The Orchardist (48 page)

Come in.

He opened the door. She sat fully dressed on the edge of the made-up bed. As if waiting for him.

Come with me, he said.

It had occurred to him, when he had gone to bed the previous night, that he had wanted to keep Della safe, but had failed. He was trying to keep Angelene safe, but might very well be in the process of failing her too. Perhaps the better decision was to include her, after all.

But in nothing truly dangerous, of course. He was not a monster.

They walked to the boat together. It was set to depart in one hour, the first of two times that day. Talmadge bought them both tickets, and as they walked up the gangplank, he explained: an hour before the second departure, she, Angelene, was to board the boat and go to the cupboard—they had reached it now—and store a jar of water there, and some food. The supplies were in his saddlebags back at the boardinghouse. All she would have to do would be to open the cupboard, place the items inside, close the cupboard, and then exit the boat. And then go straight to the boardinghouse and wait until he came for her.

Let’s go, he said. He did not want to linger too long on the boat. As they passed by the ticket collector, Angelene said, What about him? And Talmadge said, after a long pause, You don’t have to worry about him.

C
lee stood at the side of the arena and watched the horses. There were about twenty-five of them, and some of them were from the mountains. As he stood watching, a man came over to him from inside the arena and touched his hat in greeting.

Morning.

Clee nodded.

They looked out at the horses.

You doing some buying?

Clee nodded again.

The man nodded too, amiably. Seems like you wouldn’t be needing any horses with all them you got.

Clee did not respond.

Anything look good to you?

Clee was watching a white and black and ocher horse near the center of the herd, and also a gray horse with a spotted rump, near the outside. But he pointed to a pair of roans instead.

Which?

Clee pointed again, more emphatically.

The man looked at the ones Clee pointed at. The roans, there? Those look like fine enough horses. He cast a mild puzzled glance at Clee. But like I said, what’s a man like you doing buying horses? You don’t have enough to suit you? And then, seeing Clee’s hesitation, he laughed.

The owner on the other side of the arena came over to them and greeted them. The other man moved away. Clee, with a gentle but authoritative flourish, again indicated the roans.

You want to see them first? You want to ride them?

Clee shook his head. He took out his wallet. After he had paid the man, he pointed at the man’s shoulder to get his attention—the man looked at him, surprised—and then pointed emphatically to the horses and then gestured to the sky, and then drew a small hill in the air with his finger.

The man stared at him.

Clee repeated these movements, patiently.

I don’t—

Again.

The man hesitated. Tomorrow? he said. You’ll pick up the horses tomorrow?

Clee nodded.

Suit yourself, said the man.

T
he wrangler told the boy—young, Cayuse, with large, beautiful black eyes—what to do. To wait until night and then take at least ten horses, and include the roans and the white and black and ocher horse and the spotted gray horse. He told the boy to go look at the horses beforehand, in the daylight, and to come back and tell him if he had any questions about which horses he meant. The boy said he understood. The wrangler said that he and Clee would be watching, in case anything went wrong. But nothing should go wrong. Did the boy understand what they wanted him to do?

I understand, said the boy, and wanted to say but did not, We have stolen horses before, this is nothing new, I know what I’m doing—

C
lee went to see the owner of the horses in the morning, but when he arrived, the owner was abashed, pale.

Somebody stole the horses, he said.

O
n the bench in the garden where she had fallen asleep, Caroline Middey woke. It was late afternoon and she had been dreaming, but about what she could not remember exactly.

She had been troubled since she dropped the girl off at the train station the day before.

Around her the garden was in verdant bloom; the smell of the air was almost sickening with odor, and although it was late in the day the last bees were industrious in the crocus, the birds had started their racket in the trees. There was a shadow over most of the grass, and for a moment Caroline Middey did not remember what month it was, or her age; and then she remembered, and knew that she was nearer to death than any of her young enterprises—and why should this surprise her? But the knowledge seemed new—she was going to die, like all the others, and the knowledge was absorbed by the garden, which simultaneously cradled her and drew her out of herself, into the perfume, into the noise.

Why had she said those words to Talmadge, about Della—that she was beyond help? She heard her own words in her mind as if they issued from another person. She wept now, silently, for herself and for the girl. Her hands rested on either side of her on the soft boards of the bench.

We do not belong to ourselves alone, she wanted to say, but there was no one to speak to.

T
he next day, at one o’clock, Talmadge went to fetch Della. He was allowed to take her for the afternoon; she was to be back by dusk.

She came up into the courthouse hallway, flanked by two guards. She looked very small between them. She wore a soiled cowboy hat and a man’s shirt. She didn’t look at Talmadge until she stood before him, and then she glanced at him. There was a trace of curiosity there, in her face, before she looked away.

The warden explained to them both: he was assigning them a guard, a young red-haired man named Officer Wallach, who would shadow them, who would make sure Della didn’t try to run away. Talmadge watched Della’s face as the warden said this, but there was no change. There was to be no leaving the city limits, said the warden; there was to be no consumption of alcohol. Did they understand? Yes, they understood.

Released, they walked in the direction of the lake. The young man followed behind them, at a distance. As they passed by the storefronts, Talmadge asked Della if she was hungry.

They went into the café where Talmadge had first dined several months before. They sat at the counter—the young guard took a nearby booth—and Della ordered eggs and sausage and toast, orange juice and coffee. They were silent until the food arrived, and then Della removed her hat and began to eat.

Talmadge, strangely, did not feel the need to speak to her. He simply watched her. She ate deftly, her eyes downcast. Her hair had grown a little, and she wore it tucked behind her ears. It made her appear even more like an adolescent.

When she was done eating, she wiped her mouth with her shirtsleeve. She asked if he had any tobacco. He said he did not. She wiped her mouth again, this time with her fingers, and then slid off the stool and went to the guard, who paused in his own eating—he had ordered food as well—and took out a pack of cigarettes and gave one to her. She stood before him a moment longer—her back was to Talmadge, but he could hear her speaking quietly to the guard—and after a moment the man frowned, gave her another cigarette, and then another, and then put the pack away. She bent slightly, and the guard lit her cigarette with a match.

She returned, sat beside Talmadge.

The waitress brought her an ashtray.

Talmadge watched her smoke. What ease. She glanced at him again. Her eyes had taken on some of their sharpness again, after their blandness—detachment—while eating.

Where are we going?

I thought we’d go down to the lake.

She didn’t answer at first.

Why?

He looked at her. What do you mean, Why? He thought, but did not say: Is there somewhere else you would rather go?

She frowned; was going to say something, but stopped herself. All right, she said.

He watched her smoke.

What kind of tobacco is that?

She held the cigarette before her, regarded it. Why?

What is it?

She shrugged. Pall Mall.

You like those?

She shrugged again, turned and looked out the window to the street.

What are your regulars?

What?

I asked: What are your regulars?

She glanced at him. Lucky Strikes.

When he paid the bill, he bought three packs of Lucky Strikes and two matchbooks, and gave them to her. She held them in her hand for a moment, as if testing their weight, and then put them in her pocket.

Thank you, she said, frowning.

Going down the platform took a long time, since his legs were still shaky. She did not say anything about this; did not offer to help him. She waited for him at intervals, smoking. Wallach, respectful, stayed far behind. When they reached the bottom, they strolled along the shoreline until they reached the pilings that Talmadge had sat on with Angelene. He sat down, relieved at the opportunity to rest. Della stood near the lapping water, her hair blowing in the wind—she had taken off her hat and slapped her thigh with it—before joining him.

They looked out over the water.

Pretty, ain’t it, she said.

He looked at her. She withdrew the cigarette pack from her pocket.

It was the time of day when the light on the water winked and sparkled. A few children played again in the shallows. As they watched, the great steamboat came toward them out of the distance, a spot of white gaining shape. It trudged through the water, its whistle groaning.

It took a long time for it to reach the warehouse. It maneuvered slowly into the building.

I want to do right by you, he said. Won’t you let me help you?

She replaced the cigarette pack in her pocket, looked over the water. Did not answer him.

After a while, he said: He’s dying, you know. He’s going to die without you helping him do it.

She frowned.

Some people just can’t die fast enough, she said.

Talmadge leaned, and spat. Well. He’s on his way. You ought to leave him alone.

When she turned to him, he could read, in the sudden openness of her face, some of her old self, her old meanness and innocence, there.

You don’t know nothing about it, she said. You ought to stay out of it.

He wanted to take her by the front of her shirt.

Didn’t I near kill the man myself? Didn’t I about stab him to death on my own property?

Well. Not near enough happened to him.

A breeze came up off the water, smelling cold. He stood suddenly.

Take my coat.

She would not take it at first. But he did not relent, and so she took it. It hung heavy from her shoulders.

I’m not cold, she muttered, and took out another cigarette from the pack, attempted to light it. But there was too much wind. She tried for several minutes but then ceased.

He turned toward the platform. He could not be sure, but he thought he saw Clee among a group of people watching out over the lake. A tall man wearing a black hat. And then the man—Clee—raised his arm. It was him.

Talmadge, too, raised his arm.

What are you doing?

Nothing, he said, and lowered his arm. Listen, he said, and stepped toward her. When he took her by the shoulders she startled, and tried to pull away.

Hey—

You’re a young girl, and he’s at the end of his life. He’s going to die as sure as anything. You can see that, if he’s as sick as the warden says he is. Why can’t you let him be? You hurt him, and you only hurt yourself. You hear me? He’s going to die. But if you get at him again, they’re going to put you away for longer—

So?

He shook her. He was ashamed, but he did it. And don’t you care? He spoke louder now, into her face. A young person like yourself? And you got your family—Angelene—to think about? What’s she going to do, if you get locked up for longer? I’m not going to be around forever, and you’re going to be all she’s got—