At the lake, the few floats which had been put out this early (only the hardiest swimmers dared the waters of Lake Willow before July 4th, however, toads or no toads) were piled high with toads, and the fish were going crazy with so much food almost within reach. Every now and then there was a plip! plip! sound as one or two of the toads jostling for place on the floats were knocked off and some hungry trout or salmon’s breakfast was served. The roads in and out of town — there were a lot of them for such a small town, as Henry Eden had said — were paved with toads. The power was out for the time being; free-falling toads had broken the power-lines in any number of places. Most of the gardens were ruined, but Willow wasn’t much of a farming community, anyway. Several people kept fairly large dairy herds, but they had all been safely tucked away for the night. Dairy farmers in Willow knew all about rainy season and had no wish to lose their milkers to the hordes of leaping, carnivorous toads. What in the hell would you tell the insurance company?
As the light brightened over the Hempstead Place, it revealed drifts of dead toads on the roof, rain-gutters that had been splintered loose by dive-bombing toads, a dooryard that was alive with toads. They hopped in and out of the barn, they stuffed the chimneys, and they hopped nonchalantly around the tires of John Graham’s Ford and sat in croaking rows on the front seat like a church congregation waiting for the services to start. Heaps of toads, mostly dead, lay in drifts against the building. Some of these drifts were six feet deep.
At 6:05, the sun cleared the horizon, and as its rays struck them, the toads began to melt.
Their skins bleached, turned white, then appeared to become transparent. Soon a vapor that gave off a vaguely swampy smell began to trail up from the bodies and little bubbly rivulets of moisture began to course down them. Their eyes fell in or fell out, depending on their positions when the sun hit them. Their skins popped with an audible sound, and for perhaps ten minutes it sounded as if champagne corks were being drawn all over Willow.
They decomposed rapidly after that, melting into puddles of cloudy white shmeg that looked like human semen. This liquid ran down the pitches of the Hempstead Place’s roof in little creeks and dripped from the eaves like pus.
The living toads died; the dead ones simply rotted to that white fluid. It bubbled briefly and then sank slowly into the ground. The earth sent up tiny ribands of steam, and for a little while every field in Willow looked like the site of a dying volcano.
By quarter of seven it was over, except for the repairs, and the residents were used to them.
It seemed a small price to pay for another seven years of quiet prosperity in this mostly forgotten Maine backwater.
At five past eight, Laura Stanton’s beat-to-shit Volvo turned into the dooryard of the General Mercantile. When Laura got out, she looked paler and sicker than ever. She was sick, in fact; she still had the six-pack of Dawson’s Ale in one hand, but now all the bottles were empty. She had a vicious hangover.
Henry Eden came out on the porch. His dog walked behind him.
‘Get that mutt inside, or I’m gonna turn right around and go home,’ Laura said from the foot of the stairs.
‘He can’t help passing gas, Laura.’
‘That doesn’t mean I have to be around when he lets rip,’ Laura said. ‘I mean it, now, Henry.
My head hurts like a bastard, and the last thing I need this morning is listening to that dog play Hail Columbia out of its asshole.’
‘Go inside, Toby,’ Henry said, holding the door open.
Toby looked up at him with wet eyes, as if to say Do I have to? Things were just getting interesting out here.
‘Go on, now,’ Henry said.
Toby walked back inside, and Henry shut the door. Laura waited until she heard the latch snick shut, and then she mounted the steps.
‘Your sign fell over,’ she said, handing him the carton of empties.
‘I got eyes, woman,’ Henry said. He was not in the best temper this morning, himself. Few people in Willow would be. Sleeping through a rain of toads was a goddam hard piece of work.
Thank God it only came once every seven years, or a man would be apt to go shit out of his mind.
‘You should have taken it in,’ she said.
Henry muttered something she didn’t quite catch.
‘What was that?’
‘I said we should have tried harder,’ Henry said defiantly. ‘They was a nice young couple. We should have tried harder.’
She felt a touch of compassion for the old man in spite of her thudding head, and laid a hand on his arm. ‘It’s the ritual,’ she said.
‘Well, sometimes I just feel like saying frig the ritual!’
‘ Henry!’ She drew her hand back, shocked in spite of herself.
But he wasn’t getting any younger, she reminded herself. The wheels were getting a little rusty upstairs, no doubt.
‘I don’t care,’ he said stubbornly. ‘They seemed like a real nice young couple. You said so, too, and don’t try to say you didn’t.’
‘I did think they were nice,’ she said. ‘But we can’t help that, Henry. Why, you said so yourself just last night.’
‘I know,’ he sighed.
‘We don’t make them stay,’ she said. ‘Just the opposite. We warn them out of town. They decide to stay themselves. They always decide to stay. They make their own decision. That’s part of the ritual, too.’
‘I know,’ he repeated. He drew a deep breath and grimaced. ‘I hate the smell afterward. Whole goddam town smells like clabbered milk.’
‘It’ll be gone by noon. You know that.’
‘Ayuh. But I just about hope I’m underground when it comes around again, Laura. And if I ain’t, I hope somebody else gets the job of meetin whoever comes just before rainy season. I like bein able to pay m’bills when they come due just as well as anybody else, but I tell you, a man gets tired of toads. Even if it is only once every seven years, a man can get damned tired of toads.’
‘A woman, too,’ she said softly.
‘Well,’ he said, looking around with a sigh, ‘I guess we might try puttin some of this damn mess right, don’t you?’
‘Sure,’ she said. ‘And, you know, Henry, we don’t make ritual, we only follow it.’
‘I know, but — ‘
‘And things could change. There’s no telling when or why, but they could. This might be the last time we have rainy season. Or next time no one from out of town might come — ‘
‘Don’t say that,’ he said fearfully. ‘If no one comes, the toads might not go away like they do when the sun hits em.’
‘There, you see?’ she asked. ‘You have come around to my side of it, after all.’
‘Well,’ he said, ‘it’s a long time. Ain’t it. Seven years is a long time.’
‘Yes.’
‘They was a nice young couple, weren’t they?’
‘Yes,’ she said again.
‘Awful way to go,’ Henry Eden said with a slight hitch in his voice, and this time she said nothing. After a moment, Henry asked her if she would help him set his sign up again. In spite of her nasty headache, Laura said she would — she didn’t like to see Henry so low, especially when he was feeling low over something he could control no more than he could control the tides or the phases of the moon.
By the time they’d finished, he seemed to feel a little better.
‘Ayuh,’ he said. ‘Seven years is a hell of a long time.’
It is, she thought, but it always passes, and rainy season always comes around again, and the outsiders come with it, always two of them, always a man and a woman, and we always tell them exactly what is going to happen, and they don’t believe it, and what happens . . . happens.
‘Come on, you old crock,’ she said, ‘offer me a cup of coffee before my head splits wide open.’
He offered her a cup, and before they had finished, the sounds of hammers and saws had begun in town. Outside the window they could look down Main Street and see people folding back their shutters, talking and laughing.
The air was warm and dry, the sky overhead was a pale and hazy blue, and in Willow, rainy season was over.
My Pretty Pony
The old man sat in the barn doorway in the smell of apples, rocking, wanting not to want to smoke not because of the doctor but because now his heart fluttered all the time. He watched that stupid son of a bitch Osgood do a fast count with his head against the tree and watched him turn and catch Clivey out and laugh, his mouth open wide enough so the old man could observe how his teeth were already rotting in his head and imagine how the kid’s breath would smell: like the back part of a wet cellar. Although the whelp couldn’t be more than eleven.