle of Avon cologne. If Bertha had been right about Henry… Marie felt a sick, excited feeling in the pit of her stomach, half guilty, half agreeable. She had to keep swallowing over it.

She and Henry ate lunch in silence. Henry had a copy of the new lodge ritual beside his plate. He kept it open with his knife, and studied it while he ate. After lunch Marie did her ironing and shaped the butter from yesterday’s churning—they had only one cow—into pats. About four she started on supper. Then she got dressed.

Henry was sitting in the living room when she went in. He’d washed up; he was reading the new ritual. She said, “Supper’s ready, Henry.” And then, with a great effort, “What do you think of my new dress?”

He raised his eyes. His mouth opened in a surprise which, even at the moment, Marie found not quite flattering. “Why, Marie!” he said. He smiled a little. “Marie, you’re as pretty as a picture in that dress!”

He got up from his chair and started toward her. She waited for his approach in a dazzle of happiness. He put his arm around her. He leaned forward to kiss her on the cheek. Marie perceived, with an almost apocalyptic horror, that he wasn’t wearing his teeth.

When the kiss was over, she went back to the kitchen. She began to pick up pieces of chicken from the skillet and put them on the platter. She found she was crying. She tried to push the tears back with her wrists. It didn’t help. The tears still came.

For— and this was the heart of the matter, the root of the trouble, the thing that never could be altered—Henry was still Henry Bates. He might talk to her, smile at her, kiss her, be interested in her. What of it? He would still be two inches shorter than she was, years older, and bald on the top of his head. He would still forget to wear his teeth. Those darned old false teeth!

She’d got to stop. Henry would think she was crazy. She fumbled with the platter and then put it down again. Standing there among the wreck of her hopes, her cheeks shining damply and tears dripping on the neck of her dress, she heard the motor of the freezer in the pantry begin to purr.

For a moment she listened to the sound without moving. Then she raised her head.

Henry looked up at her with a puzzled frown when she went into the living room. “Something’s wrong with the freezer, Henry,” she said, avoiding his eyes. “Won’t you see if you can fix it for me? And we’ll eat.”

He got up. He followed her into the pantry. “Why, the motor’s running,” he said in a puzzled voice. He bent over the freezer’s open lid.

Marie hesitated for a moment. Her heart was thumping wildly. She was afraid he’d hear it. She hoped, oh, she hoped, this was the right thing to do. She caught her husband by the seat of the pants and dumped him into the big white chest.

She slammed the lid of the freezer shut and sat down on it.

For a while there were sounds of struggle. Henry thumped, heaved, beat on the sides of the chest. Marie, with tears running down her cheeks, remained seated on the lid. She noticed that from time to time the freezer motor made a sort of spitting noise, as if it might be over-exerting itself.

At the end of two hours she raised the freezer lid.

The Bateses’ absence was not noticed for several days. It was not until Bertha, wanting to borrow Marie’s apron pattern, called three times at the house without finding anyone at home that she grew alarmed. Then she called the sheriff and they broke into the house.

They searched it. They found nothing—no bodies, no disorder, no farewell notes.

After a decent length of time had passed, Bertha and her husband took over the farm. Bertha was Henry Bates’s nearest relative and nobody dreamed of disputing her right to it. Besides, it didn’t amount to much.

Bertha was disappointed that she never could get the freezer to work. The electrician she called in said he couldn’t understand it. The motor seemed to have burned itself out.

One day late that year the mailman brought Bertha a postcard. It was a glossy photograph of a man and woman on skis against a winter background a nd, except that the man was taller and both he and the woman much younger and better-looking than the missing couple, the pair in the picture bore a remarkable resemblance to Marie and Henry Bates. Neither of them looked a day over thirty. They wore expensive ski clothing and both of them were wreathed in smiles. The postmark on the card was Sun Valley, Idaho.

Bertha turned the card over and over, frowning and trying to make sense out of it. She felt that something had happened, but she didn’t know quite what. She hovered on the edge of wild surmise. Finally she put the card away in the upper drawer of the sideboard and stopped thinking about it. There wasn’t any use in thinking. There was no message on the card’s back.