Beneath a Thousand Apple Trees (21 page)

“Sam, this onion poultice will feel good to ya, and it's sure to help your breathin'. It's a might warm, but it ain't gonna burn ya. Sit up for me now, dear. I need to get your shirt off.” When Sam protested that he was freezing, she told him she'd get him good and warm, and he let her remove his flannel shirt. While he remained sitting up, she took the wide piece of cloth, folded it in two, and laid it on the bed behind him, positioning the ends out to each side of him. After she had Sam lie back down, she took the smaller square of cloth and laid it directly over his chest. “Spoon them onions on top,” she told me. As soon as I finished that, Grandma took the ends of cloth that were laying to each side of Sam, and wrapped them over the mound of onions. “Rachel, I forgot to get 'em. Grab me two large pins out of my bag, honey.”

I quickly did so, then pinned the strips' ends securely and the poultice stayed in place.

“Sam, do you have any moonshine?” Grandma asked. “Any liquor at all?” He wasn't as alert as he had been when we first came in, and he mumbled something we couldn't make out. He was falling asleep, or perhaps unconscious.

“We gotta break the fever, Rachel. The onions will help his congestion, but the fever will kill him as quick or quicker. Start looking in all the cabinets. We need to find some alcohol.”

“Grandma, I saw jugs and such in the cellar! I'll be right back!” I ran to the cellar again, and down its dark steps as quickly as I dared. Then, with too little light to allow me to read the handwritten labels pasted on each jar, jug and bottle, I began pulling cork stoppers out, or unscrewing the caps and smelling the contents inside. When I uncorked the fifth jug, the overwhelming smell nearly knocked me over. There was no mistaking what it was—white lightning.

“Here, Grandma!” I thrust the jug at her as she rose from peering into one of the low kitchen cabinets. She immediately grabbed a glass from an upper cabinet and a small towel from a drawer by the sink, then told me to come with her, and we hurried back to Sam's side.

“Pour a fair amount on this towel,” she instructed. “Drench it good.” Both of us reacted to the moonshine's overwhelming smell by drawing back from it as I poured a good amount into the towel she had loosely bundled in her hand. “Now fill that glass about a quarter full.

“Sam! Sam! Listen to me,” she said, turning her attention to him. “You've got to drink this 'shine. We gotta burn that fire outta you! You hear me! You drink this down, or I'll get it in you another way!” Slipping her left arm behind him, she helped him sit up. Then taking the glass of liquor from me, she began pouring it into his mouth in small doses. Like a baby bird opening its mouth to be fed, Sam opened his and submissively took his “medicine.” He coughed after each swig, but he'd no sooner stop than Grandma would get him to swallow another mouthful.

“You tryin' to get me drunk, or drown me?” Sam weakly asked, though it was clear that the potency of the alcohol had cleared the fog for him slightly and a little spark of the old Sam shone through.

“I'm trying to save you. Now hush and do what I'm tellin' ya to do!” she barked, but the encouraged smile that lit up her face was unmistakable. He was fighting for his life, and that, more than poultices or moonshine, could save him. “Start spongin' him down with that towel, Rachel,” and I did—first his back, while Grandma still had him sitting up, then his arms, hands, shoulders, neck, face, and feet. When I had thoroughly bathed those areas, Grandma said that she'd tend to the rest of him, and I quietly left Sam's room.

During the middle of the night, Sam's fever broke. I had fallen asleep on one of the red and green wingback chairs in the living room, and woke up as Grandma stirred around in the kitchen.

“How long was I asleep, Grandma? I'm sorry! What can I do?” I asked, while stiffly but quickly uncurling myself from the position I'd been in for quite some time. “How is he?”

“It's alright, honey. You stay put. The fever broke a little while ago. And his lungs are sounding a bit better. He's still coughing, but at least he's coughing stuff up. He's sleepin' some, and more soundly, too. You did real good, Rachel. Real good. Go on back to sleep now, but go in that spare bedroom. There's a small cot in there.”

“I'm okay, Grandma, but you need sleep too. Have you had any?”

“I've dozed off ‘n on some in a chair by Sam's bed. I still need to keep a good eye on him. He's gettin' close to the tree line, but he ain't outta the woods yet.” She smiled. But as exhausted as her smile was, and as cautious as her words were, there was still relief in both. Sam, she felt, would make it.

“Rachel, I'm thinkin' about bringin' Sam back with us. If he'll go, that is. It's gonna take some time for him to recuperate, and he's gonna need some help doing it. I'd stay, but I can't be gone from the work at our house. Lydia can't stay there, and Merry isn't much help, so I've got to get back or we'll lose our boarding business. How do you feel about that? And how do you think Prescott will feel? To tell the truth, Merry's opinion on things doesn't concern me much.” I was surprised at her frankness, but I recognized it for what it was; it was the truth in a time when large decisions had to be made, and when lives would change because of them.

Without hesitation I responded. “Bring him home, Grandma. It's where he belongs. It's where he's
always
belonged.”

I
t took quite a bit of convincing before Sam agreed to come home with us. One of his biggest concerns was that Malcolm's spirit would follow us, although he'd admitted that he hadn't seen it in a long time.

My grandmother sat on the edge of the chair by Sam's bed and took his hand in hers, “Sam, honey, you've got to leave the past behind now. It's not only time for you to be free of Malcolm, but for Malcolm to be free of you. Don't you see; he'll stay here as long as you do. Have you ever thought that maybe he isn't just haunting you, but haunting the place where he was killed, too?” Squeezing his hand firmly, and with tears collecting in both her throat and eyes, she continued: “When are we gonna stop lettin' things keep us apart, Sam? You left prison a long time ago, but you've built another one for yourself here. When's enough, enough? Do you have to die to set yourself free?” And with the thought of losing one or the other to death when they'd both worked so hard at keeping each other alive, Sam gently patted her hand and agreed to come home with her.

We bundled Sam up that afternoon and settled him as comfortably as possible in the buggy, then, tying his horse, Milo, at the back, we headed out.

We arrived home near suppertime, and God bless Lydia Harris, she was still there and cooking up a large pot of spaghetti sauce with none other than our Italian-born boarder, Salvatore Lupari, who stood at the stove enthusiastically instructing her in the making of the authentic recipe. “Willa! Rachel!” she cried when we walked in the kitchen door. “Thank God you're home. We were gettin' truly worried and I was gonna call Taft's tomorrow to find out what was goin' on.”

“Well, we're home now, Lydia, and all is well. Salvatore, we need you to help bring Mr. Harold in. Let's put him in the little back room off the kitchen here. It'll be warm and easy for him.” She was referring to our old pantry, which had been converted into a tiny additional bedroom for a boarder. It was the last room we offered for rent, as it was small and often stuffy, but for Sam's recovery, it was perfect.

The days that followed brought many changes. Sam continued to regain his health and it was wonderful seeing light and energy returning to the gentle man. Grandma fussed over him more than I'd seen her fuss over anyone in a long time. Her ministrations reminded me of the fierce battle she'd led, trying to keep my infant twin brothers alive, as well as the vigilant care she gave me when my foot was shattered. She told me years later that her greatest worry had been that my foot would become gangrenous.

Sam seemed to bask in the attention, though he often told her to “stop your silly fussin'!” He fooled no one, though. We all saw the invincible bond they shared, and as Sam's strength increased, so did their small outward displays of affection for each other, with a frequent kiss on the cheek, a peck on the lips, or with the simple holding of hands. They often took walks along the river in the warm months, and a very long time milking the cows in the barn during the cold ones.

My siblings' reaction to Sam was divided. Merry, for the most part, ignored him, and continued to be out and about doing God only knew what for many hours of the day. She seemed to try to avoid Sam, never sitting and talking with him, or involving herself with a puzzle he might be working on, or helping him with chores when another set of hands would be helpful. I figured that Merry knew Sam could see through her like thin tissue paper. There was no fooling him as far as what her goings-on were, and she could clearly sense his disapproval, but he knew it wasn't his place to say anything about it.

Prescott, on the other hand, was far more accepting than I thought he might be, but only after the first week. He missed our father terribly, and when Sam came into our home, I think my brother felt he might foolishly try to fill the position of patriarch, which no one, to my brother's way of thinking, could ever do. But once he saw no threat of that from Sam, but realized Sam was trying to be a friend more than a substitute father or grandfather, Prescott relaxed a little. And when he did, he found they had much in common.

Sam and Prescott spent many a night whittling animals and people from simple scraps of wood. They often used the flared-end pieces from the butts of logs that had been sawed off, and the works of art the two men created were nothing less than amazing. They taught each other, or learned as they went. And together they came up with new and wonderful tools with which to create more intricately worked pieces. I loved watching the bond grow between the men, but it concerned me that Prescott spent more time with his woodworking than he did at our still-failing mill.

In late April of 1928, the Harrises decided to open the orchard for business a little early with a spring dance. The Halloween party had gone so well, and they'd sold so much in their gift shop, that Lydia and Harriet worked long and hard through the winter making more fine crafts to restock the store with. Prescott and Sam pitched in, too, with their exquisite woodcarvings, and the entire household looked forward to going—boarders included. I was more excited than anyone knew for I'd had to miss the fall party because of Sam's arrival and the time-consuming care involved in getting him back on his feet.

I took every opportunity to try different styles with my hair, and though the 1920s “bob” was a sleek, tomboyish look for many young women my age, it seemed more appropriate for girls in New York, Boston, or Atlanta. My hair reached down to the middle of my back, and I normally wore it in one neat braid, which was often pinned up in a circle at the back of my head. For the party, however, I planned to wear it loose with some spring flowers pinned above my ear. Cream-colored dogwood blossoms were easy enough to find, as were blue irises, and the soft, delicate combination of flowers would be the perfect accessory to the beautiful dress Grandma had made for my seventeenth birthday. The upcoming party at the orchard was the perfect—and first—opportunity I'd had to wear it, and that alone was enough to make me look forward to the event.

But my daydreaming about the party, or anything else pleasant for that matter, was constantly interrupted by worry over the fact that our mill was almost bankrupt and we'd be forced to close its door very soon. It weighed heavily on my mind throughout the day, and even wove its way into my dreams at night. I couldn't get away from it.

We had so few customers left, the amount they spent with us hardly made it worthwhile to keep the mill open and pay the expensive overhead. I came once a month or so to do the accounting work, so the spiraling down of our once lucrative business was clearly shown in black and white in our books. I studied our accounts, trying to figure out a way of cutting even more expenses, but the fact remained we were just too short on customers. There'd been talk that some of our former clients were returning after receiving unsatisfactory merchandise from the Hollis mill. But after Papa's death, they remained “former,” and the Hollis mill continued to prosper. Our mill had replaced the power of the waterwheel with electricity some years ago, and the power bill alone was almost more than we could manage each month. I figured at the rate we were going, we'd be closed in six months' time, if not before. I hated to insist we close the mill down, for it wasn't just our family that depended on the mill for a living, meager though it was, but so did Nathan Oliver (our one full-time employee), and his family. Nathan was in his early seventies by then and suffered from arthritis. We knew it was only a matter of time before he would be forced to give up his job, but we hated to close before Nathan gave up. There was something symbolic and inspiring about his determination and loyalty, and his dogged spirit helped to keep us going, at least for the moment.

Sometimes, in the later hours of the evening, when the boarders had either gone to sleep or found a quiet corner to read, Prescott and I talked about our options with the mill, and the reality that we'd be forced to close up soon if things didn't turn around, and turn around in a big way. “I think I might be on to somethin', Rach,” Prescott said one evening. “I have some ideas about the mill.”

“Well, for heaven's sakes share them with me, Prescott. We need to do something and fast.” But before he could explain, Sam walked in from the back porch with an armful of firewood. After laying the wood by the fireplace, he returned to the kitchen and asked if we minded him joining us.

“Prescott,” he began, after we'd told him we'd be glad for his company, “what would you think about me comin' with ya to the mill in the mornin'? I've been wantin' to see it, and waitin' for you to invite me over, but since it looks like I've got to invite myself, well, then . . . how's about it?”

“Sam, you know you could have come by anytime. I never figured there was a need to give you any invitation. I just figured you didn't care about it,” Prescott said, looking both surprised and a little embarrassed.

“Well, then, I'll be ready at seven sharp. See you in the mornin'.” And with that, Sam bid us both goodnight and retired to his room.

Early the next morning, Sam and Prescott left for the mill. While they were gone, Grandma and I washed and ironed clothing that the boarders were wearing for the party that night. We also took a couple of hours in the middle of the afternoon to indulge in long baths and wash our hair. Years before, Papa had added a bathroom onto our house in another attempt to please Mama. The truth was that everyone was pleased about it, especially when nature called in the middle of the night, in the dead of winter.

By four o'clock that afternoon, Sam returned from the mill and quickly cleaned up. “How did it go today?” I heard Grandma ask as they sat in the living room waiting for Merry and me to finish getting dressed.

“My Lord, Willa—” Sam began just as I walked into the room. All conversation ceased when I did, and Sam immediately stood up in respectful gentlemanly fashion. He let out a soft whistle of approval. “Rachel, if I didn't know better, I'd think I was lookin' at your grandma more 'n forty years ago. I swear! It's like seein' a ghost!”

“Well, she ain't my ghost,” Grandma said, “'cuz I'm still here and breathin'!” Then directing her attention back to me, she continued, “Rachel, honey, you
do
look beautiful. You're all growed up.” And she looked at me as if that was truly hard to fathom. “The dress is just perfect on you.”

Feeling a little awkward but also very pleased, I mumbled thanks to them both, then took a seat in one of the chairs near the fire. “So go on, Sam,” I said. “How was it at the mill today? With all I've had going on, I haven't been down there for some weeks now. Not since I went to straighten the books out, and then I was just in and out of the office.”

“And you haven't been down either, Willa? You don't know what Prescott's been doing?” he asked, looking surprised. Her brows knit together in a perplexed frown, and she shook her head in answer as Sam continued. “Ladies, we'll be going right by there on the way to the party. What say we leave now? What I need to show you won't take long.” We tried to hurry Merry along, but she said wasn't ready and would ride over to the orchard with Prescott when he got home and cleaned up. He was late coming in from the mill, but was due at any moment, so the three of us piled into the buggy and headed down the sawmill road. We wondered if we'd pass him as he headed home, but he was obviously still at work for we could see dim light shining through the transom windows of the building when we pulled up.

We walked in through the front door and called out to Prescott, but found that the main part of the building was empty and fairly dark. We walked by the log carriage and the saw, then went deeper into the building—past the mill's office, the bathroom, and the room where employees ate—until we came to a large warehouse-sized room where our inventory of cut logs was stored. The door to it was open and this was where the light seen through the transom windows was coming from. Sam stepped aside, allowing Grandma and me to enter first.

The sight that opened out before us caused a collective gasp to issue forth from Grandma and me. There, filling the room, was furniture, all beautifully crafted and carved. There were chairs, tables, nightstands, and end tables. And the most beautiful, elaborately carved fireplace mantle I'd ever seen. At work on a small chair was Prescott, and as he saw us walk in, his hand froze in mid-air just as he was bringing down a mallet to pound a wooden peg into the seat. Toward the back of the room was Salvatore Lupari, smoothing down a freshly cut table leg with a piece of glass.

“Prescott! Oh, my God. When did you start building these pieces?” I asked, walking through the maze of furniture and touching the simple yet exquisitely worked pieces. Although they were predominantly colonial in design with the expected turnings and scallops that were so characteristic of that style, there was also some added flair to many of the pieces. Scrollwork and carvings, depicting scenes of birds in flight and flowers adorned some, while other pieces had beautiful inlays of various types of wood. These magnificently unique additions brought the old and respected colonial design to a different level.

“Salvatore taught me how to make the furniture, Rachel. A couple of other fellas who Salvatore knows help us some, too. They're from the
old country
—Italy and Germany—and they're really skilled craftsmen. They come in the evenings sometimes. That's when we do all of this,” he said with a sweep of his hand. “And they work for as long as they can, but it ain't often, and it ain't enough. I haven't been able to pay 'em and won't be able to until we can start sellin' this stuff.” When I didn't say anything, he misconstrued my silence as a sign of disapproval and quickly said, “Hell, Rachel, we have so much unused and unsold material from the mill here that it's a shame to let it go to waste.”