Beneath a Thousand Apple Trees (16 page)

L
ydia Harris brought Harriet to Grandma several times between November and spring of the following year, which was 1923. I had never met anyone who complained of having so many warts, though the truth of the matter was Mrs. Harris came for companionship more than anything else. I heard Grandma talking about it one evening after supper as she and Mama stood at the sink doing the dishes. Mrs. Harris had stopped by with her daughter in the middle of the afternoon, and because it was a fairly cold day, with several inches of snow on the ground, Mama thought it was odd to make the trek in their well-worn wagon through difficult, if not downright dangerous, conditions for such an unimportant reason.

“She's just needin' company is about all,” Grandma had stated. “Now I'm getting rid of warts that aren't even there yet. The woman says, ‘See thar, Willa. Ain't that one just under the skin?' And not wanting to make her feel bad or unwelcome, or letting her know I see through the excuse to just come over for some company, I say, ‘Well, Lydia, I can't say as I do, but you never know, so let's go ahead with a little rubbin' of the spot.' That seems to satisfy her until the next time she needs someone to talk to, or tell her secrets to, and she has more of those than warts.” Grandma seemed to understand the woman's loneliness and isolation, and so she tried to remedy the situation by treating a few nonexistent warts while providing some much-needed company. More than once the thought crossed my mind that Mrs. Harris seemed to prefer Grandma's company over Mama's, even though Mrs. Harris was far closer to Mama's age.
But then, who can blame her
, I thought. And then felt bad about thinking such a thing. After all, Mama couldn't help being who she was. But the rest of us couldn't help feeling the way we did about her, either.

Early one evening, not long before the sun went down and our supper was being put on the table, Mrs. Harris came by. Usually she had Harriet with her, and they came much earlier in the day. This time was different somehow, and I knew it just by looking at her face. I happened to be coming back from the springhouse with a bottle of milk when I saw her wagon pull off the sawmill road and into our driveway. I waited until she'd brought her mule to a stop and stepped out.

“Evenin', Miz Harris,” I greeted.

“Evenin', Rachel. Is your grandma about?”

“Yes, ma'am. She's in the kitchen putting supper on. Come on in,” I said unnecessarily, for the woman was already walking toward the porch steps.

“Come in, Lydia!” I heard Grandma call to her when Mrs. Harris had cracked open the front door and announced her presence. “What're you doing out this late, honey?” I heard Grandma ask as I walked through the front door behind Mrs. Harris. “Don't tell me you got a wart needs removin' this late in the day?”

“No, no, Willa. It's nothing like that,” Lydia quickly corrected. “I just need to talk to you about something, that's all.” She was always coming over to talk about something, so Grandma continued slicing the ham, while Mama continued mashing potatoes in the pot she'd boiled them in.

“It's, kind of... um . . . could we maybe talk somewhere . . . private, Willa?”

“Sure, honey,” she said, looking more closely at Mrs. Harris's face and deciding that whatever she needed to say should be discussed away from the rest of us. The woman looked more worn out than usual. Sadly, I would have thought that would be nearly impossible.

“Rachel, carry this to the table and finish helping your mama,” she said, handing me the ham. “Come on, Lydia, let's talk in my room.” Lydia led the way and Grandma followed, shutting the door behind them.

It was quiet in the kitchen as I helped Mama. Merry was engrossed in homework, Prescott was in his bedroom with the door shut, uninterested in what was going on, and Papa wasn't home yet from the mill. He'd been keeping longer hours and working odd hours, too. But he'd told Mama when she'd complained one time that to keep up with competition he had to do things differently, and they weren't always changes that suited everyone. Times were hard for almost everyone we knew, but we'd somehow managed to keep our heads above water, even with the Hollises running their successful and expanding mill on the other side of the mountain. They continued to build a fortune with the help of the furniture stores that had once been Papa's best customers, as well as plenty of other clients that were just too afraid of them not to give them their business. Papa's work was far superior, but fear drove many people in the direction of his competition. Papa had hung on, though, and he'd attributed it to his faith in God, and good old-fashioned hard work (never mind that his prices were far cheaper than the Hollises' were).

So, Mama and I joined Merry by the fire and waited for Grandma and Mrs. Harris to finish their talk, or Papa to come through the front door. He'd be hungry, no doubt, and we'd eat as soon as he washed up, regardless of whether Lydia and Grandma had come up for air.

About thirty minutes later, Grandma's bedroom door opened and the two women walked out.

“Sorry to keep you folks from your supper,” Mrs. Harris apologized after seeing that our supper sat ready but untouched. Though she smiled as she spoke to us, it was fairly apparent that she'd been crying for her eyes still glistened and her face was splotchy red.

“It's fine, Lydia. It's fine. You sure you can get home okay? It's dark now,” Grandma said.

“Yes, yes. I'll be fine. It's not too far and I could drive the road blindfolded,” she laughed in an attempt at sounding light, though the short clipped laugh sounded more like a bark.

“Well, if you're sure, then,” Grandma said, walking her to the door.

“I'm sorry to have bothered you with this, Willa,” Mrs. Harris said as she walked out the door. “I just didn't know who else to talk to about it.”

“I'm glad you told me, Lydia. It's gonna be fine. Have faith. It's gonna be all right. 'Night, now,” she finished, and slowly but firmly closed the door to Lydia and the night.

We all sat there staring and waiting; waiting to hear what had brought this overly tired, obviously upset woman out at dusk and in the cold. Just her looks alone told us her news could not have been good.

“Well?” Grandma said, looking at each of us but offering up no explanation. “Are you ready to eat or are you waiting ‘til Calvin comes in?” It was obvious she wanted to move away from the subject of Lydia.

“Mama, what did Lydia want?” Mama asked. “What in the world would have brought her out this time of night?”

“Daughter, let's let it be for right now. I'm about worn out. I don't think Calvin will care one bit if we start without him, do you?” She sounded as tired as Mrs. Harris had looked. “There's not a bit o' air left in this old lady's balloon,” she quipped, though that admission worried me greatly. I could not remember the last time I'd heard Grandma admit she was tired.

“No, it's fine, let's start,” my mother agreed, looking rather concerned as she did so. “Are you all right, Mama? Did Lydia say somethin' to upset you?”

“No, no, child. Can't a body ever be tired without everybody thinkin' the worst? Lydia can be . . . well . . . Lydia. And I'm just ready for the day to end so's I can have a little quiet time to myself.” And with that last statement, Grandma slowly walked over to the dining room table and sat down. I'd never seen her look that faded and worn out, with the exception of the evening when she'd heatedly reprimanded Prescott and me for talking so negatively about Mama as we waited for her return from the hospital. Her uncharacteristic behavior on both nights was equally disturbing.

We ate our dinner in relative silence as each of us thought of countless possibilities that might be plaguing Mrs. Harris. Grandma didn't say one word except an occasional “Uh-huh,” or “Is that right?” in response to our feeble attempts at some light dinner conversation. She closed herself off in her bedroom after asking Merry and me to help Mama with the dishes. As soon as she was out of earshot, Prescott was quick to guess that maybe the Harrises had lost the orchard. Perhaps, he'd suggested, Mrs. Lomax had been disillusioned enough to say she was selling the whole thing for the best offer to come along. She still had the majority ownership at fifty-one percent, so that was a real possibility. But Mama didn't think that was the case. After all, getting someone to purchase a large, struggling orchard was easier said than done. After a few more guesses around the table, which carried over to a sink full of dirty dishes, everyone got involved with other things.

But I couldn't get Mrs. Harris's visit out of my mind. And I was still wide awake wondering when I heard Papa come through the front door. The clock had chimed ten times not too long before, so I knew he was later than usual. I heard Mama move back into the kitchen from her chair beside the fireplace. She could finally fix Daddy a plate and finish putting the food away. I could hear their murmurings, but could not make out their conversation, so I drifted off into my own thoughts again. I remembered Grandma saying that Lydia Harris had “more secrets than warts,” and I wondered how one person could have so many. I knew not a one of them, of course, for Grandma would never ever divulge any. She was, after all, a Wart Buyer, and was privy to information that could never to be repeated or used in any way. I truly believed that the good God above couldn't have pried it out of her. But Wart Buyer or not, my grandmother had always had a strong conviction that you kept people's confidences, under almost any circumstance, with the exception possibly being that it meant life or death for someone. And even then, I wasn't sure that Grandma wouldn't stop and think it through before spilling the beans. Actually, there were three things Grandma staunchly believed one
must
keep: your dignity, a promise, and a secret you were entrusted with. And if you didn't, then she would say you were “lower than a hog in deep mud.”

With that last thought, I rolled over to try to get some sleep and forget about Mrs. Harris and her many secrets. There was no reason to lie awake guessing over what this latest one might be. I doubted Mrs. Harris would divulge whatever it was that ailed her body, mind, or spirit. But I knew the odds were far greater that she would give up her secrets before my tight-lipped, wart-buying grandmother ever did.

T
here was only a month and a half of school left before summer break when early one April morning, Jack Harris stepped into our one-room schoolhouse, and into our lives. Our previous teacher, Mrs. Jacobson, had been married late in the fall the year before and moved with her new husband to Biloxi, Mississippi. Her replacement was a soft-spoken, slender young man with thinning light brown hair by the name of Percival Gary. Grandma had said that considering he'd been given the name of Percival, one would expect him to be as tough as nails fighting to defend himself. Mama had scolded her and told her that someone's name had nothing to do with his nature. Grandma said that she agreed with her, but that didn't mean the whole world did. And she concluded the subject by saying that she bet he could have made life much simpler for himself by reversing the first and last names. No one could argue her point.

“Ah, welcome, Mr. Harris,” Mr. Gary greeted Jack as he rather self-consciously stood just inside the door of our room. “Have a seat anywhere and I'll be with you shortly to determine exactly what you'll be studying.”

Jack glanced my way as he started toward an empty seat and immediately turned back to take a better look at me as recognition dawned. Saying nothing, however, he moved past me to an available desk behind the despised Ray Coons.

The Coons family had never been liked, and for far more reasons than just the fact that Ray tormented me over my disfigured foot. They were a family that had come from nothing, and they didn't seem to expect more than that for themselves. They were lazy, as well as mean. But, my family did more than just dislike the Coons, they resented them, too, for Ray's daddy, Wyatt, had taken a job at the Hollises' sawmill a couple of years before. It wasn't that my father could blame the man, really; he was just trying to make a living for his family. But it was the snide and often cutting remarks that Wyatt had thrown at Papa when they'd had occasion to run into each other in town that caused my father to have a deep dislike of the man.

“I swear, Anna, that man is just itchin' to start a brawl with me,” Papa stated tiredly one evening after many long hours at the mill. “I saw him in town this mornin' when I went in for some new wrenches. He bragged that they'd picked up the Moore's Furniture account—from all the way over in Johnson City—and that they's so busy they had to employ another two men. Hell, I only got two and
a half
men—me and Nathan Street, who's so old I don't dare let him go 'cause no one else would want him. And the half part bein' Prescott, who's only there part-time. But there just ain't enough work to employ him full-time.”

“He needs to finish school anyway,” Mama reassured him. “But we're doin' alright, Calvin.” She seemed content with the fact that we had more than we'd had many times in the past. And as long as she could buy the lace she loved or a new pair of shoes for herself now and then, she was manageable.
Things
pacified Mama, and as much I hated to admit it, that hurt me. I felt that
people—
namely
family—
should be what filled a person up, or made a person feel content and secure, not
things
. But Mama saw
things
differently, I realized. “We got plenty of food, some livestock, including three horses, not to mention that fine buggy, and some decent clothes,” she continued. “Why, we've had far less, without a doubt. Honestly, we ain't got much to complain about. Not much a'tall.” And, after offering up that confirmation of what she saw as the important things in life, Mama got up from the table where she'd been keeping him company while he ate his late supper, and retrieved the rest of the collards from the stove for him. Papa stared down into his plate, absorbed in unspoken thoughts, and finished his meal.

Mr. Gary worked with Jack most of the day in order to determine what Jack's grade level was. As it turned out, the fifteen-year-old was as advanced with his reading as many seventeen-year-olds, and Mr. Gary was both delighted and dismayed. First, he was delighted that this bright and capable student required very little catching up to put him at a grade level that was appropriate for his age. But he was dismayed because it wouldn't be long before Jack would surpass all that he could offer him at any grade level. As it turned out, Mr. Gary ended up bringing many of his own college books and workbooks to class and letting Jack study them; he needed very little guidance even with the advanced materials. Jack seemed most drawn to the business and economic books, and it was hard to pry him away from them, even when it was time for recess or lunch.

On the day of Jack's arrival, the class took lunch outside to sit in the weakening autumn sun. “How do I know you?” he asked, sitting down by me at one of the picnic tables. “Other than seein' you ride by our church every Sunday.”

“The peppermints,” I answered, “that day in town nearly two years ago. You bought me peppermints.”

“Oh, yeah! Right,” he said, drawing out the “right” so that it sounded like “Riiiiight.” “You're the peppermint girl!” He grinned at finally being able to place me. The brisk wind blew my paper sack off the table, and inside was a freshly laundered white hanky I didn't want to lose. Jumping up and hobbling quickly to catch up with it, I was finally able to step on the bag with my good left foot. I could feel Jack's eyes on me during my pathetic attempt to chase it down, and I could feel myself growing red even before I turned around and confirmed it.

“What's wrong with your foot?” he asked without hesitation once I'd sat back down, face aflame.

“There was an accident, when I was four, at Papa's sawmill,” I stared down at my paper bag. The wind kicked up again, and blew curling strands of my long brown hair across my mouth. I reached up and drew them away, then, after taking in a deep, bracing breath, I turned and boldly looked at him. “It won't get any better,” I stated flatly, looking into his brown eyes. It was the first chance I'd had to really look at them, and they were unlike any eye color I'd ever seen before. They were a lovely golden brown, kind of like dark honey.

“I'm sorry,” he answered quietly. And when he did, I felt that there was no pity attached. It was a different thing entirely that came from him. It was true sadness that I would have to bear my disability forever. And in a small and gentle show of compassion, he reached up and drew away another wayward strand of my wild hair, and tucked it behind my ear.

“We have to get back to class,” I said, suddenly self-conscious about his attention. “Mr. Gary just called us in.”

“See you later, peppermint girl,” he said with a smile, although it wasn't quite the same one that I remembered so well. This one was more thoughtful, less big and bright. Beautiful though it was, it was softer, more muted, rather than being an outward display of joy or delight. I waited for a moment, hoping to see it broaden, but he redirected his attention instead and stood up, grabbed his lunch pail, and walked back into the schoolhouse for the afternoon's lessons.

The remaining weeks flew by without much more interaction with Jack. He'd become friendly with Prescott, our cousin Peter, and Frank Tilley, who lived a mountain over but made it to school every day, no matter how inclement the weather was or how treacherous the roads and passes could be. The four spent long hours hunting, fishing, throwing horseshoes, or playing ball with some of the other boys in the area. But sometimes Prescott had to forego play and help Papa at the sawmill and when that was the case, the remaining three ventured off into the warm and wild woods of the ancient Appalachian Mountains, enjoying their fleeting days of youth with innocent abandon.