Beneath a Thousand Apple Trees (8 page)

“That's Thomas,” the Moon Man said. “He's an old one, he is. Must be near ‘bout twenty years old now. He's blinder 'n a bat, and deaf as a doorknob, but he's still good company. Don't ask for much other than a meal now 'n then, and a warm place to wait out the winter. I'm thinkin' this may be his last one, though. He's been sleepin' more 'n usual and not eating enough to keep a flea goin'.”

I somehow understood that the loss of this animal would affect the man deeply. Though they were both independent creatures, they relied upon each other for their basic needs: the cat for food and shelter, and the man for companionship. There was no question that when the time came for one to be without the other, it would be painfully felt.

“What happened to Roscoe?” Grandma asked, looking around as if maybe she'd just overlooked him when she'd first come inside.

“Lost him a few months ago,” replied Sam. “He broke his leg one day while out gallivantin' around and it never did heal right. Poor old feller limped around for some weeks while that darn leg festered and festered. I finally put the dog out of his misery,” he said, glancing up at the rifle he kept over the front door.

“I'm sorry, Sam. I remember when you found him under the bridge at Fork Crossing. Darn cute, he was. He grew into a mighty fine hunter. Mighty fine.” She patted Sam's arm. “Now, how ‘bout if I make us some coffee?” She moved into the small kitchen that was off to the left.

“I'll help you, Grandma,” I said, following her in.

“Rachel, take the pie out of the basket and we'll have a little celebration for Sam's birthday. Sam, it's your special day, so sit down and relax.” He didn't argue. Instead, after putting another log on the fire, he pulled out a chair from the kitchen table and sat down as requested, then watched us move around the small space with a look of absolute pleasure on his face.

“It's been some time since I had two beautiful gals in my kitchen, and with a pretty pie, to boot. Will wonders never cease?”

Grandma reached up into a cabinet to the left of the sink and retrieved ajar of coffee. Sitting on the counter below was a percolator. Grandma handed me the pot. “Run to the pump out back and fill this up,” she instructed, nodding her head toward a door that was just to the right of the sink's counter. I opened the door and stepped out onto a covered, fairly narrow back porch. There was a stack of firewood that ran the length of the porch, which was ten feet or so long, and a low roof, which the stack of wood nearly touched. It took up most of the width of the porch and I had just enough room to keep out of the light rain that fell while I looked around to see where the pump was located. It was about a dozen yards away, off to the left, so I gave the yard a quick survey, recalling the fact that the Moon Man had been out back with the rattler when we'd first arrived. I didn't see anything more threatening than an old washtub next to the pump, a broken wagon wheel, and an old soot-blackened metal barrel. I hurried over to the pump, filled the pot, and ran back onto the porch without getting too terribly soaked.

As I neared the back door, I looked through its window and saw Sam standing there facing Grandma. His left arm circled her waist, while his right hand reached up to tuck a wisp of hair that had escaped her bun back behind her ear. Then, bringing his face down close to hers, he gently kissed her lips for several seconds, while his right arm completed the circle around her. Her hands came to rest on his chest. I thought for a second she might push him away from her, but she didn't. Her hands rested on him in a familiar, practiced way. It was clear that she'd done this before.
They'd
done this before. I knew I was watching something that I shouldn't. I knew it was a moment that was solely intended for the two of them. But I was transfixed. I stood there watching a woman I'd known so well—at least I'd thought I did—act in a way that made her bizarrely unfamiliar to me. It frightened me and intrigued me, and, for some reason I didn't understand, it saddened me.

I walked loudly on the porch to let them know I was back from my short errand and they moved apart, busying themselves with china plates and cups that he handed her from the cabinet.

“Here's the water,” I managed, though I couldn't bring myself to look either one of them in the eye. That seemed all right with them, however, as neither one seemed to want to make eye contact with me.

Sam placed the china on the table, while Grandma started the coffee perking. “Put the pie on the table, Rachel,” she said as she pushed a candle down into the flakey crust. She'd asked me to take the candle from a kitchen drawer back at our house when I'd run in to let Merry know I was going with her. It was half the size it had originally been, but it had also lit quite a few birthday cakes and pies over the last year. It was never left to burn long, just long enough for the birthday celebrant to make his or her special annual wish. So, after closing his eyes for a brief moment, he opened them, blew with unnecessary gusto, and the candle blinked out immediately, saving the short remains to grace a couple more birthday desserts to come.

“Now, Sam,” Grandma started, handing him the knife, “cut the first slice, dear.” The way she said the affectionate term so kindly and tenderly, it seemed as though she were talking to a child. But then Samuel Harold looked as delighted as a child as he stepped back from the pie after eagerly blowing out the candle's flame.

Grandma picked up one of the china plates as Sam began cutting the pie into sections. The china had scalloped edges (and a small chip, I noticed), and there were small deep pink roses painted in a circular pattern in the center of the ivory-colored plate. The small china cups were the same ivory color, and in the bottom of each was a rose that matched those on the plates. It was a beautiful, delicate old set, and I wondered if it had been some couple's wedding present. As if reading my mind, Sam volunteered, “These belonged to my folks. They didn't have a whole lot”—he smiled wistfully—“but what they had was worth savin'.”

We talked about simple things for a while as we ate the pie and drank the rich, hot coffee. We talked about weather, how cold it was getting already and how the Farmer's Almanac predicted a hard winter. We talked about the new cow Sam had gotten, and whether or not he'd get another cat once Thomas was gone. Then the conversation turned to illegal alcohol, which had been brewed for generations in the western mountains of North Carolina, and long before Prohibition had been enacted. Most of the counties had been dry or alcohol-free since they'd been formed, but that didn't mean that all of the residents' homes were.

The mountain folks had depended on the homemade liquor to put meat on the table, bullets in their guns, clothes on their children's backs, and sugar in their coffee (not to mention in their stills) for so long now that it just seemed to be an accepted—if illegal—way of life. But it was a risky business, to say the least, and frequently paid those employed in it with deadly wages.

Many a man on both sides of the law had shaken hands with the Grim Reaper while trying to protect a still or tear one down. And there were so many lawmen that were actually on the side of the 'shiners that it was difficult to tell who were really good guys or bad guys on any given day. It was an often-hostile game of cat and mouse, and all bets were off as to who was really winning.

“Charles Pottman was gunned down last week after runnin' his shine over to Tennessee. Madison County Sheriff's office got 'em. Dang fool didn't even have anythin' on him. He'd done delivered it all, but he thought havin' 'em chase him in his brand new Dodge automobile was as fun as a barrel of monkeys. Stupid son of a bitch.”

“Watch your mouth, Samuel Harold,” Grandma scolded. “Tender ears a-sittin' here,” she reminded him.

“S'cuse me,” he humbly replied. Then, “Them deputies on their horses took the short cut through the woods at Harney's place, and caught up with Charles when they came out on the dirt road on the other side of the ol' man's tobacco fields. They just stood in the road waitin' for Charles, and here he comes, just a-flyin'. Well, he slams on his brakes cause he can't get around 'em, with them standin' in the road 'n all, and, besides, he wants to let the ol' boys have a good look at his new car. But when he got out, being as drunk as he was and not thinkin', he went to pull his wallet out of his coat pocket in the hopes of bribin' them officers into forgettin' they'd seen him that night. The law, thinkin' he was pulling out a gun, shot his ass—s'cuse me—dead. Then the deputies tied their horses to the back bumper of Charlie's car, laid him out in the back seat, and drove him on back to his Mama's house. They parked in the poor woman's front yard! The coroner's office was sent for to come and declare him dead—like they didn't already know it, and his poor ol' Mama a-settin' there and knowin' it, too! Lord, God, but that woman about come undone. She started rantin' and ravin', and carryin' on so, and no one could do anything to calm that poor ol' thing down. The damnedest part of it all was that one of the deputies finally gave her a swig of whiskey from his
own
flask to settle her down. And here they goes and kills her son over the same concoction they used to quiet the half-crazed woman down. Beats all, I swear. It surely beats all.”

Grandma had responded throughout the story with the occasional and properly placed “Oh no!” and “Do tell!” and “What a shame!” until Sam was through.

We stayed for a short while longer; then Grandma said she reckoned we'd better start back as it was getting late and she wanted to be home before dark. “Gotta help Anna with supper,” she explained, “and, I don't intend upon bein' a bear's.”

I helped Grandma wash up the dishes, and then Sam walked us out. As he did, I looked back at poor old Thomas, who'd managed to make it over to a bowl of food left out for him, and I knew I'd most likely never see him again. I wondered if I'd ever see the Moon Man again. And I wasn't quite sure which way I hoped it worked out. There had been too many unexpected feelings running through me that day, and I needed some time to process them all, to gauge what all I was feeling, even if I didn't understand exactly why. I just knew that I'd spent a good part of this day in the company of a man who obviously meant a great deal to my grandmother. I wondered where my mother fit into this, and especially my grandfather. Why was his spirit haunting such a nice seeming man (if indeed he was), forcing Sam to go to extremes to ward off my grandfather's unwanted, post-mortem presence?

Sam gave me a hug goodbye, and, as I was pulling away from him, he gently caught my chin between his right thumb and index finger and told me I had my grandmother's eyes. “There's a strong, good spirit behind 'em,” he said. “I reckon that you'll be a force to be reckoned with.” He laughed. Whether it was his play on words that amused him, or whether it was imagining those who would be the unlucky recipients of my reckoning, I wasn't sure. But being compared to my grandmother was enough.

I climbed up into the wagon while Grandma and Sam put the empty basket and crate in the back. They spoke quietly to each other, but I could hear them saying the typical end-of-a-visit kind of things, and a minute later Grandma was helped up onto the seat beside me.

“Don't stay away so long, Willa. I do miss ya, ol' gal.”

“I'll come when I can, Sam. You take care of yourself, you hear? Use Parker Boone's phone down at his store and call Taft's Mercantile if you need me. They'll get a message on over to me if'n it's an emergency.”

“Don't fret, Willa. I'm right as rain out here. Go on with ya now, before it gets any later.”

And with that, Grandma bid him good-bye, and I did as well. Then she slapped the reins against Natty's back and we jerked forward to begin our long trek home. As we made our way down the path through the long zigzagging line of ancient trees, Grandma asked me what I thought of Sam.

“Who is he, Grandma? Who is he,
really
?” I searched her face for truths, for answers, and I had a feeling that some of them might make my insides tighten up.

“He's the man who killed my husband, your grandfather, Rachel.”

I stared at her as she stared at the road. And yes, indeed, my insides tightened up, for I realized that what she was about to tell me might very well change the rest of my life.

 

W
illa ran past the barn and into the grove of walnut trees beyond. There were no stars out, she noted, which made it harder for her to see, but it also made it harder for Malcolm to see. She stumbled over a protruding tree root but immediately got up and pushed on. There wasn't a moment to waste over worrying about her kneecap, which had taken the full impact from the fall. She'd have to forget that for now and just focus on getting into the deepest part of the woods beyond.

She could hear breaking twigs and the slashing of tree branches as Malcolm hurriedly plowed through them trying to get to her. There was no mistaking that it was him for he had been close on her heels when she'd first taken off. But due to the fierce love and protectiveness of her mutt Bailey, who had gone after Malcolm with as crazy a look in its eyes as Malcolm had in his, Willa was able to break away from her raging husband. He'd had a shovel in his hand, had threatened her with it, and as he swung the makeshift weapon at her head, Bailey had bounded out of the darkness with teeth bared and leaped at Malcolm's arm. She'd taken that moment as her opportunity for flight, and not looking back for fear of losing one precious second, she'd screamed for Bailey to come, but was only answered with a heavy, dull sounding
THUNK
as Malcolm turned his rage on the dog. A pitiful yelp issued forth and then her dog was silent.
Don't think about it, now
.
It'll only slow you down. He's just stunned, that's all, and is heading for his hiding spot beneath the porch.
But she knew better. Her loyal companion would never have given up his fight for her life. On this black night, however, he'd given up his life for her fight.

Willa still heard Malcolm coming. She ran hard to keep ahead of him, but he was gaining ground. Suddenly, she heard a crash and the footfalls stopped for a moment; then he let out a string of filthy words. Willa knew he must have fallen and was thankful for the additional distance it put between them, but all too soon she heard the whipping and cracking of thin branches as he began the hunt again, and, judging by the sound of his faster than ever footfalls, he was doing so with an unearthly, wicked determination.

Willa came out on the far side of the woods and abruptly stopped on the crumbling lip of the high bank.
It's too dark to see the river,
she thought, precariously leaning over the bank's edge and focusing hard in a vain attempt at making out the rushing water below. The water didn't scare her but the deadly boulders did. However, her violent husband scared her even more.
I can swim but he can't,
she thought. So, figuring her odds were better with the boulders than with Malcolm, she jumped. The cold water hit her about as hard as Malcolm's shovel had, and the wind was knocked out of her. With her heart beating so loudly from both fear and cold that she could barely hear the strong rapids ahead, Willa began swimming downstream. She was well aware the rapids were there, though, along with the bone-breaking boulders. And she knew they would likely kill her. But, as she watched Malcolm navigate the shoreline in an attempt to catch up with her, she knew the river would be a kinder death, for there would be no evil involved, no cruelty. It would simply be an outmatched meeting with Mother Nature's power.

Willa stopped trying to swim and just let the strong current take her. She couldn't get her breath back. The shock of the cold had forced it from her lungs, but it was her fear that kept it at bay. She was hyperventilating, which only caused her panic to increase, making it impossible to make it to the shore even though she desperately wanted to. She couldn't see Malcolm anymore.
He's lost sight of me, and given up,
she thought.
How easy it would be for me to do the same.
She was exhausted and weak. Her strength was gone. The only thing that remained was a hollowness that was black and cold and calling. And then the blackness swallowed her whole, as her head crashed against a rock that jutted up in the rapids.