The Orchardist (42 page)

They had sat on the porch and shucked the corn and shelled the peas in silence. It had taken a long time, and every once in a while one rose to get water or iced tea for them both. Now in the cabin, with the windows shut and the door closed to keep in the heat, it was too hot to talk. Angelene had stripped to her underclothes and wore her hair up in a kerchief. Caroline Middey had rolled up the sleeves of her dress. Both were barefoot. The fine hair at Angelene’s temples was dark with sweat, and both were deeply flushed.

Caroline Middey was pouring more boiling water into the basin, careful so the cloud of steam did not rush into her face, when she heard a sound of pain behind her. She set the kettle down and turned. Angelene, at the table, had cut her hand on a jar top, and stood clutching her arm to her stomach, forcing herself to look ahead at the wall. She did not want to look at her hand, did not like the sight of blood.

Let me see.

Angelene showed her without looking at it herself. The cut was in the center of her palm. It was not deep enough to fret about—it did not need stitching up—but Caroline Middey made her sit down while she fetched the iodine and bandage.

The vegetables, said Angelene.

We’re watching them.

Caroline Middey, leaning close to her, began to clean the wound. Holding the girl’s hand open in her own, she said quietly and suddenly, as if just remembering it: I had a girl, once, who lived with me. You knew that. (Angelene didn’t.) They sat silently, and then when Caroline Middey began to wrap the hand, she said: She was learning about the herbs, the midwifery. She was what they called my apprentice. When there was another long pause, Angelene looked at Caroline Middey, who was concentrating on the bandage, lost in thought.

What happened to her?

Oh— Caroline Middey pinned the end of the soft bandage, and stood. The consumption, when it came through. She died. It was a long time ago.

When they were finished canning, they opened the door and the windows and went out onto the porch. Then, when that wasn’t enough, they went and crossed the grass, went down to the creek. Waded into the water.

Oh, Lord, said Caroline Middey, her skirts gathered up around her hips. The water coursed around her knees. She closed her eyes. Oh, that feels nice.

Angelene sat down carefully so that she was waist-high in the rushing water. After a moment she lay back, holding her bandaged hand up into the air.

After they cleaned up after the canning, and properly washed and dressed, they ate a meal out on the porch. Caroline Middey had packed a meat pie for them to share, and for dessert she had brought the little cinnamon cookies that Angelene liked so much. Caroline Middey made coffee and they sat in the birch chairs, sated and barefoot, stuffed, tired, content.

Angelene had closed her eyes, and although she had been distracted from thinking about Talmadge and Della since Caroline Middey arrived that morning, she said: Do you think she’ll come back with him?

Caroline Middey, after a minute, sighed. I think it’s gone beyond that, she said. Maybe, before—but not now— And for a moment, confused, Caroline Middey realized she did not know how much Talmadge had told the girl. She looked at the girl’s face, but could read nothing there. The girl’s mind worked—she could see the emotion moving there—but at the same time her face was closed. She had seen that before—but where?—and then she remembered it: in Della.

I don’t pretend to know anything anymore, said Caroline Middey finally. And that was all they spoke of it.

D
ella did not leave solitary confinement after Talmadge visited her, but stayed another day. The warden withheld food until she came out. They let her immediately, after she had eaten a little, into the yard.

The sun assaulted her; she did not know what to do with herself. She could not see properly, but walked in the direction of the fence. It was nearly twenty yards away. She would not make it there, she would turn before she reached it. But this was the only way, to walk in this direction, to reach the exact center of the yard, the place at which she was equally far from every point: the jail and the surrounding fence. In this way, being equidistant from all points, it was almost like being free.

Before she reached this point she smelled woodsmoke. The odor was coming from the direction of the lake. She stopped walking and tilted her head up at the trees and sky. She couldn’t see the smoke. She couldn’t see the lake. There was a sound coming out of her that frightened her. It was a quiet sound. She touched her face, as if to verify she was still there.

H
e slept most of the train ride back to Cashmere. He had barely made the train, had run to the platform, wheezing. He held up his hand. A porter leaned down to help him up. Took his bag from him.

That’s fine, I’ve got it, Talmadge said, and coughed loudly.

Are you all right, sir?

Talmadge walked down the carpeted aisle, gripping the backs of the seats for support, and sat down at the far end of the car, in a seat by the window. Closed his eyes, and willed his body to calm. It hardly felt like his body at all, it was like a wild animal. He removed his hat, his forehead clammy with sweat. Suddenly he was cold. His heart beat raucously within him, and blood thudded in his ears; the world before him tilted. He feared, for a moment, he would faint.

But he calmed, eventually, and was able to sleep. Woke, and opened his eyes to the dun-colored hills under late afternoon light. He felt extraordinarily empty. The sun a great honey-colored orb he could not look at directly. Caroline Middey would meet him at the station, or the girl. He knew, suddenly, with a sort of detached dread, that once he stepped down off the train, he would be sick.

The train slowed, switched tracks with a slight jerk, and then slowly and steadily gained speed. He thought of Della—of her voice in the darkness.
I don’t want you to see me
. But why? he thought. Had she hurt herself so badly? Was she so unclean? Surely she knew he would not mind. But was that really true? he thought. If he had seen her face contorted by injury, or seen the filth on her flesh, would he have been unable to leave her? He felt contempt, suddenly, for the warden, for his brand of gentleness. Must he put her in that godforsaken cell?
Solitary confinement.
Any punishment seemed better than that. The warden spoke of being humane.

Talmadge looked out at the hills.

She would not tell the warden about Michaelson, he decided. But he felt he, Talmadge, had no choice in the matter, to believe her when she said she would tell him herself. Caring for someone meant trusting them. She would not tell the warden the truth: but Talmadge had to give her the choice, at least.

He continued to gaze out the window. He would wait until the end of the week, he decided, and then visit her again. He hoped his body would recover in the meantime. He could not wait any longer than that. He would go there and tell the warden the truth. Surely the man would agree that one of them—Della or Michaelson—must be moved. Talmadge would get recommendations from the Judge. If the authorities had not found any body in Seattle, or complaints, any warrants out against her, then maybe she would be let go—into his, Talmadge’s, care. He would take her home, to the orchard.

But the girl—Della—must remain calm, he thought. She must stay out of trouble. And trust him to figure out the details of her release.

Outside the train, light raced through a line of birches planted at the edge of a massive field. Tessellation of light through branches and between leaves; an exodus of light, repeating interminably. But it was not the light, he thought, but himself—the train—that moved.

A week was too long, he thought.

W
hat happened to you, said Frederick.

He and Della stood in the yard, near the entrance to the jail. Frederick stood in the shadow of the overhanging roof; Della stood in the sunlight, squinting. Hatless.

I don’t know, she said. Then: You don’t know what he’s like. When he talks to me, I get so mad—

Well, said Frederick, after a silence. It’s a shame something like that had to happen.

It didn’t have to happen, she said. It was my fault. I forgot what he’s like. But—it won’t happen again. I remember what he’s like now. I’m ready, now.

Frederick appraised her.

You’ll help me again?

Frederick said nothing. After a moment he leaned, spat.

I heard what he done, said Frederick. I heard what kind of place he had up there in the woods. He glanced again at Della, to see if he wanted to question her; he did not.

She had turned and stared ahead, out across the yard. Her thumbs in her belt loops; a stiff, artificial pose.

I might help you, said Frederick. Or I might not. You got to have some plan. He shook his head. I’m not taking any part in something like what happened the other night. Forget that you almost killed yourself. I almost lost my job.

Della said nothing to this. She continued staring out at the yard, the dust baking in the heat.

I’ll think of something, she said.

I
don’t know if it makes much difference, Talmadge, said the Judge. I don’t see—

But Talmadge did not understand how the Judge could
not
see. To Talmadge it was as clear as glass: Della should not be kept in the same place as James Michaelson.

It’s not only for her sake— Talmadge began.

He can’t hurt her, can he? said the Judge. They don’t have access to each other? And Talmadge, she was the one who attacked
him
—

Talmadge did not know what to say: the Judge was right. How to express—he had almost said it, before the Judge interrupted him—that he suspected Della was up to something, was possibly planning another attack. It did not matter that she seemed to be without resources: it had seemed that way before, and look how much damage had already been done. He was about to share his suspicions with the Judge, but now he thought it was best to keep such thoughts to himself, lest it cast Della in a more negative light.

Once the warden knows— said Talmadge.

He doesn’t know? You didn’t tell him? The Judge regarded him, shocked.

Talmadge looked away. The girl wanted to tell him herself, and I thought it was best—

The Judge was quiet, considering. He looked down at his desk, touched some papers before him.

I’ll draft a petition, asking for one of them to be moved. You can take it with you when you go. Give it to the warden after he finds out about their relationship. He paused. We’re not standing on solid ground here. But I guess it doesn’t hurt to try.

We have to do something, said Talmadge.

W
hen Talmadge failed to exit the train, the day before, Angelene and Caroline Middey sat waiting for him in the wagon. They discussed between them if one of them should approach a train official, ask after Talmadge. Or maybe he had decided to take a later train. It was possible. And then Angelene, while they sat in silence, pondering their next action, was suddenly moved with anxious fear and rose, stepped down from the wagon. Told Caroline Middey over her shoulder that she would return in a minute.

She boarded the train with the help of a surprised-looking porter. Explained, briefly, what she was doing. Who she was looking for.

The porter led her down the length of the car and then opened a narrow door; helped her across the grated platform, and then into another car. And another.

I asked him if he needed assistance, said the porter, but he seemed to prefer to be left alone—I thought I would let him rest awhile, there’s no harm, really, this train isn’t set to leave for another two hours—

She saw Talmadge immediately upon entering the third car. Several rows down on the left, facing her, sitting beside the window, asleep.

She touched his shoulder. Talmadge.

He stirred. For a moment after he opened his eyes he was still, gazing out the window, and then he sighed, deeply, stirred again. Are we here already?

Angelene spoke to the porter: There is an older woman in a wagon just outside, wearing—a straw hat with a green ribbon. Please fetch her, and tell her to come help.