Peaches (8 page)

The air smelled like invisible flowers. Murphy breathed it in as the trail lost itself a few times, becoming tall grass and brambles, and then sorted itself out again into a little dirt line that wound toward the side of the Darlingtons’ farmhouse, ending at an odd little open patch with a trellis in the middle.

Murphy peered around, then touched a few of the bushes, letting her fingers run along the ridges of the leaves while she looked at the different shapes and structures of them and the plants they belonged to. There were rosebushes, azaleas, peonies—none of them blooming yet, all being strangled by kudzu and grapevines. It was like a nightmare garden—the kind a creepy old lady with a bunch of cats would have, Murphy decided. A creepy old lady in an old wedding dress she’d been wearing since being jilted at the altar fifty years ago.

Murphy pulled a cigarette out of the pack in her pocket and lit up, taking a deep inhale and looking at the disrepair of the garden. It only blackened her mood. She was thinking it was typical. People didn’t know how to finish what they started.

A rustle came from behind her, and Birdie emerged from the
trail that went toward the house. Birdie stopped, startled, and blushed.

“Oh. Hey, Murphy.”

“Hey.” Murphy was at a loss for words with Birdie. She looked stricken. Murphy shoved her left hand in her pocket. “This your garden?”

Birdie looked around as if trying to orient herself. “Oh. My mom’s.” Silence. “I tried to revive it a couple of years ago. But there’s too much other work.”

Murphy nodded, as if she knew what Birdie was talking about. But she’d never had too much work. She’d almost made a full-time job out of avoiding work of any kind.

“Poopie planted that nectarine tree, but the fruit is always filled with bugs.” Birdie looked up at the tree. “She said it’d be a miracle if it ever made a healthy fruit,” Birdie added quietly. Again, silence.

“I bet it gets boring.”

Birdie looked confused. “Farm work?”

“I mean, living on an orchard in general.” Murphy only half believed this. She said it more out of trying to be helpful about the frost thing. Like,
Look on the bright side—your life really sucks anyway.

“Oh God, it’s not boring.” Birdie smiled gently and sadly. That was all.

Murphy took a long drag on her cigarette. “So your mom ditched the garden, huh?”

Birdie lost her smile. “She ditched…it, yeah.” She looked worried, shy, nervous, lost—each expression passing over her face like a cloud. Murphy tried to imagine the layers of crap
she’d have to peel away to let people see
her
feelings cross her face that way. It was too many to count.

“Well…” Birdie said. “I’m going to get the field heaters ready. We have a few that work.” She gave a little half wave. “I’ll see you.”

“See you.” Murphy watched her disappear down the trail.

When Birdie was out of sight, Murphy turned and eyed the garden, focusing on a tiny rosebush that was being devoured by a gang of grapevine weeds. It suddenly offended her deeply. Murphy crouched and started yanking out the weeds one by one.

She lost track of time. When she looked up, it was dusk, and her skin was cloaked in a slight chill. She sank back onto her haunches, her hands covered in dirt and stained in green stripes of chlorophyll. The lights of the Darlington house had come on, spotlighting the inside for the outside. In one of the upstairs windows Murphy could see Birdie’s figure clearly. She was on the telephone, sitting in her window. She hadn’t noticed Murphy. She was turned toward the fields beyond the dorms, her body looking curved and defeated.

Murphy looked around the garden, feeling like she’d been in a trance, noticing that she’d cleared a large circle of weeds. She let the handful of weeds her fingers were clutching fall to the ground, stood up, and headed back down the trail.

A
ll the next day the orchard felt like a ghost town inhabited by predominantly Mexican ghosts. The workers drifted from tree to tree, frowning, talking to one another in whispers, and rubbing their hands together. The air was noticeably cooling as the day went on. It sent a chill into even Murphy’s heart, which was usually cold enough.

Ghostiest of all was Walter, who lingered on the porch, watching over the orchard with slumped shoulders, looking still and solitary. He stood out as a gray figure, much like the lord of the underworld probably would.

By dinner the static flying through the workers’ talk was matched only by the energy with which the thermometer beside the Camp A door dropped, and by nightfall the static had become a steady buzz.

Murphy was thinking about tomorrow, and whether her mom and Richard would still be an item, and how much he’d be around if they were, but she could also feel the frost buzz through her closed door, and it was hard to ignore. Late in the afternoon Walter had had them drag out the few field heaters to the farthest
trees, which were the lowest, and where the frost was most likely to settle. They had started their way in the back and worked their way up, so now when Murphy looked out her window, she could see the place where the heaters had run out and there were only solitary trees for the last stretch toward the dorms.

Tap tap tap.
Sniff sniff sniff.
Murphy stood up and opened her door. One of the dogs, Honey Butt or Majestic, she didn’t know which, stared up at her pitifully.

“Where’s Mama?” Murphy asked. The papillon tilted its head at her.

“You are an ugly dog. But come in.”

Murphy plopped back down on the bed and let the dog hop up beside her. Birdie had been running around like a madwoman all day, which was probably why Honey Butt felt deserted.

Murphy stared at her toes. Maybe she had foot fungus. She’d had that once, back at Camp Bright Horizon, which was a camp outside Macon for supersmart broke kids. She’d been able to pick her toenails off then; they’d just painlessly shed in her fingertips. She tried that now, but the toenails stayed. She was interrupted by a knock at the open door. Leeda stood there, her gray eyes unsure and her slate gray silk pajamas shining silkily.

“C’min.”

She plopped down on Murphy’s bed, making Murphy move her feet.

“What’re you doing?”

“Trying to figure out if I have toenail fungus.”

She thrust her feet out toward Leeda, who surveyed them casually, trying to impress Murphy with how unsqueamish she could be. Murphy stretched farther to touch her toe against Leeda’s
thigh. At the last minute Leeda bailed, shoving at her calf. “Ew.”

“It’s too nerve-racking being in my room. Everybody’s so tense.”

Murphy nodded. “Yeah.”

Leeda reached out and stroked Honey Butt’s back, which made Honey Butt let out a whimper for sympathy.

“The dogs are obsessed with Birdie, aren’t they?”

Murphy shrugged. There was a long silence while Leeda seemed to try to think of some other topic of conversation. Murphy, in a rare act of generosity, provided one.

“I can’t wait to get back to my life.”

Leeda blinked a few times. “Me too.”

Murphy tried not to feel jealous of anyone, but sometimes she still did. She was jealous, right now, that Leeda had a mom who neither dated high schoolers nor very married men. That Leeda could go home and not have to wonder if Richard from Pep Boys was going to be parked on her couch. That Leeda had friends to go home to, where Murphy only had guys who would leave her lying on train tracks for Walter Darlington. And that Leeda actually
did
look forward to going home, while Murphy was only lying.

“Poor Birdie,” Leeda offered.

“Yeah.” Leeda looked so thoughtful, her eyelashes doing the fluttery thing again, and it made Murphy regret how snotty she’d acted the day before. She shifted on her bed awkwardly.

“Well, I wonder if they’ll make us do much work tomorrow,” Leeda said, standing up.

“Probably not if all the trees are dead,” Murphy joked.

Leeda half-laughed obligingly. “Rex says it’ll be a while before they know if the frost has done any damage.”

“I guess he knows everything.”

Leeda’s mouth tightened. “He’s a great guy.”

“I’m sure he is,” Murphy said. She didn’t know why she’d said what she’d said. She couldn’t stop herself sometimes.

Leeda stretched her long, pale arms over her head. “I’m gonna try to get some sleep. See you.”

“See you.”

The whole thing had the air of a final good-bye to it, though they would see each other Monday in AP Bio. Leeda disappeared through the doorway.

Murphy listened to her radio for another hour, doodling in a book she’d brought by Nietzsche. When she moved across the room to turn off the light, she froze. Her breath drifted out in front of her in a tiny white cloud.

Murphy’s heart sank. She turned out the light and crawled under the covers thinking of poor Birdie and how life just kicked people when they were down.

A few minutes later she was staring at the ceiling that she couldn’t see in the dark when an orange flicker sped its way across the wall. Murphy thought she was imagining it until it happened two more times. The third time she sat up and looked out the window, and her heart stood still.

There was Birdie Darlington, dragging something huge and heavy out of the supply barn and down between the trees, where she heaved her whole body forward, plunging whatever it was on top of an enormous fire. Lit by the firelight, Murphy could see that Birdie’s face was tear streaked and red. Murphy watched, entranced. Birdie had lost it and she was burning down all the trees.

Birdie stared at the flames for a minute, then launched into a
run again toward the barn, emerging a few seconds later with a broken wooden chair. She dragged it to the next row of trees, looking back and forth, trying to gauge the distance.

Murphy realized she was wrong. Birdie wasn’t trying to burn the trees down. She was trying to keep them warm.

Murphy was paralyzed. It was perhaps the saddest thing she’d ever seen in her life. Birdie’s body was graceless as she hauled and dragged whatever she could carry into the rows of trees. It was pure survival and clearly a losing battle. From Murphy’s high window Birdie looked small and foolish and awkward, and Murphy knew there was no use searching herself for the cynicism that would make it seem distant and dark instead of raw and terrible. Birdie was trying to save her home single-handedly, and there was no way she could.

Murphy sank against the window, her forehead pressing against the glass, and tried to let it go, the way she let it go when she drove past an abandoned dog or saw a news spot about something she couldn’t do anything about. She imagined everyone else in the dorms was doing the same thing.

And then a figure appeared beside Birdie—taller, leaner, and more muscular. When he got close to one of the fires, Murphy saw that he was one of the guys from the men’s camp. He said something to Birdie and then raced into the barn, and then Murphy could hear feet pounding down the hall outside her door.

Murphy opened the door and watched the women rush past and disappear down the stairs. The screen door below slammed. Leeda stood in the doorway opposite her, looking confused.

“They’re trying to save the orchard,” Murphy said, at a loss. Leeda didn’t say anything back.

Murphy walked into her room and to her window. The workers had poured out into the trees, and several small fires had popped up now, all randomly spaced apart, like stars on the ground. It was beautiful. It was like fireflies.

Murphy stood for several minutes, having a heated argument with herself, her heart in her throat. She wanted to help. And she wanted to keep driving. She wanted to belong with people who helped one another. But it was so foreign that she needed to convince herself that she could.

Finally she decided it would hinge on Leeda. If Leeda had the nerve to go down there with all those people, who had worked through the two weeks while she and Murphy had slacked, then Murphy would too. Murphy’s ears perked, listening for her to come out of her room.

After a few more minutes Leeda’s door creaked open, and Murphy heard her walk down to the bathroom. A minute later she came back down the hall, and her door creaked again behind her, closed. There was the faint sound of bedsprings creaking as she crawled into bed.

Maybe Leeda couldn’t see herself down there either.

Murphy closed her door. In her bed, she watched the fire lights dancing across the ceiling until she fell asleep.

B
irdie tugged up the waist of her jeans, which were threatening to slide off her sweat-slicked hips, and landed on her knees on the grass. She shifted around onto her butt, slumping back against the nearest tree, and peered around at the damage they’d done.

It was almost morning. It wasn’t a shade lighter than night, but the animals had started moving around, the birds had started chirping, and it smelled like day.

A few of the workers were still shadows straggling up and down the rows of trees, tossing this and that dead limb, or piece of farm debris, onto the fires scattered at intervals down the white sand trails. A few branches were smoldering. And the fires themselves were beginning to burn out. But the night was over. And they were out of fuel. There wasn’t much more they could do.

Birdie’s dad had come out to supervise only briefly, looking so depressed that Birdie thought they should set a fire at his feet so he wouldn’t freeze too. And then he had gone back inside. The workers, on the other hand, who had no ownership in the orchard and had a million other places they could work, had
stayed all night. Over the past half hour the majority of them had begun to straggle inside to bed, many stopping to hug Birdie and kiss her on the cheek before disappearing across the grass. Birdie just couldn’t believe how good people could be.

And also how disappointing.

Neither Leeda nor Murphy had emerged from the dorms, and this befuddled Birdie. She hadn’t noticed their absence until the past half hour, when the work was calming down. But now that she had, she couldn’t help but feel let down. “Whatever,” she muttered. They’d be gone by tomorrow, and Birdie didn’t care anymore.

A few minutes passed, and soon the last figure left was the first that had come out to help Birdie. She watched Enrico from her spot by the tree, sure that she was hidden, and admired the way his arms worked over the fires and how his shirt was soaked in sweat. That sweat had all been for her orchard, and that made it that much more mesmerizing. She stared at him, willing him to see her.

And then he turned and started walking toward her, and she realized he’d known she was there the whole time.

Enrico sank down beside her, onto his knees like she had, then into a cross-legged position.

“Birdie, I think you must be Supergirl,” he said, giving her an exhausted smile. He swiped at a smudge of ash beside his eye. “You are very strong.”

Birdie shook her head and stammered. “Oh—oh no. I don’t have a choice, you know. But you guys…” Birdie felt choked up. She was too tired to be embarrassed, though, and she simply let her voice trail off.

Enrico, who appeared equally incapable of being awkward at
the moment, let out a long, serious breath, his smile fading. “You have choice. Your dad choose to go to bed, no? You choose to try.” He shook his head. “You are crazy.”

“Oh.” Birdie shifted uncomfortably at the thought that Enrico might be criticizing her dad and her, but he quickly set her at ease by moving on.

“Not everyone is as, um, strong…not everyone cares like you. That is it.”

“Well, everyone else cared enough to help. You cared enough…” Birdie offered, not seeing what kind of strength he was talking about. She knew she was a big girl. She had brute force—but she wasn’t sure she wanted Enrico pointing this out.

But Enrico looked at her very seriously. “Birdie, they do it because of you. I do it because of you. Maybe you don’t see this.” Birdie was speechless, so he continued. “My mom say things like this. She say I am a thoughtful guy, smart, good guy. I don’t see it. I just think, I am…” He searched for the English words he needed. “Normal. But maybe it’s better to believe good things when you hear them.”

Birdie smiled. “Take a compliment.”

“Yeah.” Enrico nodded solemnly.

“Maybe.” Birdie swiped the sweat off her face and then stopped.

Enrico looked concerned. “What?”

“Um.” Birdie stared at him. “Um. Do I have a dirt mustache?” Enrico looked at her for a second and then started laughing. Like the time in the cider house, she felt like he wasn’t laughing at her, just with her. So she started laughing too.

“See. What girl would ask this? Crazy.”

Birdie had always thought of herself as the opposite of crazy. She thought she liked being crazy, the way Enrico said it.

When he stopped laughing, Enrico looked at her for another moment and then stood up.

“Temperatures go up today, no?”

Birdie nodded. “Yeah. I think so.”

“When do we find if peaches are okay?” Enrico asked, dusting the grass off his butt. The way his body twisted while he did this, making the muscles of his shoulders stand out, made Birdie achy. But then his question settled in, and she was filled with fear.

“Not till they ripen,” she said. “And we start to pick. In June.”

Enrico nodded. “I leave for Texas tomorrow.”

“Are you coming back?” Birdie asked, trying not to sound too agonized.

“Yes. I will see you then.” He reached out his hand and Birdie took it, letting him pull her up. Then he shook it. It was a quick, hard shake, and Birdie suddenly felt he was distant again, even though he hadn’t gone anywhere yet. “Bye, Birdie.”

She squeezed his hand back. “Bye.”

As she watched him walk away, Birdie considered going after him, in a way that they did in the movies. She pictured calling him and running up to him and just planting a kiss on him. She envisioned him turning and walking back and planting one on her. She imagined sneaking into his room in a few minutes and kissing him then.

But the farther away he got across the grass, the more glaring it was to Birdie that a lot could change between April and June. He could come back with a girlfriend. Or not come back at all.

She trailed far behind him and paced outside the dorms for
several minutes, meditating on the third movie option. She even walked up the stairs of the men’s dorm. But really, she was kidding herself. She didn’t even come close to going inside.

She decided to take a walk through the orchard to clear her mind. She ended up at the pecan grove and then beyond it, at the edge of the country club.

The sun had just laid the first orange slices on the horizon. It lit up the manicured grounds of the clubhouse on the rise, the rooftops of the condos in the distance, making the country club look a bit like Disney World. Birdie had been to Disney World, but she’d never liked it. It didn’t feel like real life.

The view was enough to make a person think that God was smiling on Horatio Balmeade. He would never have to worry about frost, unless it might kill his imported pine trees, which had no business being in Georgia in the first place. A person could assume that his club would never have any problems, that it would always be perfect, and that at some point it was inevitable it would swallow up the mess of the orchard.

But Birdie saw it differently.

She took it as a good omen that the sun, though it was shining on Horatio Balmeade and all of his glittering property, was the exact same color every morning. That is, it was the exact same color as peaches.