The Orchardist (30 page)

Though Angelene told herself at the time that she did not care about Della, it was amazing how often she found herself caught in these fantasies, these daydreams: Della coming back to find Angelene alone in the orchard, and falling under Angelene’s casual, but powerful, hospitality.

She thought that besides the actual fruit of her labor, she would share with her also—she would give her—those hours spent alone in the quiet, in the resplendent light of the outer orchard, among the half-dug-up plants and roots lying wrapped in wet newspaper, Angelene kneeling, digging in the soil. Angelene would give Della the hours of clement weather, the odors of the earth and sun and pine, and the freedom that comes from knowing you are the only human for miles, and the freedom to sing, to talk to yourself, to laugh, and of course, if need be—but there was hardly ever need for this—to cry.

T
almadge and Angelene set out from the orchard before dawn, and reached the market by midmorning. The air was cool with pockets of cold, smelled of alfalfa. It was April; the season was changing.

They unpacked fruit—now mostly apples from deep storage—alongside the other vendors, arranged it in bins on tables they kept stored in the warehouse by the river. Afterward they took out their folding chairs, settled within them.

For dinner they ate egg sandwiches Talmadge had packed that morning, and then Angelene went to the man who sold pickles and bought a pickle for each of them. After dinner, when it became slow again, Talmadge dozed upright in his chair, and when the customers came, they spoke to Angelene in a whisper. When Talmadge woke, it was late afternoon.

Angelene retrieved their market mugs and said she was going to the coffee stall. When she returned, she said that Caroline Middey had invited them to supper, and also to spend the night, because it looked like rain.

Talmadge peered at the end of the marketplace, at the sky. Boisterous blue, and cloudless. It did not seem like rain at all.

That’s what I said, said Angelene. But she said it would probably rain. She does know things.

She does, he said, and Angelene went off again, to tell Caroline Middey that they would accept her invitation.

When the market was nearly over—it was almost four o’clock—and several of the vendors were already packing up their stalls, Talmadge saw the Judge coming toward them through the crowd. As he neared them he took off his hat, looked down at the fruit with a puzzled expression, from—what was it?—a kind of embarrassment.

What do we have here, said the Judge. Look at this fine fruit.

He had something he wanted to say, Talmadge saw; he had come about something in particular. The Judge glanced at Talmadge and then, frowning, looked down at the fruit again.

Talmadge told Angelene to start packing up the wagon; he would be right back, he was going to talk to the Judge for a moment.

He and the Judge walked out of the market, into the open air. They began to cross the field, in the direction of the river.

What is it? said Talmadge.

It’s about Della.

Talmadge wanted to ask what he had found out, but said nothing at first. He understood that he did not want to ask anything because he did not want to know if Della was dead. And yet by the Judge’s demeanor it was now a possibility. But he would not ask it; suddenly he did not want to know.

The Judge stopped walking.

Is this something you want to talk about here? I was going to ask you and Angelene to come to supper this evening—

Talmadge asked the Judge to wait for him. He walked back to the market, to Angelene, who was putting away the fruit. She looked at him, amused at first, and then the smile faded from her face. She asked him if everything was all right. He told her that everything was fine, he just needed to talk to the Judge about something. She was unconvinced, he could see; but when he asked her if she would mind loading the wagon by herself and transporting everything to Caroline Middey’s—he would meet her there later—he could see that despite her worry she was pleased, satisfied, that he would ask her to do something independently. She said that she would do it.

He returned to the Judge, who waited for him in the field. By unspoken agreement they set off again toward the river.

I got word, said the Judge. She’s up in a jail, in Chelan.

Talmadge was so relieved she was not dead that what the Judge said failed at first to touch him. They could see the water now. The colorless grass pressed flat against the sandbank. The odor of the river and the thawing ground reached his face; he inhaled deeply.

I don’t know all the details, said the Judge. I just heard from a jail warden up there that a woman by her name is incarcerated there. Talmadge, he said, after a pause. She turned herself in, about a month ago. She said she—killed somebody. A man up around Seattle way. At a lumber camp.

Talmadge stopped walking. The water was loud in his ears, and the sun bright on the field illuminated all the hidden and variegated patterns. No, she could not have killed somebody. That was not right. But the Judge had said it, and the girl had turned herself in. She could have taken a bad turn, she had made bad turns in his imagination these years she was gone, but nothing like this. Nothing short of killing her own self was as bad as this. She had killed somebody. He should not have stopped walking; with a lack of movement his thoughts overwhelmed him. He started forward again; the Judge followed.

Killed somebody? said Talmadge. If it was a man, he thought, and she was just protecting herself—

It’s unclear, said the Judge. That’s the strange part—she’s claiming she killed someone, but there’s no proof of it. Or not yet. She might have simply injured the man. The authorities are—investigating it.

You don’t know if she killed someone or not? said Talmadge, incredulous. She
might
have injured him? Then: What’s all this about? He was surprised to hear anger in his voice.

The Judge shook his head. Seems like she was working out at a lumber camp, and got to roughhousing one night with the men, they were all playing cards, and—they were drinking as well—this man accused her of cheating, apparently, and she got upset and stabbed him with a broken bottle—

Talmadge looked at the river. He did not want to think of the broken bottle. He did not want to think of her playing cards, being near such men. But hadn’t he allowed it? What had he done? What had he ever been thinking?

He turned to the Judge.

Is she all right? I mean—

After a silence, the Judge said, I believe she is fine, Talmadge, physically speaking. They say she appears in her right mind—

Her right mind, thought Talmadge. But what did that mean?

He regarded the Judge, who had politely averted his eyes, was watching the river.

You want to come to Caroline Middey’s for supper? said Talmadge, after a silence. She wouldn’t mind having you, I’m sure. We could—talk more.

The Judge shook his head. My sister’s expecting me. Talmadge—

They regarded each other warily.

I’m sorry, said the Judge.

Talmadge, looking away at the ground, his mind full of incoherent, distracted thought, nodded.

As they started back across the field, Talmadge felt the new knowledge inside him: the girl was in jail. He felt as if they walked at an incline, though they did not; there was a dull ache at his sternum that could have been grief. He tugged his hat brim to hide his increasing anxiety.

How long has she been—

At this jail? Only a month or so.

A silence passed.

How much longer does she have?

It depends on what they find out, said the Judge. They’re keeping her at the jail for the time being.

If there wasn’t proof of any wrongdoing, Talmadge thought, then wasn’t that illegal? He said: Can they do that?

The Judge shrugged. It seems she prefers it that way—

Talmadge took off his hat and slapped his thigh with it. She prefers it that way? How could anybody prefer it that way? After a minute, he replaced his hat on his head, said: I appreciate you finding this out for me—

It’s not a problem, said the Judge. I just wish I had better news.

T
hat night, after Angelene had gone to bed, Talmadge told Caroline Middey what the Judge had said about Della. They sat on the porch, despite the cold, blankets over their laps. Caroline Middey had brought out her knitting, but as soon as he started telling her about it she left the long needles and heap of yarn in her lap and rocked in the chair, staring out at the dark.

Lord have mercy, she said. Prison? Prison?

Jail, he corrected. Not prison.

Caroline Middey shook her head.

I would never have thought it, she said. Then: What are you going to do?

There had never been a question about what he was going to do.

I’m going to see her, he said.

A
s he was drifting to sleep he thought of his will and testament. It had only seemed natural, before, to leave everything to Angelene. But now the situation was different. Wasn’t it? Logic born of anxiety entered his half-conscious mind: Della was in jail—and would likely go to prison—because
she did not belong anywhere
. His naming her as heir to the land would tie her to a place in the world. Criminals by and large were vagrants, drifters (weren’t they?): they certainly did not own land. Della was different from them; he would make her different. As a legal landowner, she would come back to that place that claimed her. Her tie to the land would be official, it would be written down—

And, he thought, she would be responsible for Angelene. Blood and law. That was important, that would be written down too—

A
ngelene sat at the large, ornate dining room table in the Marsden house. Talmadge and the Judge were in the study. The Judge’s sister, Meredith, entered the room with a tray of coffee and shortbread, and said, smiling at Angelene, You look very nice, dear. And Angelene said, bowing her head modestly, Thank you. Talmadge had wanted her to wear her nice gingham dress, and her straw hat with the ribbon. Her special shoes. Stockings, even. She did not know why. He would tell her when he was ready. He was thinking about something else all the way to town, and did not speak much to her. What’s wrong? she asked him once, and he said that nothing was wrong. He just had to go see the Judge about some business.

Finally the men came out of the study and entered the dining room.

I’ll make more coffee, said Meredith, rising from her chair.

Oh, Meredith, that won’t be necessary. Will you bring the port?

The port?

Yes.

She left the room and returned with a bottle and a tray of glasses, and the Judge poured the alcohol, and when the glasses were passed around, Angelene was included. She glanced at Talmadge, who nodded at her to tell her it was all right.

To our health, said the Judge, and they all drank.

In the wagon on the way home, she knelt up against the back of his seat, her face pressed against his shoulder.

What was that? she said.

What was what?

What happened back there—with you and the Judge. We drank that—port.

I made my will and testament, he said.

She said, Why?—even though she knew what a will and testament was. But she was suddenly embarrassed, and afraid.

Again he hesitated.

It’s so that the land will go to you and to Della, if something happens.

She was as struck by the mention of Della’s name as much as anything. But she forced herself to ask, though she only partly wanted to know: What do you mean, if something happens?

The wagon creaked along in its tracks. She had her arms around his neck. They both stared ahead at the road, the ash and clay mildly glittering.

If I should die, he said.