The Orchardist (29 page)

Of course Caroline Middey had no proof he would have gone to these extremes. He most likely would have given in to more of his whims of tracking her if Angelene hadn’t been there living with him. With Angelene there, growing up, watchful, inquisitive, he knew he must remain in the orchard. She was his anchor in the orchard, physically at least.

And there was also the influence of herself, Caroline Middey, to take into account. She told him—almost always when she was asked—when he was acting a fool, and overlooking something more important that was at his feet. Pay attention, she liked to say. You wish she was here? Well, she isn’t. She has to come of her own account. Another thing she said often: She knows where you live.

But there was only so much he could take, so many times that he did not go look for her. Even though Caroline Middey told him he was doing the right thing, and there was Angelene, the physical proof of her in the orchard, her working and healthy body, her beauty and intelligence—even though that was in front of him, he always kept a part of himself separate, a space for Della to come and fill. Not only a few times, but every time he did not give in to his urge to go look for her, he resented the moment that came in its place. Even if the moment was beautiful and was something he valued, and made him who he was. He could not help but also long for that other life in which he lived with Della, even if she abused him.

IV

T
he legal counsel of Cashmere was a man they called the Judge, though he was not in fact a judge. His name was Emil Marsden, and it was his father who had once been a judge. The father had come from the East with his wife and two children, who were babies at the time, and built a mansion on the outskirts of town. When he was a young man, Emil returned to the East to study law, like his father. When he learned that his father was ill, he traveled back to Cashmere to live in the house with his sister, Meredith, and father until his father died. (His mother had died a decade before, of a bad heart.) The father’s illness was protracted, and by the time he died, Emil had already begun to assist the townspeople with their various legal problems, which mostly had to do with the land. He had not yet attained his degree, but this mattered little to the townspeople. He left again for university, returned two years later, having finished what he needed to, and set up a practice. The townspeople accepted him as if he had never left.

He was impressive-looking—tall, dark-haired, with a great bristling mustache—and also soft-spoken, not given to speeches; for this reason Talmadge did not dislike him, was willing to seek out his assistance.

Talmadge and the Judge had been acquainted since the Judge was a boy, when Talmadge sought his father’s advice about the occasional land dispute. To call it a dispute was an exaggeration. Talmadge had questions about the land, about the exact perimeter of his property. Once in a while—twice a decade, maybe—a man came around who was interested in knowing just how far Talmadge’s claim reached. It was a railroad man, or a surveyor marking new plots. You own this land right here, they said, with your orchards and such, but how far into the woods there? How far up the ridge? Talmadge was unsure of the exact perimeter, since storms and the passage of time destroyed the old markers such as trees and basins, and certain fields shrank or grew haphazardly—and these men were interested in exact measurements, not satisfied with approximations. Talmadge was annoyed with these men, but when they persisted he was forced to go to town and consult the Judge: at first Emil’s father, and then, after a time, Emil. The old claim would be pulled from its folder, the boundary markers—or what constituted boundary markers—reviewed, and Talmadge would carry the information back to the orchard, holding the terms carefully in his head, so that if the men were to come back the next day and question him—and they most always came back—he could verify what was legally his land.

The Judge stood up behind his desk when Talmadge was shown in by Meredith, the Judge’s sister, who quickly left them alone. The study was wide and spacious, dim and cool. Smelled, faintly, of books. The room was lined with dark shelves. Cherry. The single window looked out onto a flowering plum tree in the yard.

The Judge asked him to sit down, and Talmadge sat in the horsehair chair before the desk. They exchanged formalities: the Judge asked after Angelene and himself, Talmadge. And how was the Judge? The Judge was fine. It was a week of fair weather, was it not? And to think that some folks were predicting rain. Not a cloud in the sky as far as either man could see. But weather was tricky like that. Not that rain would be bad. They could use it, in fact. Rain would be welcome. The Judge asked after Talmadge’s trees. They were doing well, said Talmadge, though the winter had been hard. Getting ready for bud break, are you? We are, he said, yes, soon. After a few moments of silence the Judge asked what it was that he could help Talmadge with.

When Talmadge told him that he was interested in composing his will and testament, the Judge nodded. If he was surprised at the request, he did not show it. He drew forward a pad of paper, took a pen from its brass holder. A brief silence followed, and then Talmadge said there wouldn’t be much to write, it was simple: he would leave everything to Angelene.

Two weeks before, he had fallen from a tree. Sprained his ankle and wrist. Angelene had trussed the ankle as best she could, and then went off to fetch Caroline Middey. Caroline Middey had inspected his joints, which were, she said, not the real problem. A minute before, she had listened to his heart and lungs with a stethoscope, and asked him about dizziness and vertigo.

You must not overly exert yourself, she said. Do you hear me? If you need the extra help, I’m sure you could ask one of the men to stay out here with you—

He hadn’t answered her.

And you best go see the Judge about your will and testament, if you haven’t. Go and see him, Talmadge.

He was amazed at the way she told him what to do. After the initial surprise at what she said, he found that it didn’t offend him. No one else could talk to him like that without his bristling. In fact, he was relieved at her advice. She would always tell him exactly what she thought, and what she thought, he knew, was sound.

Now, in the Judge’s study, the Judge laid down his pen. Of course, he said. Then: There is the matter of your possessions. I have to write it all down, to draw up a formal letter. There’s the land, of course. I can get the information from your claim, that won’t be difficult. But then there is the cabin and— The Judge hesitated. He saw Talmadge wanted to say something. What is it?

Talmadge was silent for a long time. He was looking out the window.

I’d like to find that girl, he said finally. Della.

The Judge leaned back in his chair. Della, he said. Do you mean—

The girl’s kin, said Talmadge. She used to live out there with us.

I remember, said the Judge. Then: How long has she been gone now?

Talmadge was silent.

Going on nine years now.

The Judge nodded again.

And you want me to help you locate her?

Yes—

Talmadge wanted the Judge to know that he didn’t want the girl to be located so she could be brought back to him (whether or not this was true was for him to decide later); he didn’t want to disturb her now if she had found somewhere else she wanted to be. It wasn’t even necessary that Della know that he was looking for her. He, Talmadge, just wanted to know that she was all right, that she had not come to any harm. If anything else, it would set his mind at ease; he could not rest—if he thought about it in different terms, he could not “die peacefully”—knowing that she was in trouble somewhere. But then a thought occurred to him: And what if she was? What if she was miserable? What if she was dead? What would he do then?

The Judge asked Della’s full name, the last place she was seen, her age, identifying features, any other information that might be useful to him. Talmadge answered the questions to the best of his ability.

I’ll see what I can do, said the Judge. He made notes on the pad, and for a moment there was just the sound of the pen scratching the paper. Talmadge looked out the window, at the plum tree, at the light on the grass.

Then the Judge said, looking up from his notes: Is this in relation to the will? I mean, if you find her, does it make a difference?

Talmadge hesitated—the thought had occurred to him, to include Della in the will—but he said it did not make a difference.

The Judge nodded. Of course, he said. I’ll see what I can do. Then, pushing the pad away a few inches: Even if you do decide to change the will, you can always change it back later—

It won’t change, said Talmadge.

C
aroline Middey, though she held firm in her belief over the years that Talmadge should not go hunting Della, did not like to see the consequences of Talmadge’s taking her advice.

Who knows if things would have been worse if he had gone looking for her? There is no one to tell us what would have happened if he tracked her down and persuaded her to come back to the orchard, or, if she refused, if Talmadge, his curiosity satisfied, would have come back to the orchard with a different perspective. He did not go after her himself, but those months after he fell out of the tree, though his physical wounds more or less healed—though he walked with a slight limp afterward—a kind of vacancy, a silence, hung around him, like a mantle on his shoulders.

Am I responsible for that? Did I do that? Caroline Middey wondered at times. But then she always came back to the same answer: Life had done it, not her, Caroline Middey. But wasn’t she a part of life? Should she have known better? There were no answers to these questions.

I
f Della had visited Angelene’s own plot in the outer orchard at that time, she would have seen what had captured the girl’s interest, what had caught her eye, at the Malaga fair the previous year. With each successive trip, the plant sale became more interesting to her. When she knew she was looking for a plant for her very own garden—what would suit the area in the bed between the asparagus and lettuce, for example?—her interest became singular and almost obsessive. What a delicious feeling to walk through the fair with her own bag upon her arm, driven by her own purpose. Here are my pumpkins, Angelene would have said to Della, if Della came through in the fall. Angelene probably would have left at least one on the vine, a particularly large and beautiful one, if she knew Della was going to see it.

Or, in the summer: Here are the strawberries—brushing aside the soft leaves with her hand to reveal the cluster of small red fruit beneath—and of course you may try one, Angelene would tell her, and Della would lean and reach her hand inside, pick one off the stem, put it into her mouth. Please let it not be sour, let it have had enough time in the sun to be sweet on her tongue. Here are the fig trees—not quite ripe, but you can see the general shape of the fruit, quite weird, don’t you think?—and the apples—I am working on those, Angelene would say—and the cherries; yes, let’s pick some now, and I’ll make a cobbler for you, for all of us, to eat with our supper. There is cream in the cold pantry, I was going to churn it into butter, but now I won’t, now it will go on the fruit, I will spoon it onto the hot fruit and biscuits—