Poison Apples Read online

  “Because you like goats?” Emily said, still shaken by Opal’s insinuation about the toolshed.

  But Opal only motioned with her hand as though she’d swat a fly and ran off to retrieve the knife, like an Amazon charging an enemy.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  When Moira went to the bunkhouse Friday evening with a special dessert she’d made—apple strudel with whipped cream and cherries on top—she found the group playing a quiet game of dominoes. The raggedy lines of dominoes seemed to have been built up in virtual silence. It was odd; usually the men were laughing or arguing or chattering about their women and children. But when she asked why they were whispering, Desmond pointed to the bed in the far corner and said, “Ole fellow sick,” shrugged as though it were somehow expected of an “old man” like Bartholomew, and went on with his game.

  Zayon came up behind as she stood by Bartholomew’s bed. “He eat too many apple, that why. Got a bellyache.” He clutched his stomach and made an oohing noise.

  “Bartholomew?” she said, and he opened his eyes. “It’s your stomach that hurts?” He nodded, then pointed at his throat, telling her that, too, was causing pain.

  “Open,” she ordered, and when he did, she saw that the inside of his mouth was scarlet, as though a fire had been kindled in his throat. His eyes were oozing a yellowy liquid; he clapped a handkerchief over his nose, then bolted out of bed and over to the bathroom in the far corner of the bunkhouse. The men chuckled, as though he were a small child and had the runs.

  “How many apples did he eat?” she asked, and Zayon held up two fingers, still smiling.

  “Well, that shouldn’t make him so sick. After all, we can drink several glasses of cider and not get ill.”

  “Mebbe other ting, don’t know, he tek medicine, too.” Zayon pointed to an array of small bottles on the stand beside the bed. “Too old now, too sick fer be picking. He belong home wid his childrens. Can’t pick like us,” he confided to Moira, and she turned away; she didn’t want to hear a complaint against another picker. Anyhow, she was fond of Bartholomew, he was there when they bought the orchard, he was always cheerful. She glanced at the bottles. Aspirin, warfarin—warfarin? A blood thinner? She remembered her Aunt Eileen, who had blood clots in her legs. There were things one couldn’t mix with warfarin. Bartholomew had gotten them, she saw, at a drugstore in Florida, where he’d been picking oranges before he came to Vermont.

  He staggered now out of the bathroom and fell heavily into the bunkbed, a lean, dark figure in overalls and a T-shirt that read, REGGAE MIAMI. He’d gone to bed right from work, Zayon told her; he hadn’t changed into his nightshirt or whatever he wore to bed. She glanced at her watch. It was only seven-thirty.

  “That’s all you ate—two apples?” she asked. “What did you have for supper?”

  “A few beans,” he whispered. “Then the apples. I get them off a tree las’ night. Derek eat one, too.”

  “Derek?”

  “Yes, mum,” Derek said. “I make a run for it.” He pointed at the bathroom. Zayon smiled.

  “Where? What tree did these apples come from?” Silly question, she knew, but she was paranoid herself these days. She didn’t want anything else to happen to the orchard. Stan’s thin psyche couldn’t take it. At least there had been no more visits from the police. Ruth’s sister-in-law, the so-called “witness,” turned out not to have seen the moment of impact at all. Ruth had called to tell her that.

  Bartholomew was groaning now with pain, he was perspiring profusely; she saw it was serious, this heart condition. She ran back to the house to call the hospital. She’d take him there in her car. She remembered, as a child, the doctor coming to the house when her mother had pneumonia. That didn’t happen anymore. Too bad. Even in Vermont, life was in a fast spin. Sometimes— sometimes, she just couldn’t keep up with it.

  When they’d pumped out Bartholomew’s stomach, when he was back in the bunkhouse sleeping—and she prayed there would be no other far-reaching side effects—she found Stan and the Butterfields down in the west orchard flashing a lantern at a group of Winesap apple trees. The leaves were turning brown, it appeared; it didn’t seem to have been caused by maggots or worms. One of the Butterfield twins had discovered the trees earlier that evening when he was taking a jog through the orchard. It was quite dark now; they’d look again in the morning, Stan decided, not wanting to think that anything else had happened here. Besides, he didn’t know what it was, he’d have to ask Rufus. She knew, of course, he didn’t want to have to ask Rufus: Rufus made him feel “dumb,” he’d complained at lunch that day. “It’s the way that man looks at me,” he’d said, “the tone of his voice, like, what am I doing here anyway? Why aren’t I back in the classroom where I belong? Let the orchard men take care of the orchard.”

  “They’re older trees in this quad, aren’t they, Stanny? They’re taller than most? Don’t leaves turn brown when apple trees get old?”

  He didn’t think so, but then, he’d only read a couple of books. He was tired, he told her. He needed a drink. He took her hand like an obedient child and they plodded back up toward the house. The path forked, and Emily Willmarth appeared suddenly with a flashlight.

  “Just taking a walk, I hope you don’t mind,” she said, and Moira said of course not, though she wondered why the girl would “take a walk” in the orchard when she had acres and acres of her own to walk in.

  “It’s Adam Golding, I bet,” she said to Stan after they’d passed by. “The pair are getting thicker. I wonder if I should say something to Ruth. The girl’s still in high school.”

  Stan grunted. “She’s a farm girl. Seems a sensible kid. Adam doesn’t give any trouble here. Don’t worry.”

  “You said that about Carol. She was just in high school, too, when she met that boy.”

  Seeing his face in the glow of the kerosene lantern, she regretted the allusion. She was the worrier back then, as well; Stan hadn’t been concerned about the older boy Carol was dating. It wasn’t that he was so much older—there were only a few years’ difference, and he seemed amenable enough when he’d come to the house to pick her up. But he was a city boy, he’d had more experience. He was into drugs, too, she’d suspected. Hadn’t she smelled pot on him one time? She knew that sweet sickly smell of pot, oh yes! But Stan said not to worry. Until it was too late. And then he was devastated. Angry at himself for not intervening earlier.

  “I’m sorry, darling, I didn’t mean to say that. It’s just that Emily is so naive. I know that Ruth worries about her.”

  “It’s all right, it’s okay,” he said, sounding ambivalent. Entering the house behind her, he went straight to the liquor cabinet.

  There were two messages on the answering machine, but she couldn’t bear to press the button. If she didn’t hear them, the world might stop for a moment, leave her and Stan in peace. And when he asked her if she wanted a drink, maybe a whiskey sour, her favorite, she said, “Oh, why not? Fix me one.” She’d sip it while she worked her loom. She was making scarves for the men. Stan thought she was foolish, of course. “They wear scarves down in tropical Jamaica?” he’d teased. But these were cotton, with glittery bits of red and orange threaded through the blue or green. They could wear them over a shirt, a kind of decoration. So she was making them anyway.

  But there wasn’t to be any peace, any evening quiet, because the phone shrilled, and it was Annie May, wanting to talk to Opal. She’d found something that her daughter had hidden from her.

  “What right d’you have going into my drawers?” Opal shrieked, and the fight was on. It happened every other night now.

  “Let’s sit in the kitchen,” Moira whispered to Stan, and for once he didn’t argue. They huddled together on two stools and commiserated. “That sister-in-law of mine,” said Stan. “That niece of mine,” said Moira, and they broke into giggles. It felt good, like old times. “Let’s go to bed early,” Moira said, stroking her husband’s thigh, and for the first time in two weeks, he looked interes
ted.

  Chapter Thirty

  It had rained all night and into the morning, and dampened Ruth’s spirit. Pete was coming over to talk “business,” he said, and Ruth was behind in everything. The woodpile she and Tim and Joey had heaped up against the winter was damp and there were only a few dry sticks in the cellar for the woodstove. The raccoons had attacked the corn again—none of Tim’s makeshift scarecrows worked. But at least the hay cutting was complete, and the hay done up in their round bales. She was at her desk paying bills—or portions of bills; there was never enough money for full payment. Dues to Agri-Mark, repairs for the corn chopper, the baler; grain prices up. Taxes due in November and fire insurance coming up in October. The lawyer’s fee for the divorce—although she’d made Pete pay for most of that; after all, he’d initiated it. Pete’s ownership of half the farmland meant more negotiating, manipulating, but it was the only way she could make out until the hemp, the Christmas trees—or whatever else she’d diversify with—paid off a little. Well, she’d let him see the bills. There’d be an argument, of course, there had always been fights over money—though he’d been happy enough to let her keep the books. He was always there in the end, though, for the second-guessing.

  “Hi, there,” he said, coming through the door without knocking; and came on as though he’d kiss her. She instinctively swerved—she didn’t need his ingratiating “gift” and the kiss landed on her ear. He was dressed to the nines, she saw: shiny brown loafers, pressed pants, and what looked like a new brown tweed jacket. His hair had receded farther since she’d last seen him, there was more gray around the temples. “Mr. Developer,” she said, and he smiled as though she’d paid him a compliment.

  “As a matter of fact, we’ve just made a bit of a coup,” he announced. “We’ve bought the Larocque farm next door.”

  “No! Lucien would never sell!” A few years ago his wife had died as the result of a break-in, and old Lucien had been carrying on alone. He’d vowed to farm till the death.

  “He’ll go live with his daughter. He’s almost crippled now, Ruth; he had a heart attack last year, Marie says. He can’t live alone.”

  “Oh.” She put her head in her hands. She hadn’t thought Lucien would give up. She’d tried to help, she’d sent Vic over, and her own hired man, but, well, she’d neglected him this past year. It was partly her fault. She hadn’t even known he’d had a heart attack. She might have helped out. Damn her own busyness!

  Pete was pouring himself coffee, reaching for one of her doughnuts, making himself at home as though he still lived here. “So what are you planning to do with Lucien’s land? If you dare develop it, turn it into a hundred houses ... a hundred cars that will race by and spook my cows ...”

  “Come on,” he said, “you know I wouldn’t do that. Six or eight houses, that’s all. There’s only a hundred acres left—he sold off some himself to pay taxes after Belle died. Twenty, thirty acres apiece, room for a hobby farm, a nice house, everything they’re looking for.”

  “They?”

  “City folks, wanting out of the rat race, back to the land. It happened in the sixties, seventies—but they were purists, craftspeople, content with the two-holer, the woods. Today’s buyers want something more sophisticated, more urban, a place they can do their trading from—stock market, Internet, you know, without having to face the ugly hordes—the crime. Vermont’s got one of the lowest crime rates in the country.”

  “Till you developers got in here.”

  He laughed, patted her hand, and she pulled it back. “Come on, Ruthie. Get with it.”

  She didn’t want to get with it. She pushed back out of her chair. She needed distance, height, away from him. She swallowed her coffee, struggled with her thoughts, her attitude. Was she so immature that she still couldn’t accept him as a friend? Or was she beginning to see Pete as he was, as an immature person himself? Charming, something of a character, others always said. But they hadn’t had to live with him.

  “Please, please,” she said, “just stay away from Earthrowls’ orchard. They’re trying to recoup. Don’t harass them.”

  “It used to be Uncle Howie’s,” he said thoughtfully. “I know every inch of the place. We’d visit there as kids. Uncle Howie never had all that trouble. He knew apples, he made money.”

  “And made all the wrong investments. Went broke. I heard about that from your mother.” She took a breath. “So promise me you’ll stay away from it. Leave them alone.”

  He stood up. He was jangling the change in his pocket; he was a little nervous, she supposed she’d made him that way. He was six-foot-one, she had to look up at him. She turned away. “I can’t promise anything, Ruth. I’m in business now. There’s this other woman, Mavis, in the partnership, she has her eye on that place. I’ll try to hold her back.”

  “You’d better. You’d just better.” She was close to tears now, she didn’t know why. She hated herself when she got emotional, the tears would defeat her. She was glad when she heard Vic coming down the stairs. It was Saturday; he had no school.

  “Hi, Dad,” he said, sounding cool, like the seventh-grader he was now. He started out the door and his father pulled him back.

  “Is that all you got to say, young fellow?”

  Vic waited obediently. She knew he’d be glad if his father were to come back. But for now the boy had counted him out. It was Vic’s defense, his shell. He wasn’t going to get hurt again. The boy folded his arms. He was growing out of his pants—she’d have to find a little cash for new ones. She hated having to ask Pete—the alimony wasn’t much. She saw Pete eyeing him.

  “Maybe an inch?” Pete said, measuring with his hands. But Vic was still one of the shortest in his class.

  “He’s growing. He’ll catch up,” she said, and Vic looked uncomfortable in the face of this assessment.

  “Mom,” Vic said, “I gotta meet Garth. He’s coming with his mother to help with the sheep. I said I’d help so we could go to town.”

  “What are you planning to do in town?” Pete asked, sitting down in a chair, tilting back, his hands clasped across his chest. Pete missed his son, she knew that. She was—almost—sorry for him.

  “I did my chores. Fed the calves. Swept the barn.” He appealed to his mother. She was the one he was taking orders from now.

  “Have a good time,” she said. “Behave yourself in town.” The boy ran out with a nod at his father, and collided at the door with Emily.

  “Dad,” she said, and ran to give him a hug. Already Pete was pumping Emily about the Earthrowl orchard, with an occasional glance at Ruth as though he were the naughty boy and they’d both have to accept that. Now she wanted to kick him, but her foot wouldn’t reach. And Emily’s face was shining.

  “Things are getting bad over there,” she announced, “Bartholomew—he’s the head Jamaican—is ill, a heart condition, Ms. Earthrowl says. And Derek—he’s my favorite one—says somebody is putting obeah on Bartholomew.”

  Pete winked at Ruth, as though this was all foolish stuff Emily was talking about—though he obviously loved the thought of things going wrong in the orchard. All the more fuel for him and his woman developer. But there were three of them, weren’t there? “Who’s the third partner?” she whispered, but he just looked smug. He turned his attention back to Emily.

  “What’s obeah?” he asked.

  “It’s a kind of voodoo,” Emily explained. “Derek says it’s the way they put a curse on somebody they don’t like for some reason. But Derek says not everybody knows how it’s going to work. So you can do something to someone because only you know how it works, and when you do it to them, only you know what it is you’re doing. The person you’re doing it to then has to find out how it works to counteract it. It’s a secret. It’s never done out in the open.”

  Pete winked again at Ruth. “I guess I better stay away from those guys, then.” He reached for another doughnut.

  “But it works, Dad. My friend Adam Golding says so. He was down on the isla
nds for a couple months. He says he knew a man who was told he was going to drown and the only way the man could keep from drowning was to cross the sea to another island and leave the curse behind. And he did, and he didn’t drown.”

  Pete laughed aloud. “He wouldn’t have drowned if he’d stayed on land.”

  “Yes, but his brother didn’t cross the sea, and he did drown, the very next week, out fishing, when a big wind blew up.”

  “Bullshit,” said Pete, and rocked back in his chair. “Now tell me who this Adam Golding is, who believes all this stuff.”

  Emily looked defensive. “A friend, that’s all. A guy who picks apples with me. And I have to go back, Dad. I forgot to take my sandwich. I’ve made one hundred fifty dollars already, I’m putting it in the bank. I’m getting interest.”

  “Good girl.” Pete understood banks and interest. He gave her a slap on the fanny as she whirled over to the refrigerator and took out her lunch bag. Emily didn’t seem to mind. He offered her a ride over to the orchard. The place was on his schedule for the morning. He wanted to talk to the Earthrowls. The woman was all right, he said, the other developer, but she didn’t quite have the finesse. It took someone who knew Vermont, who knew the land. Who knew that orchard.

  “But you just said you’d back off!” Ruth cried, and Pete winked at Emily—who smiled, though she obviously didn’t know what her mother was alluding to.

  “Well, not exactly that. I meant we’d play it cool. Nobody’s forcing anybody to do anything.”

  Ruth gasped, and he smiled.

  When Ruth got up to hand Emily a couple of doughnuts for her lunch bag, Pete said good-bye and slapped her on the butt. “Get some sex, now, you need it,” he whispered.

  He was already out the door before she could kick him. And they hadn’t talked about Emily’s college fees.

  She couldn’t face the bills after that, so she poured herself a third cup of coffee, and sat there with the cup clasped in two hot shaky hands.