The Orchardist (10 page)

I wish she’d come, said Talmadge, again, of the old midwife, as if he had forgotten he had said it the first time; and Clee wanted to say: It does not matter when the woman comes. The night has made up its mind. It’s we who are too slow, who move in the wake of events already decided for us, who refuse, who are too weak or too simple, or are perhaps, strictly,
unable
to understand—

C
aroline Middey arrived after midnight. Talmadge stood at the pasture edge, holding a lantern aloft, watching for the horses he sensed, minutes before, were coming. The wrangler’s horse materialized first out of the darkness—a suggestion of a form and then a form—and then another horse appeared in its wake. Atop this horse sat Caroline Middey. She wore a large straw hat and was wrapped in a blanket so she resembled some sort of doll. She wore a severe expression, and Talmadge thought, as he helped her down off the horse, that she was angry; but, firmly planted on the ground, looming and sharp-featured in the lantern light, she removed the blanket from around her shoulders and handed it to him, and untied the ribbon from under her chin, took off her hat, and grinned. I don’t know the last time I took a ride like that, she said. And then she turned to unstrap her bag from the side of the horse. When she turned to him again, she was serious.

Where are they?

Inside.

They walked to the cabin, shadows bounding before them. Down in the field, the men had lit fires. The horses spread to the forest, shifting and reshifting under the moonlight.

Caroline Middey took this all in.

There was a young man waiting on the porch steps who took Caroline Middey’s horse and led him to the barn.

Talmadge hesitated on the porch.

What is it? said Caroline Middey.

I ought to stay out here.

And why’s that?

Again he hesitated. They don’t like me.

Caroline Middey snorted. She looked at him now. For a moment it seemed she would argue with him, but she did not.

I’m going to need you, she said. You can stay out here, if you want, but don’t go far. She hesitated again, as if she wanted to say something—but then she said nothing. Regarded him briefly one last time before going indoors.

He sat in the birchwood chair. Leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. His stomach was empty, lightly convulsed. His head ached. He could not remember the last time he had eaten.

Caroline Middey returned soon afterward, and he stood. How much time had passed? It might have been only a few minutes, it might have been an hour. Her gaze took a moment to realize him.

You didn’t say both of them were laboring.

He started.

I didn’t know it had anything to do with laboring, he said finally. Just the one was sick, I thought, just the one was having trouble.

Caroline Middey shook her head.

What, he said.

Both of them are laboring, she said. It’s started, now. She frowned down at the lawn off the porch. Heat some water. I need something for my tools if it comes to that. And you got some towels?

He was silent, wondering at it all.

Talmadge.

Yes. A few. I got some quilts.

It’ll ruin your quilts.

Don’t matter.

I’m talking about some animal blankets or such as that.

I got some in the barn.

Get those. And get towels.

Later in the cabin he poured water from buckets into a pot on the stove and then opened the stove and stoked the fire within. The door to the bedroom where they lay was shut. There were at times brief murmurings behind the door but for the most part it was silent. Was this how it all went, he thought, in quietness like this? He thought he would have to go gather more firewood from the barn, but when he went out onto the porch he saw a pile of kindling and logs had been stacked near the door.

He went and sat in the birchwood chair, downtilted his hat over his eyes.

When he woke—he had not realized he had slept—it was still night, black-dark and motionless. Caroline Middey sat before him on the porch steps, smoking a sweet-smelling cigarette. The lantern glowed still between them. A rabbit at the mouth of the apricot orchard froze, its eyes catching in the lantern light, and then bounded away down the avenue of trees.

Talmadge cleared his throat. Are they—

Caroline Middey glanced over her shoulder at him. She turned forward again, flicked ash off the side of the porch.

They’re all right for now, she said. Then, several minutes later, glancing at him again: You still planning on looking out for them, after all this is finished?

Talmadge looked at the field below, the remaining fires winking in the dark. The horses, stirring slowly. Marauders. He said nothing at first.

I reckon I would help them if they needed it.

Caroline Middey frowned out at the darkness. They’re going to need it, all right.

He said nothing.

After a while she crushed out her cigarette and said, Well— and stood. Placed her hand on his shoulder as she passed him, went indoors.

T
he morning was bright. Down in the field the horses grazed and the men picked fruit, their bodies appearing and disappearing among the foliage.

Talmadge waited on the porch for Caroline Middey. When she came through the doorway, she blinked rapidly in the light.

Well? he said.

She blinked. From within her skirts she pulled out a cigarette she had rolled earlier, put it between her lips, and lit it with a match from the same pocket. Moved slightly on the porch, as if disoriented. The older one will have hers tonight, she said. But the other one. She paused, glanced out across the grass. The other one’s baby died. Or one of them. Yes, there were two. That’s what I think. She hesitated. Yes, that’s what I think. What I think happened is that she passed one some days ago, but there’s still the rest that needs to come out. Either that, or she hasn’t passed either baby at all. I asked her about it, asked her when she stopped feeling it. Poor thing doesn’t know. Caroline Middey smoked and then smiled, but it wasn’t meant to be a smile. Going to have to go through it anyway, bearing that thing out of her, whatever it is. But it ain’t going to be no live baby, whatever it is. She smiled again the smile that wasn’t a smile, and rubbed her eye with the heel of her hand and continued smoking. She looked out over the bright yellow field. Lord, she said.

Talmadge didn’t know what to say. He too looked out over the field. What happened to it? he said finally.

I don’t know. After a moment, she said: I could be wrong. But from her voice, Talmadge knew she was saying it for his sake.

Is she going to—die?

Caroline Middey looked at him quickly. Who, the girl?

Talmadge didn’t say anything.

They ain’t but little girls, both of them. But the body will do what it will, unless it just can’t. She was going to say more but then she didn’t. She smoked and looked out at the field. Lord, look at those horses, she said.

A
t dusk, the fires glowed at the edge of the field and the men stood around eating their supper in the firelight. At intervals there came from the cabin a strangled cry, not of the baby but of the mother before the baby, where she doesn’t want to make sounds but cannot help herself. Talmadge sat waiting on the porch, his hat in his hands. The cries subsided, and then rose. Finally Caroline Middey came to the door and said his name.

He stood and went inside the cabin.

The bedroom was lit by a single lantern on the bedside table, turned high. The center of the room, in contrast with the outer darkness, was bright.

The older girl, sitting up in the bed, looked away when he entered the room.

The other girl lay on a pallet on the floor. Like her sister, she wore only an undershirt, and her body shone with sweat. Her stomach ballooned before her. She held her fists over her eyes, and shook: a fine, constant tremor.

The room bristled with heat, smelled of iron. He took off his hat.

In the intense light the skin around Caroline Middey’s eyes was bruised-looking. She crouched beside the girl on the floor. To Talmadge she said: I don’t know how much longer it’ll be with that one—nodding to the girl on the bed—but this one I have to help quick. She stroked the girl’s head. I think I might have to pump it out of her.

Talmadge was speechless.

I want you here if I need help. This here is Della. That’s Jane.

Jane was watching him. When he looked at her, she turned her head carefully away.

You sit down there, said Caroline Middey, indicating the bed. In a few minutes I’ll want her to start pushing, and you put your hands—there—on her legs to help her.

Talmadge went to the bed. When he sat down, Jane pressed her lips together. On the floor, Della began to moan.

Caroline Middey stood over Della now, had reached under her and was kneading her back. The older woman’s face was reddening from exertion. She looked over to Jane. Lie back a little, she said. Just like I told you. Talmadge—make her lie on her back. Hold her down.

Talmadge hesitated. Lie back, he said.

The hair at Jane’s temples was wet, and her eyes, for a moment, were pleading. He felt as if she was going to say something to him. And then all at once she bent to the side and gagged. He wanted to help her; but he knew better than to touch her before he had to. A moment later she lifted her body, wiped her mouth, and eased back against the headboard. Her eyes closed.

That’s it, murmured Caroline Middey. Looking up: Move forward, Talmadge. Take her legs, there—

Jane let him touch her, for a moment. But then she placed her hands on his hands and removed them. Batted his hand away when he reached out again.

You have to take hold of her, Talmadge, said Caroline Middey. And then, raising her voice: You have to put your hands on her—

Jane pushed his hand away.

Jane! admonished Caroline Middey.

Jane opened her mouth and wailed—high, pleading—and directed her gaze over Talmadge’s shoulder.

In an instant Caroline Middey stood and reached over the bed and took hold of the girl’s shoulders and straightened her. You push! she said into the girl’s face. Jane twisted within her grasp, and Caroline Middey shook her. To Talmadge, angrily: You hold her down, do as I say! This ain’t going to take all night if I can help it. When Talmadge hesitated, she took hold of his hands and placed them on the girl’s thighs. Hold there! She squeezed Talmadge’s hands, which in turn squeezed the girl’s thighs.

Jane pushed back against the wall, her eyes wide and helpless.

Now push! said Caroline Middey. Push up against the wall if you need to! Talmadge will hold you—

Jane bent to the side again, gagged.

All right, said Caroline Middey, crouching down. It’s going to be all right, dear, she said to Della. You just do as I say and you’ll be all right.

Every few minutes, Talmadge looked over to Caroline Middey and the girl on the pallet. Caroline Middey stood over her and massaged her stomach from above. The girl cried open-throated and low. It was a terrible sound. There were moments in the room when it was completely silent, and then it was raging with noise of the girls’ separate pain. Jane half sat up, straining against the headboard. She pushed with her feet against Talmadge’s thighs, her toes curling with effort. She held his forearms. When necessary, he leaned back, away from her, to counter the force. She rocked in that position, and they bore against each other. When the head of the baby crowned Jane’s vagina, the girl’s hair was wet with sweat and the sheet beneath her was bright with red blood.

Mama, Della cried. Mama! The makeshift bed beneath her was black.

Hush! said Caroline Middey. Looking over to Jane: Push!

The girl pushed.

Caroline Middey looked over to the crowning head. She squinted. You’re going to have to handle it, she said to Talmadge.

What, he said.

You’re going to have to take hold of it gentlelike and help it out. Raising her voice to Jane: You push, girl! You hear?

Jane let go of his arms. When he released the girl’s thighs his handprints lingered in her flesh before fading.

You put your hands in her and get it out! yelled Caroline Middey.

There was nothing else but for him to do it. He put his fingers inside the girl and told her to push the thing out. She gasped and gripped the sides of the bed—her knees wide open—and Caroline Middey echoed his demand: Push! His voice was low and quiet: Push! It was a purple and red mess. The girl struggled, and began to relax.

Talmadge! said Caroline Middey.

He disregarded hurting her for one graceless moment and put his hands inside her up to the wrists and she screamed and he dug in farther and felt the shoulders of the thing and he pulled on them not harshly but not gently either. God damn it, he said. God damn it. When the shoulders were out, the little beast turned its body toward its mother’s thigh. The girl grabbed her knees and yanked them apart and in one shivering closed-mouthed cry pushed the body from her own.

There! called Caroline Middey. But her voice to Talmadge was far away.

That singular movement—a body falling from another body—confused him the moment it occurred. He did not know where he was. He dwelt upon the image of the body—tiny, hot, bloody—in his hands. What was it? Where did it come from? The room oriented itself around it. He cut the umbilicus with his pocketknife and brought the infant close, hooked his finger across its face and into its mouth for the mucus, brought it to his shoulder and slapped its bottom—how did he know to do this?—and the thing screamed in his ear. The room seemed to swell, to pulse; the elapsed time, the snug hours, blossomed grossly. The room had grown increasingly warm and thick with the odor of sickness and birth and it was into this world that Talmadge surfaced. He held the body close and felt that it belonged to the room as much as to the girl and at the same time that it belonged to nobody.

Caroline Middey said, Wash it off.

He stood and left the room.

Outside, it was night, but he made his way to the creek without difficulty.