The Orchardist (47 page)

She had waited and then turned to the wall. Saw the sunlight. There was something she had been thinking about, before, when she lay on the cot. She went to the cot and lay down again. But she could not remember it, that thing. It would not come to her.

T
he sound of water roiling in the kettle drew Angelene from the bedroom. Alone in the cabin—in the orchard—she took the towel and lifted the kettle and poured water into the mug with coffee powder and then replaced the kettle onto the stove. Wiped her hands on her apron front and returned to the bedroom, where a white dress was laid out on the bed.

M
idmorning of the second day there was a rainstorm, and Talmadge and Clee hid in a stand of evergreens. It seemed the rain would go on and on. Clee managed to light a cigarette and sat smoking, and by his posture he seemed ready to wait a long time. Talmadge, despite himself, dozed. Woke to Clee stirring. The rain had stopped. They urged the horses out of the trees. Water from the branches poured onto their hats and shoulders. Clee grunted. Up ahead was a railroad track, and they approached it. As they crossed it, the sun came out.

D
ella took the box wrapped in twine—had she been saving it for this moment?—from the slit in the mattress where she had hidden it along with the fruit—the apricots that she had not eaten had begun to rot—and untied it. Unlidded the box.

Inside was a square of cotton batting. She stared at it and then took out the cotton, and something—she barely sensed it—fell out of the box. She bent and inspected the floor and found, a minute later, what had escaped: an apple seed. She picked it up and went to the window, held it in her open palm in the light. Studied it.

I
t took Talmadge and Clee three days to reach Chelan. They separated once they reached town, and Talmadge deposited his horse at the stables. As he was checking into the boardinghouse, the landlady smiled tentatively at him and told him that his daughter was already there.

Pardon?

But then he looked up to where the lady was smiling and saw Angelene, in a white dress, standing on the staircase. On her face an expression of excitement, fear.

Out of the landlady’s gaze, in the upper hallway, Talmadge took Angelene’s arm and steered her into his room. She sat on the bed as he shut the door. She bowed her head.

She had taken the train, she said, her head still bowed, and had arrived the day before. She had gone straight to the boardinghouse, and had not gone out at all. Only the landlady knew she was there. She hesitated before continuing. She didn’t know what was going on, she said, but she knew Talmadge wasn’t there just to visit Della; she knew it was more than that, and that what they were planning, he and Clee, was maybe illegal, or else they wouldn’t be so secretive about it.

Talmadge held still. He looked over her shoulder into the corner of the room. While traveling to Chelan, he had gone over and over the plan in his head—if one step succeeded, then it opened the possibility of executing the next step, and the next—and the more he thought about it, the more hopeful—though hesitantly so—he became. There were moments of grave doubt; but those were just moments, and they passed. There was dread, but that was also to be expected. Now, with the entrance of the girl, the foundation of the plan shifted, groaned with the effort to sustain the feasibility of succeeding in these new circumstances.

I don’t know what you’re doing, she said. But I want to help you.

He didn’t speak for a long time. He didn’t want her involved in any way, but did not know what to tell her now. If he asked her to stay out of it—and what tone would he use for this? What would be most successful? Would she listen to him? Or would his protestation finally work to encourage her? She was no longer a child, but neither was she an adult. He had shielded her from so much already. Whatever speech he directed at her, whatever he asked her to do or not to do, could bring a myriad of consequences. Oh, he was tired of thinking about it all. How his words and deeds affected Della and her trajectory; and now Angelene too.

Finally he said: I thought maybe, in the beginning— He faltered. I thought maybe, once she got out, she could come and take care of you. But now—

She watched him.

What was he saying? The girl, as ever, had this particular effect on him. He spoke things to her, when she solicited them, that he was unaware of even in himself. Opinions. Long-held beliefs and judgments. What was he saying? That he had given up on Della being a guardian for Angelene? That is what he had said. And then, suddenly, he was confused: Della would never return to the orchard. (But that was too much, he thought, that was too far—) He turned his face away, exhausted.

I can take care of myself, said Angelene, her voice shaking. You don’t need to worry about me.

Several minutes passed in silence. Talmadge did not know what to say anymore.

Even if she doesn’t come back to us, he said. We just have to get her out of there. He paused, searching for the right words. She’s sick, he said finally.

Sick?

Yes.

It was quiet for a minute.

Then we should help her, said Angelene.

He looked at her.

No, he said.

She looked at him, startled.

Why?

Because I said so.

That’s no answer.

Because—it doesn’t have anything to do with you, he said. I’m the one who got her into this fix. It was me. And now I’m going to help her. But you got to stay out of it. It has nothing to do with you, now.

She wanted to talk back to him, he saw, but after she met his eyes, she fell silent.

I have an appointment, he said, finally, and as soon as he said this, and saw her face looking at him, expectant, full of compassion, he experienced vertigo. He put one hand on the bed frame and the other over his eyes.

Talmadge? Her voice was frightened. Sit down.

I’m all right. He sat.

She left the room and returned a minute later with a glass of water. He took it from her and drank. Afterward, hesitating, he reached for her, and she came and sat beside him, laid her head on his chest. He put his arm around her.

You shouldn’t have come, he said.

W
hen she woke him from his nap, an hour later, he saw that she had laid out his suit and polished his shoes. After he dressed, she brought him up a plate of roast chicken and mashed potatoes. Placed it near the basin.

It was four o’clock. He told Angelene that he would be back in an hour or so, and that she shouldn’t leave the boardinghouse. She nodded.

I’m serious, now.

I know.

He walked down the stairs and touched his hat to the landlady, who spoke to another lodger at the counter. He exited the boardinghouse into the expansive, sweet-smelling late afternoon.

In the warden’s office, the warden sat in strange dimness. It was the time of day when the sun illuminated the opposite side of the building; Talmadge had never visited the warden this late in the afternoon. The warden could have turned on the overhead electric light, but he did not. He sat in the soft darkness and watched Talmadge warily. He had risen to shake Talmadge’s hand when he arrived, and then asked him to sit. Now the warden regarded him with a neutral expression.

You received our letter, I take it? About the transfer?

Talmadge nodded.

The warden gazed down at this desk. A grim, sad smile on his lips.

Talmadge cleared his throat.

It’s strange, said the warden suddenly, and raised his eyes to Talmadge. We told her about the transfer, but it’s like she doesn’t care. Or she doesn’t hear us. Sad, he said in the ensuing silence. She seemed so—bright—before, when she first arrived here. Maybe that’s not the right word for it. But she has deteriorated mentally. Physically as well. He sighed. It is a shame—

Talmadge lifted his chin, as if to speak. He didn’t care for the warden’s words anymore—they didn’t matter—but neither did he want to seem rude. He needed to maintain the warden’s sympathy.

About your request to take her out, said the warden, leaning back in his chair. It is highly unusual. But, seeing she’s going to be sent away anyway, and there are no laws against such visits, or—he smiled an uncharacteristic, mischievous smile—at least no laws that cannot be circumvented, I’ve decided to allow it. As long as you’re supervised, he said. He continued: he had always been sympathetic toward Della, he said, until a certain point, but when it came to Talmadge—here he looked at Talmadge, unsmiling, serious—he had no qualms.

Talmadge walked back to the boardinghouse in the waning light. It was done. The first step was completed, it had cleared the way for the rest of it.

There was a chill in the air.

Inside the boardinghouse they were having supper. He stood at the base of the stairs and listened briefly to the voices in the dining room, and knew Angelene was not among them. He climbed the stairs, carefully so that he would not make any noise, and made his way down the hallway. Paused outside her door. He should go straight to bed, he thought. He knocked. She answered immediately for him to come in.

She was in bed, in her nightgown. Her hair loose around her shoulders. She looked frightened. He sat on the edge of the bed. After a moment he took her hand. He told her all of it. That he was going to meet Della tomorrow and take her down to the beach; that Clee was going to create a diversion, which would distract the guard; and that Talmadge was going to lead Della onto the boat, where she would hide, and then the boat would set sail, and she would be free when she reached Stehekin, the small community at the top of the lake. In the silence that followed, he said there were people waiting in Stehekin for her, there was a horse.

Angelene’s face flushed as he spoke.

I’ll help you, she said.

He shook his head.

Please, Talmadge.

No.

Her mouth was hard; her eyes filled with tears.

He squeezed her hand. You’ll stay here, out of it, he said. It’s the best way.

B
ut in the morning he returned to her door, and knocked quietly.