Beneath a Thousand Apple Trees (24 page)

“Lemme taste ya,” he whispered, and covered my mouth with his, trying to force his tongue between my lips. I kept my mouth pinched closed, and that only infuriated him. “If you don't open your mouth, I swear to God I'm gonna open it for ya and cut your tongue out!” I had no choice, so I opened my mouth but only slightly. He gouged his tongue fully into my mouth and I could feel the bile rising up my throat. At that point, I knew I had to move.

Trying to remain calm and cooperative was not going to help me, and Ray was already pulling up my black skirt and yanking at my bloomers. The button at the undergarment's waistband popped off and Ray awkwardly began pulling them down with one hand, while trying to keep control of the knife at my neck with the other. I knew it was hard for him to do both at the same time though, so I took advantage of the awkward moment. Bringing my hands up, I clawed at his face like a wild animal. I sliced open the lid of his left eye, and gouged a chunk out of the bridge of his nose. During my attack, he dropped his knife as he instinctively tried to protect his face, but just as I was pushing hard against his chest to get him off of me, I felt a fist shatter my jaw. Spots of black-and-white light danced before me as I fought to remain conscious. The pain was excruciating and I was sure that he'd broken it, but I continued to claw and push at him anyway. He grabbed the hair at the crown of my head, and slammed my head against the floor several times, stunning me to the point that more spots of light danced before my eyes. Then he pulled my head back so that my throat was perfectly exposed. Cold steel bit into my neck, and it felt as though I'd been stung by a yellow-jacket wasp. I could feel a small stream of blood snaking down my throat, and I prayed to God that if the end was coming, it would come quickly.

Fumbling with the buttons on his trousers, Ray got them open, then deciding it was easier than trying to get my undergarment off me, he quickly cut open the crotch of my bloomers, while just barely avoiding doing the same thing to my flesh. Ray repositioned himself between my legs then, and keeping me pinned down with his forearm, rammed into me with all of his strength. The pain was searing, and I bit my tongue to keep from screaming. I wouldn't give him the satisfaction of knowing how badly.

“You're gonna die now, you son of a bitch. You're done.” Jack had suddenly appeared behind Ray, as did a shotgun to the back of his head. The words were spoken so chillingly low that it almost seemed as if the person I knew as Jack was no longer there, but had been replaced instead with a cold and deadly twin. His eyes were dark, much darker than they were supposed to be, and his face was frighteningly pale and tight. I knew in that second that I was seeing hatred in its purest form.

“Don't do it, Jack! Don't! They'll take you from me. The law'll take you, Jack. Just like it took Sam!”

My words, my voice, seemed to bring the Jack I knew back from the edge. Looking as if he'd been in a dark room and was now being blinded by the light, Jack blinked several times, then shouted, “Get off her! Now!” Ray pushed himself up, zipping his pants as he did so, then turned around to face Jack. There was hatred on Ray's face, just as there was on Jack's, but there was also fear in Ray's eyes. While still keeping him in the gun's sights, Jack circled around him to stand by me as I straightened my clothing and stood up on wobbling legs. “Can you reach in my back pocket, Rachel, and get that hanky? Hold it against your neck. You're bleedin' pretty good. Hold it tightly.” He'd kept his eyes and the gun on Ray as he talked to me and I retrieved the handkerchief. But once I had it firmly placed against my neck, he directed his words at Ray again. “Sit down on that chair.” He jerked his head toward a straight-back leather chair that was positioned in front of my desk for the occasional visitor. “Rachel, I need some thick twine or rope.”

I hurried out of my office and found a roll of twine in the parts room down the hall.

“Good,” Jack said when I returned with it. “Now, Rachel; tie each one of his wrists to an arm of the chair. Then tie his ankles to the legs. If you move a muscle, Ray, I swear to God, I'll shoot it. And I'll tell you the truth, I'm wantin' to pull the trigger real bad and I'm lookin' for any ol' excuse to do it.” As soon as I had Ray bound so tightly that I wondered if I'd cut off his circulation, Jack quickly called the sheriff's office, told them what had happened and where to find Ray. Then after putting me in the buggy to get me to Dr. Johnson's (the new doctor who'd replaced the now deceased Dr. Pardie), Jack gave my horse a stinging slap with the reins and the loyal old animal flew down the sawmill road as if he was Pegasus incarnate, wings and all.

T
he only reason I'd come out of the attack alive and fairly unscathed was because Jack had decided to accompany his family to church that fateful day. It just seemed logical to have them drop him off at my house following the service in order to save me the trouble of picking him up for our trip to Asheville, so he planned to get to my house before I could leave for his. However, as the Harrises had passed the mill on the way to the Methodist Church, Harriet had spotted the buggy parked at the side of the building and pointed it out to Jack. He'd turned the reins over to his mother, and grabbing his travel satchel from the back of the wagon, jumped out, waved goodbye, and walked up to the front door of the mill. As he was about to let himself in, however, he noticed an unfamiliar horse tied up behind the left side of the building, which struck him as odd. Feeling there was surely a simple explanation—perhaps a worker putting in some overtime—he let himself into the building, but did so quietly, nonetheless. When he walked in, however, he saw no lights coming from the warehouse end of the building, but instead heard the pounding coming from the direction of my office as Ray slammed my head against the floor. So, taking no chances, he armed himself with the shotgun he knew Prescott kept on a top shelf in a front closet, then crept down the hall toward the sound of the banging, peeking into several doors' windows as he did so, until he came upon the brutal scene playing out in my office.

That had been nearly two months ago, and now the hallway outside of the courtroom was full of would-be spectators milling around, waiting for the courtroom's doors to open. But Jack and I were with the prosecutor behind closed doors in one of the adjacent rooms discussing the case. Ray Coons, it seemed, had accepted a plea deal before court could reconvene for the afternoon's session. After taking a good look at the hard faces of the jurors who'd been seated that morning, his defense attorney had advised him that it was now or never in making a deal, and that, under the circumstances, with two well-respected eyewitnesses to the crime, it would behoove him to think things through. And Ray had done just that, agreeing that the certainty of a long time in a prison cell beat the possibility of a long stretch of his neck.

The judge, who was known for being a no-nonsense man of the court, was informed of the new development in his chambers while in the middle of his favorite deviled egg salad sandwich. Judge Lucas T. Fletcher told the clerk to have everyone back in the courtroom a half an hour later than usual so that he could speak with both prosecutor and defense attorneys before court resumed. After he had done so, court reconvened and the jury was excused. Once they'd taken leave of the standing-room-only courtroom, Ray Coons was brought before the bench, handcuffed and shackled, and ready for sentencing.

As I waited outside with Jack, Grandma, Sam, and Prescott, I couldn't stop fidgeting. I picked at a hangnail and then picked lint off of my new navy blue suit. It was the first suit I'd owned and I felt good in it. I just wished that I was wearing it any place other than where I was at the moment.

Pacing back and forth, I repeated over and over in my mind the things I planned to say to the judge. I wanted a long sentence for Ray. I knew he deserved that. I was, however, relieved that he wasn't going to hang. Rape and attempted murder were dealt with harshly in the state, but the thought that my testimony would cause his death—though perhaps justified—would haunt me forever and I knew it. I lay awake nights before the trial wondering if I would begin making wooden moons to hang in the trees in front of the house, just in case Ray's spirit got the notion to torment me from beyond. However, with Ray's plea deal being accepted, it looked like my conscience would remain free and clear, and my trees would, too.

“Darlin',” Jack said to me, taking my elbow and ushering me toward the courtroom's doors. “They've just called you. You need to go say your piece now. I'm right here with you. You're strong, and he's not gonna break you. He couldn't before, and he can't now.” As soon as we entered, Jack released my arm and stepped aside. I glanced over at Ray Coons for the briefest moment, then, taking a deep breath and lifting my chin with the solid conviction of what I was about to do, I limped down the aisle to the podium and the awaiting judge.

Ray was sentenced to twenty-five to life and was hurried out of the courtroom less than half an hour after we'd gotten started. After my request that Ray receive a fair but harsh sentence, Ray's pitiful mother came before the court, pleading that her son be shown “compassion and mercy so that he might still have time to make somethin' of hisself before he has to account to the highest court of all for his doin's.”

Her words fell on deaf ears, however, for after she was done, the judge sentenced him to the longest prison sentence he had the power to impose. Ray's filthy, straggly light brown hair fell into his eyes when his head dropped dejectedly upon hearing the sentence. He never looked up again. Instead, two deputies, one on each side, escorted him through the courtroom's side doors and up to his holding cell on the floor above. In a week he would be transported to Central Prison, the same prison where Jack's father, Gilbert Harris, was now serving out his lengthy sentence; a sentence Ray had helped to bring about. Central Prison wasn't too far from Salisbury, the old Confederate prison where Sam had spent over twenty years of his life for killing a man who had brutalized my grandmother in exactly the same way Ray had brutalized me. And even though the three stories and crimes were unrelated, there was enough of an intertwining irony to them that it seemed as if justice was truly being served for us all.

“I
promise I won't forget to bring it back to you!” I said to Grandma, for what seemed like the twentieth time. Jack and I were finally going to Asheville, and but instead of seeing the play we'd missed in the fall, which had long since closed, we had tickets for
Mourning Becomes Electra
, and I'd promised Grandma I'd bring the playbill back for her.

“You sure you got everything, now?” she asked, for what seemed like the twentieth time. I knew that I was just a little on edge. After all, Jack and I were getting married at noon, and then leaving for Asheville following a small reception at the orchard. I'd spent the week before getting my clothes ready, as well as finishing up some business at the mill that needed my attention before I could comfortably turn my mind to nothing and no one other than Jack and me.

Apparently, sending the bench to President Coolidge had not only been a thoughtful but clever thing to do, for people who had taken a small rest upon the walnut bench beneath the willow tree at the White House found it to be comfortable, as well as handsome, and orders for fifty-six more had come in. Two senators wanted full dining room sets, and other people in the world of politics wanted various pieces as well. Word of mouth is the best form of advertising, and that was certainly proving to be true with the Coolidge bench. As I finished packing my trousseau, I thought back to the months leading up to this one day. As it turned out, Jack had been planning on proposing to me during my birthday trip to Asheville. But under the circumstances, we'd postponed the trip and Jack had put off his proposal.

Four months ago—a week after Ray's sentencing—Jack and I had taken a walk through the apple orchard. It was Christmas Eve day, and I'd gone over to the Harrises' house with a fruitcake I'd baked for them. After coffee and cake, Jack told me he wanted to show me something in the barn. “It's freezing, Jack! And I'm just getting warmed up after my cold ride over here,” I laughed, as he pulled me up from my comfortable place in front of the woodstove.

“C'mon. I have a surprise for you. I was gonna bring it over tomorrow, but since you're here now . . .” We entered the dark barn, but soon my eyes adjusted and I saw that Harriet's easy-going bay horse (given the uninspired name of Baybay) was hitched up to a beautiful new sleigh. “Merry Christmas,” he whispered, wrapping his arms around me from behind as I admired the rig. “I had the sleigh made for you over at an ironworks place in Bristol, Tennessee. They delivered it late last week.”

“Oh, Jack! I can't believe . . . Oh . . . I just love it!” I cried, moving away from him and hurrying over to the sleigh to inspect it. It wasn't large, just big enough for two. And it was painted a beautiful deep red, white, and gold. It truly looked like a smaller version of Santa's sleigh. It was a sleigh that was just the perfect size for Mrs. Claus, I thought. Suddenly I remembered the gift I had for him, which was a beautiful pair of onyx cufflinks. “But Jack, I have your gift back at my house. Knowing y'all are coming for dinner tomorrow, I just thought I'd give it to you then.”

“Then I'll get it then!” He laughed. “Now, let's go for a ride!” Clearly, he was totally enjoying the moment. He circled my waist with his large hands and lifted me up into the sleigh. A crocheted afghan made from the softest cream, green, and crimson-colored yarns lay neatly folded on the far side of the seat. At Jack's prompting, I lifted the edge of the beautiful throw and read the inscription that was embroidered in dark green thread on a small cream-colored satin square sewn into the corner:
Merry Christmas, Rachel. Harriet and Lydia Harris, 1928.
After exclaiming my absolute delight with it, I spread the afghan over our legs and we headed out onto the enormous white blanket that covered the land.

We zigzagged our way down the winding paths around the perimeter of the orchard, and though it was cold, it was clear, and the brightness of the sun on the freshly fallen snow created a dazzling winter world around us. Small icicles hung from the apple trees like lovely prism ornaments, while holly bushes, bearing the red berry that symbolizes Christmas, grew in sporadic clusters along the path. Every now and then, the vibrant crimson color of a cardinal could be seen in one of the trees, or the brown furry tail of a rabbit appeared as it hopped its way across the orchard in search of a meal. It was a world of crystallized splendor, of quiet contentment, and I felt a complete sense of happiness and well-being flow through me.

A short while later, Jack pulled the sleigh over and I assumed he wanted to point something out to me, but he jumped out and reached up to help me down, too. “Where're we goin'?” I asked, intrigued. There was nothing around us except the sleeping orchard, but Jack just took my hand and led me down into it.

We reached a very old and gnarled tree, and, with Jack still holding my hand, he stopped, leaned against it, and said in a quiet, almost reverent way, “Rachel, this orchard is my future. It's where I'm meant to be. I know it. It's worked its way into my blood, and it's become almost like a part of me.” Looking around at the orchard that rose up the hills and rolled down into the valley surrounding us, he shook his head as though it was hard to understand how this place could have taken such a hold of him. “But it's not what I love most in this world,” he continued, focusing back on my face and looking directly into my eyes. It was as though he wanted me to see the depth of their truth in his eyes. “Rachel, I love you far beyond any of this. I have for a long time now. Without you here, sharing this with me, then all of this loses it importance, its meaning. I don't just want to carve out a living; I want to build a life for us here, beneath these thousand apple trees,” he turned, sweeping his hand across the expanse of land, indicating its vastness. “If you're not in the center of this,” he said, “I'll continue to work it, but I know I'll quit loving it.

“Marry me, Rachel. I love you. I need you with me . . .” His words drifted off as he bent down to kiss me. As his lips touched mine, I responded with a mutually deep and gentle kiss.

When we finally pulled our lips apart, I whispered, “I'll marry you, Jack. Yes, I'll marry you.” I laid my head against his chest and heard what sounded like a very soft exhale, a sigh of relief.

“Good.” Exhale. “That's good,” he repeated. Then he rested his chin on the top of my head and I felt him exhale a third time. I wondered if he'd been holding his breath until he'd heard my answer.

“It's late,” Grandma said, poking her head into my bedroom and pulling me back into the present. It was eleven fifteen, and the wedding was to be at the Methodist church Jack and his family attended. We'd decided to make it the church we'd attend, as well, and the church's minister, Reverend Hamlyn, was officiating the ceremony.

The day was sunny, golden and blue, and it would have been perfect had it not been for the persistent and painful emotional injury inflicted by Merry Beth's actions.

No one had seen her since the time of Ray's attack on me. We'd looked for her with the help of Ronnie Coons as our guide, and finally found the cabin where she and Ray had lived. It was isolated, which did not surprise me, and it was horrible, which surprised me even less. It was filthy and nearly devoid of furniture. Old and torn curtains covered the windows, and a battered table with two equally worn chairs stood in the tiny kitchen area. In the one bedroom, pressed snuggly up against one wall, was a rope bed that had seen far better days. A small nightstand stood by it, with an oil lamp on top. There were several wooden pegs along one wall and I spotted a couple of pieces of Merry Beth's old clothing hanging from them. The pantry off the kitchen—a kitchen with no running water—was pitifully bare, and there were just a few pieces of firewood remaining on the cabin's rickety back porch. As I stood there looking around and thinking that I would never be able to fathom why Merry had chosen this abusive, desolate, and poverty-ridden road she traveled, I thought of Mama's irrational and troubled mind, and realized that the apple had truly fallen close to the tree.

We never did find her, although Prescott talked to one of the neighbors—distant though he was—who said the couple had talked about heading to San Francisco once Merry's “inheritance” came in. We knew what that “inheritance” really was, and it still hurt me beyond words that Merry would have shared the terrible responsibility if our family had lost the business because of Ray's theft. And she would have also played a direct role—although perhaps unwittingly so—in my death. Her betrayal was almost a physically painful thing and I did not want it to weigh me down on this special day. So, as hard as it was, I pushed the terrible memories from my mind and got back to the wonderful task at hand, marrying Jack Harris.

I was closing up my trunk when Grandma walked in with my wedding gown. She had made it for me. We'd allowed ourselves the extravagance of purchasing some heavy cream-colored satin and lace through a special order from Taft's. As she helped me dress, we went over all of the ancient rituals that brides have adhered to through the ages, checking to make sure we had covered each one: The dress was my “something new.” My “something blue” were small sapphire and gold earrings Grandma had given to me, which her mother had given to her. Lydia Harris loaned us her family Bible, to be used in the ceremony, and that filled the part of the “something borrowed.” I had told Grandma some days before that the earrings could double for my “something old,” but she told me she had something special to fill that particular role, but would give it to me when I was getting dressed for the wedding. Then, just before putting on my veil, she reached into her dress pocket, pulled out a large gold locket with my new initials engraved on the front, and had me lift my hair while she fastened it into place.

“It's not the locket that's old, Rachel,” she said, turning me around to see how it looked. “It's what's inside. But you can't open it until after the ceremony.”

Thanking her for yet another lovely gift, I promised to wait to see what lay inside, and allowed her to finish helping me dress.

“Now, let me have a good look at ya.” Her inspection started at the top; from the lace veil that would not cover my face but would rest lightly on my head and flow down to my waist; to my lace sleeves, with the satin-covered buttons at the wrists; to my high-necked lace bodice which ended in a point at my waistline, both in front and in back. Then her inspection moved to the satin skirt portion of my dress, which cascaded down to the tips of my matching satin shoes in front, while the back of the skirt trailed outward in a short train.

“You're beautiful, Rachel.” She smiled a rich, broad smile that told me I truly must be so. “Are you ready?” I was too emotional to answer, so I stepped up to her, hugged her tightly and nodded my head against her cheek in answer. “Then, let's go,” she said, though the words were hoarsely whispered. But neither of us moved. We just stood there holding on to each other, knowing that our lives would never be the same, but knowing that the directions they were taking were the right ones.

Before letting her go, I whispered, “I love you, Grandma.” The words were spoken so softly and sweetly that even to my own ears they sounded like they'd come from a little girl.

“I love you, too, honey. Always have, and always, always will.” Finally, she patted my back, turned away from me while rapidly wiping away an escaping tear, then opened my door and called out to Prescott to come take my trunk out to the buggy.