The Orchardist (22 page)

D
ella and the men hunted a new peak, and the hunting was good. The men, despite the fact that they had drunk a lot the night before, seemed focused. They were quiet among themselves, and hunting the horses, all as one body, had been a kind of dance. It was one of the best days of hunting by far. And yet when they came into the place where they would bed down for the night, along a creek, the birches bending thick over them, although the men were quieter and more aloof than the previous night, she knew it was not right. She got as far as unrolling her bedroll and getting out her can of beans when she knew she would not even be able to prepare supper. The men weren’t even looking at her. As usual, some of them had started their fires, and the others went down to the water to wash. She led her horse a little ways off, under the pretense that she was going to let him wade deep enough to bathe. She just kept walking. Nobody came after her. She walked until she could not hear the men behind her anymore, and the forest mended in silence behind her. They would wonder about her, they would even search for her, and they would hate her for it. But she had no choice. She could feel the old familiar feeling, waiting under the canopy of trees. It had fit her like a glove, and she was certain in her soul she had been there before. She had had to escape her own fate.

She knew, roughly, where she was. She would not be able to travel very far that night, but she would rise before the sun and make her way down the mountain again. She knew where the men were traveling, and she would give them a wide berth. That night, when she bedded down, despite the fact that she knew she had escaped abuse, she was afraid. At times this roving, sharp-edged fear found her. She told herself that she would be all right. She could not see the stars; the trees were too thick overhead. She listened for her horse in the dark, called to it.

The silence and darkness of the forest were extraordinary.

A
nd the next day, just as it was beginning to get dark,” Angelene read aloud, “he went to the tower and called out: Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair. The hair fell down, and the prince climbed up. At first Rapunzel was—terribly frightened—when a man such as she had never seen before came in to her. However, the prince began talking to her in a very friendly manner, telling her that his heart had been so—touched—by her singing that he could have no peace until he had seen her in person. Then Rapunzel lost her fear, and when he asked her if she would take him as her husband, she thought, ‘He would rather have me than would—Frau Gothel.’ She said yes and placed her hand into his . . .”

Angelene stopped reading and looked at Talmadge, who lay sleeping in the horsehair chair, his mouth hanging open, the newspaper collapsed on his lap. He had wanted her to read to him—What’s this book you’ve been toting around? If it’s so good, read me a bit of it—but he had become drowsy as soon as she had started reading, and then had fallen asleep.

She read a little further, quietly, to herself, and then after a minute got up from the floor, where she had been cuddled in a nest of cushions and blankets, and went to the small mirror over the basin, and looked at herself. The long face, the dark eyebrows, the careful, pensive mouth. Who was she? she thought. Was she beautiful? Was she strong?

I
t took Della two days to travel down the mountain. The day after that she reached the town where the boss for the outfit she had recently abandoned lived. She did not know what she was going to say to him, but when she reached the building she stood outside the door, on the platform, with the sun beating down on her head. As she hesitated outside, a man walked out of the office and passed her and then a moment later he looked at her again and his face changed. She also had turned to look at him, but then quickly turned forward. It was one of the men she had been traveling with, but he was washed and clean-shaven and she had not recognized him right away. His face was twisting itself in an effort to accuse her.

But she had begun to walk down the street, quickly.

She would not be able to land a job working in an outfit easily after that, and so she decided to head westward, where she had heard there was a call for women working in canning factories along the coast.

But she was hungry and could not make it to the coast without money in her pocket. She debated whether to sell her horse, but decided not to. What was she, without her horse? She got a job picking cherries instead, in the Yakima Valley, to tide her over. She was hired easily, along with other workers and local townspeople, and when one orchard was finished she was hired on at another. She saw many of the same people among jobs. She saw, even, some of the men, here and there, who traveled with Clee, who had worked at times in the orchard up in Peshastin. They did not say anything to each other, however, but their eyes met once or twice through the foliage.

W
hen Angelene stayed with Caroline Middey, she was expected to help with the chores the same way she was expected to in the orchard. There were chores she performed at Caroline Middey’s that were the same as those in the orchard, and there were those that were distinct. Because of the relationship Angelene had with Talmadge, and with Caroline Middey—each relationship was unique and yet at the same time shared many qualities—there was never any chiding involved, or threats, or even raised voices. Angelene did as she was asked, and although at times she was distracted and perhaps sloppy, she did not resent her chores, she was mostly eager to perform them, and had no argument with what was expected of her. That was why it was surprising when one morning, after Caroline Middey had worked several hours outdoors in her garden, waiting for Angelene, who did not arrive, the older woman found the girl indoors, still in bed.

When Caroline Middey opened the door to the bedroom, the girl burrowed under the covers.

What’s this? said Caroline Middey. There was a silence, and then the girl said, in a voice high with apology: I think I’ll just stay in bed today, if that’s all right. I mean—I’ll be staying here for a bit, is all. I’m just going to stay here—

What’s wrong? Are you sick?

No—

Come out from under there, I can’t hear you.

The girl hesitated, and then came out slowly. And burst into tears.

What’s wrong?

I don’t know. Nothing. I just don’t want to do anything today, I just want to lie here for a bit, I have to think—

Caroline Middey stood looking at her.

Angelene soon went back under the covers. She heard Caroline Middey leave the room, and thought that was the end of it. She, Caroline Middey, would go work in the garden, and Angelene would either be pulled out there by guilt, or she would manage to remain in bed for however long she wanted—but how long was that? How was she ever going to think properly, this way, if she was guilty? But one thing was certain: it was too late for Talmadge not to hear about it. With this, she was filled with dread and shame, and burrowed deeper beneath the covers.

But Caroline Middey did not go out into the garden. She came back into the room several minutes later, hatless and shoeless, changed into her housedress. She carried toast on a plate, and coffee.

Scoot over, she said, and Angelene, who had come out from under the covers again, moved over, and Caroline Middey got into the bed beside her. The mattress creaked.

Angelene accepted the toast and coffee, bashfully. Caroline Middey ate as well, the blankets pulled over her lap. She chewed thoughtfully, glancing out the high window. The ivy out there had to be trimmed.

Now, what’s this about?

Angelene’s mouth trembled, and she had to replace the toast on the plate. She looked gravely down at her lap.

I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.

What’s that?

I said I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.

About what?

About—my life.

There was silence. Caroline Middey continued to eat.

I don’t know why I go to school, said Angelene, doubtful.

Caroline Middey nodded once, to encourage her to keep speaking.

All we do, said Angelene, it seems like—here she became nervous—me and you and Talmadge, all we do is the same thing all the time, and nothing changes, and you have to do it every day, and I just—I mean, why do we do it? I’m not saying I don’t like to do it, because I do, but, I mean,
why
—even the learning, and even doing anything, I mean, I was just thinking about it—

But that’s where she stopped. She didn’t know how to continue. She was going to cry again. This speech was not at all what she wanted to say, but she hoped that Caroline Middey would see through it, or know what she really meant.

Caroline Middey, after a long pause, so long in fact that Angelene thought she was not going to answer her at all, sighed and patted the quilt under which lay Angelene’s hand.

My dear, she said. There is one thing I want to tell you, and I hope you carry it with you to the end of your days.

Angelene felt her body dissolve in anticipation. This is what she wanted, finally: someone to give her
the answer
.

No matter how bad you feel, said Caroline Middey, glancing at the girl now, or how bad you think your situation is, there is always somebody else who is feeling worse than you are, who is in worse shape. And so you should never, ever complain. Never.

And then she sighed again, and patted Angelene’s hand over the covers, and wiped some toast crumbs from her chest onto the plate, and got out of bed. She said, without looking at Angelene, You stay in here as long as you want. I’m not going to tell you what to do. You’re a growing girl, you’re getting big. You get your thinking out of the way, or whatever you like, whatever you have to do. I’ll be outside.

After she was gone, Angelene lay on her belly and cried silently and hotly into the pillow and then got up and washed her face in the basin, and dressed. She joined Caroline Middey in the garden and the older woman accepted her without pomp, told her to watch the radishes, they were tough, and she had damaged one already because she did not understand how they were growing. Angelene nodded and listened to her. Very soon the feeling she had woken to—the dread of existence—wore away under the work, and she felt fine. Better than fine—she was relieved, refreshed, although she would have told no one that, not even Caroline Middey, who laid a hand on her shoulder, gently, as she passed to inspect the lettuce farther down the row.