Beneath a Thousand Apple Trees (23 page)

“Let her go, Rachel. Just let her go.” Jack placed himself between Ray, Merry Beth, and me.

“But she's barely sixteen, Jack! You're just sixteen, Merry!” I cried, craning my neck around Jack's broad shoulders to see Merry retreating. “And not with Ray, Merry! Dear God in Heaven, not Ray! He'll hurt you! He'll . . .” I was sobbing to the point of hardly being able to talk. Jack pulled me into his chest, trying to calm and comfort me, while Ray and Merry hurried away.

They melted into the shadows, but a moment later we watched as they galloped by on Ray's enormous dark gray horse. Merry, sitting behind him with her arms wrapped around his waist, looked over at me with a smile that was both victorious and frighteningly vicious. And as I watched her ride off into the night with her black hair whipping around and behind her like angry serpents, she looked like Medusa's daughter.

W
e didn't hear from Merry again for the next six months. But our lives got so busy with work that we only thought of her every hour instead of every minute. Prescott followed my suggestion, building a beautiful walnut bench in memory of Calvin Coolidge, Jr., and it was packed up in a straw-filled pine crate and sent by train to Washington, DC. I worked for a week on a letter to accompany the gift, keeping it simple and to the point, stating that
“even in the smallest of places, the Coolidges' grief and loss was felt.”

True to Grandma and Sam's word, they gifted Prescott with fifteen hundred dollars to pay the furniture workers, as well as guarantee them a steady income for at least a while to come. The money they so generously gave him had, indeed, been that which was under the floorboards in the satchel at Sam's house so many years ago. Grandma had used five hundred dollars of it when she arrived in Howling Cut. She'd purchased a bunch of turkey hens and a couple of toms, as well as the cabin that she raised Mama in (and that my parents had later raised Prescott, Merry Beth, and me in), but she'd saved the bulk of it for Sam in case he was ever released. Although he tried to make her keep it, she refused, saying she'd used enough of it already, and that because of it, she'd been able to start out fresh when she'd left Bolsey River. “You done enough, Sam. Far more than enough!” she said, gently scolding him. But the unmistakable look of deep gratitude and love was there in her eyes, all the same.

The gift of Sam's money—and Grandma's, as he was quick to correct—also enabled us to give old Nathan a small retirement check. His arthritis gave him no choice but to retire and our modest gift was greatly appreciated by him. He didn't stay away for long, though. Often he came in mid-morning, not to work, but for the company. He missed the mill and his work, but most of all, he missed our family. So we set up a comfortable chair near the pot-bellied stove in the warehouse area, where the furniture making took place, and he watched with great enthusiasm as our company grew, ever offering well-intended advice that we appreciated. We made it known that had it not been for Nathan's loyalty through the blackest of black times, those at work in the mill today would be employed elsewhere. Needless to say, there was a great deal of respect and appreciation for Nathan.

I knew that the chance of gaining any true recognition or future business as a result of the Coolidge gift was a long shot, so I placed well-designed ads in newspapers from Asheville to Wilmington, as well as strategic cities all up and down the eastern seaboard, from Washington to the booming state of Florida.

One late morning, a couple of months after our bench had arrived at the White House, Prescott came riding in on Sampson looking as if the devil, himself, were on his heels. It was too early for dinner, and even if it had not been, Prescott was getting so busy with furniture orders from responses to our ads that he was taking his dinner in a pail to the mill most days and not returning until late in the evening. On this day, however, he rode into our yard, dismounted before the poor, lathered horse had even stopped and ran through the front door waving a paper in our startled faces.

“What's happened, Prescott?” I anxiously asked, as I wiped vinegar off my hands. It was a canning day for Grandma and me, and we were in the midst of making bread-and-butter pickles with the many cucumbers from our garden. Sam had also seen Prescott arrive in a flurry and had hurried in from where he was working on a chicken coop repair.

As all three of us stood there looking alarmed, Prescott thrust a heavy-bond, cream-colored sheet of paper at me. “Look!” he said breathlessly. “Read it out loud to everyone!” On the top was the seal of the President of the United States, and the words in the body of the letter were not typed but handwritten. In disbelief I began to read aloud:

“My, lord! Prescott,” Grandma said from behind me. There was an unmistakable catch in her throat. Clearing it, she went on, “You've done us all proud. Now, the very next thing you need to make is a frame fittin' enough to hold a letter from the president.” He agreed as I passed it around for everyone to look at. They held it gingerly at the edges, then, after everyone had had a turn looking at it, Grandma told us to come eat. Prescott decided to stay and shared more news with us from his busy morning.

“I got another order for half a dozen chairs for the courthouse in Wilmington. Seems they love the curvature of the backs. The secretary who put in the order said the employees aren't going home with backaches each day. I kinda wonder though if the chairs they were using were s'posed to be uncomfortable to keep 'em awake so they'd get the work done faster!” We laughed with him. It felt good.

“It was good gettin' the phone in,” Prescott continued. “We're not having to wait for letters to hear what folks want and when. Sure's made a difference.” He slathered butter over his warm cornbread and dunked it into his steaming plate of beef stew. “If things continue bein' as busy as they've been, I'm thinkin' about hirin' on another man or two. Take a look at the books, Rachel, and see what you think.” I assured him that I would, and said I'd do it the next day before heading to Asheville.

“But tomorrow's Sunday,” Grandma said. “Aren't you goin' to church first before headin' out?”

I told her I didn't think God would mind much if I missed a service now and then. And being a far less rigid member of the church than many others, she agreed with me.

I did want to check the books to see if it was a financially sound move to hire another couple of men, but my main reason for going to the mill before meeting up with Jack was that I'd left a small gift for him in my desk. The trip to Asheville was, undoubtedly, going to cost Jack a fair amount, and there'd been countless other lovely excursions he'd taken us on, as well. Our outings were not always costly, but often they took a little time and effort to plan. This trip, however, promised to be quite lavish, and I knew that great thought and planning had gone into it. It was all on account of my eighteenth birthday, which was in two days. And although Jack was giving me this trip as my gift, I wanted to give him one, too, in appreciation, and I wanted to do so while we were away.

My gift to him was a beautiful cherry box I'd had Prescott make. He'd carved Jack's initials into the rich cherry wood; I'd had to ask Lydia what his middle name was because he'd never told me. It was Donald, after her father. So, it was Jackson Donald Harris. The letters
JDH
were carved into the box's lid with great care and skill.

Excusing myself from the table, I returned to the kitchen so that I could finish up the pickles and begin making sauerkraut from the cabbages. I had much to finish before I could even begin to get ready for my overnight trip with Jack. As I stood at the kitchen window, washing canning jars and admiring the orange-red leaves of an October Glory maple tree, I thought about some of the things Jack and I had done together during the six months we'd been courting.

When weather permitted, we would pack up Jack's wagon with a picnic lunch and go to an outdoor concert in our town's small square, or go fishing and swimming in the beautifully untouched areas of the river or small lakes around us. And when money permitted, we would take Mama's beloved buggy to the restaurant in our town's hotel for a lovely supper. Howling Cut remained a small logging town, however, so once in a while we enjoyed the cultural offerings of some of the larger towns around us; like Morganton, Marion, and even Johnson City, TN, once, for a horserace. The following night, however, we had tickets to a play in Asheville, and it would be our first overnight trip together. It was a special occasion, because it was my birthday, so Jack splurged on a room for each of us at the grand Grove Park Hotel, and bought tickets for the wildly popular George and Ira Gershwin play
Rosalie.

As I arranged some of the new jars of pickles on one of the shelves in a cabinet by the kitchen door, I could hear Sam and Prescott talking in the dining room. “You can start anytime, Sam. I'll get one of the guys to show you what's what. I think I'll just start ya out with the froe. That new Presbyterian church needs shingles for its roof, and I don't have a guy right now that I can spare to get 'em cut. Your comin' on board is surely good timing.”

“Did I hear right?” I asked, coming through the kitchen door. “Is Sam becoming an employee of Guinn Timber Products?” The name had been changed from “timber mill” to “timber products” in order to broaden the scope of our business in people's minds, and it had worked. But among ourselves, we still referred to it as “the mill.”

“Looks that way, Rachel.” Sam smiled broadly. “Looks like I'll be starting first thing next week.”

“That's wonderful, Sam! Good for you!” I smiled at both of them and I wasn't sure who looked more pleased; Sam, Prescott, or me. I did know, however, that the idea of Sam working at the mill just felt right, and apparently the two of them felt the same way.

I left for the mill in Mama's buggy about seven the next morning. In the distance, the sky was dark and thunder heralded the coming of a cold front. The leaves were glorious in their vivid colors, and as the wind began to blow, they swirled up like mini tornados from the ground, while those still clinging desperately to the last vestiges of life waved from the swaying branches above. It was a magical time of year in the mountains, and autumn seemed like a final gift from the earth before it became starkly bare and quiet.

Entering the mill, I walked through the dark saw room, and the memory of a tiny foot being crushed swirled through my mind as I walked by the exact spot where the accident had occurred. It happened a lot—reliving it—and I felt the pain for a split second as I did. But I pushed it out of my mind as I concentrated on what I needed to do in my office: I'd take a look at the company's ledger very quickly, grab Jack's gift, and then head over to pick him up in the buggy.

I walked into the office and turned on the small desk lamp. The room was particularly dark with the approaching storm, and my small desk lamp did little more than cast a circle of light on the center of my desk. Swinging my cape off my shoulders, I turned to hang it up on the peg on the back of my office door and came face to face with Ray Coons, who was pressed against the wall behind it. He was dimly illuminated by the desk lamp, but I caught a glimpse of a knife in his left hand as the light glinted off it. With his other hand, he grabbed me around the neck and pulled me into him. He placed the cold steel against my jugular vein, and hissed into my ear, “Scream, move, do anything, and I'll cut your throat right now.” Forcing myself to remain completely still, I said nothing and he went on. “Now, little ol' laggin' leg girl, you're gonna open that safe of yours for me, ain't cha?” He turned me slightly toward it and I could see several tools lying on the floor in front of the safe. The filing cabinet next to it was open, and folders, as well as the papers they contained, were scattered in a mess beneath.

Ray stepped behind me and, keeping the knife pressed against my throat, guided me over to the safe. “Now do yer thing, bitch. You get it open for me, and I'll kill you quick-like. You fool around any, and I'll start cuttin' ya piece by piece. You understand?” Choking back a sob, I nodded, then squatted down and began turning the lock's number dial to the right. My hands shook as I worked at the combination and Ray continued his threats, but I finally opened it. Inside lay the result of years of struggle, pain, loss, and determination.

Ray reached past me and pulled out the bundles of stacked bills. Next week was payday, as well as the week we paid our bills. I would have taken this money in for deposit next week before issuing checks. Somehow Ray knew the safe would have more money than usual. Somehow he had known. Someone must . . . Merry Beth! Merry Beth had to have told him the usual routine of the business. Papa had always talked openly about the running of the place, and we had adhered to his same routine. I had to know if she was involved.

“Where's Merry Beth?” My voice shook as I asked.

“Why, she's playin' the good wife at home,” he sneered. I closed my eyes when he said the word “wife.”

“What's the problem, bitch? Don't ya like the idea of me as your brother-in-law? Or, could it possibly be that you were holdin' out hope that you might be lucky enough to get some of what Merry Beth's gettin' daily? Well, hell fire, gal, there's plenty o' me to go around!” And with that, I felt the small black buttons on the back of my black and white striped satin blouse popping off as Ray ran the knife underneath each one. Oh, God, no!
No, no, no!

“Please, Ray, please . . .” I started to rise and when I did, he pulled me backward by the hair and I landed on my back—hard. Ray climbed on top of me, straddling me, and then, pinning me down with his right forearm while still gripping the knife in that hand, he leaned over so our faces were almost touching and I could smell the stench of whiskey on his breath.