The Orchardist (32 page)

T
he drive was easy, the roads fine. Although, he noted, even an easy trip now was not as easy as it once was. Discomfort roused in his joints and spread. The first day he drove too far without stopping to rest, and he was overly stiff that night as he prepared his fire. After he ate, he got into the back of the wagon to sleep. The smell of the blankets—the outdoor blankets, his mother used to call them, used for overnight trips—made him remember earlier times, times he could no longer recall clearly.

In the morning—tired, disoriented—he went down to the water and washed his face. His head spun slightly. The day was very bright.

As the wheels creaked along in the wagon tracks, his thoughts turned to what lay ahead. The girl in the jail. And what would she be like now? She was a girl when he had last seen her, but now she was a proper woman. She had turned herself in, he remembered: and so maybe she had had a conversion of sorts. Not a religious conversion, but a change of heart and mind: she had done something wrong, she had committed a crime, but she wanted to take responsibility for it. That was something. And, he thought—the wagon shivering and sighing in the tracks—maybe the girl was guilty about an event, an action, that was not her fault.

He would determine what had happened, and help her. Either way—whether she was guilty or not—he would help her.

A
nd then one day the dough-faced guard led her out into the yard when the men were coming back in. There was a sort of construction project going on in the building that prevented her from going out into the yard earlier, at her usual time. Instead of leading the men indoors and seeing they were locked into their cells and then taking her outdoors, the dough-faced guard led her out and then made her stand and wait as the men filed past her.

The next day, when they passed her again, she had a blade fashioned from a stick hidden inside her jacket sleeve. But when the time came, when Michaelson passed by her, a little more than an arm’s length away, she did nothing; she simply watched him. Her heart racing. She wanted him to recognize her, but he did not.

A
nd then she thought, it did not matter if he recognized her or not. The next day, waiting for the men to file inside, when he passed by her, she struck him with the sharpened stick.

But something funny happened. Instead of going for his neck or his face like she should have done and like she meant to, at the last moment she dropped her hand, barely grazed his side. The weapon was short and made for superficial wounding, except if one was going for the neck, where one could press down into the flesh to get at the vein. But at the last moment it was as if she had become bashful, or worse, lost courage. And he grabbed his side and grimaced but did not even so much as look at her. He pushed her aside as if she were a fly. Swatted her away, groaned. And then the other men were on her, trying to get the stick away. Someone hit her in the eye. Her own weapon scraped her knuckles. The guard hurriedly led Michaelson away.

He’s already suffering! somebody shouted. What are you doing?

I
n Chelan Talmadge inquired of the first passerby who looked at him about the location of the courthouse. He traveled to it, and sat in the wagon looking at the building in which Della was housed. It was smaller than he thought it would be, though it was properly official-looking, and well made of pale granite and stone. A great lawn spread on either side of the wide staircase leading up from the sidewalk. Automobiles lined up along the street before it. There were only two horse-drawn wagons that he could see.

He found stables nearby, and a boardinghouse. Inside his room on the second floor he washed, using a porcelain basin of water the landlady brought him, and combed his hair. He unrolled the suit he had wrapped in paper and twine, and dressed. Looked at his image in the dented mirrorglass above the basin, but could not quite make out his likeness. Downstairs he inquired of the landlady about a place to eat, and she directed him to a nearby café. He walked outside, taking in the air, which was different; full of the great cold expanse of the lake, which he could not see, and another, sharper odor of pine. And behind it all: dust. On the street the women who passed him were dressed in fine dresses; one who passed him now going the opposite direction wore a straw hat on her head, tied beneath her chin with a blue ribbon. She glanced at him openly with pale green eyes and then looked away.

After a meal of steak and eggs and coffee at the café, where he sat at a booth and looked out at the passersby, he walked down the street in the direction of the courthouse, to where he had seen a barber’s. He went in for a haircut and a shave. When the barber was finished, when he was dusting off the back of Talmadge’s neck with a large brush, Talmadge looked at himself in the mirror.

Don’t you like it? said the barber.

I like it fine, said Talmadge. In fact he was moved by his own image. He did not know the last time his face had been so naked. He was not handsome—he had never been that—but the sharp razor had revealed to him his flesh sagging in folds—around his eyes, mouth, under his chin—and there were the smallpox scars, the pitting, from when he was a child. He was, frankly, uncovered. The only thing he recognized in that face were his eyes, which were the old cornflower blue—that had not changed—and looked out at him like some startled animal.

It occurred to him that he was acting like a boy going to call on his sweetheart, going to the barber’s like that. He, who was far too old for such things. He had wondered if he was going too far. But now he saw his reflection and told himself that things were as they should be. He was old, but taking pains. He had been traveling, and she hadn’t seen him in a long time. It was only normal that he should take pains.

She had suffered to be in this position, he reminded himself—but did he ever have to remind himself of this?—walking up the courthouse steps.

The inside of the courthouse smelled faintly of gasoline. The sound of his boots echoed down the long corridor. In an office on one side of a wide staircase, he inquired after the jail warden.

A young man with spectacles who worked behind the counter told him the warden was not there, but was expected in the afternoon. Talmadge could either come back later or wait for him. Talmadge asked how long the warden was going to be. The young man shrugged. An hour, maybe two hours, he said. Talmadge was more than welcome to wait outside on the bench, if he would like.

Talmadge settled on the bench outside the door, took off his hat, and put it on his knee. He waited like that for about an hour and then rose and walked the length of the courthouse, looking at the large portraits of the important men—judges?—on the walls. And then he returned to the bench, sat down again. After another half hour had passed, he stepped again into the office. The young man looked up at him, surprised. Talmadge asked if he thought the warden was still coming. The young man hesitated, said he was most likely coming, because he had business there that afternoon. But then the young man faltered, looked away; and Talmadge knew he had forgotten about him waiting outside.

Talmadge returned to the bench. Not long afterward the young man came out and asked him what it was he was there for exactly. Maybe I can help you, he said.

I’m here to see Della Michaelson.

The man’s expression changed only slightly, but Talmadge understood that he knew who he was talking about. The young man excused himself, telling Talmadge he would be right back. He was gone for maybe ten minutes, and when he returned, Talmadge stood. The young man said that Della could not receive visitors today. He was not at liberty to discuss the details, but she had been involved in an altercation earlier that week and been put in solitary confinement.

The young man, after he said this, stood silently before Talmadge, trying not to let his embarrassment or awkwardness overcome him.

Talmadge stood still and did not say anything. That word—“altercation”—alarmed him. He wanted to step forward and place his hands on the young man’s shoulders—how old was he? Twenty? Twenty-five?—and make him explain. What do you mean, “altercation”? But he did no such thing. Instead he said:

An altercation, you say? In jail?

Yes, sir.

Can they have altercations in jail?

Oh, yes, sir. The young man, in fact, looked as if he were sorry about it; winced.

Talmadge hesitated. She’s all right, isn’t she?

Yes, said the young man, and paused. I believe she’s all right—

Talmadge waited for him to continue, to elaborate, for it seemed he might go on. But the young man blushed, shook his head once to indicate he was done speaking.

Talmadge said: She’s a good girl, I don’t know why—

But he didn’t continue. His voice even to his ears was unconvincing. He stared at the wall behind the young man, which was covered with gray wallpaper.

She’s a good girl? said Talmadge. This is the first time something like this has happened, here?

The young man hesitated.

I can’t rightly say, sir. You’ll have to speak to the warden about that. It’s all in her file. I’m not at liberty—

Talmadge was nodding, absently.

The young man, though momentarily defensive, was sorry for Talmadge, Talmadge could see that. It was no use pressing him for information, or trying to persuade him to let Talmadge in to see Della. This boy didn’t have it in him to break the rules—Talmadge could see that clearly—and he, Talmadge, wasn’t going to make him feel bad about it.

You can keep waiting, said the young man, or you can come back tomorrow. I’m sorry I can’t be any more help.

I can’t come tomorrow, said Talmadge. I have to be getting back.

The young man looked pained. I’m sorry, he said.

T
almadge wondered, walking down the street to the boardinghouse, blind now to the novelty of the place, the details that had captured his attention just hours before, what it was, exactly, that Della’s file contained. Was it everything that they knew about her since the beginning of her incarceration, or did it contain other information as well? Did they know, for instance, anything about her past? Had she told them anything about herself? Talmadge wondered if, alongside all of the information about her, there was a list of names of the people who would be willing to help her in the case that she was released. A list of people who would vouch for her. Surely, he thought, such a list—himself, Caroline Middey, the Judge, Clee, Angelene—would make a difference. He made a note to talk to the warden, and the Judge, about it.

H
e slept through supper that evening at the boardinghouse, and when he woke, around ten o’clock at night, he dressed and went downstairs. The house was quiet. Several lamps were lit in the sitting room, and under one of them, in a chair in the corner, the landlady sat, knitting. She looked up at him as he paused in the doorway.

There’s a plate for you in the oven, she said. I didn’t want to disturb you. She looked down at her knitting, which she had not interrupted. When he continued to stand there, she stopped all at once, put the knitting aside, and stood.

That’s all right, said Talmadge. I can help myself to something to eat, if—

It’s not a problem—

He followed her down the dark hallway. In the kitchen she lit a lantern and told him to sit. He sat at a table near the window from where he could see the lake. She took a plate from the warming oven and set it before him. It was mashed potatoes and gravy, roast chicken, green beans.

Can I get you something to drink?

Thank you, I can help myself to some water, if you—

Water? It’s water you want? Wouldn’t you rather have some milk?

Well, I—

She brought him a glass of milk and then left him alone. He ate the food, looked out at the lake and the trees, listened to the stove ticking.

W
hen he finished eating, he found the landlady again, sitting in her orb of light, knitting. She looked up at him.

Did you get enough to eat?

Yes, thank you.

Is there something else? You have enough blankets up there to suit you?

When he didn’t answer, she stopped knitting and put the yarn aside and asked him if he would like to sit.

Again he hesitated.

I have to ask a favor—

She regarded him.

Do you think—would you mind taking dictation for a letter?

There was only the slightest of hesitations, from surprise, before she answered.

Of course—

And she got up to get a piece of paper.