Beneath a Thousand Apple Trees (19 page)

 

“M
r. Mercer wants more gravy,” I said to Grandma as I came through the kitchen door, using my right elbow to push it open while both hands held on to an empty but still heavy bowl of what had been mashed potatoes.

“Well, tell him he's done eaten all we had, so if he wants more, then he needs to come on in here and fix it himself,” she complained. “I still have all their dishes to clean, not to mention bread to bake for their breakfast tomorrow. Lord, those men can pack it away. When did that Mercer fella say he was movin' on, anyway? That one's about to do me in! He's bigger 'n a house 'n louder than cicadas in August.” We both laughed, if for no other reason than we were just too worn out to complain anymore.

Though we were constantly tired and often complained about the endless demands of our boarders, the truth of the matter was that we were awfully glad to have them—even gluttonous, voluble Herman Mercer.

The laying of the railroad through Howling Cut and the Blue Ridge Mountains had been our family's saving grace. For over ten years, the iron horse had been huffing and puffing up mountains, down valleys, and through gorges, and with each run it made, it seemed to bring new opportunity with it. The sad truth of the matter was that Papa could have made a far better living for himself—for us all—had he used a little good old-fashioned common sense, and taken advantage of the new age of mass transportation to find markets for our sawmill. As the rails were laid, people were moving in, which meant houses, office buildings, churches, and stores were needed in order to make these once isolated places new and, hopefully, prosperous towns. And it took building materials to build those towns, much of which we could have supplied. But Papa had simply gotten worn out and worn down, and the temptation of quick and easy money was too much for him to pass up. He'd grown tired of coming home with near-empty pockets, and lying awake night after night worrying about losing his last decent paying customers to the Hollis mill. Then, out of the blue, Gilbert Harris had come to town, and dealing with bout after bout of bad luck with the orchard, the two had plenty to commiserate over. Night after night in the back room at the mill, they'd planned their apple brandy business. Eventually, they brought their well-thought-out plan to life under the cloak of darkness, within the struggling apple orchard.

As hard as Prescott worked, he was just eighteen and still learning the business. It was too early to tell whether or not he could make the mill any more successful than our father had. We did not have much hope, because the Hollis Mill was still going strong, but we tried to stay positive.

In the meantime, Grandma and I knew we had to do something to keep our family clothed, sheltered, and fed. Thus, we took advantage when opportunity knocked, and we answered the door to men asking about the availability of a room to rent while they performed the backbreaking labor of building up our town. There were those, too, who worked in the rich mica and feldspar mines. The mines produced enough material to give the world its fill of pottery, china, wallpaper, lampshades, and more, once the trains were able to transport the minerals in and out quickly. Laborers were in great demand, and so was the need for places to house them all.

Using lumber from the mill, Prescott, Luther Grange, and two good Samaritans from our church built two additional bedrooms on to our home. As soon as they were completed, I rode into town, put a sign in the window of Taft's advertising three bedrooms for rent (our parents' was available, too, of course), and we filled them before the sun went down. We could have easily filled a half dozen more, as well.

We offered a pleasant alternative to those hard-working men who preferred accommodations that felt similar to their own homes, as opposed to the cramped and dirty camps. Each camp cabin housed far more varmints in it than men. And man and creature alike half froze in the winter and nearly succumbed to heat stroke in the hottest months of the summer.

We provided a hearty breakfast and supper six days a week, as well as breakfast on Sunday, clean beds, laundry service once a week, and, probably most important of all, an understanding ear when a man wanted to talk about loved ones back home. The one thing that ailed these strong, determined men most was homesickness. Many of those building our country's railroads were immigrants; they came all the way from Russia, Italy, and Germany in search of their share of this land's promised milk and honey. The boarders paid us a fair amount and overpaid us in compliments. They also helped around the house when something needed repairing, which was a bonus for us. Prescott, however, had a difficult time adjusting to their presence.

My brother worked endless days and many nights in our struggling mill, his only help coming from the now-ancient Nathan Street, who worked as much as his dimming eyesight allowed. Coming home bone-tired to an often noisy and crowded house seemed to keep Prescott in a perpetual bad mood. We tried to be patient with him and overlook his often surly, quick-tempered responses to us, but there was little we could do to help lighten his mood. Grandma and I felt a great deal of sadness over Prescott's unhappy lot in life, and we'd both told him that there would be no dishonor or blame cast upon him if he chose to turn his back on the mill forever and forge a new path for himself. He always responded the same way: “I just might have to do that.” Yet he continued getting up before dawn each day with a stubborn determination to turn things around.

There was one, however, who seemed to revel in our family's new circumstances, and that was our uninhibited, flirtatious Merry Beth. At fourteen, she was something to behold, if one could get a hold of her. She was never still for long and her attention shifted from place to place just as quickly as the rest of her did. She could be exasperating and infuriating, selfish, and shallow, but with her dark bright eyes, thick jet-black hair, and rich, melodious laugh, men made allowances for her as they never would have for anyone else, their own mothers and sisters included.

At any given time, there were five or six boarders in our home, and Merry found their company most exciting. When it was warm enough, she could be found swimming in the river with one or more of them, which meant I was forced into the role of chaperone. I never quite understood why society's rules of etiquette seemed more properly adhered to with me standing guard. After all, I was only sixteen, and in that “delicately impressionable” age bracket, too. But people treated me as if I were older than I actually was, and, in truth, I felt as if there had been some additional years piled on top of the ones I'd actually lived.

As patient and understanding as we all tried to be with our restless and rebellious Merry Beth, her behavior infuriated all of us at times, but none more so than Prescott. A wall of resentment had risen between them, and I knew it would get harder and harder to tear down as the two of them got older and angrier.

Though there was no arguing the fact that Merry's flirtations with the boarders were both trying and inconvenient, ironically, there was also a silver lining to that cloud. The time spent with them meant less time for her to keep company with Ray Coons.

Following Papa's tragic death, we found out more and more details about his moonshining. And with each newfound bit of information, our family's horror, anger, and anguish deepened. As it turned out, the one who had indirectly been the cause of the “tip off” in the orchard raid had been none other Merry Beth, herself.

Merry Beth had often used visiting Harriet as a ruse, when in fact she was meeting boys at one of the abandoned sapphire mines, ridge tops, or some other isolated place. As I feared, she'd often spent time with Jack not long after that Fourth of July picnic by the lake. On one occasion, Jack had confided to Merry that his daddy was moonshining in order to keep them afloat. He had not, however, mentioned our father's involvement in it.

Apparently, almost as quickly as the words came out of his mouth, Jack regretted them, for he knew that there could be devastating consequences if Merry ever said anything about it. So, Jack did the only thing he could do at that point, and swore her to secrecy, praying to God above that she would use more discretion and sense in keeping her mouth shut than he had. Revealing the secret could easily be the end of the main source of his family's income, he explained, without adding that it could be for her family as well. And Merry
had
kept it quiet, until Jack's maturity had caused his eyesight to clear, allowing him to see Merry's narcissistic ways.

He'd told her kindly and gently enough that it had been fun while it lasted but that he needed to get serious about his future. She realized he had not mentioned her in relationship to that future of his, but that omission only seemed to encourage her rather than drive her away. Her determination to have and keep him was thrown into high gear, and she went after him with a vengeance.

When it was clear to even her that her efforts were in vain, she turned on him, and she did so in the most effective way possible—by taking up with the boy he hated, and spilling his darkest secret: his daddy's moonshining business. Thus, while whispering deep and often dark secrets during clandestine meetings with Ray Coons, Merry just happened to let it slip that Jack's father was moonshining. It was all the jealous boy needed: he left the long abandoned mining cave that afternoon with the taste of Merry in his mouth, and the knowledge of just how he could repay Jack for the affection his Merry still felt for the son of a bitch.

That evening, he took a look around the apple orchard, keeping well out of sight and, lo and behold, about thirty minutes after he arrived, along came none other than Calvin Guinn. Still staying behind the tree line, Ray watched as Jack's and Merry's fathers worked together in the shed distilling what he surmised to be applejack or brandy, for no one used the cover of darkness to make vinegar or soft cider. And even had that been a possibility, knowing what he knew, thanks to his little hellion dark-haired beauty, he put two and two together and figured that Calvin had joined Gilbert Harris in his illicit operation.

It all made sense to him then, for he'd heard his own daddy, Wyatt, wonder often enough how Guinn could stay in the timber business when seventy-five of his customers were gone, and the twenty-five percent that remained “weren't payin' enough to keep the roof on a henhouse!” On the other hand, the Hollis Timber Mill had been doing well, thanks in great part to the addition of Guinn's longtime customers. But regardless of business being so good that the mill had more hands working than ever before, Ray's daddy was about to lose his job on account of being drunk too often while on it. Now, with Ray's newfound information—which he'd immediately relay to his father—he knew his daddy's job would be secure. The Hollis mill would finally be able to have its long-sought-after monopoly in the three-county area once Calvin Guinn went down. And this monopoly meant keeping the business they'd taken away from the Guinn mill. It was no secret that one of the furniture companies was planning on giving its business back to the Guinns. His quality was better, they'd said. And the Hollises knew that once one customer left, the others were sure to follow. Fred Hollis, owner and slave driver, had actually discussed burning the Guinn mill down, but he was afraid he'd be the first they'd look at, so he'd talked to Wyatt Coons about striking the match. But Wyatt, though bad to the bone, was a coward. So, he'd encouraged his own son to play with matches, and Ray had told him he'd think about it. Now, though, there was a beautiful light at the end of this tunnel, he thought, and, oh, how it shined! Just as bright as the moon, he laughed to himself. Repeating to his daddy what he had just learned was going to leave the sweetest taste in his mouth—maybe even sweeter than the taste of Merry Beth Guinn.

T
he night of the raid at the orchard, Gilbert Harris was one who'd escaped into the woods. He was caught the following evening, two towns over, stealing a hen out of the yard of James Harvey, who kept the would-be thief at gunpoint in the wagon while his son drove them to the sheriff's office in Clovis Creek. He was returned to the jurisdiction of Howling Creek after his three-month sentence for being a chicken thief was served, and then the book was really thrown at him. Whether it was due to the fact that he was a relative newcomer to town, or whether he had been judged from the get-go as a real bad apple because of the horrific scar on his face, no one knew, but his penalty for bootlegging was severe. The fact that one of the deputies had been wounded in the confrontation only made things worse for Gilbert, even though he had not been the triggerman. Oftentimes, lawmen turned a blind eye to the goings on of the whiskey-making trade, especially if those involved were kin, or if they could earn a little on the side for doing so. However, there they felt no loyalty to Gilbert Harris, for he hadn't been “generous enough” to those in charge who could make sure that things ran smoothly. Thus, Gilbert paid dearly—sixteen years of hard labor in Central Prison, over in Raleigh, which left seventeen-year-old Jack in charge of a ruined apple orchard and a family that was nearly ruined, as well.

Jack had more than the self-taught knowledge of running an apple orchard, however; he had courage and determination. He also had an innate set of values and ethics, and a firm conviction that since he was now the head of the family, he had to do better by them. He vowed there would not be one night when any of them went to bed hungry, and he also made it his mission to improve their standing in a community that had never warmly welcomed them, much less extended hands in genuine friendship.

Mrs. Harris wanted to pack Harriet, Jack, and herself up immediately after Gilbert was sentenced and move closer to the prison (and any place where they wouldn't be known). But Jack felt as though the family's name had to be salvaged, and he insisted that they stay put and attempt to make a legal livelihood out of what seemed to be an ill-fated orchard.

The biggest problem he had to contend with was not the orchard itself, but Maybree Lomax, who, understandably, wanted to see a solid return on her investment with the Harris family. Jack wrote to her and informed her of the situation, of which she was completely aware already. The grapevine remained up and running even though she lived a long way off. She still had her finger on the pulse of the place, and knew that things had gone from grim to virtually impossible at her old orchard. So, in trying to cut her losses, she gave the Harris clan an ultimatum: Show a profit in two years' time, or they would forfeit all they'd put into the orchard.

Jack took up Maybree's demands as if it had been a gauntlet thrown, and hired his friends Peter Guinn and Frank Hardy. Then he worked like he had the devil on his heels. Long hard days and nights were spent out in the orchard pruning, removing vines, grafting trees, cutting the grass around with scythes, and picking and packaging the fruit. The list of must-dos, and have-tos was endless. Meanwhile, Harriet and Lydia were forced to be more resourceful than ever before. They worked in the gift store during the days, and at night baked pies and cakes, crocheted doilies, hot pads, baby blankets, cold-weather caps, and gloves as additional inventory for the store. It was inventory that didn't rely on Mother Nature to bring it to fruition. After barely finishing a small plate of supper, the exhausted Harris clan would fall asleep, usually before they could even get undressed. Work was hard, life was harder, and the return was small. But they kept at it for they had no other place to go.

I hadn't seen Jack, except in town several times, and at the annual Fourth of July picnics of both '26 and '27. Though I hadn't been ignoring him, I just hadn't made it a point to sit down and talk to him. If the truth be known, I wasn't ready to. I was afraid that the things Jack might tell me would make me hate
him
, and, for some odd reason, I just didn't want to hate Jack. Perhaps, I thought, it was because few things in life made me feel as warm inside as Jack Harris did. Even after all that had transpired. I just didn't want to lose that. I didn't want to lose any more than I already had.

On my seventeenth birthday, I went over to the orchard's gift shop for my annual peppermint sticks. Though I told myself that the candy was my only objective in going over there, had I been honest, I would have admitted that I just couldn't stand the not knowing anymore. I needed some answers. And enough time had gone by that the wounds weren't quite as sore, and I was finally ready to hear what needed to be told.

When I rode up on Mack, I saw Jack and Frank out in the orchard. Because it was late October, apple picking was well underway. I tied the horse to a hitching post in front of the gift shop and walked in. Only Harriet was inside, and she was sitting at an old desk in the back office, thoroughly engrossed in eating a piece of pie. The jingling of the door's hanging bells startled her, and she immediately jumped up.

“Mornin', Rachel.” she called, hurrying out of the office and resuming her post behind the counter, while self-consciously wiping away crumbs from her mouth. “I was just havin' a piece of pie that's too old to sell, but still good to eat. Want a slice?” I had seen Harriet several times when she and Lydia stopped by the house. The night of the raid was a topic we all avoided, however.

“Oh, no thanks, Harriet. I just came by for some peppermint sticks,” I said, while looking past her and through the window to the orchard beyond. I could see Jack pointing toward something in the orchard while several men batted at the branches with bamboo poles, knocking the apples off into baskets below.

“Have y'all hired some extra hands?” I asked, still looking past her shoulder at the scene beyond.

“Yes,” she said, turning around. “It's the busiest time for us, and we've got to get these apples picked, packed, and shipped. It actually turned out better this year than we'd hoped. Jack's done a fine job, Rachel,” she said, sounding far more serious and mature than a fifteen-year-old girl should.

Harriet went on to explain that Jack had hired some of the immigrants who wanted to make extra money to send back home to waiting relatives. So, after working at their various jobs during the day, men with varying dialects, skills, and ambitions spent several hours harvesting apples. They worked at the orchard on Sundays, too.

Jack was shipping the apples to various parts of the country by train, and he'd gotten some buyers' and distributors' attention by his sincere intention to bring them the best product and price. And the buyers and distributors had seen a true and deep sincerity in the tall, golden-eyed young man with the firm handshake.

“We're gettin' our crop to places all over by train, and locally by wagon and truck. Jack's payin' a percentage of what we net to the extra fellas helpin' us. And, you know, Rachel,” she said, looking back over her shoulder once again, “they's a pretty good lot, sure enough. I think sometimes people just don't give 'em a chance, especially when they can't understand 'em. She shrugged and turned back to me with a smile.

“How goes it at the mill, and with your boarders, Rachel? I swear you and I haven't really talked much since school last year. Shame we had to quit. I liked it, especially the history part,” Harriet said, adding a sigh for emphasis.

“I actually finished school,” I explained. “I was so close to getting my diploma, but . . . well, you know . . . with the way things went . . . I just couldn't go back to school like before. Anyway, that Mr. Gary tutored me and I passed the final exam,” I said. “Mr. Gary tried to help Prescott, too, but he . . . well, he just didn't care about it,” I finished quietly. “Oh, and things at home and the mill are goin' okay.” In truth, however, the business at the mill was terrible. But to admit it was equivalent to admitting defeat, so I just let it go at that.

“The boarders are good. Most of them are immigrants, and they're very helpful around the house. One man, Salvatore Lupari, is especially good at woodworking. You should see the chair he made for the head of our dining room table when that giant Mr. Mercer broke our old one in two, sittin' down too hard. Lord, when I heard him hit the floor, I came running in from the kitchen and there he was, sprawled out on the floor. I thought he'd had a heart attack! Then
I
nearly did when I saw what he'd done to our poor ol' chair. I swear.” I laughed, shaking my head. It felt good to be talking and laughing with another girl close to my age. It felt good to be out and about, instead of being in front of the stove, washtub, or ironing board. And it felt good to be sucking on a peppermint stick like I was five years old again, without a care in the world, for a few minutes.

Through the window I saw Jack walk past the shed that had been the scene of the blackest night of my life. On this day, however, the shed housed orchard tools, bushel baskets, and crates. And with the sun shining down on it, and the orchard in general, the place was washed in a light that seemed to lessen the awful stain on it.

Coming through the backdoor, Jack did a double take after he happened to glance up at me while engrossed in studying a machine part he held in his hand. “Rachel,” he said softly as he stopped walking. He looked at me with a mixture of pleasure and uncomfortable surprise. “Rachel, how are you?” It was the usual polite greeting, yet his meaning was deeper and we both knew it.

“I'm fine, Jack. You doing all right?” I returned.

“Yeah, I'm doin' okay. Busy this time of year. That's good, though. How're things over at your place? Those boarders behavin'?” He smiled. Though they could sometimes be a rough and rowdy bunch, our boarders were gentlemanly enough in our home and in our presence.

“They are.” I returned the smile, then changed the subject: “I hadn't had a chance to tell Harriet how nice this place is lookin'. You've all worked hard. It shows.”

“Things are some better.” He nodded, looking around as if surveying the store, and I saw a subtle yet noticeable look of pride on his face. “The railroad's makin' a big difference. Our biggest problem is not having enough of a harvest for what customers are callin' for. I'm hoping that'll change before long, though. Frank, Peter, and some of them foreigner fellas have been the savin' grace of this place.” He pronounced
foreigner
as
FURiner
. “Without their help,” he continued, “we'd be peddlin' someone else's melons back in Georgia.” He laughed, although I knew there was more than a grain of truth to his words.
And it still might be the case, too, if the weather doesn't cooperate,
I thought
. Or the workers are moved out by either of their two biggest employers: the government or the railroad. Or if the fearful locals decide to move them out first.

“What all you got growin' now, Jack?” I asked, curious.

“C'mon. I'll show you.” He turned back toward the door.

As I started to follow him, Harriet said, “Rachel, we're having a little autumn dance on Halloween. We're charging a nickel admission, but you can come in for free, can't she, Jack?” She turned and looked at him. Smiling, he nodded, and she continued, “It's a covered dish thing, but we'll have soft cider, pies, some fellas playing music and a few contests, like bobbin' for apples, and such. We're puttin' pennies and a few nickels in some of 'em, too, so a person can win back what he spends to get in! Try to come,” she urged.

It didn't escape me that she made a point of saying that the cider they were serving was the
soft
sort. I understood. “I'll bring a casserole of some kind.” Then, after thanking her for inviting me, I turned to Jack, who waited patiently by the backdoor, and we walked out into the orchard.

“It's a nice day,” I said, breathing in the distinctive autumn air and looking around at the bright splashes of color scattered across the Blue Ridge Mountains. Intermittently, spires of smoke billowed upward as folks burned mounds of gathered leaves, piles of trash, or remnants from their worn-out gardens that wouldn't benefit their compost piles. Fires in hearths and wood-burning stoves added to the number of curling, smoky columns.

“It sure is,” Jack agreed. There was an awkward moment of silence between us as we moved into the front line of apple trees. It really wasn't the quiet that made us both uncomfortable, but everything that needed to be said and figuring out just exactly how to get started.

“What kind of apples are these?” I asked, stopping to look around at the various trees.

“We got a pretty good crop of Goldens; the ladies like those for cookin'—though you probably know that.” He smiled. I smiled back, wondering if he included me in that group because he saw me as a woman now, or merely because he assumed I knew how to cook. “We also got Black Bens; they're the pretty ones, though they ain't—they're not,” he corrected himself, “the best eatin' one. 'Course we got Reds, and Staymans, for sauce, and I'm trying to get that York apple to grow good again. That's the one I got high hopes for, but we'll see,” he finished.

“You've got a lot of good apples growing, Jack!”

“Naw, Rachel, I got a few good trees of a lot of different types. So many got damaged or kilt in the freeze, or by apple scab, and the rest was neglected almost to the point of no return. But we've worked our asses—pardon me, Rachel—we've worked our fingers to the bone and our backs to the point of breakin' and I'm startin' to see this place turn around. Between you 'n me, I've got high hopes for it. Real high hopes.”