The Orchardist (49 page)

She ain’t my responsibility, I ain’t got nothing to do with her—

But her voice shook.

He shook her again. Bullshit, he said, his voice quavering, and let her go.

From way off down the beach, a shot rang out. All the people on the beach, the children in the water, the parents, the strolling couples, turned their heads in the same direction.

Della, who had stepped back, was rubbing her arms where he had gripped them, and looked in the direction of the shot. Vaguely curious.

Wallach was walking toward them, turning his head to look over his shoulder at the people beginning to move in the opposite direction down the beach. He jogged the last part of the way toward them. He was frowning.

You got to come with me, he said.

No, said Talmadge, and both young people looked at him, surprised.

The warden promised me my day, said Talmadge. We’ll sit right here for you, we won’t go nowhere. We might go up into town, to get something to eat—

Old man, said Wallach—almost laughing with surprise—you’re going to follow me. He took a pair of handcuffs off his belt beneath his jacket and put them on Della, who looked down at them disinterestedly.

Every time I look over my shoulder, I better see you two, said Wallach, wholly serious now, and turned and set off across the beach.

They followed him. They moved in the direction of the warehouse. As they neared it, more and more people joined them; and the young man in uniform before them appeared and disappeared among the crowd. Wallach looked back a few times, but then he was gone; there was something happening up ahead; a large crowd—

Talmadge stopped.

Della stopped too. What?

They were near the warehouse. Come on, he said. She didn’t move at first, but when he looked over his shoulder, she was following him, moving against the current of people, a blank expression on her face.

Before they reached the ticket man, Talmadge took off his outer flannel shirt and wrapped it around Della’s bound wrists, to hide the cuffs. Della said nothing. He bought two tickets and then they went together up the gangplank and then onto the boat. Talmadge led her to the cupboard. He slid open the door, and saw the jar of water the girl had put in there. A brown bag of food. A wool blanket. He slid the door back closed, testing its resistance. It was a shallow space, he thought, but she would just fit.

You want me to get in there?

Hurry up, he said, and looked around them. Now he sweated. The world, for a moment, seemed ready to burst at its seams.

When she didn’t move, he said, unable to keep the impatience from his voice: What is it?

Her mind was chewing on something. She stood there, unmoving.

He turned and looked around them again. There were not many people on the boat; some had unboarded to see about the commotion on the beach. But they would all be back, and soon.

You want me to—

Get in there. Yes. There’s room. And—Angelene left some food in there for you, and water—what is it? You’ll fit, he said again, thinking that was what daunted her.

But she continued to gaze at the space, as if it were some foreign beast.

You don’t get caught, you don’t go back, he said. You stay in there for an hour or so, and you can come out. Just keep your cuffs hidden. You get up into Stehekin, you have some time, but not much. Get those cuffs taken care of. There’s a place—

I know, she said. How did she know? he thought. But then, he thought, she probably did know. This girl had lived many lives. But still she hesitated.

What is it?

She would not look at him. She looked down into the cupboard once more—he had slid open the door—and then straightened up, gazed around at the deck. It was as if she was coming out of a dream.

No.

Talmadge stood there. It occurred to him at once that if she wouldn’t get into the cupboard, and the young man, Wallach, found them arguing on board, Talmadge would go to jail too, and Angelene would be left alone. Why was it that the most terrible possibilities reveal themselves only at the last moment, when it is too late to change course?

What do you mean, no? he said, and he heard the anger in his voice. He had to resist the urge to take her arm and throw her, in one violent motion, down into the cupboard. She was not very big, he thought suddenly; he could easily overpower her. And the way she stood there—almost nonchalant, as if they had all the time in the world—made him seethe with incredulity.

Della, he said, his voice shaking. I’m not going to argue with you, now. You get into that cupboard—

She looked at him, but as if seeing him from a great distance. She stirred slightly.

I can’t go, she said. And then, enunciating:
I don’t want to go
—

How can you not want to go? he said. His voice was quiet with astonishment. How was it possible that she was refusing him? The extreme obviousness of the mistake she was in the process of making robbed him of sense. He stood there, silent. Helpless.

It seemed a long time before she turned her body, as if to leave the boat. She hesitated. The guards will be coming soon, she said, without inflection.

He was staring above the cupboard door, at the white painted boards, a slant of light revealing the cracks and bubbles, curls of peeling paint.

I wanted you out of that place, he said. I wanted to help. But I also—wanted you to check on her. When she’s older. I wanted you to—

But he did not finish his sentence.

Wind came off the water and moved into his hair, got into his clothes. She would not be entering the cupboard. Neither was there a rush to get back to the crowd on the beach, to save themselves. When Talmadge thought, finally, that’s what they should have done—that’s where he should have led her, at once, after she refused him—three officers rushed onto the boat, and seized them.

W
hen Talmadge came to take Della down to the lake, she thought it was a gesture meant to inspire her to be good. They were going to send her to Walla Walla—or that is what they told her—but she only half believed they were prepared to do it. She could imagine the conversation between Talmadge and the warden: if Della improved her behavior, if she showed a drastic change in attitude—if she apologized, and perhaps explained her motives, which included divulging her past—then the warden would be that much more likely to consider transferring her elsewhere. Or maybe nowhere at all, if Michaelson was in fact being moved. Chelan did not seem so bad, or so far away, when compared with Walla Walla. This outing to the lake, Della knew, was an opportunity for Talmadge to persuade her to be good: to tell the warden her story, and ask for leniency.

The officer assigned to them—Wallach—she had never seen before. A new group of officers had arrived lately at the jail for training. Puzzled, earnest, curious faces peered at her now at mealtimes, sometimes offering a tentative greeting through the bars. They all knew who she was, what she had done, but she was indifferent to them. Did not bother to learn their names, or determine in which ways they could be useful to her. She would most likely never see them again, she reasoned, beyond next week and only valued her alliance with Frederick, which was indispensable to her now.

She had to remind herself that it was real, it was actually going to happen: at the end of the week Frederick would unlock her cell, and she would go to Michaelson, and kill him.

But that was five days away.

Now it was nice to be on the beach, it was nice to be out of the cell. And Talmadge had bought her a meal at the café, and cigarettes. She thought it would be all right: and then he began to act funny, trying to talk to her about Michaelson. And he also kept looking over at the platform as if he were waiting for somebody; he even waved at someone. But when she asked him what he was doing, he didn’t answer her. And then the gunshot; and everybody moved down the beach at the same time, to see what was going on. Wallach handcuffed her, and she and Talmadge went down the beach behind him. It was difficult to see; there were many people. Talmadge spoke up, told her to follow him. Reluctantly she obeyed, followed him to the steamboat warehouse. Then he wanted her to get onto the boat. She hesitated, confused. He bought them tickets. On the boat, he led her to a cupboard, and told her to get inside.

She had not anticipated this. He wanted her to escape! Through her confusion—and utter surprise—she of course recognized the blinding opportunity he was offering her. She hesitated, despite herself. She did not want to leave Michaelson, but—what was this other way?

What was this other way? And then she thought, looking out over the water, there was no other way. This seeming escape would only lead her farther away from Michaelson, and therefore she could not accept it. She dimly appreciated what the old man was trying to do—and the girl had helped, he said, which piqued her interest—but ultimately what Talmadge wanted did not matter. She had made up her mind. She knew what
she
—Della, herself—wanted to do.

The guard who approached her on the boat could have been rough with her, but he was not. He was distant, and even respectful, as he drew her across the deck. When they neared the gangplank, he called to another officer—I’ve got her!—and Della saw Frederick standing near the bow, looking out over the water. Their eyes met, and then she looked away. He would think the escape was her idea, and judge her a coward for it.

The officers led them off the boat. The man beside her was nervous, excited: he had caught a prisoner. He had been calm enough in the beginning, but the reality of what he had just accomplished had begun to sink in. He was going to be recognized, his name was going to be in the papers. He would be a hero.

As they approached the crowd—what had happened? Had somebody been shot?—Della saw at once, when he moved only slightly: Clee.

In her sudden uprising of emotion—and what was this emotion?—she raised her hand to him, and he widened his eyes, shook his head, and the young officer at her side yanked her arm. Hey! barked Talmadge, and Della, startled, turned to him and said, It’s all right, but Talmadge lumbered into the man. He didn’t know what he was doing, thought Della. The man embraced Talmadge in a rough bear hug, trying to calm him, but Talmadge, in one sudden movement, pushed away from him. The officer stumbled back and Talmadge was several feet away from him now, hatless, his hair mussed. Why was he wearing only an undershirt? she thought, before she remembered that
she
wore his jacket; and he had removed his shirt to wrap around her handcuffs as well. As he stood, now, breathing heavily, there was an unreadable expression in his eyes. People yelled and moved around them. He was like a child, she thought. A child who suddenly did not know where he was at.

She felt herself moving toward him.

Della! Frederick called, somewhere behind her. But she did not turn around.

Della!

And a gunshot. She felt a bite just above her right elbow—which soon spread to coldness. She twisted her posture to look at the back of her arm: blood-soaked canvas. But she was all right, she thought, her heart pounding furiously. The bullet had just grazed her.

And then—how could she have not noticed this before?—Talmadge had fallen in the space before her. Two guards—one was Frederick—ran to him. Leaned over him.

She stepped forward; but someone caught her from behind, pulled her sharply backward.

Talmadge! she yelled, and tried to get out of the grip. Talmadge!

And then a person—a young woman—hurried from the crowd, drew to Talmadge and the guards. Frederick held out his arm to keep her away. When the woman came forward again, Frederick shook her off—she had gripped his arm—and touched her chest with the back of his hand, pushed her. Rebuffed, she tried once more to reach Talmadge, ducking under Frederick’s arm. But Frederick snatched her back with one arm, flung her to the side. Get back! he yelled generally, to them all. Get back! The girl held her hands in front of her—gripped, beseeching—as if she were praying. And then she let her hands drop.

The girl—it was Angelene—turned her head left and right, slow but frantic, searching for help; Della saw she was sobbing.

She is mine, Jane had said. But she is also yours. We are the same. Our children are the same.

Let me go! shouted Della. She realized she was screaming. Let me go!

Clee was shouldering toward Talmadge and Angelene now, grim-mouthed, alarmed—but was caught by the elbow before he reached them, pulled toward the platform.

Do something! Della screamed. Do something! Angelene!

The girl turned in her direction, puzzled; their eyes met briefly, before Della was hauled, twisting and kicking, up the platform steps.