The Orchardist (45 page)

No, she said, moving toward the bars now. With great effort. No, please, don’t—

I have to—

No, please, not yet, give me—another week, at least—

His eyes became hooded. Why? Why another week?

I just need another week.

A
s Talmadge exited the courthouse, Angelene drew to him from across the grass. When she reached him, gazing at him—shy, expectant—he could not bring himself to greet her. Silently they descended the stone steps, turned onto the street.

The air was clear and bright. The sky overhead a brilliant blue.

There were many people out. She again—but hesitantly this time—clasped his arm. The afternoon was expansive, the air was golden: it felt as if evening would never come. The women wore wraps around their shoulders or head, and some glanced at Talmadge and Angelene, curiously, as they passed. They passed a woman and her two children going the opposite direction, a boy and a girl, the woman putting her hand on the back of the boy’s skull to drive him toward the curb of the platform to avoid the pedestrians. The boy wore breeches that came down below his knees, and his hair was plastered around his brow and ears with pomade. They were headed somewhere important: a church service, perhaps, or a funeral. And sure enough, by the time Talmadge and Angelene reached the end of the street—the street continued down the hill in a series of steps and platforms to the lake—church bells pealed. A great gale of swallows erupted over the scaffolding over which they looked; a few crows flew silently; and there was the lake out before them, green-blue and sparkling under the sun. They stood at the south end; the northern end was away into the canyon fifty-five miles. They began to make their way down the steps to the lake. His legs shook, which embarrassed him. Angelene held on to his arm.

When they reached the bottom of the platform, there was a whole culture at the level of the lake. Couples promenaded under the afternoon sun—Chelan, besides being a business capital of the region, was also a popular spot for honeymooners, for sweethearts—and again, despite the cold that swept over them now, despite the air smelling of smoke and glacier, children played in the water, their guardians hunched under coats and watching them from the shore.

They walked toward a large warehouse in the distance. The building was placed where the lake curved, was seemingly built on the water, backed by forest. Perhaps there was a café or a food stall there, he thought; he and Angelene had neglected to eat since that morning, and he was hungry.

Inside the warehouse was a great boat. It was a steamboat, painted white, with green and blue trim. People were boarding the steamboat by way of a wide gangplank bordered by heavy ropes; men and women together, the honeymooners, and other, older couples, and families. One or two others boarded singly. A man at the entrance to the platform sold tickets. Talmadge, after observing the boat for several minutes, went to the man and asked what it was for; where did the boat go? The man—short, mustachioed, wearing a derby cap—looked at Talmadge as if he was stupid. A cigar, which had gone out, was stuck between his lips. Angelene regarded him with barely concealed distaste. When the man spoke, it was in the manner of a drawl, and Talmadge could tell it was a rehearsed speech (he didn’t even look at Talmadge): Haven’t you heard of the Lady of the Lake? The steamboat that goes all the way to the tippety-top of Lake Chelan? You are in luck, my friend, because she only goes twice a day, and you are catching her for her second trip. If you don’t go right now, you will have to come back early, early tomorrow morning, and if you miss that— Here he made a face, as if smelling a bad odor. Well, you might as well go right now, it’s the same trip, different day— And he shrugged, as if he didn’t care. But then he chewed on his cigar for a moment and said, still not looking at Talmadge, What’ll it be, friend? For you and the young lady? Today or tomorrow? Tomorrow or today?

They bought ice cream cones at a stand on the opposite side of the warehouse and returned to the beach, sat on a pile of old railroad ties that dampened the back of their clothes. He looked out at the water and the children splashing in the shallows, their guardians on the shore. It was too cold for swimming, too cold for ice cream. And yet it was the height of summer. Or just beyond. There were still very hot days to come. The girl ate her ice cream, squinted in the sun reflecting off the water. He did not ask if she wanted to take the boat trip. They had to get back to the orchard. Suddenly it seemed they would never arrive there again. He sat holding the ice cream cone, confused.

Talmadge, said Angelene: look. The boat was setting out over the water. It moved very slowly, it seemed, but in fact it moved quite quickly.

By the time they reached the top of the platform, the sun had set. He was upset and shaking, and the ice cream had made him sick.

She held him lightly by his elbow, but he shook her off and said, gruffly: I’m fine.

T
almadge would tell the warden about Michaelson: and so now Della had only a very small window in which to act.

She was not even angry at Talmadge for declaring that he was going to tell the warden about her past. Understood that that was what he thought he had to do. She was tired, and confused. If she had her wits about her, perhaps she would be angry. But she was not angry.

Please don’t do it, she had said. Please don’t.

He had been perplexed at her tone—helpless, tired, beseeching—but was resolved. She could see the emotion move like weather across his face.

I’m going to tell him, he said. He needs to know, Della. We have to—get you out of this place. This will help. Don’t—be afraid.

She had been silent, and gone with the sack of apricots to the cot, sat down. Wished he would go away. She needed time to lie down and perhaps cry, and sleep: to invent a plan. A plan had eluded her the previous handful of days, but now, tonight, it might visit her. She had to prepare for it.

Please go.

Her voice was not angry, but conveyed that she
needed
him to go, because she was incapable of composing herself any longer for polite company. She had allowed him to remain there speaking to her for a short time, but her patience—her tolerance—for such an exchange had spent itself. She was withering.

She had closed her eyes, and remained that way for several minutes. When she opened her eyes again, he was gone.

T
hey have read the petition, said the Judge. They have heard our request. They want to send her to Walla Walla—

A man’s prison? said Talmadge, rising swiftly as he was able from his chair. That’s their bright answer—

Talmadge, after a minute, sat down again. The Judge stared at the corner of his desk with a slightly embarrassed expression.

The Judge explained to Talmadge that Walla Walla accepted female prisoners too; but it was as if Talmadge was incapable of hearing it.

I don’t think there’s anything we can do, Talmadge.

Tell them I want to see her.

I’ll do that, but—

I want to see her, and I want to take her out for a day before they send her away. They can at least give us that.

Talmadge, said the Judge, carefully, they don’t owe you—or her—anything. He paused. She tried to kill a man, Talmadge. More than one. What do you want them to do?

Talmadge stood again.

I want someone to take her out of there! I want someone to take her out of that place!

After a minute, the Judge drew a piece of paper toward him on the desk. He cleared his throat.

I’ll see what I can do, he said.

I
t was nearing harvesttime, but Talmadge, Angelene noticed, did not prepare as he usually did. He was often in the trees, walking the rows, but he had a harried expression on his face, and he actually did little work. In the weeks before the men came into the orchard, the time Talmadge and Angelene usually devoted to grooming the trees and doing some early picking—the routine was different every year, depending on the state of the trees, and the weather—Talmadge, this year, did not tell her what he was thinking in terms of picking and preparing; he did not share his plans with her at all. She did not even think that he had a plan. Even a year ago such a prospect would have been impossible, in her mind. But now she was not surprised. When had that change, that specific change, occurred?

She woke at night and heard him moving in the cabin, making coffee, coming in and out from the porch. He could not sleep. He was also losing his appetite.

T
he second week in September the men came into the orchard, and despite the state of the trees—it seemed not to matter, suddenly, that they had been neglected—fell to work immediately. Talmadge and Clee did not work with the other men or with Angelene but walked up into the canyon, into the far apple orchard, and then beyond that, to the upper cabin, and the pool.

I don’t know any other way around it, said Talmadge. I need your help—

He had leaned down and with great effort overturned a large rock half submerged in the earth. Was searching for—grubs?—beneath it. A distracted expression on his face. Strands of black hair escaped from the pomade slick and fell into his eyes. He pressed his lips together.

Clee, beside him, had been listening to it all: the waning health of the girl in the jail, her delirium; her insistence on needing more time. Talmadge’s conviction that she wanted to kill this man, Michaelson.

But she would not kill Michaelson, he wanted to tell Talmadge. She might have indicated her desire to do otherwise, but she would not do it. He recalled the time she had traveled with the men, her wariness at killing any animal for food. Talmadge had taught her how to shoot, and she had successfully—though perhaps not skillfully—hunted and killed animals during her tenure riding the countryside with the men. But Clee watched her closely and saw she would rather not eat meat at all, if it meant she had to kill it herself. Soon after she had joined the men, Clee saw she hardly used her rifle, of which she had been so proud at first, at all. But, he thought, she was proud of it as an object that signified her independence, and not necessarily of its destructive use as a weapon.