The Orchardist (12 page)

T
wo days after Caroline Middey left, he woke to his room full of light. The baby was crying. He sat up, confused. Della stood in the doorway of his bedroom. She had reached out her hands to brace herself within the doorframe, placed one bare foot on top of the other, and gazed at the corner of the bed.

Jane told me to come get it, she said, of the child, who lay beside him. It took him a moment to remember what she, the infant, was doing there. And then it came to him: she had fussed in the middle of the night, and neither girl had roused to tend her, and so he had brought her into his own bedroom, and fallen asleep as she cried. Still confused, Talmadge understood that Della would not cross over into the room to retrieve the baby. And so he lifted the child and delivered her to the waiting girl, who retreated with the child into the other bedroom. Slammed the door—carelessly—behind her.

In the outer room he opened the door of the woodstove and stoked the cold ashes. He could not believe the brightness of the day; he had overslept. Before he reached for the matchbox, he had a moment of disorientation. As he leaned to light the stove, he felt, suddenly, a wetness on his mouth, and reached up and touched his face. Blood. His nose was bleeding.

The door of the other bedroom opened and Della stood looking out at him. Expectantly, as if he had called her. Talmadge saw behind her to Jane in the bed, the infant nursing at her breast. Jane looked at him, frowning slightly. But it was also as if she did not see him: was deeply absorbed by some thought or memory, and his sudden presence—his trouble—was an irritation.

It’s all right, said Talmadge, thinking they would be spooked by the blood. His voice shook (but why?). It’s all right.

I
sn’t it market day? said Caroline Middey. She had come at the end of the week to tend to the girls, and that morning noticed Talmadge had not gone into the barn to see about the mule, had not prepared the wagon. She thought maybe she had gotten the day wrong.

But Talmadge, who had worked that morning in the far apple orchard, said he wasn’t going to market.

Caroline Middey stared at him. He had not missed a market day for as long as she could remember.

Maybe next week, he said.

W
hen three men came out of the forest and into the upper pasture, Talmadge got down out of the limbs of the apricot tree in which he worked and went to meet them. He was not expecting anybody. Only when the men were almost in the yard did he recognize Michaelson. Or Michaelson’s likeness, for this man had none of the sloth of the other whom Talmadge had met; but there was a certain gravity to this man’s movements that still recalled the other. As the man steered his horse through the grass, Talmadge felt his stare upon him, a singular, contained attention aimed at his chest. Talmadge touched his hat as if to remove it but then changed his mind, pulled it lower on his brow. Righted it at the last moment so he could see properly.

All the men had rifles in their scabbards. The man on Michaelson’s right was red-haired, sleepy-looking; the other was lean, mean-looking, with deep lines around his eyes and mouth. As Michaelson dismounted, the mean-looking man looked up toward the cabin. When he looked at Talmadge, the man fixed him in one long unintelligible stare before looking away.

Michaelson squinted at Talmadge, briefly, and in that moment Talmadge understood that Michaelson did not know who he was, did not remember him. Talmadge found this extraordinary. There was a moment when Michaelson seemed to consider the possibility of their acquaintance, but he dismissed it, quickly.

Where are my girls? he said. His voice shook with barely contained rage. They in town said you had my girls.

Talmadge wanted to turn and glance across the field, at the canyon mouth, where the girls had taken the baby earlier, to the far apple orchard. He willed that the girls had found a game that would occupy them, that they would stay there for as long as it took to rid the orchard of the men.

Michaelson was still staring at him. What was he, Michaelson, capable of? Talmadge again looked at the rifle in the scabbard.

Where are your manners? said the mean-looking man, suddenly, to Talmadge, and Talmadge looked at him. You have any coffee? Let’s take a load off, boss, he said to Michaelson. I’m thirsty.

Go down and lie in that creek for all I care, said Michaelson, and spat dramatically to the side. I’m not here for hospitality. Looking again at Talmadge, his eyes bloodshot and unblinking and, Talmadge could not help but note, desperate: Where are my girls?

Michaelson, who had seemed so heavy and withered and distracted that day on the Okanogan, was now filled with nervous energy. He seemed, suddenly—this entered Talmadge’s mind at once—an ancient adolescent. It was there in his fevered gaze, in his movements as he shifted from one foot to the other. His zeal and worry.

Talmadge took off his hat, started toward the cabin. He heard the men follow him: Michaelson on foot, and the other two still on their mounts. When Talmadge entered the cabin, he heard the saddle creak of the others dismounting. The men, at least, did not follow him inside. He saw into the girls’ room. A pair of small boots by the bed. He put the kettle on to boil. He went into his own bedroom and opened the closet door, took his rifle from where it leaned in the corner.

That’s not a good idea, said the mean-looking man, who had come in behind him and stood now in the doorway of his bedroom. Talmadge, after a moment, replaced the rifle in the closet. The man came close behind him and made sure the gun was unloaded, and then closed the closet door.

Talmadge went out and stood before the stove and waited for the water to boil. Helpless. Every sound was exaggerated: the ticking of the water in the pot, the shuffle of the men’s boots on the wood floor. The red-haired man had also entered the cabin and was reading the spines of the almanacs on the shelf. The mean-looking man bent his knees slightly, studied his image in the mirrorglass hanging on the wall. Took up the pomade tin, opened it, sniffed. Made a face. Went over to Talmadge at the stove, clapped a hand on his shoulder. I like my coffee strong, he said. The red-haired man went into the girls’ room, then came out a minute later. Was holding a pair of underpants. Talmadge felt his body empty of feeling. Talmadge heard the man say, outdoors, to Michaelson: They’re not in there. Their stuff is, though. And then high-pitched, hysterical laughter.

Talmadge prepared the coffee, took the mugs out onto the porch.

Here. It was difficult to keep the bitterness from his voice.

The mean-looking man took a mug, and so did the red-haired man, who thanked Talmadge. But Michaelson stood on the lawn, looking out across the field. There were men working there, the haycatchers Talmadge had employed to cut the rest of the grass. They were four of the horsemen who had stayed behind after the rest of the men had gone.

Talmadge stood staring at Michaelson’s back. He felt he could read the man’s designs there between his shoulder blades. Again he thought: What was the man capable of?

I’m willing to buy them, said Talmadge suddenly. I’m willing to buy them from you, is what I’m saying.

Michaelson turned to him, surprised. Were you talking to me? he said. I know you weren’t talking to me.

How much? said the mean-looking man, who was chewing something—a tiny seed?—in his back teeth. He leaned and spat.

Shut up, all of you, said Michaelson. Can’t you see I’m trying to listen? And he turned back to the field. According to the posture of the other men, this behavior of Michaelson’s—vacillating between bully and idiot—was not unusual. The men stood at different spots on the lawn, drinking coffee. The red-haired man wandered into the apricot orchard, and exited a minute later, eating an apricot.

At that moment two forms in pale dresses came out of the canyon, floating toward them out of the darker mouth.

God in heaven, said Michaelson. Hallelujah. Hallelujah. And then what sounded to Talmadge like the snapping of his jaws. The mean-looking man placed his coffee mug on the ground and went for his rifle, which was leaning up against the porch. Talmadge had not noticed it before. The mean-looking man addressed the red-haired man, who still ate the apricot: What are you doing? Cut that out.

The girls slowed in the middle of the field, stopped. The haycatchers worked around them. It was too far away for the girls to see Michaelson clearly; they must’ve seen his horses, and the men, who were also regarding them. One girl turned and retreated back to the canyon mouth, but the other remained a moment before coming forward.

Michaelson waved frantically. Can she see us? he said to no one in particular. His voice was high, like a child’s. Should we go down there? Is she coming? The mean-looking man scratched the back of his head.

Talmadge moved down the slope, toward the creek. Foolishness for allowing this to happen. How would the girls ever forgive him?

Run, he called to the girl, waving his arms. Get back! Get away!

But the girl—she was halfway across the creek, holding her skirts up out of the water—stood still and watched him. It was as if he were speaking a different language.

Get away! Michaelson was shouting to him. Jane! Jane! Come here! He was laughing, boyishly. The sound sent a chill up Talmadge’s spine. Look at you! Jane!

The girl moved past Talmadge and trudged up the hillside. Talmadge, weak with indecision, followed her. Michaelson met her; embraced her. She was like a rag doll in his arms. Jane, he said: part admonition, part sob. Talmadge remained standing several feet behind them, not understanding what was happening, what he should do.

After a minute Michaelson and the girl separated, and she walked through the yard and then up onto the porch, not looking at any of the men, and went into the cabin.

Talmadge stared at the grass of the lawn. Tried to make sense of the gestures, the correspondence that had passed between Michaelson and the girl, but failed. What was happening? Michaelson waited off the porch steps, was just shy of wringing his hands in happiness; the mean-looking man seemed more bored than ever, was looking off toward the plum trees; and the red-haired man was nowhere to be seen. And then Talmadge saw him, bending creekside, picking up a river rock, inspecting it.

And then Jane came onto the porch, and down onto the lawn. Continued through the grass. Passed Michaelson and the mean-looking man, and Talmadge. Michaelson moved after her, surprised, but she held up her hand to him, and he halted.

I’ll be right back—

Where—

I’ll be back—and she was striding across the grass, down the hill. The red-haired man lifted a hand to her in greeting but she did not respond. They watched her cross the creek, traverse the field. Eventually she passed into the canyon.

The mean-looking man emitted a low, drowsy whistle. He pulled a cigarette out of his pocket, lit it. Smoked. Eventually he came to stand near Talmadge. Watched the canyon mouth.

That sister, he murmured. That’s who she’s gone to get, I suppose. I would just as soon leave without that one. But Jane—

Talmadge studied the canyon mouth.

Jane won’t allow that. The man cleared his throat, and after a moment took out another cigarette.

Michaelson came to stand near the mean-looking man, a subservient, doglike expression on his face: questioning. Talmadge was surprised Michaelson didn’t whimper.

Wait, said the mean-looking man to Michaelson. Then: I say we wait, don’t you? Then, lowering his voice so only Talmadge could hear him: It’s better to do things peaceable-like. Calm. Without the antics. Things go wrong when there are antics. People say they are just girls, how hard could tracking girls be? He smiled faintly. These people have not had the pleasure, he said, to be in our position—

After a minute the man turned to Talmadge, as if just remembering something.

And the children? Did they—

Talmadge did not take his eyes from the field.

Ah, said the man. After a moment, laughed. Began to say something.

Aren’t no children, said Talmadge.

What?