Poison Apples Page 3

  “Those trees were deliberately slashed. Now I want to know who did it. I’m not accusing anyone here... .” Stan had to be careful with this. He adjusted his glasses where they’d slipped down on his sweaty nose. “But someone might have seen, heard something last night. I mean, other than a little thunder and rain. Or early this morning.”

  Again, there was silence. He’d been through this before, back in April, after the Roundup spraying. He didn’t like it. He didn’t want to be put in this position. He could feel the red pushing out on his skin, the familiar heaviness in his chest. But he had to go through with the questioning. He wanted to work this out himself—no police, no reporters who would alter the public’s view of the orchard. He’d ask each picker individually. Start with the locals. “Rolly and Hally,” he began, then checked himself— they were two young men, not one. But he always got them mixed up. “Hally,” he said, and the twin on the left stared back at him with wide blue eyes.

  “We sleep sound,” Hally said, answering for them both. “Didn’t even know there was a storm.”

  The other one said, “Nope. Slept right through it.”

  “Golding?”

  Adam Golding shook his head. He was a quiet, good-looking fellow. Stan didn’t care for the long hair, but at least Golding had the decency to tie it back. “Nothing. I was with them,” he said, nodding at the brothers. The trio slept together in the smaller of the two bunkhouses. “Though wait,” he said, and the heads swiveled. “I thought I heard the geese—I was half awake. But it could have been part of my dream.”

  Millie spoke up before Stan could question her. She didn’t live on the orchard; there was probably no point having her here. Still—you never knew. “I heard the storm. It woke Mother. She got under the bed!” Stan heard the others snicker. “But I’m afraid I can’t tell you anything about those trees.” She gave Stan a winning smile. There was something schoolgirlish about her, straightforward. He smiled back—or tried to. Seemed he couldn’t really smile anymore.

  Bartholomew spoke for the Jamaicans. He had been to a British school on the island and spoke British English to the Earthrowls. “Nobody allowed out nights. My rule,” he said. “Sometimes Derek, here.” He nodded at the youngest Jamaican— barely of age, it would appear—a gold earring dangling in one ear. “Derek walks in his sleep. I find the door open, he tracks in leaves after I sweep nights. But last night—no. Derek was gone from this world.” The others chuckled; one of them, Desmond his name, pointed a finger at Derek, and Derek giggled.

  Zayon, who was standing next to Derek, gave him an elbow. Derek gave it right back. Bartholomew glared at Zayon, and the latter grimaced. Those two didn’t always get along, Stan had observed—some vendetta from the home island.

  The interrogation was over then; it had gone nowhere. Stan gestured and the crew filed out of the barn. Rufus followed, already giving orders in his bullfrog voice. “Rufus,” Stan called, and the man turned, waited politely—too politely, Stan thought—in the doorway. He wanted to ask, Where were you last night, Rufus? How late did you stay at the orchard? How early did you get here this morning? But Rufus’s hazel eyes were squinting at him, challenging, so Stan gave in and said, “Keep an eye out, then, will you, Rufus? For anyone acting suspicious around here? Maybe a stranger?” And he thought again of the woman on the school board, although why she’d want to destroy his orchard, he didn’t know. But someone had slashed those trees. Someone! A fist squeezed his heart.

  Rufus gave a curt nod and went out. Stan saw him break into a run, catch up with the Jamaicans. In moments his arms were waving, his head waggling as he barked out orders. The men shouted, “Yeah, bossman, yeah,” exuberant now, like schoolboys released from the classroom, and trotted off in different directions, the white apple buckets bobbing on their chests. Rufus, Stan had to admit, knew how to get the best out of the pickers. He’d been working with them much of his life, in this orchard or other orchards—never his own.

  Maybe Rufus felt it was time for his own place, his own orchard; after all, he must be fifty years old. If Stan were to sell, if this orchard were “jinxed,” so to speak, if it sold at a lower price, Rufus could maybe afford to buy it.

  Stan would keep an eye on Rufus.

  Chapter Seven

  The five-ten bus was fifteen minutes late and Moira had forgotten to bring a book. Her head was in too much of a spin anyway to concentrate on printed words. Stan had taken the latest bit of mischief hard. He’d stomped back in the house minutes after his interrogation, shouted at the encroaching cardinal, banged on the window as though he wanted to break it; then gone directly to the liquor cabinet and poured a stiff one. She’d put a hand on his shoulder, tried to sit him down to talk, but he’d waved her away. That was a bad sign, she didn’t like that. If he wouldn’t talk, if he bottled it all up inside—there was sure to be an explosion. At her; inside himself. No, she didn’t like it at all.

  The bus was here and she wished it wouldn’t stop, that no one would get off it. It was not the right time for a visit from a niece. All the same, she must try to act normal, keep things on an even keel, keep the girl busy. She’d introduce her to Emily Willmarth. They might be of an age—though, no, Emily would be younger. Would Moira recognize the girl? She hadn’t seen Opal since Carol’s death three years ago when Annie May had brought her, looking morose, to the funeral. And Moira had gone through that service in a daze—partially sedated. It had been crowded with Carol’s friends, it seemed the whole high school was in mourning. Annie May and her daughter were just two more shadowy figures weaving in and out of the crowd.

  The bus doors were swinging open; for a moment it seemed as though no one would get off, and she was almost relieved. Then down came an old woman, fiercely resisting the arm of the bus driver, her hair a cloud of white around her shoulders—it was Glenna Flint from the derelict farm on Cow Hill Road. She scuttled into the bus station calling loudly for a “place to pee.” A young man came next, a seeming redneck with bare tattooed arms, an earring dangling from the left ear. He was met by a heavy-breasted girl in a stained blue sweatshirt.

  Finally a slim girl got off, in black tights and T-shirt with a peregrine falcon on it that outlined her round apple breasts and the wires of her bra; a colorful Guatemalan bag was slung over one shoulder. Her thick black hair was short about her ears but then shaped into a long pigtail. She had a piquant oval face, pale complexion, and huge sunglasses that hid half the face. Was it Opal? Moira took a step forward. The girl—or young woman, she should say—was scowling at the driver, who was slow to pull out the suitcases. Finally two overstaffed cases stood on the pavement, along with a backpack and—what was it?—a guitar in its case, yes; she could tell by the shape. The girl was evidently prepared for a long stay. Moira felt a pang of anxiety, a moment of breathlessness. How would she cope? She took a step forward, thrust out a hand. “Opal?”

  The girl whirled about. “I’m done in,” she said. “It was a stinking trip. I had to get up at four in the morning to get to the airport. The bus was crowded with smelly people. I wish Uncle Stan could have met me in New York.”

  Moira mumbled something about the busy orchard and took one of the suitcases. She reached out for the guitar, but Opal cried, “No! I’ve got a broken string. I got to get it fixed. I don’t suppose anyone does that in this cow town.”

  “I think we can find someone,” Moira said, trying to sound cheerful, and heaved the suitcases into the trunk of her old Honda Civic; she let Opal place the backpack and guitar case in the backseat. Moira was getting a headache, she definitely felt it coming on. It was like that red bird pecking at her forehead, peck peck peck, trying to get in under her skin.

  Home, the girl stomped up to her room and shut the door. Well, Moira wasn’t going to entice her down; she’d let her rest, get over her mood. Opal didn’t want to be here, she’d made that clear in the car. “I’m not staying long,” she’d said. “As soon as I have enough money I’m getting my own apartment down home. I�
��m going back to Houston.”

  “How will you earn the money?” Moira had asked, trying to sound concerned, and the girl was quiet a minute, squinting out the window.

  Finally she’d said, “I have a friend. He’ll help me.”

  “Oh,” said Moira, and the subject was closed. They rode the rest of the way back to the orchard in silence.

  She could hear the girl now, in the upstairs bathroom, running a bath. Moira had forgotten to leave a towel on the bed she’d made up fresh, so Opal would have to find her own on the bathroom shelf. It didn’t take many brains. When the water stopped running, she heard a splash as the girl lowered her body into the tub, and then all was quiet.

  Except for the answering machine. “Hello, you have messages,” it announced for the dozenth time (she must shut off that insistent voice) and, sighing, she pressed the red button. There were four messages. The first was from a developer, wanting to know if they’d thought “oh, just a teeny bit,” a female voice murmured, “about selling the orchard. I mean, we’re here if you’d like to talk.” We? Who was we? “Crows,” Moira said aloud, “coming in on the kill.” The second was from Ruth Willmarth, a crisp voice thanking her for the coffee and cider from that morning, reminding her to call about any “further developments” in the orchard. She was obviously worried about her daughter Emily working there. The third message was something of a shock. A guttural voice, almost a grunt—she could hardly concentrate on the words. Was it was a passage from the Bible— Ecclesiastes? She’d heard it from the minister at Carol’s service:

  “The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away.” And then: “Let this be a lesson to those who heed not his Word.” She clenched her fists. Who was this? What “Word” wasn’t she heeding? She walked away—but there was a fourth message. It was the same gruff voice as before. “Satan is in this town,” the voice growled. “He’s turning it into a Sodom and Gomorrah. Oppose the forces of evil or you and yours will perish.”

  She sank into a chair. What religious nut was this? What evil forces were she—or Stan—supposed to oppose?

  Then she remembered the woman on the school board. The one who was trying to censor that young English teacher for having the students read James Dickey’s Deliverance. Deliverance was one of two books their own Carol had defended to the end, had stood up for in a fight in their Connecticut high school. There was something else, too, about that English teacher—she couldn’t think, she was too rattled by those messages.

  She was sorry now she’d derided Stan for fighting this woman, for getting so upset, for letting the woman dominate his thoughts. He had every right to be upset. Of course Moira would back him up! The hearing was tonight, in executive session: only the school board and the teacher. She couldn’t go, but she’d encourage Stan. Calm him down first, yes, but tell him she was on his side, that her heart and spirit would be with him in that room.

  They had to work on this marriage. They couldn’t just let it atrophy.

  She decided to let the messages clear. Stan didn’t need to hear them; he was angry enough without throwing more fuel on his fire.

  Then, fixing herself a cup of hot tea—caffeine, to be sure— she wondered, did the school board woman have anything to do with the orchard-spraying last April? Stan had had his first run-in with the woman in March. Did it have anything to do with this morning’s felled trees? With a group of women she’d stumbled upon, down by the small cemetery where they’d buried Carol’s ashes, on their knees and praying? She hadn’t known what to do, just stood there and watched, then hurried away before they saw her.

  Of course not, she admonished herself, how could it? All the same, she shoved a stool over by the phone, called Ruth Willmarth. She needed someone to talk to about these messages. She tried the barn phone, it was after five. It rang four times and then Ruth’s breathless voice came on the answering machine: “This is Ruth. If I don’t answer, I’m milking or I’m out in the pasture or Lord knows where I am. Just leave your message. Thanks.”

  “Please call me,” Moira told the machine. “But if I don’t tell you why I called, you’ll understand. It means Stan’s around. I don’t want him to hear.”

  “What can’t Uncle Stan hear?” a voice said, and there was Opal, in the same skinny black tights, with a clingy red sweater this time, and shiny black vinyl knee boots. She was going out in the orchard for a walk, she said.

  “You’ll get those pretty boots muddy,” Moira said, ignoring the question about Stan. “It rained last night. You haven’t got any sneakers? I can lend you some rubber boots.”

  Opal shook off the thought of sneakers or rubber boots and flung the door wide; stepped back with a shriek.

  Moira ran to see what was wrong. But she saw only the men parading back to the bunkhouse: Bartholomew in the lead, the others behind him, jostling, humming, laughing over some private joke.

  “What are they doing here?” Opal pointed a trembling finger.

  “Why, they work here. They’re professional apple pickers. We couldn’t make the orchard pay without them.”

  “Mother didn’t tell me this. She knows what happened to me!”

  “Oh? What was that, Opal?”

  “Never mind,” Opal said. “You wouldn’t want to know. I hope you lock your doors.” She faced Moira, leaned in close with a shaking finger, like a mother warning her child.

  “At night,” Moira said, “we do. But not because of the Jamaicans. We trust these men absolutely.”

  “Then I’ll need a key to my room,” and Opal waltzed out onto the porch. A moment later Moira heard her voice sweet as maple syrup, introducing herself to someone. It was Adam Golding, she saw through the window, striding along with an apple crate, his ponytail lifting with each footstep. It was like a scene out of TV with the mute on: Adam standing there with the crate in his arms, a small surprised smile on his face; Opal tapping a shiny foot on the path, not caring that she was digging up mud, her head a little to one side, then nodding back and forth—was she giving a life history? Then Emily Willmarth swinging along with an aluminum pail, halting when she saw Adam with Opal; glancing at Adam, moving quickly past, head down as though she’d just lost a race. A race we all seem to be losing, Moira thought.

  Emily was passing by the front porch now, her pace slackened. For a moment she was Carol, after losing a battle at school—her favorite teacher chastised for teaching Deliverance.

  “Hey,” Moira called, and the girl swiveled her head. But it wasn’t Carol, of course. It was Emily Willmarth. If Moira were to run out and hug her, the girl would think her mad. So she waved, smiled encouragement, and went back in the house. The cat was curled up on her weaving chair, and she patted it, stood a moment, listening to it purr, letting her heartbeat go slack.

  Chapter Eight

  Amelia, the new heifer named for Amelia Earhart, one of Ruth’s heroines, was in heat for the first time. She was humping the other cows, and they were humping her. A child would have thought they were playing leapfrog. It was early, though, for Amelia to breed, she wasn’t yet six months old. Now she was in a standing heat, remaining immobile while one by one the other cows mounted her. She was enjoying it, Ruth thought, looking through the barn window— Ruth, who hadn’t made love to a man since her husband Pete went off with that actress, leaving Ruth with three children, one of them a ten-year-old. Not that she hadn’t had her chances, of course; her old friend Colm Hanna would have gladly obliged. He made that eminently clear each time he came to the house.

  But the divorce had come through only two months before; it was a matter now of signing a paper, making a brief appearance in the local courthouse. Yet she felt like the bull calf she’d sent away to slaughter just before the signing—axed, cut into pieces: legs, thighs, liver, a side of beef. That was Ruth.

  She’d determined then that she wouldn’t get deeply involved again. To get involved, it seemed, was to get hurt, and so—for a time, anyway—she would close herself off, remain celibate. Watching Amelia, though, she
wondered—was humping natural? Common sense told her it was, in the spontaneous animal world. Amelia was antsy, Amelia was in heat. In the old days she and the others would have run with a young bull. Who cared that he was a loser, a stuck-on-himself egotistical jerk? You were carried away by your body’s instincts.

  Today, though, there was no bull. What up-to-date farmer could afford to let any old bull impregnate her heifer? The offspring needed a better set to the leg, more curve, a greater milk flow. And so the artificial inseminator would come: He’d have you and a couple of your siblings in a chilly test tube. He’d pooh-pooh the idea that Pete’s granddad had about being sure to align your cow with her head to the north and tail to the south to ensure a heifer calf. He’d squeeze the syringe, shoot it in.

  Why was she thinking all this? Was she horny herself? A farmer in heat? She went to the barn sink and dashed her face with cold water. It helped, a little. She pushed her hair back behind her ears, lifted her chin. And uh-oh, here was Emily now, running across the pasture, glancing at the mounting cows, looking disgusted, angling across to push Zeida off of Amelia. And suddenly—oh no!—Amelia leaping up on Emily, knocking her flat. Ruth dashed out of the barn, hollering. A ring of cows gathered about Emily, watching her. Guarding her? Amelia was off to one side, nibbling a black-eyed Susan, looking innocent.

  Emily jumped up, ran toward her mother, swerved at the last minute. “Mother! Get him here, that inseminator. I can’t bring my friends home to see this. It’s too awful. The whole day has been awful!” She burst into tears, raced—yes, raced—back to the farmhouse, Ruth in pursuit.