Patterns of Swallows (41 page)

Delaying
no longer than it took to call, "Mom, I have to go back to the
orchard for a little while. Don't wait supper for me," she
pulled on her warmest fall jacket and was on the bicycle.

The
sky wasn't as dark as it had appeared when she was sitting inside the
lighted house looking out the window. With any luck, she could just
about fill her bin.

It
normally took her ten minutes to get to the orchard by bike, but
then, she usually meandered and enjoyed the ride. This time it took
her only five by standing up most of the way and pedalling hard.

She
arrived at the orchard breathless and moist with sweat, her heart
pumping wildly.

Panting
noisily, she swung down the row where she'd been picking earlier.
Then, she applied the brakes so hard she nearly catapulted over the
handlebars.

Someone
was there. Someone was at her bin. What on earth ...?

Oh,
good heavens! It was Bo, and he was wearing a picking harness and
emptying a bag of apples into her bin. She should have known he
would have been too honest to mark her down for a full bin that was
only three-quarters full.

While
she caught her breath, uncertain what she should do, she ducked into
another row out of sight and watched him depositing the apples in the
bin. How incredibly like him it was! It was the hair ribbon in the
pond all over again.

She
debated going over to help him finish off but knew it would embarrass
him to be found out. And the bin was nearly full.

In
fact, if she didn't want to get caught (and she knew Bo would have
something to say about her not keeping her promise to him – the
promise about not pushing herself past her limits), she'd better get
out of the orchard and get the bike back on the road.

She
rode home in the dusky, waning light, revelling in the chill of the
fall air on her hot cheeks. The lights of the farms along the road
made a cheerful glimmer like pinpoints of starlight. Dogs yapped in
the distance. It was a time of day and year that Ruth loved. And it
was thoroughly lovely. But she wasn't consciously noticing any of it
that evening.

The
thought that filled her mind was how nice it was to be weak for a
change – to be looked after instead of doing the looking after.
It was a completely unfamiliar feeling and one that brought her a
glow warmer than the lights of the farmhouses or the pink in her
cheeks. The relief of momentarily relying on someone other than
herself lifted a load from her that she'd carried so long she was
unaware she carried it.

Before
she knew it was coming on, she was in the midst of a fit of weeping
so powerful she could barely see to keep the bike on the road.

She
knew Bo would think it was only a small thing he'd done for her. Not
worth mentioning, he'd say. And she wouldn't mention it. But, oh,
the hugeness of the small things!

When
she got to the farmhouse, she waited outside for an extra minute or
two to compose herself and let the breeze dry the tears and take the
redness out of her eyes.

The
crying was a relief, as well, she'd discovered now that she'd learned
how. Why had it taken her so long to discover the consolation of
tears?

*
* *

The morning after the day she'd
fallen off the ladder, the moment Ruth was awake, she knew trouble
had found her.

There it was! That
lighter-than-air-and-joyriding-in-a-soap-bubble feeling.

She acknowledged it to herself
and then sternly told herself to snap out of it.

It wasn't possible. It simply
couldn't be possible. It was impossible that she could be started
down the road to falling for the man she'd rejected decisively and
forever just two weeks ago. "Never" had lasted all of
fourteen days.

And the man who had promised her
that the book of his feelings for her would never, ever again be
opened by him. What were his words? Something about the subject
being closed, shut, locked tight with the key thrown away. That was
the idea, at any rate.

Not that she'd ever want him to
reopen the subject! Of course, she didn't! The whole thing was just
so completely, horribly, embarrassingly impossible –
impossible that she should be feeling this way.

Along with the lighter-than-air
feeling came a saturating guilt. She'd been so sure she'd never love
anyone ever again like she loved Graham. She'd been positive hers
was no transient emotional attachment but something strong and deep
and true. And it was.

As Solomon
had discovered, "Many waters cannot quench love, neither can the
floods drown it ..." (Though, honestly, it was a little hard to
believe that Solomon was qualified to write anything on the subject
of true
love
– Solomon and his seven hundred wives and three hundred
concubines!)

But she'd found it out for
herself. Love was stronger than death. She had no doubt she would
always love Graham.

Was it possible that the place
she had in her heart for the husband of her youth could leave room to
hold that kind of love ever again? Could hearts ever heal so that
they could expand to be that large? Could hers?

And the bigger question was, so
soon?

Graham had left in February, a
scant nine months ago. She'd been widowed only two months.

Was she no better than Solomon,
then? It was a blow to discover that perhaps she was part of the
human race, after all.

It was utterly unthinkable! It
was impossible! Was she so fickle? How could she be capable of
feeling anything for anyone else at this point in time, even if it
meant nothing?

But, of course, it was all the
insanity of a moment. Give it a day or two, and she'd laugh at
herself for ever worrying over something so trivial. It was just
that it was all such a novelty – so rarely experienced. She
wasn't one who fell in and out of love weekly. That was why she was
taking it all much harder than she should. She needed to get on with
her day and do her best to forget she'd ever had this little
conversation with herself.

But getting on with her day
meant going to the orchard and unavoidably seeing Bo, a circumstance
she dreaded just now. At least the functional part of her brain
dreaded it. The part of her brain that wasn't in proper working
order made her heart leap at the thought.

It was just too bad that the
functional part of her brain seemed to be losing control as the
lighter-than-air feeling took over.

No! She would fight this. She
had to. But what would she say to Bo when she saw him? Would she be
able to think of anything at all to say? Would he notice that she
was acting oddly around him? And what should she wear? Did she have
anything that looked nice on her that was also old enough to wear to
pick apples? Maybe her blue sweater. Blue was a good colour for
her...

In spite of her best efforts,
her thoughts ran along forbidden trails for quite some time.

*
* *

"Morning," Bo greeted
her, sounding like his usual self as she ran to the pickup, having
heard him pull up in it.

"How's the ankle?"

"It's fine. I told you it
was yesterday. Nothing wrong with it now. I wouldn't even know I
did anything to it yesterday from the way it feels this morning."

"Good. And the cut on the
leg?"

"It's fine, too. Don't
worry. I disinfected it and bandaged it up."

"Good. Don't need my best
picker off with gangrene or an amputation."

"Ha, ha."

Then, there was a heavy silence
in the pickup. Ruth cleared her throat and sought wildly for
something, anything, to say. Nothing came to mind. Surely Bo would
notice something was out of the ordinary this morning.

"Sorry. Didn't mean that.
Just a dumb joke," he said, staring straight ahead.

"I know. Don’t
worry. It’s fine."

Oh, good heavens! She hadn't
thought for a minute about her recent surgery when Bo made his
comment about an amputation, but he must have remembered it after it
was too late – after he'd unthinkingly made his comment –
and he thought she'd remembered it, too. He thought she'd taken
offence. And now there was no way to fix the situation. This was
going worse than she'd imagined.

There was more heavy silence.
Then they both burst into speech at once.

“
So
what are your ...”

“
So
how long do you ...”

“
Sorry,”
they both said in unison.

“
What
were you saying?” he asked.

“
No,
you go ahead,” she answered.

“
Ladies
first,” he said.

This was dreadful. It was
exactly like a scene from a movie. Exactly like the scene where it’s
obvious (to the audience, at least) that the girl’s fallen for
the fellow and her brain has turned to mush. It was impossible that
Bo hadn’t noticed that something was amiss. How could one
disguise a mush-brain?

And the worst of it was, she
hadn’t fallen for the fellow! Not really fallen, at any rate.
She couldn’t have. Her brain had turned to mush for some other
reason.

She took a deep breath and told
herself to get a hold of herself.

“
Okay,
I was going to ask you how much longer you think we’ll be
picking.”

“
Probably
the end of this week. Maybe one more week. Depends how fast we get
the last of the Red Delicious crop off.”

“
And
what were you saying?”

“
I
was just going to ask you what plans you have for when picking’s
finished.”

“
Back
to the job hunting, I guess.”

“
Nothing
in mind?”

“ ‘
Fraid
not.”

“
Would
you be interested in a spot on the sorting line in the packing shed?
It wouldn’t be permanent, but it would take you past
Christmas.”

“
I
would be terribly interested,” she said and then felt heat
going to her face. Good thing her tanned skin wouldn’t show
red. Did she have to sound so eager?”

“
Good!
Consider yourself hired then. You can start as soon as want to
after the picking’s finished.”

“
The
day after?”

“
Sure,
if you want. Don’t you think you’ll want a day or two
off?”

“
Probably
not,” Ruth said.

Then the heavy silence descended
again.

“
Are
you sure you’re up to picking today?” Bo said at last.
“I’m wondering if you weren’t more shaken up
yesterday than you’re letting on.”

Good. If he wanted to interpret
today’s uneasiness as a product of yesterday’s fall, she
was more than willing to let him though she had to be truthful.

“
I
am perfectly well and ready to go picking today. No ill effects at
all. Honest,” she said.

"Okay, if you're sure ..."
he said.

Then more silence.

The few minutes it took to
arrive at the orchard felt like they would never end.

*
* *

When Ruth started her first day
of apple-sorting at the packing shed, she was surprised to see
Philippa Handy, lunch pail in hand, standing outside the large, metal
building, waiting for the doors to open.

“
Well,
hello, Phil,” Ruth said, delighted. “How long have you
been working here?”

“
Just
starting today,” Phil said solemnly.

“
Me,
too,” Ruth said. “We’ll learn the job together.”

Phil didn’t answer. She
looked around herself uncertainly, a little worried frown between her
brows.

Ruth didn’t want to ask
her if it was her first job, but she couldn’t remember Phil
having held any other jobs before.

Ruth hadn’t been in
Arrowhead to go through high school with the rest of her class, but
she’d heard the story a time or two. After failing out of
grade nine arithmetic for the third time, Phil had quietly
disappeared from the high school rolls.

Even if Phil had gathered the
courage to apply for work at any of the local businesses, it was
unlikely any of them would have hired her.