Poison Apples (17 page)

And there was food—the men had spent what seemed a small fortune in the Grand Union and in the natural foods co-op. She’d given them the whole day off—in spite of Rufus’s disapproval. Nothing, even death, must stop work, the latter’s face had warned. They were already behind schedule and the Jamaicans were due to leave in two weeks. But she ignored him; the shopping trip took three hours. Every last bit of seasoning or exotic fruit had to be found. There was fruitcake, made in her own kitchen because the men needed two stoves going at the same time. It was a moist, dark, rich treat filled with tiny soft fruits and raisins. There were plantain tarts, bread pudding, and sweet potato pudding. There was salted codfish, pepperpot stew, and peppered shrimp—Moira couldn’t eat it for the spicy seasoning. There was a drink made of soursop and lime juice, pineapple and orange—as far as she could identify. And Tia Marias, the delicious coffee liqueur she’d always had a fondness for.

The feast would go on all night, she feared, and then what would happen at eight o’clock Tuesday morning when the pickers were due at work? Rufus would be beside himself!
She
would go to bed, at least: She was learning to pick apples. Derek had given her lessons, grinning at her acrophobia up on the ladder, but patiently teaching her how to pick: how to leave the stem after picking, so that the apple would not dry out; how to take it with all the fingers and not just the fingertips, lifting the apple upward, then turning the hand slightly as you lift. She rehearsed it in her mind. How to break the stem from the fruiting spur without pulling the stem. There was so much to learn! And she was determined to keep the orchard going in Stan’s absence. She’d never be able to take Bartholomew’s place; like the other pickers, he was swift, easy, graceful. But she’d try. And she’d teach Opal, too, she would! The girl had to pull her weight around here. The orchard was in crisis....

Opal passed by as Moira returned to the house, ready for bed without even a bath—she didn’t have the energy for it. The girl had her guitar, lured, most likely, by the sound of the music in the bunkhouse. She stood in the open doorway of the bunkhouse, a little shy, perhaps, or maybe afraid to go in to a place where a death had so recently occurred. Or maybe unwilling to let go of her prejudice. Moira felt sorry for her—but it was hard to feel sorry. The girl had done everything she could to make things difficult for her aunt and uncle: deliberately leaving her bed unmade, refusing to eat the food Moira served her. . . Opal was a fast-food, Pepsi-Cola addict—a product of the “modern world.” And how depressing for the modern world!

At the path into the lower orchard Moira paused, suddenly needing to take a walk in the chill evening air; she veered into it. The orchard was lovely and quiet down here, only the thin sounds of drum and guitar drifting rhythmically through the trees. It was a cold late September night, partially lit by a crescent moon; the apples hung on the trees like dark shiny balls. If she picked one, a fairy might pop out and grant her three wishes.

What would she wish for then? She considered. Carol back and alive in their lives? No, that was impossible, she must choose her wishes carefully, practically. First of all, she wanted Stan well and hopeful—yes, that was the priority. Next, their world back in order again, the evil in the orchard banished—only Jamaicans crooning in the trees, and bins full of ripe red apples to take to the Shoreham Co-op. And the third wish? What? Well, her brother-in-law, Lindley, out of the hospital and in good health, and Opal back with her parents and Moira at her loom, weaving good and beautiful thoughts into every piece. Peace. In her home and in Ireland, where her relatives still lived in Ballyvaughan; and peace everywhere in the world. How many wishes was that? At least a dozen! Moira the daydreamer.

She continued on down the path toward the Winesap apples. She couldn’t bear to think of some of them poisoned. They could still be—illegally—sold, Rolly Butterfield had told her that; the poison was inside the apples, it hardly showed in the skin. Last spring Stan had grafted Winesaps and Gravensteins onto Red Delicious, and they took. Imagine! Three kinds on a single tree. It was like grafting a Jewish nose onto a Chinese face onto a Caucasian body. There would have to be tolerance then, none of this prejudice that Opal had evidently been reared on. Moira would try it herself next spring—grafting Granny Smith onto Rose Beauty; Roxbury Russet onto Elstar. The names themselves were lovely: Spigold, Paula Red, Newton Pippin .. .

Now where was she? She’d made several turns among the trees, she was a bit disoriented. It was black now, the moon had gone under the clouds. Was anyone about who could orient her? She stopped, listened. Heard a crunching sound. Man or fox? She’d seen a gray fox only last week, dashing across the dirt road in front of the orchard. She held her breath. The sound came closer. She leaned into a tree, waited—nervous now, wanting to sneeze, holding it. It might be ... him. The one who’d sabotaged the orchard.

And then he came by, a dark figure—masked? She couldn’t tell. His head was down, he had something in his hands. What was it? Should she scream? But then—he might turn on her. She waited until he was gone, down the path; then she followed, quietly as she could; every twig and dry leaf on the path shouted out. But the trees were silent; they gave out no secrets.

She heard footsteps crunching along from another direction. It was a smaller person this time—a woman, a girl? What was everyone doing out in this dark night? Were they leaving the funeral feast? Or were these outsiders, persons not associated at all with the orchard?

Again she hid in the branches of a tree and waited. But the smaller figure had retreated, had seen her perhaps. When she got back to the fork in the path, it was Opal standing there, gazing up into the night sky. Had it been Opal, that second figure? Maybe so. Then who was the first?

Or was this simply her imagination? Was it some sort of assignation? Someone Opal was going to see—perhaps one of the Butterfield twins?—and Moira was about to spoil it.

The music had stopped, for the time being anyway; the men were eating, drinking, celebrating Bartholomew’s life—in their own way, of course. Food and music. Opal was only interested in the Jamaican music, not in the men.

“Opal,” she called, and the girl gave a cry of surprise. “I didn’t mean to frighten you. Have you been taking a walk? It’s a grand night. Cool but fragrant.”

“No,” the girl said. “I just came from the bunkhouse. They’ve stopped playing. They make too much noise in there anyway. The place smells. That man died in there! I’m going to bed. You said I have to help pick tomorrow. I don’t know how.”

“We’ll give you a lesson. And you’ll need your rest. I’m sure they’ll end the party early, though Derek tells me funerals sometimes last three days in Jamaica!” She rather liked the thought. Three days was not too long to celebrate a whole lifetime, was it?

Opal muttered something, ran on ahead, and Moira returned to the house, to her loom. The thought of a romantic tryst out there in the trees made her feel lonely. She needed to weave. She took up the shuttle. And gasped. Someone had pulled out a number of her threads, destroyed the pattern. Who in the world did this? She’d have to unravel the whole piece, begin all over again. She felt like Penelope, threading and unthreading the loom, discouraging the suitors, while she waited for her husband to come home. How alike they were, she and the ancient Greek, Penelope! Both with missing husbands. Except that Moira had no suitors, wished for none—heavens, no.

Opal was already pounding up the stairs; Moira took deep breaths to calm herself, and said nothing. The rethreading was wholly absorbing. Slowly a sense of relief stole over her. She couldn’t worry about the figure in the orchard—it might have been one of the local pickers, after all. This was the night for Bartholomew; she didn’t want to disturb the Jamaicans. In the morning she’d find out if someone had come to play another cruel trick on the orchard.

Red over gold, blue over mauve, warp over weft: This was her meditation, this was her way of coping. She’d finish the rethreading, and then she’d go to bed.

Chapter Thirty-five

Adam was late for their meeting in the toolshed, but it was all right; he’d been playing the guitar, he said, at Bartholomew’s wake. Or Emily guessed it was a wake—already the body had been shipped back to Jamaica. She was sorry, he’d seemed a kind man, a gentle one; he didn’t deserve to die. She couldn’t really believe all that about obeah, she told Adam. “I mean, how can somebody back in Jamaica, some jealous wife or somebody, put a spell on him up here in a Vermont orchard?”

“Unless it was somebody right here in this orchard.”

“No! I can’t believe that, either. It was awful, awful of someone to spray that poison!”

“Probably he—or she—didn’t know he had a weak heart,” Adam said thoughtfully. “Derek ate one, too, and he’s all right.”

“Derek is young and healthy,” she said. “It was still a cruel, irresponsible thing to do.”

Adam nodded, took a long drink out of the bottle of Chablis he’d brought along. “There are a lot of poison apples in the world,” he said, putting his arm around her. “But one day they’ll all be turned into vinegar.”

She smiled. Adam was clever with words. With music. With apple picking—he could pick almost as fast as the Jamaicans. He always looked gorgeous up there in the trees, his ponytail hanging down like a branch in blossom. She sipped her wine. It felt good, warm in the belly. It was Wilder Unsworth who’d introduced her to wine, her mother never let her touch it—her mother was so old-fashioned. But Wilder was probably making out with some female classmate this very minute. She didn’t trust Wilder anymore since he’d fooled around with a city girl back in high school. But Adam: There was a certain intensity about him, a spirit of questing, as though there was something important he had to do for himself and the world. She liked that. She felt she could trust him. It might even be called . .. love. Or its beginnings.

She leaned against his shoulder; she fit right into a hollow there between the bones. The stars popped out of a traveling cloud as she watched, as if they had her and Adam in mind.

“Are we really going to the Valley Fair next weekend?” she asked, and Adam murmured, “Hmmm?” And then, “Sure. You bet.” He leaned over and kissed her, on the mouth, a long loving luxurious kiss, while his hands wandered down over her breasts, down deep into her beltless jeans, into the moist V between her legs, and she felt as though any minute her groin would spill out sweet apple cider.

Chapter Thirty-six

R
uth had made an offer to help interrogate the pickers, so she felt she had to keep it—though she should be in three other places at once! There was Sharon’s baby girl, down with an ear infection that filled the house with screeches; there was Vic’s science fair—although it would go on through Saturday; there was a hearing in Montpelier of farmers wanting to ban the use of rBST, the synthetic hormone that would stimulate milk production in cows—unsafely, Ruth felt. It made her blood boil, in fact, to think of certain area farmers using the stuff and the FDA actually approving, in spite of health risks. And of course she should be in the barn—she couldn’t leave it all up to Tim. When she announced her departure for the orchard, he’d tipped his ranch hat and said, “Well, ma’am, you gotta make up your mind. Are you a farmer or a detective?”

Startled, she’d said, “Does a woman have to be just one thing?” and he’d laughed.

“No, ma’am. But far’s I can see, you’re ten women all at once,” and he began to tick off the jobs. She got out of there fast then, it was overwhelming to hear.

Moira had already interrogated Millie and then four of the seven remaining Jamaicans by the time she arrived, “and got nowhere. Though I’m probably asking the wrong questions, Ruth. I’m not much good at this. I mean, I don’t want them to think I’m suspicious, or accusing them of sabotaging the orchard. Lord! What’s the right thing to do, anyway?”

She was glad, glad, she said, that Ruth would take over. There were still three men to question, and then Rufus and the other local pickers to talk to. She’d leave out Emily, since the girl was wholly above suspicion. Ruth laughed and said, “I’m not so sure about that! But sabotage—no. Though she might have seen something. I’ll talk to her.”

Ruth began with the Butterfield twins, but they had little to say. Like the three monkeys, they had seen nothing, heard nothing, said nothing. “Although,” one of them said as they were leaving the barn—he stood there with his pail like a red-haired stork carrying a baby—”I did see Zayon—I’m pretty sure it was Zayon—go out late at night the time they found the maggots. He was headed down the path, I wondered what he was doing. The Jamaicans usually sleep tight. They’re bushed, I mean, like us. But he went out of sight, you know?”

“What were you doing out?” Ruth asked. “Why weren’t you asleep?”

And he laughed and blushed and said, “I had to go, well, relieve myself, you see, and my brother’d been on the toilet. He’d been eating too many apples, he had the runs. It was pretty bad, so I went out.”

“What time was that?”

“Oh, I dunno. Late. Midnight. Adam was asleep, I think, but you can ask him. For me it was a case of too much cider, I got weak kidneys. My mother says—”

“Thanks. Thanks, then, um, Rolly. I think it’s Rolly,” she said. The brothers grinned at each other, obviously delighted at being able to confuse people with their twinship, and trotted off.

Zayon, though, was upset when she told him what Rolly had said. He ran a nervous hand over his dreadlocks—not through, she noticed, they were stiff as brooms, a contrast to the soft-looking pointed beard. She wondered how he slept with them. And got her answer.

“I sleep lak bear,” he said. “I not to get up, I don’ know what he talk bout. Once though mebbe—”

“Once?” She shifted balance on the upturned apple bin where she was seated as magistrate; a pain shot through her kidneys. She was getting these strange aches in odd places—surely not arthritis at her age? The shoulder pain, though, undoubtedly came from lifting bales of hay.