Poison Apples (12 page)

The phone rang again and Fallon said, “I forgot to say, they’re coming for it now.”

“It?” said Colm, although he knew. There wouldn’t be any seven
P
.
M
. wake. The Messengers of Saint Dorothea would be hopping mad. He rather wished he could be there to see the reaction. But he had to show land. Some New Jersey executive wanting ten acres “to play around with.” As though the earth could stand up and dance. He chuckled to himself. Then remembered that Vermont was on a fault, they’d had one minor quake already in his lifetime. There could be another.

“Quit the police and run this place, will ya, Colm?” his father pleaded when he stopped swearing about the sudden change of plans.

He might as well tape the response, he’d said it often enough, but Colm said anyway, “Sell it, Dad. Sell the place. Buy a condo. They’ll mow the grass, shovel the snow for you. You can go to Ireland. You’ve always wanted to see the homeland.”

“Nobody over there anymore, Colm. Nobody who knows me. I’ll stick to Branbury. Play with the grandchildren.” He squinted meaningfully at Colm.

There were no grandchildren, wouldn’t be. Unless Ruth—her kids. Her own two grandkids. How long could a guy keep the faith? “Guess you won’t need those chairs set up after all,” he told his father. “So I’ll be taking off. Let Fallon call that minister. Let him take the gaff. You take a nap after lunch.”

“That’s just what I’ll do, damn it.” His father sank into an easy chair with an “Oh boy, oh boy.”

“I get paid anyway, right?” said Fern, sticking her skinny arms through the sleeves of a black vinyl jacket, and William Hanna said, “Oh boy.”

Chapter Twenty-four

The students and friends of Aaron Samuels were holding a vigil in the Unitarian Universalist Fellowship Hall, where he was a member. He was still in a coma, could “go either way,” according to the report Moira had read in the local
Independent.
If he lived, she hoped there’d be no brain damage. He wouldn’t want that.

The bland wooden building had been built originally by Jehovah’s Witnesses, a small irony, in view of the ocean of difference between the two denominations. Moira recalled that many Jews, disenchanted with the more orthodox regimen of their faith, turned to the liberal Unitarians—Stan himself had attended a few services and felt comfortable there. The hall was jammed with people. She spotted Emily standing in the back with her classmates—one young boy was virtually propped up by his peers; Moira wondered if it might be the boy Stan had told her about, the one Aaron Samuels had befriended. Her eyes watered to see the anguished lad.

Stan kept his head down, his lips moving as though he were talking to or arguing with someone—Cassandra perhaps, he couldn’t seem to get over that obsession. When she nudged him, he looked up, startled, as though he’d just wakened out of a nightmare and found himself in an unfamiliar place.

Toward the end of the vigil one of the students, a lanky boy with dark unruly hair and wide-set eyes, got up and read a passage unfamiliar to Moira. It was about a river that seemed to run only in the writer’s head.

“ ‘In me it still is, and will be until I die, green, rocky, deep, fast, slow, and beautiful beyond reality. I had a friend there who in a way had died for me, and my enemy was there.’ ”

Yes, the enemy was still there, Moira thought. But the friend who
in a way
had died, could that be her Stan? A metaphoric death after Carol, and then his confrontation with the “enemy”? She drew in a long breath. Moira could hear the students weeping openly now, and when the reader announced the title of the piece, she understood. “James Dickey, from the novel
Deliverance”
he said, and stood a moment, chin lifted, as though in silent prayer.

She heard a noise beside her, and saw that Stan was weeping, too. She reached over for his hand and he took it, and squeezed, until she wanted to cry out from the pain. He seemed calmer then, and they walked out together, behind the crowd. There was a feeling of solidarity here: that there were still feeling, thinking people who opposed censorship, who wanted an open, democratic world where one could choose for oneself; who respected the views of others: who would live and let live.

It was almost a euphoria—until they left the hall, and then there they were: maybe seven women and that minister from the Messengers of Saint Dorothea, on their knees in a circle, praying. Praying what? she wondered. That Samuels would remain in the coma? Or that he would live, virtually brain-dead, perhaps, and become one of them? Or were they simply here to torment Stan? She tried to steer her husband in a different direction, but too late, he’d seen. She felt him stiffen.

“They’ve no damn business here,” he muttered, and for a moment she thought he was going to fling himself on the minister. But he let her pull him back, and she was relieved.

Just as they were almost past the group—the students steering a wide berth—one of the women cried, “Murderer!” and pointed a pale finger at Stan. Stan yelped, and lunged at the woman. But Emily—thank God for that girl—and one of her male classmates pulled Stan back, each taking an arm, and by the time they got to the car he was quiet again—more or less, but deeply flushed and clutching his chest as though there were pain there, and she worried that there really might be.

She embraced Emily, thanking her—she was headed back to school, the girl said, and Moira and Stan drove, in silence, home to the orchard.

Chapter Twenty-five

He quickly found what he was looking for: the paraquat, a dark, almost black liquid, in a large white plastic container. It was exactly what he needed now. Paraquat was used for burning the tall grasses that grew up around the trees. If sprayed on the trees, it would turn the leaves brown within days. The leaves would fall off and make the apples inedible. If ingested, it would burn the stomach and intestines, cause vomiting, diarrhea, and giddiness. It could even affect the heart, according to the fine print. Did he want to do that to someone? He sighed. He had to think of his long-term objective. The herbicide wouldn’t kill the trees, though it would look to the untrained eye as if they were dying. That was scare enough; he had nothing against the trees.

He locked the storage shed door, returned the key to his pocket, and loaded the liquid into the plastic sprayer. He strapped on the backpack and plodded down into the west quadrangle, pausing every few feet to listen. It was three in the morning, the deepest, darkest time of the night—an hour almost not part of the day or night at all; an hour outside of time, an unnatural hour. He heard only the hooting of an owl, the rustling of leaves, a fox maybe, stealing through the trees. Something brushed against him, and he jumped. But it was only a barn cat, a tom, looking for game, for sex maybe. He leaned down to stroke it. He bad nothing against any animal—he liked cats, in fact.

He chose his trees, pumped the handle at his side to build pressure, then squeezed the trigger on the spray wand. It was a quiet method, of spraying, he couldn’t have used a ground rig—the motor would have awakened someone. Anyone hearing this might think it an airplane on its way to the Burlington airport, or a squealing rabbit, caught up by an owl. He’d be quick. He would do only this section for now, six or seven trees: to frighten, to turn the wits. So that be wouldn’t have to destroy the orchard completely: He’d accomplish his purpose before then. Though if he had to—if they hung on—he would complete the destruction, oh yes. He had access to an airplane. He’d do it without remorse—he had good cause.

He could smell the stuff even as he sprayed. It stank, it made him want to throw up, he didn’t like that. He didn’t want the smell on him, though it would probably fade out with the wind. When he was done, when he’d defoliated seven trees, he returned the spray rig to the storage shed where he’d found it, looking about carefully to be sure he wasn’t seen. Next time, maybe, they’d initiate a night watch, he’d have to use a friend’s Cessna to do the job.

It would be several days before they would discover what he’d done. Maybe weeks before they caught the full effect. One apple alone wouldn’t harm, would it? He didn’t think so. But make cider out of several, drink a gallon of it—it would do the job. Make life difficult for one certain person.

Off in the woods beyond the orchard there was a squealing sound;then a humming noise, like something chuckling, triumphant. Even though he identified with that, the sound made him shudder. It was like a nail scraping a blackboard, a machine gone askew. He hurried off.

Chapter Twenty-six

It was nine
A
.
M
., the milking done and the cows out in the pasture. That was one of the pluses for this time of year, Ruth thought, as she walked slowly back to the house: With days growing shorter, one could milk later in the morning. The second hay cutting was in, and Ruth and Tim had stacked most of the split wood in the basement. It was a glorious fall day: goldenrod and blue vetch springing up along the roadside and in the uncultivated fields. The mountains were soft gradations of purple: One could see the Adirondacks to the west, the Green Mountains to the east. Who could ask for more?

But then there were the minuses. In the kitchen she found Vic’s dirty boots where he’d dropped them in his race for the schoolbus, Emily’s breakfast dishes in the sink because she’d been late for school, and a note from Tim, in the capital letters he always used for writing: “CORN CHOPPER BROKE, BLEW UP AFTER THE FIRST WAGON LOAD, NEEDS A U JOINT. CAN’T GET IT IN TOWN.” So she would have to order one through a dealer—which might take a week or more and slow up the whole proceedings. Then there was Tim’s P.S.:

“COONS IN THE CORN AGAIN.”

She poured a cup of strong coffee. One day, her older daughter Sharon said, the coffee would do her in, but Ruth lived day by day, milking by milking, calf by calf. This was another concern:

Bathsheba was nearing the end of her pregnancy and that would make three dry cows this fall—definitely a financial burden. The Holstein had to store up her milk for a good two months and be treated with antibiotics in the bargain to prevent mastitis. Ruth hadn’t figured right this fall about the inseminating. Less milk, but at least higher prices in the fall—a plus, after all. She guessed she’d come out even in the plus-minus category. But lately Emily had been talking about going out of state to college—how on earth could Ruth afford that? She’d have to have a serious talk with Pete—if he was still in town.

She finished the breakfast dishes and swept the kitchen floor. She didn’t mind, she had energy to burn. Afterward she pulled her boots back on to check the corn that the pesky raccoons had knocked down—and heard a car careen into the drive. She knew who it was even before the woman got out—she could sense her sister-in-law by the way the hairs bristled on her own neck.

“Oh, Ruth, I just saw Pete. He’s staying with me a few days, did you know? Just until Violet gets here. Isn’t it wonderful he’s doing business up north again?”

Ruth had no answer for that. Pete’s sister, Bertha Willmarth, came tripping up the steps in her shiny heels and polyester pants and bobbing bonnet. One would think she was off for a cruise instead of a trip to a hardscrabble farm.

“I know, Bertha. He called. Look, I was just heading out in the fields. We can talk on the way if you want to.” Of course Bertha wouldn’t want to—the holes and rocks would make short work of those pinky-red shoes.

But this time Ruth was foxed. Bertha said, “I’ve got some galoshes in the car, just wait a minute now. I need to talk to you.” Back at the car, she stuck out a stockinged leg to pull on a pair of rubber galoshes that might have been a legacy of her deceased mother.

“I hear you’ve been on your knees a lot lately,” Ruth said as Bertha followed her into the field. Moira and Emily had told her about the praying women of the Messengers. And Bertha belonged to that group. Aaron Samuels was improving; she supposed Bertha would want to take credit. She could hear Bertha panting, though—her activity on her knees evidently didn’t keep her in shape.

“What? Please, Ruth, slow up, I don’t want to fall, I’ve got a weak left hip, you know.”

Ruth slowed; she needed information from Bertha about the Messengers, but it was hard. Hard to deal with this woman, to forget Bertha’s past, her transgressions on the family. Well, she’d let the woman talk. She might learn something.

“It’s that apple orchard up the road, Ruth. I hear Emily works there. Does Pete know that?”

“He will when you tell him, Bertha.”

“He’ll want to discourage that, I’m telling you. It’s a godless place now. It used to be so beautiful. It was my Uncle Howard on my father’s side owned it, you know, Pete and I played there as children before Howard sold it. But now that man Earthgrowl—”

“Earthrowl.”

“He’s a murderer, oh yes. He ran poor Cassandra down. On purpose, Ruth. On purpose! Oh, he knew what he was doing. And now he’s taken the body. Cassandra’s body. Ruth—slow up, will you?”

“What do you mean, he’s taken her body?” Ruth turned to face the woman. “It’s the police—forensics, not Stan Earthrowl—who have the body. They’re trying to find out what—well, what really happened.” Now she was confused. She didn’t know herself what had happened. They were checking tire prints, Colm had told her; there was something about a witness. They were walking past the hemp patch now, she saw Bertha peer closely at it—there were still handwritten
HEMP
tags Tim had tied on some of the plants. Ruth walked faster. Then she stopped again. “Where were you when Cassandra was struck, Bertha?”

“I saw. Oh yes, that’s what I was coming to tell you. I’ve been to the police. I saw that man start up his car, and Cassandra close by. She ran toward him. He’d broken up our vigil at the liquor store, you know, he’d assaulted our minister! That godless man.”

“Stick to the point, Bertha. What exactly did you see? After she supposedly ran toward him?” Ruth started walking again, she didn’t want to seem
too
eager.