Beneath a Thousand Apple Trees (15 page)

After all, she figured, the best years of their lives had come and gone. And her daughter was a force she just couldn't combat. There were two facts about Mama that Grandma had to come to terms with: Mama would never, ever accept Sam, and Mama had inherited Malcolm's unstable mind. But while Malcolm was cold, brutal, and calculating, Mama was easily frightened, fragile, and weak, and could easily slip into the kind of darkness that was destructive to both herself and her family. I felt a physical coldness penetrate my body as a reaction to my grandmother's painfully honest words. But the sad truth of the matter was that I understood her assessment of my mother for I had experienced the depth of that black hole that she could crawl into. I'd seen just how bottomless it could be. And I prayed to God that I wasn't cut from that same dark cloth.

As we got closer to home, Grandma grew quiet. The book of her past was gently closed, and we both stared silently ahead, watching for our house to come into view. We didn't need to remind each other that Mama would be watching for us, and that knowledge made us stop looking at the past and start thinking about the possible ugliness of the immediate future. I had to admit that I'd worried about Mama's reaction to my going with Grandma. After all, she'd had no say in it and had only learned of my going through Merry's sketchy recitation of my even sketchier message. As if reading my mind, Grandma mumbled something to the effect that Mama would be madder 'n a cat in a full bathtub. She would know the story had finally been told to me, and she would be none too happy about it. But when we finally walked into the house that evening, Mama wasn't standing by the window as expected, but was sitting in a living room chair instead, seemingly unconcerned with our whereabouts and quite involved with some embroidery.

“I took your supper off the stove, or it would have burned up by now. It's waitin' on the table,” she said, hardly glancing up from her sewing.

“Thank you, daughter,” Grandma responded, as we both walked straight toward the kitchen door without looking too closely at her.

“You had a visitor,” Mama said casually. Grandma stopped short and I ran into her back.

“Who did, Anna, Rachel or me?” Grandma turned to inquire.

“You did. It was Lydia Harris; that woman whose husband has the orchard now. She had her daughter with her. Harriet—that's her name—has a mess o' warts on her left hand, and Miz Harris was told you're the Wart Buyer 'round here,” Mama said, still not looking up from her needlework.

“Well, did you tell her to come back tomorrow?”

“No, I told her you'd gone off somewhere, and I didn't know when or even
if
you'd be coming back,” she answered, finally looking up from her task and pinning us with a hard, cold glare.

“That's silly, Anna. I hope you told her you were teasing.” Grandma forced a chuckle.

“Old woman,” Mama venomously spat, suddenly standing up and forcefully throwing her sewing into the chair. “Don't you come in here a-tellin' me what I ought to be tellin' anyone else! You're a crazy ol' fool. And if you're wantin' to go a-gallavantin' around the countryside on a fool's errand, then be my guest. But next time you do, you leave my daughter behind!”

“I'm old enough to go where I want, Mama, and I wanted to go with her,” I interjected, disliking the fact that I was being discussed in the third person. I also felt the need to defend Grandma's decision to take me with her. “And I'll go again. I like Samuel Harold.” And with that bold declaration, the room went deadly silent.

“Rachel,” Mama started in a low, deep voice. It was a voice I'd heard before, and a chill began to creep up my spine. She took three steps toward us, and though she stood much taller than either Grandma or me, she seemed especially tall then. Her dark eyes flashed. “If you ever speak the name of that servant of Satan's again, I swear on everything I deem holy, I'll cut that tongue out of your mouth, and you'll never speak his name or anyone else's again!” And with that terrifying oath, she closed the distance between her and my grandmother, and leaning down into her face until their noses almost touched, hissed, “And I'll cut more than that out of you!”

Without another word, she crossed the room to her bedroom, and upon opening the door, I caught a glimpse of my father snoring away in ignorant bliss on their bed. Then, turning around to quietly close the door behind her, Mama looked up at Grandma and me, and her mouth turned up into the eeriest wisp of a smile. Beneath it was a blackness, born of anger or illness, which I wasn't sure, and I couldn't breathe for a few seconds. Apparently, Grandma had been witness to it before, though, for she sounded amazingly composed and firm, even motherly, as she calmly replied, “Get some sleep, Anna. You'll feel better in the mornin'.” Then she put her hand firmly on my shoulder and turned me toward the kitchen, murmuring something about eating our supper before it got any colder. As I numbly moved through the kitchen door, I suddenly realized with an awful clarity that I knew exactly what my grandfather must have been like, and
looked
like, for I had just seen the incarnation of the father in the daughter.

M
rs. Harris had returned the Saturday following our trip to Sam's, and had Harriet in tow. Since there was no school, Papa had taken Prescott with him to the sawmill. Mama had been in the garden burying cabbages upside-down to keep them from spoiling until we needed them, and Grandma, Merry, and I were busy sorting turkey feathers when our visitors arrived.

We'd starting raising turkeys several years before, when things had been at their leanest. And even though our household finances had drastically improved, we still had turkeys a-plenty. Grandma had learned how lucrative the turkey business could be while raising my mother, and had continued with it until the grandchildren came along. Then she got busy helping to raise us.

We sold the majority of our turkeys at Thanksgiving, of course, and did so at ten to twelve cents per pound. And we also made money by selling their feathers. Mrs. Sweetser ran a millinery in town; making hats of all sorts and sizes, and she loved using both turkey and peacock feathers for the trimming. So, we sorted feathers by size, color, and quality. The poor quality feathers were used to stuff pillows and mattresses, and any we had left over after filling our own immediate needs were sold to Mr. Taft for stock in his store. We also sold him turkey eggs. But we sacrificed one of the fattest birds of the bunch for our own Thanksgiving dinner. I never could stand to watch the execution, but the following morning, while feeding the survivors who'd been thin enough or fast enough to escape the axe, I quickly figured out which poor tom or hen had been the centerpiece on our bountiful table the afternoon before.

We heard our latest dog, Alfie (a bloodhound mix), barking up a storm, then heard Mama's muffled voice telling the dog to hush, followed by muffled conversation. Merry and I went out to the porch and looked off to the side of our house where our garden was, and saw Mama with the new arrivals standing on the edge of it.

The woman and girl looked familiar to me, and I knew it must be Mrs. Harris and Harriet. “Let's go in,” I heard Mama say. “She's inside, and will be glad to help y'all, I'm sure,” she finished, undoubtedly referring to Grandma. All three turned toward the house, and saw us standing on the porch, watching them.

The young girl was about ten like Merry, but the woman's age was far more difficult to gauge. Common sense told me that she couldn't be that old, with a child that young—two, actually, though I hadn't seen the boy for a couple of months. Last time was outside the Methodist church, and one other time as he came out of the feed store with a couple of sacks thrown over his shoulder. I'd been riding out of town with Papa after running some errands when I saw him. My stomach dropped just a bit, and I wished we were just arriving. I wondered what I might have said or done to get a conversation started between the two of us—Jack was his name, I remembered. Perhaps I'd have said something amusing and he'd repeat that same smile he'd flashed at me on my birthday, the year before. I'd try almost anything to see that smile.

Now, here were Jack's mother and sister.
Why couldn't the boy have had the warts,
I thought. What a golden opportunity it would have been to start a conversation, take a walk, or, most importantly, get him to smile at me again.

“Rachel, Merry, this here's Miz Harris and her daughter, Harriet. Harriet's right 'tween you two in age,” Mama informed Merry and me. I softly said my hellos, while Merry, without a second's hesitation, brightly jumped from the porch and said to Harriet, “You wanna see our new horse? She was born four days ago!” And after a soft “Okay” from Harriet, the two girls ran off and disappeared into the darkness of the barn.

“C'mon in, Lydia,” (apparently their muffled conversation in the garden had put them on a first name basis with each other). “I just made an applesauce cake last—” Mama abruptly cut off her words and stopped walking, realizing she'd just put her foot in her mouth. Where she'd blundered was offering her guest a piece of a cake that had been made with apples that had not come from Mrs. Harris's orchard. Mama looked properly embarrassed. I'd never seen anyone go from white to red so fast, and I wondered if she might faint.

“I'm sorry, Lydia, I didn't mean to . . . I have oatmeal cookies or . . .”

“It's fine, Anna. It's all right. If we had some good apples to sell then I might be a touch out o' sorts with you for not buyin' 'em from us. But with the orchard so run down to begin with, and that freeze on top of it, why it's no wonder we ain't got anything worth eatin', much less sellin'. Don't you go feelin' bad about gettin' apples at Taft's, if that's where you're gettin' 'em. Don't know of any place closer 'n that, do you?”

“No, that's about it, not countin' a few apples someone might grow for themselves. How long y'all figure 'til you get things growin' good again?” Mama gently inquired. It never ceased to amaze me how much more sympathetic and soft she could be with other people than with her own family, the ones most affected by her emotions.

“We're thinkin' next year's crop may be all right. But I don't know if we can make it another year without some return. Honestly, I don't rightly know how we've been able to make it through this one. Somehow we have, though. The Lord is good is 'bout all I can say,” Mrs. Harris finished quietly. She stopped looking at Mama and glanced down at the ground instead as if suddenly self-conscious that she'd told us so much about their dire situation.

Grandma came out of the house at the perfect time to change the subject. She joined me at the porch railing as Mama and Mrs. Harris started up the steps. “Mornin'!” Grandma greeted.

“Mornin'!” Mrs. Harris returned cheerfully, looking relieved. “I'm Lydia Harris, Mrs. Holton. I heared you was the Wart Buyer 'round here.”

“Yes'm,” Grandma confirmed. “Who's needin' to be rid of 'em?”

“Harriet, my girl,” Mrs. Harris said. “She's gone back with your granddaughter to see your new pony. I'll call her—”

“No, now, let the young'uns get a little acquainted. If you'll set a spell, you 'n I'll do the same. I been wantin' to meet you folks. Sit down, sit down,” she insisted, after taking a seat herself in one of the wooden rockers. “I want to hear what's been goin' on at the orchard; how y'all been gettin' along, and who all you got over there workin' with you.”

Mrs. Harris began by telling us about her husband, Gilbert, being a veteran and the trouble he'd had getting a job once he was back from the war. Then how serendipitous it had been when they'd heard about the orchard needing someone to take it over. “It was like a sign from God. We figured Howlin' Cut was where we needed to be,” she declared, glancing skyward toward “He who'd made it all possible.” She talked about what bad shape the orchard was in. The first reason was obvious; it had been totally neglected for a good year, and it was just as obvious that little care or upkeep had been given to it prior to that. Grandma quickly pointed out how miserly the previous owner, Mr. Lomax, had been, and that he'd never hired enough people to help with the running of the place. Mrs. Harris agreed that his extreme frugalness had harmed the orchard greatly, with the irony being that the man who was too tightfisted to let money go had ended up robbing himself of much to be gained. Vines had taken over many of the trees, so they only produced a fraction of what they were capable of. And the apples that
were
able to grow appeared in the treetops in a never-ending battle to escape being strangled out.

They discussed the deadly freeze that had hit soon after the Harrises' arrival, and then moved on to more interesting matters (in my estimation, anyway).

“How's your boy doin', Lydia?” Grandma asked, quickly glancing over at me as she did. Mrs. Harris had insisted Grandma call her by her first name, just as she'd asked Mama to do. I had the feeling that Mrs. Harris desperately needed some friends. She seemed almost relieved to be sitting and talking with us. I had let most of what the woman was saying go in one ear and out the other until I heard Grandma's question about “the boy.” Then my attention was quickly redirected back to their conversation. (
Finally! Now we're gettin' somewhere!
)

“Why, he's doin' all right, I s'pose,” Mrs. Harris answered. “I feel a bit sorry for him though, 'cause he's a-wantin' to get back in to school somethin' awful, but he's not been able to go on account of all the work needin' doin' at the orchard. Not to mention in the store. We're tryin' to make it so that he can go back next year. He's workin' real hard, too, tryin' to make that happen. He's a good boy, and smart.
Lord
, how he's smart! He's taken to that orchard like a fish to water. Readin' up on things all the time, and tellin' his daddy how things oughta be done. I'm right proud of him, to tell the truth. I told my husband that I don't care if the orchard goes to seed, Jack—and Harriet—is goin' to school next year. They ain't gonna end up like me or their daddy, with hardly any learnin', and a whole lot of poor to show for it,” she said with absolute conviction. “My young'uns are gonna have a lot better chance at good things in this world than me or Gilbert ever did.”

“What grades will your young'uns be in?” Mama asked.

“Well, let's see . . .” Mrs. Harris closed her eyes as she calculated. “Jack is fourteen, and Harriet's eleven. I don't know where the teacher'll think they oughta be, though. Guess it's gonna depend on what they know. I think Jack'll be alright, 'cause he reads a lot, like I said before. But Harriet, she's too busy ridin' Mr. Smythe's nice little mare next door, or getting underfoot when we're tryin' to work in the orchard. She just can't hardly make herself sit still to put any learnin' in that head o' hers. Oh, well, guess that's why there's a teacher in that school house yonder.” She laughed. “Maybe she'll get Harriet to settle down some.”

“A hickory stick's good for settlin' young'uns down, too,” added Grandma. The adults laughed and nodded in agreement, but I was too busy thinking about the possibility of having Jack in class with me next year. But that would mean ten months of waiting. And ten months of wondering who he might decide was worth smiling at in our class.