The Orchardist (54 page)

But when Talmadge told her about Jane and Della as children, coming pregnant into the orchard, and Della’s own suffering, which was distinct from Jane’s, that portrait of Della alone in the world after Jane hanged herself rendered her singularly pitiable. At the time, those weeks after Talmadge had told her the truth about Della’s past, Angelene was so shocked that she felt nothing. She was numb. Was she angry at Della? No: but she was angry at the silence surrounding Della; she was angry at the deficit of information that always attached itself to her. Angry most of all at the reason why there was so much silence: because what had happened to her—and to Angelene’s mother—was too terrible to be uttered. They had suffered; and Angelene did not know how to help it.

But then there was that day on the beach, when Angelene, despairing, had heard someone call her name, and turned and found it was Della. Angelene, seeing her, had not pitied her then, though Della was in a state to be pitied: shot in the arm, caught in a crime of which she wanted no part, and now being physically forced up the platform steps, fighting against a swarm of young men. But when Angelene saw her—that adult, piercing gaze that held real tenderness, real intelligence—Angelene was in awe of her. Was captivated, suddenly. This was the one who had lifted her to see the horses in the field; who had thrown her into the air with joy, and caught her. The most powerful person in the world.

And here she sat.

What happened to— said Angelene, but stopped herself.

What?

Nothing.

Ask it.

Angelene took a deep breath. I was going to ask, Whatever happened to Michaelson? Do you know?

Della scratched her neck.

He died.

Oh, said Angelene.

You didn’t know? It wasn’t in the papers?

Angelene shook her head. Didn’t tell Della that she didn’t read the newspapers anymore.

But Della seemed unmoved, unimpressed at the mention of his death. She crossed her hands in her lap.

You hated him, said Angelene, softly. You should be glad about that, at least: he’s dead.

Della, after a moment, shrugged. Stared again into the corner of the room.

Thought I’d feel glad about it. Or sad, maybe. She shrugged again. Maybe that sounds strange. I don’t know. Thought I’d feel something. She paused. But I don’t.

D
ella often thought she saw the girl, Angelene, on the prison grounds, but it was always somebody else. Reason told her that there was no way the girl could be incarcerated there, but during those moments when she thought she saw the girl, she believed it was her with her whole heart. Reason had nothing to do with it.

The other prisoners were not unkind to her, and among the other women there was the possibility of friendship, but she kept herself separate from them. She was already thin, but she lost more weight; she looked at herself in the mirror and hardly recognized her face. She developed eczema on her scalp so badly that the prison barber had to cut her hair off for it to be properly medicated. She looked more like a boy than ever, but she didn’t care.

She worked in the laundry, spending the afternoons sorting and washing sheets and prison uniforms. The filth and the stains disgusted some of the workers, but she was immune to it all. Such things did not disgust her.

The days went by. One day was very much like another. She enjoyed her job at the laundry, which was the easiest job she had ever had. And then she reminded herself that it wasn’t actually a job.

And then in the summer—she had been in prison for almost two years—the guard came to her cell where she lay on her cot and told her she had a visitor. She did not even ask who it was, thinking it was Caroline Middey, who visited her every few months. She got up and waited while the guard unlocked the door and then led her down the hallway, showed her into the room where she would see the visitor through the screen. She saw, a moment later, the figure standing, the girl.

She wanted to speak to the girl, but could not. She felt as if someone had punched her in the stomach. She made it to the chair before the screen, and sat down, and the girl sat as well, and then soon after that Della started crying. She was sick. There was too much she wanted to say.

But eventually she calmed, and they had a conversation. For some reason Della heard herself asking if the girl had thought she, Della, had made the right decision not getting into the cupboard. The girl was ambivalent; would not answer definitively either way. And so that was something, finally, she, Della, could grasp: the girl did not blame her for doing what she had done. Indicated she understood Della had had her reasons for not getting onto the boat.

Mostly it was fine just having her there—a young woman to be certain, and so refined and polite, Jane’s daughter—sitting there before her. How similar to Jane she looked; but when she spoke, Jane disappeared. That’s how it was, Della thought. That’s how it was supposed to be from the beginning. Jane had warned her: children come to displace. They live on the earth after you are gone, and forget you. It’s not their fault.

Your mother used to say— said Della, suddenly, after she and the girl had already said their good-byes; the girl had half risen from her chair. Now the girl looked at her wide-eyed. Surprised.

Your mother— continued Della, despite herself, knowing she should stop, but then found she could not go on. How to describe a dream? A feeling?

What did she used to say? said Angelene, after a silence.

Della, staring into the corner of the room, had forgotten what she was going to say.

She said—that you would be wonderful. That you would be better than all of us put together. And she was right. She paused. Nothing bad has happened to you. You have a good life. You have a good life, don’t you?

There was silence before the girl answered.

Yes.

Della wanted to tell the girl many things. She wished she could embrace her.

The girl stood awkwardly in front of the screen.

Della forced herself to meet her eyes, if only for a moment.

The girl was shy.

Thank you for coming to see me, said Della.

W
hen Clee was let out of prison, no one was waiting to meet him: he had arranged it that way. He had asked the wrangler to leave him a horse at the stables; and that was the only favor he asked.

The horse was a sorrel gelding: muscular, tall, with a white star on his forehead, white stockings. He saddled the horse and led him outdoors, and drank in the color of the day. The sky; the sheen of the horse’s coat. The odor of horseflesh and dust, sun. Clee placed his hand on the horse’s side. The wrangler had chosen well; had known what Clee would have liked. Hesitating—the anticipation was great, but the joy was in the anticipation—he mounted the horse. Settled himself within the saddle, situated the reins in his fists. The horse stepped back, and forward. Snorted. Pawed the ground. Clee grabbed the withers with one hand and simultaneously drew up on the reins. Walked the horse in a tight circle. By the way the horse moved, Clee knew it was the wrangler who had trained him. Clee spurred him, and set off at a rocking lope toward the road. Away from the stables, away from town.

Clee left Walla Walla forever.

He rode alone for two weeks. East, and then north, then east again, and then south into the mountains. It was late summer: in the early morning, in the Sawtooths, hoarfrost glistened for miles. He rode. Finally entered the Wallowas, and then knew where he was going.

The wrangler was in the outlying field when Clee rode up onto the Wallowa homestead, and lifted his arm. A child ran out to greet him, the sex undecipherable until the child—a boy—was at Clee’s knee, and then the child tore away again, shouting Father! Father! in Nez Perce.

He stayed for supper. The main house—narrow, smoke-filled, two-story—held the wrangler and his wife, their children. Those who could not fit in the house slept outdoors, in tents and tepees and outbuildings. Children in all states of dress ran around, coming straight up to Clee or peering at him from around trees and shacks. Other families—or just single men—lived and camped here too.

They ate venison and summer squash the first night. He sat and listened to all of them speak. He did not get tired of it. Babies were passed to him, and he held them. Looked into their new, unblemished faces. One he held—his eyes dark and ancient—reached out and grabbed his nose.

There was one child, a girl—nine, ten years old—who kept bothering the wrangler, tugging his sleeve, sidling up to him and speaking to him with her hands cupped around her mouth—a secret—and glancing intermittently at Clee. The wrangler kept brushing her away. But finally, in agitation, the wrangler conceded to the girl’s request, said, Yes, yes, shooed her way. The girl came over to Clee, hesitant but smiling. Her hands held carefully behind her back.

She wants you to watch her ride, said the wrangler. She’s been waiting for you—

Clee looked at the girl. He did not recognize her. But then, there were many children over the years, and he could not remember them all—

Don’t bother him, he’s eating! said one of the women, in Nez Perce.

But Clee rose. The girl grinned, and took his hand.

She led him only a few feet away, outside the light of the multiple fires. She attempted to mount a gray mare much too large for her, but could not. Clee, when he saw she was becoming frustrated, boosted her up onto the horse’s back. And then stepped away.

The girl walked the mare in the outlying field, never going very far. Every time she circled past him, she beamed. He nodded at her.

The stars shone bright above them, and the intermittent heat from the fires reached his back. The sound of the people talking was constant, rising and falling, rising and then falling. The girl was heading back to him, out of the greater darkness, the horse’s movement making no sound. A gentle wind, a kind of sighing, moved over the earth; and for a moment he felt as if his body had evaporated.

Watch me, watch me! pleaded the girl, and he nodded, his heart beating through his body, which felt hollow with fear and joy.

A
ngelene was packing up at market one day when a boy came up behind her and touched her shoulder.

She was alone. It was late summer; she had been coming regularly since the spring to sell fruit. Talmadge was too weak to travel now, stayed perpetually in the orchard.

What? she said to the boy, who was standing still and staring at her. She continued to place the fruit in bins, packing it all into the back of the wagon.

The postmistress wants to see you. She said to come by before you go home.

All right.

She said to come right away.

Angelene looked at the boy, who, she noticed now, appeared frightened. She finished packing up the wagon, and then afterward drove to the post office. A telegram had been sent from the prison.

She rode to Caroline Middey’s house and showed her the telegram. They sat in the chairs on the front porch, and then after a long time Caroline Middey went inside to make tea.

What do we tell him? said Angelene, wiping her face.