Beneath a Thousand Apple Trees (2 page)

B
ig Grandma, Gertrude Cooper—Grandma's mother—lived with us until her passing when I was seven years old. She'd come to live with us when my great-grandfather, Earl Cooper, died and I was four. The two had lived in a cabin that was much farther up the mountain than ours, making my great-grandparents' cabin practically inaccessible to anyone that didn't have a darn good reason for undertaking the long haul up there. Once my great-grandfather had passed away, Big Grandma felt the solitude and isolation far more than she ever had before, thus, she'd packed up most of what she had, gave the rest to the church—including the cabin—and moved in with us. Her small cabin was left to the ravages of creeping vines and thick laurel that quickly took over the place and created a well-hidden and safe haven for a couple of turkeys, a family of mice, and a rat snake, all of whom must have taken into consideration the fine accommodations and reluctantly agreed to live and let live. And there were two others who found the perfect use for the abandoned home place—Myra Jenkins and John Vespie.

John was a married man, but forgot that small fact every Wednesday at noon. On those afternoons, John and Myra would casually leave the bank in town together, where they were both employed, he being the bank manager and she his secretary, and they'd make the rough trek up the old logging road in John's fancy Model T Ford (one of only two in town) to my great-grandparents' cabin. Their story was always the same: John had a standing date with his son for an afternoon of fishing on the river and, being the gentleman that he was, he was kindly dropping Myra off at her ailing mother's so that the dear and unselfish daughter could tend to the soon-to-be-departed woman's few remaining needs. Little did the town know that Myra's mother had died when she was twelve, and that Myra, being the result of a tryst between her mother and a timber man who'd long since come and gone, had been brought up by a strict and overly protective spinster aunt who lived two towns over in Honeycutt.

John had discovered the wonderful windfall of Big Grandma's deserted cabin when the church pastor happened to mention “the Holy Spirit–driven generosity of Sister Gertrude.” Unfortunately, Pastor Franks said, the cabin was too high up and too far off the beaten path to be useful to the church. John, however, immediately thought of a wonderful use for it. Thus, Wednesday afternoons ended up being a blessed union for two of the most faithful of Pastor Franks's flock.

Their well-kept secret lasted two years, until one unfortunate Wednesday afternoon when John Vespie's wife, Edna, and son, Little John, came in to the bank to see if John Sr. would like to take them for an early supper at the diner. When asked where her husband was, the bank manager's assistant, Mr. Humphrey, stupidly replied that he was fishing with their son—their one-and-only son, who happened to be standing right before him. So, the already-suspicious Mrs. Vespie easily put two and two together, and figured the two absent bank employees were together. Unsurprisingly, Myra Jenkins put in her resignation the next morning, and left town that afternoon.

Nothing more was heard from the disgraced woman, but it was a miracle to see how suddenly and humbly John J. Vespie became a deeply devoted lamb of the church. And show his devotion he did when it came time to ante-up for the offering plate each Sunday. Some said he was trying to buy his way back into the good graces of the church, and God, Himself. And I suppose he figured he had a lot of amends-making to do, for he never missed a Sunday's service thereafter, nor slacked on his enormous tithing. Soon enough, the money seemed to make up for his indiscretions for no one, the preacher included, had any more to say about his “momentary dance with the devil” after the church got its long-awaited and much-prayed-for roof later that year. And Mrs. Vespie's face got a little less dour looking and a little haughtier looking instead when she finally got the mansion that she'd always dreamed of. And it had nothing to do with the one that was being prepared for her in heaven.

Big Grandma laughed about it and said that that poor old cabin had seen more life in it in the last two years since John and Myra had been sneaking around than it had had in the last twenty when she and my great-grandfather had lived there.

Being seven at the time, though, I wasn't privy to all the ins and outs of what was going on at Big Grandma's old place, or in the town, either. And, truthfully, the little I'd heard hadn't much interested me. But, something that
did
interest me and that I was well aware of, even at that young age, concerned Big Grandma herself. What she was fascinated me and lured me to her, yet, at the same time, caused me to keep a certain reverent distance from her. For my great-grandmother was the Wart Buyer.

T
here was a certain awe and respect that went with the title of Wart Buyer. Perhaps it had something to do with a secret fascination with witchery, although a Wart Buyer was certainly not a witch. She was, however, thought of as a healer, although my great-grandmother never claimed to be such. But I know that when Big Grandma treated Minna George for the warts on her hand, Minna swore up and down that Big Grandma had also healed her rheumatism. And then there was Tycee Burns. She claimed that after Big Grandma got rid of the ugly wart on her forehead that she no longer had the paralyzing headaches either.

I didn't know if one thing was really connected to another, but I did know that Big Grandma held a lot of people's secrets, and they were as closely guarded as the ancient secret of
how
the healing of a wart actually took place. People respected Big Grandma's ability to hold that knowledge close to her, and so they entrusted more knowledge, of the personal kind, to her care. Far more than she probably wanted, needed, or knew what to do with. Simply because she held the enigmatic title of Wart Buyer, she had a certain aura of mystique and power, and was set on a level that was higher and demanded more respect than your every day, run-of-the-mill mountain folks.

Anyone that knew something that others did not was placed on a pedestal built on the foundation of folklore, myths, superstition, and magic. The Wart Buyer was highly revered. In people's minds, she had done something worthy of being given that role. The million-dollar question, though, was what?
What
had the Wart Buyer done to be set so far apart from the rest? The answer never came, of course. But, regardless, people treated all Wart Buyers with great reverence, and entrusted their greatest secrets, hopes, and dreams to them.

There could only be one person in the family who bought warts. And, until she (for it was usually a woman in the role) figured it was time to pass the secret knowledge of wart buying down, that person would remain the sole purchaser. The only way this ancient practice could be accomplished, Big Grandma explained to me (while carefully keeping from me the secret of
how
it actually worked), was that the one with the wart had to agree to sell the wart. Only then would the process work. If the seller was a non-believer, or joked about the reality of such a remedy working, then there could be no deal made. But, once the deal was agreed upon, then Big Grandma would take a penny out of a mason jar filled with them, and rub the wart gently but thoroughly with it. Then she gave the seller the penny and he or she was instructed to never, ever spend it, but to tuck it safely away instead. If the penny was used or lost, the wart would return. And that was true. I saw it happen, just as I saw warts miraculously disappear a few days after the ritual was performed. Since there could only be one wart buyer in a family,
when
the torch would be passed down was a decision only the present buyer could make. It was usually near the end of the buyer's life, though. Then, the newly designated Wart Buyer kept the secret to herself until it was time for
that
buyer to pass it on to the next one selected.

Grandma Willa was called into Big Grandma's room three weeks before she passed. “Close the door, darlin',” the dying woman rasped. I wanted to go in, too. I wanted to know what seriousness was being discussed, but I knew I wasn't allowed. I pressed my ear to the door but could only make out the words “knowed,” “rubbed,” and “copper.” Mama came up the porch steps with Doc Pardie, who, as usual, looked like he'd spent the night out in the pasture with the goats, and I quickly sat back down in my rocker, appearing to be thoroughly engrossed in my
ABCs
primer book. Grandma came out of the bedroom then and quietly closed the door. I could tell she'd been crying, which was a rare thing for her to do. Quickly, she brushed away the remaining wetness, nodded curtly at Pardie, and mumbled something to the effect that “there wasn't much he could do, so just let her be.” Then Grandma brusquely announced that she had to snap the beans or supper wouldn't get on the table until midnight. I called after her to see if I could help, but my mother told me to stay put; then she and the doctor went in to see Big Grandma. I looked back at the kitchen door but realized, even at that young age, that Grandma needed to be alone. And I realized something else then, too; that something large had shifted in those fifteen minutes behind closed doors. There'd been a passing of the torch, and my Grandma Willa was now the Wart Buyer.

T
here were two reasons that I always opened Christmas presents slowly. The first reason was because we received only a couple; usually one from my parents, and another small something from Grandma. Without fail, I'd sit on the floor by Grandma's rocker and observe everyone's joy, or lack thereof, in what my parents had given to each of us. I watched their faces closely, trying to measure their expressions as being sincerely happy, or just a polite show of approval. On the one hand, we were glad we had anything to open. But, as we lay awake the night before, the hope was still out there that the gifts awaiting us under the tree would be the ones each of us had dreamed of. When Mama would ask us what we wanted for Christmas, we knew in our hearts that it was a ritual for her to do the asking, but the getting was a whole different story.

A bigger mill had opened up in the town of Flat Top, in the next county over, and though that would seem far enough away not to bother Papa's business, it wasn't. It was just the other side of the mountain—the mountain we were on—and Flat Top was the closest town to Howling Cut. The Hollis family ran the mill there, and they built up their business through whatever means were necessary; whether it be through the use of bribery, blackmail, or bullying. One way or another, they “won” the business, and the end result was that our mill lost most of our long-time customers, including two furniture stores. The changes that hit us were never more apparent than they were on Christmas morning, when a sparse number of gifts awaited their unveiling beneath our garland-draped tree. So, I opened the present from my parents slowly, to savor it, to keep hoping for those last few remaining seconds before the brown paper was finally pulled off . . .
Yes! Hallelujah!
Indeed it
was
what I'd been hoping and praying for (and bargaining with God over), for the weeks leading up to
the
day! But that whispering voice inside, the one that makes us face the truth for what it is, told me that a Christmas present of my heart's desire was a thing of the past, a luxury only for those who still had two furniture stores as customers.

And the second reason that I opened my gifts slowly was because of what faced us afterward. I knew that once the paper was off, flattened out and put away to be used again on someone else's package next year, and the last of the Christmas fruit cake had been eaten, we would be forced to look into the eyes of the bleakest, blackest, wickedest thing that always came this time every year. And that wicked thing had a name: Winter.

W
hen I was almost nine, Mama gave birth to twin boys. When they were finally pushed out into this world, the quietness that filled the room was deafening. It took a few good slaps to get Albert breathing, and though it took less to get Walter to suck his first lungful of air, his breathing was never very ambitious. They were scrawny and sickly from the get-go, and Grandma figured they wouldn't make it to winter. They both did, however, but by the time the wind whipped and bit its way into the middle of January, bringing the worst case of influenza with it, the twins just didn't have enough strength to see it through. Albert went first; then Walter followed four days later.

Because the ground was frozen, we had to put the poor little things into Old Man Tyne's root cellar. He had been the undertaker for longer than anyone could remember, so it just seemed like the logical thing to do. Papa quietly carried each one over to Tyne's place in the back of the wagon, while Mama rested after sleepless nights of poultice making, praying, and carrying each baby, hoping that keeping them upright might help to drain the fluid out of their rattling lungs. Once, when she had been awake for more than two days straight, trying to will the life into her dying sons, I saw her desperately shaking Albert, demanding that the fluid drain out of his wheezing lungs. Grandma gently, but firmly, took the baby from her, telling her she'd shake the child to death before the sickness had a hand in it. Mama didn't say anything. With the most frighteningly vacant look in her eyes, she walked out into a freezing rain. I stood at the window and watched her go into the barn. She didn't come out for hours. Papa finally went out to get her, to let her know that Albert had flown off with the angels, and a keening, howling sound issued forth from that old barn the likes of which I hoped I'd never hear again. Only I did. Four days later, Mama's howling accompanied the screeching wind in a macabre January song.