Beneath a Thousand Apple Trees (20 page)

“I have faith that you'll do it, Jack,” I said, touching his arm and stopping to look at him. “I think you've got enough determination to make up for the lack of experience. What you need to learn, you will. You've never been afraid to ask a question. I remember that from class.” We both smiled, remembering a less complicated time.

“I need for people to have faith in me. Even when I'm not sure I have it myself,” he admitted softly.

We walked on in silence for a minute, then, “I'm sorry about your mama, Rachel.” The words seemed to come out as if he were exhaling. It was as though he'd been holding them back, but had wanted to say them for quite some time. “I don't know what else to say other than that. I've thought about comin' over to see you to tell you how bad I felt about it all, but . . . I just wasn't sure if you wanted me to. It's a terrible shame. I just don't know—” He shook his head. “How's your grandma doin' with all of this, if you don't mind my askin'?”

“She's all right, considering.”

“She's not feelin' guilty, like she could have stopped it, or changed it, is she?”

“No, Grandma knows there's nothin' she could have done to stop her. Mama was just . . . I don't know . . . disturbed. She hadn't been right for a very long time.”

“And with Calvin, too? Willa knows there wasn't anything she could have done any different to stop that either, right? My mama said your grandma tried talkin' to him again just the night before the raid, but he wouldn't—”

“Wait! What do you mean, Jack?” I stopped and grabbed him firmly by the arm. “She talked to him about
what
?”

“About the moonshinin', Rachel! Surely you know that she knew!” Then seeing the expression on my face, he amended, “Oh, Lord. No you didn't. Oh, God.”

“Tell me everything, Jack,” I said in a low but level voice. Somehow, the cat he'd just let out of the bag was one I'd seen poking its head up for some time. Flashbacks of Lydia coming over to have private talks with Grandma, some of which left her in a disturbed mood, played through my mind.

“My mother knew they were doing it—making the stuff. She tried to stop my pa, but he wouldn't. Said we'd starve to death if he did. Apparently, your daddy felt the same way. They had me out there helpin' 'em a time or two, though I never did like it. Your daddy said he was makin' more 'n a month than he'd made in a year at the mill. Said he needed to keep the money comin' in to help keep y'all afloat, and to keep your mama happy—said she liked the pretty things in life, that she'd seen enough of the ugly.”

“Haven't we all?” I spat.

“Yeah, we have, Rachel. But some let the bad things in life wear 'em down until they're so low they can't get up again. And others let the few good things in life lift 'em up enough to keep them going. I feel that way about the orchard. I see the poor little leaves that are struggling to grow on a lot of these damaged trees, and even though I can look around and see lots of dead trees, too, I think there's enough of them in here that are bound and determined to survive, and I think they're trying to tell me to do the same. It's like saying if they can do it, so can my family.” He turned away from me and started walking again. “We can either live to see the good things in life, or die from the conviction that there aren't enough of them to keep us goin'.”

I didn't say anything for a while. I just wasn't sure how I felt about all he'd said, much less how to respond to it, so I veered onto another subject. “How's your daddy farin'? Is he okay?”

“We've gotten a few letters from him. The most recent one said he'd been workin' on a chain gang putting some roads in. Said the prison has its own fields of corn, potatoes, and such, and that he liked that work the best. Other than havin' fresh vegetables for part of the year, though, the food is really bad. Said there're worms in the meat, and the worms are the only part of the meat he could recognize.” He tried to smile but it didn't mask the pain in his eyes.

We walked on in silence. I was so angry about Papa's carryings-on, and Grandma's knowledge of it, that I was afraid to bring it up again. And, in truth, I was furious that Jack's daddy had pulled mine into something he'd never had a hand in before. And then the thought struck me; how did I know Papa hadn't? Who taught who to moonshine? I had to know.

“Jack, who knew how to get the stills up an' runnin'? Who knew how to make the stuff?”

“Your daddy, Rachel. He told my daddy that he'd learned from his granddaddy.”

“Like a cherished family tradition,” I said sarcastically under my breath. Then, “I've got to go, Jack. It's gettin' late.” I turned around to head back toward the gift shop.

“Let me walk you back,” he said, turning around, too.

“No, Jack. There's no need. I'm . . . fine. I really am,” I said, but unconvincingly so. But before he could say another word, I walked away from him and out of the orchard as fast as I was able. Jack stayed where he was, but I could feel him watching me and it made me so self-conscious that I was sure my limping became more pronounced.

I said a hurried good-bye to Harriet, who was sorting some inventory behind the counter in the shop. “Don't forget your peppermints, Rachel,” she said, holding the bag out to me. “And don't forget about the fall festival!”

“I'll do my best to come, Harriet. Bye.” I couldn't get home quick enough. I had questions, lots of them. And I knew who needed to answer the majority of them.

B
y the time I returned home, Grandma was in the midst of getting the boarders' supper ready. I put my bag of peppermints inside of my dresser drawer, and got busy helping her.

“Where you been, child? I coulda used you to kill a couple o' those chickens a little bit ago. Macy Taft come by and told me that Sam's neighbor called. Said he's under the weather. His breathin' ain't good.” (I noticed Grandma was reverting back to folksy words like
ain't
. She only did that when she was hurrying or upset or, as in this case, both.) ‘Stead of goin' over in a couple o' weeks for his birthday,” she continued, “I'm goin' over tomorrow after I get finished with breakfast to tend to him. Lydia's comin' to help you and Merry with supper.

“Speakin' of birthdays,” she said, smiling and turning to look at me more closely. “I finally got your present finished. Go look on my bed. Sorry I didn't get a chance to wrap it, honey.”

I told her it was fine that she hadn't wrapped my gift, and apologized about being late to help with dinner. Then I questioned her more about Sam's condition. Not knowing any more than she'd already told me, she said to take another minute to see if I liked my present before I got involved in the messy business of frying chicken.

I walked into her bedroom and there, lying on her bed, was a powder blue chiffon dress, with a creamy lace bodice and lace sleeves. The neckline was cut in a sweetheart style, and the long, tight-fitting sleeves had a lovely pearl button at each wrist. Around the waist was a deep blue ribbon that created a dramatic separation between the lace bodice and the drop of the three-quarter-length skirt. Another dark blue ribbon trimmed the hem. It was far from being a little girl's dress; it was exquisitely made from fine and expensive material, and was meant to be worn by a young woman. I held it up in front of me and stared at myself in the long oval mirror. And for the first time I truly liked what I saw: My long curly brown hair had grown a little darker over the years, so it looked like coffee with a little cream in it, and the richness made my intense blue eyes stand out even more. Small in stature, I had filled out enough in the right places. Although I would never be as exotic looking as Merry Beth, with her dark eyes, thick blue-black hair, and voluptuousness, I was content to look as I did. And that was in great part due to my grandmother, whom I favored in so many ways—both inside and out.

Suddenly, I felt ashamed of the anger I'd felt for this generous, strong, and loving woman. I stopped to think about one of the questions Jack had asked me, “How's your grandmother doin'?” I'd dismissed the question with a vague, “She's doing alright, considering.” But was she really? Or was she just holding herself together in order to hold the rest of our family together? I hadn't given that thought any consideration before, and my lack of sensitivity toward my grandmother made me feel deeply ashamed of myself. We needed to talk—about a lot of things, and not just about those things that were in my heart, but in hers, as well.

I carried the dress into my bedroom and hung it up. Then I went into the kitchen, walked up behind Grandma as she stood at the sink draining a steaming pot of boiled beets, wrapped my arms around her waist and rested by cheek against her back. “Thank you, Grandma,” I whispered. “It's the most beautiful dress I've ever seen. When did you ever have the time to sew it?” My voice returned to normal as she pulled my hands from her middle, and turned around to look at me with the most pleased smile upon her tired, aging face.

“A minute here and a minute there,” she replied. “I'm glad you like it, honey. You're well old enough to wear a dress like that. High time you had one.” I knew she was thinking back to my last couple of birthdays. With so many changes, uncertainties, and sadness in our home, none of us had felt like doing much celebrating. But now, although times were still very lean, we managed to find some joy in life again. “I ordered the material from Mrs. Taft a few months ago. Our chickens been generous with their egg layin' this year. They're the ones that paid for most of it. I had the lace in my trunk. It was a piece your mama had, but never got around to doing anything with. I think she'd like that we used it, don't you?” she asked, and I noticed a wave of deep sadness cross her face.

“I know she would. Yes. She would,” I nodded firmly. “Grandma, I'd like to go with you tomorrow to see Sam.” Even with the wonderful gift dousing my anger, I still needed to sort things out with her, and this was a rare chance to do it without any interruptions.

“Well, since tomorrow's Saturday, an' some of the men will probably head to parts unknown 'til Sunday evening, cookin' will be easier. I s'pose it'd be alright. Merry and Lydia should be able to hold down the fort. Yes. Alright,” she said again, as if she'd just finished running through the usual Saturday routine in her mind, and confirming that all would go well without both of us. “We'll leave at eight o'clock. The men'll have to eat early and fast, or they'll have to cook their own biscuits and clean up their mess. Bet knowin' that, they'll be done and out of the house by seven forty-five.” We both laughed and then I helped her carry platters of chicken, beets, pole beans, rice, and gravy and biscuits to the men congregating at our dining room table.

Just as Grandma had promised, we left at eight sharp, and we took Mama's beloved buggy instead of the wagon. Though Grandma much preferred the latter, it looked like rain, and the carriage afforded us more protection from the weather with the small roof over the driver's seat. Besides, Grandma packed some food as well as medicinal herbal concoctions to take with us, and she didn't want to take a chance that they'd be ruined in a downpour.

We crossed the Titan Mountains, and as we did the wind picked up. Grandma gave up the battle trying to keep her sunbonnet in place, and allowed the wind to whip loose strands of her black and white hair from the bun at the nape of her neck. When the sun did manage to escape the cover of the clouds, Grandma turned her face toward its small warmth in a young, carefree kind of way. Even with all of the worry and despair in this woman's life, she allowed herself momentary reprieves by enjoying the simple things in life. As much as I disliked having to interrupt one of those rare moments, I knew this was the time to talk to her about Papa's bootlegging.

“Grandma, how long did you know about Papa's moonshinin'?” I asked, my tone hushed.

“Long enough, Rachel. Too long, really,” she answered honestly and immediately. So quickly, as a matter of fact, that it seemed as though she'd been waiting for the question to be asked, and did not seem the least bit surprised that I'd somehow learned of her knowledge.

“Was there nothing you could have done to stop it—stop him?” I heard my voice click up an octave, and I made myself take a deep breath for I didn't want emotion to interfere with our straightforward conversation.

“Child! Try tellin' a man to stop doing what he has to do in order to put food on the table for his family! Lord, Rachel, do you really think he liked the lying or the sneaking around? It tore the man up. I tried talking to him when Lydia first told me how he and Gilbert had gone an' gotten themselves involved with it, but I was just wasting my words. For one thing, the money it brought in helped to keep the mill running. It takes money to make money, you know. Had your Pap not done what he did, well . . . only the good Lord knows where we'd all be right now,” she finished. “Like it or not, the makin' and sellin' of alcohol has been going on in these parts for a long time now. And if it hadn't, there'd be fewer mouths to feed, less to feed them with, and a lot more graves to be tending. During those years when weather either burned up or froze out everybody's crops, mountain men and their moonshining saw us all through. It's not what most of them would have chosen to do, but it was what most of them
had
to do. And their families survived because of it.”

“Well, if Papa needed the moonshinin' money to keep the mill going, how're Prescott and Nathan managing?” I responded.

“They hardly ain't, Rachel!” She sounded surprised I hadn't realized it. Then, “And I haven't figured it out yet as to how we're gonna keep on goin'. Maybe it'd be for the best if we just shut it down.” I could see the resignation in her eyes when she glanced over at me. And it scared me to the core. It wasn't just the fact that we were so close to losing the mill that struck terror in me, it was the fact that this unbreakable, determined woman, who had never given up on anything or anybody for as long as I'd known her, was nearly ready to admit defeat.

“I'll start goin' to the mill, Grandma, to see if there's anything I can do. At least I'll look at the books and see if we can't cut some expenses somewhere to keep us going for a bit longer.” She nodded her approval, although I wondered if it was just to placate me. Neither of us said anything more as Grandma focused her full attention on navigating the steep trail as we continued to make our way down the muddy, slippery slope before us.

Lightner's Creek was high and running swiftly, and Grandma said that the area must have seen a good amount of rain for it to be that full and fast. We maneuvered around areas on the road that had been badly washed out, and around downed limbs, as well. When we finally turned down Sam's road, the encroaching trees that I remembered so well were still there, but even those strong, ancient, and gnarled sentinels had incurred some damage. When we reached Sam's cabin, we saw that one of the giant oaks that had displayed many of his handcrafted moons had been sliced vertically in two. And the moons which had swayed and spun so freely from the limbs lay on the ground among the debris of the remains of the tree. There was damage to Sam's roof, as well. Quite a few of the old wooden shakes had been ripped away by strong winds and were scattered about the yard.

“My God!” Grandma whispered as she surveyed the damage. “My God, where's Sam!” She reined in Natty, and bounded off her seat with the agility of a young woman, and hurried up to Sam's door. Trying the old doorknob, she found it was unlocked, but it was swollen and stuck from the dampness in the air. Tugging at it with great determination, she finally pulled it open, but almost fell backward when the door at last gave up the fight.

“Sam! Sam! Are you here?” she urgently called as she rushed into the cabin while I gathered her carpetbag with all of its concoctions, as well as some of the food, and hurriedly followed her inside. I found her sitting on the edge of Sam's bed, leaning over and softly talking to the pale and withered shadow of the man I'd met years before.

“What's happened, Grandma? What's wrong with him?” I had come up behind her.

“Ask
me
, gal! I ain't dead yet!” Sam answered, and I could see a touch of a twinkle in his dark eyes. But the effort of talking brought on a sickeningly thick, rib-shattering cough.

“Shh, shh, now,” Grandma said, gently patting his shoulder, “you don't need to talk any more than necessary. Any talkin' that needs doin', I'll do it. But you do need to tell me, Sam, what ails you, dear? What's happened?”

“We got the beginnings of what looked to be a bad storm,” he began before another fit of coughing interrupted him. Then continuing, “I went to the henhouse to get some eggs for my breakfast for the next mornin', figurin' it might be even worse by then. Soon as I got what I needed and was walkin' back to the house, damn if a limb off that ol' maple tree didn't go a-crashin' down right on me. Damn th”—he coughed again—“damn thing knocked me out for a while, and I guess bein' out in the el'ments for too long did the damage. I was okay when I saw my neighbor the other day—well, better than I am now anyway—but she was worried. Guess she knew I was sicker than I figured I was. She come by to check on me yesterday, and she said she thought I seemed worse, but things really went downhill last night. I got real bad.” His voice faded off, but whether it was from fatigue or fear of what the outcome might be, I wasn't sure.

“She did right to call Taft's, Sam. You know I'd want to know.” Grandma's voice was thick. I looked over at her and saw she was about as choked up as Sam was, but in her case, emotion was the cause. “Now shut up, old man, and let me listen to your lungs. Breathe in and out, normal-like.” She laid her right ear against his heaving chest, listened for several moments, then said, “We'll be right back, Sam. I need to brew up some medicine for you. You got lung fever.” I knew that
lung fever
was the old-timers' way of saying that Sam had pneumonia. And I also knew that much of the time it was deadly.

I followed Grandma into the kitchen and waited for instructions from her. “Go out to Sam's cellar, Rachel—you'll see the door to it out yonder—bring me a half dozen onions.”

I went outside to the cellar door, pulled it open and traversed the steep steps down into its darkness, hearing the scurrying of disturbed creatures as I did. After a moment, my eyes adjusted to the dim light coming from the open cellar door and I could make out several baskets, barrels, and cases on the dirt floor, as well as countless jars, jugs, and bottles lined up on plank shelves. Hurriedly looking into the baskets, I found potatoes, carrots, and finally the onions. Using my ankle-length wool skirt as a makeshift apron, I picked out six large ones, then awkwardly navigated the steps back out into daylight.

In the kitchen, Grandma had already gotten a good fire going in the wood stove. After we peeled and sliced the onions, she melted some bacon grease in a large black iron skillet then added the slices, as well as some sugar and a very small amount of water. She cooked the onions until they were well caramelized, then set them aside to cool slightly. While they did, she poked around in her carpetbag until she found a roll of rather thin cotton material, which I recognized as being a large piece of an old sheet of ours, and she quickly rolled it out on the kitchen table. Taking a pair of scissors from her bag, she cut a large square from it, and then another long, very wide strip. “Bring the pan,” she directed. I did as she asked, and we returned to Sam's bedroom.