Valley of the Moon (17 page)

E
very fall, when I was a kid, my parents would take me apple picking. We'd leave Newport early on a Saturday morning. My mother packed a picnic lunch, always the same: bologna sandwiches, shortbread, a thermos of tea, a thermos of milk. On the drive to New Hampshire, we'd sing songs from
Sing Along with Mitch:
“Down by the Old Mill Stream” and “Show Me the Way to Go Home.”

I'd never forget the smell of the orchard. It was imprinted on me like the scent of my mother's Aliage perfume. Overly sweet, musty, blossomy, leaves-turning, fruit-ripening.

The orchard in Greengage, sixty-nine years and three thousand miles from New Hampshire, smelled exactly the same.

“Have you picked before?” asked a man, handing me a basket.

“Sure. Lots of times.”

“Lower branches.” He pointed to a tree. “As far up as you can reach. Somebody will come along with a ladder and pick the top. When your basket's full, dump it in one of the barrels. Carefully. Try not to bruise any of the fruit.” He squinted. “I'm Dr. Kilgallon. But everybody calls me Friar.”

He was a small, balding man with a horseshoe of hair. A tonsure—he looked like a monk; now I understood the nickname. I thought of introducing myself, but as Ilsa had said, everybody knew who I was. There was no anonymity for me here in Greengage. This was a complete contrast with my life in San Francisco, where I was one in a sea of millions. Over the years, I'd grown to appreciate the positive side of invisibility. It was liberating. I could stumble down the street dressed in pajamas or dressed like Janis Joplin—it mattered to virtually nobody, except Benno. No, the real pressure came from allowing yourself to be known. People having a set of expectations you couldn't live up to.

“You need any help, holler,” Friar said. He picked up a basket and wandered off into another row.

It was a large orchard; people were scattered here and there, but it wasn't like the garden, where you worked thigh-to-thigh in the dirt. Self-conscious, I picked quickly. Was I being rude? Should I say hello to the woman at the neighboring tree? I felt like a kid in middle school looking around for a lunch table.

Soon my basket was full. I carried it to the nearest barrel and emptied the apples into it.

“It's not a race,” said Friar. He was on his hands and knees, picking fallen apples off the ground. “You worked on the garden crew and in the kitchen last time?”

I nodded.

“Well, here we have an entirely different frame of mind. There's no need to rush. The apples ripen. We pick them. Or collect them, in my case.” He tossed an apple into his basket. “We use fallen apples for applesauce. Don't have to worry about any bruises.” He sat back on his heels. “You look anxious. Are you feeling anxious?”

“A bit,” I admitted.

“Wonderful. I have just the remedy for that.”

“I'm not sure I need any medication.” What I needed was a shot of tequila. That would calm my nerves.

“Certainly you do. Come with me.”

He picked up my empty basket and led me back to the tree.

“Pick,” he instructed. “And breathe.”

An hour later I understood why people didn't talk or hurry on the orchard crew. Picking was a meditative act. You twisted the apple off its stem. It fell into your hand. You placed it in the basket. Repeat. And repeat again. I sank into a peaceful, alert state, focused only on what I was doing.

“I thought you might be hungry,” said a man's voice.

Joseph. He held a muffin in one hand, a ladder in another. I hadn't realized how hungry I was until he handed me the muffin. I finished it off in four bites.

“Thank you, I was starving,” I said.

He placed the ladder against the tree and quickly climbed up the rungs. “Basket.”

I handed him my basket and he balanced it on top of the ladder. He was an apple-picking pro. His hand was a blur darting in and out of the branches, expertly selecting only the ripest of the fruit.

“Fancy is having her dance tonight,” he said. “She's spent the past three weeks teaching everybody to do the Scottish reel.”

“You too?” I asked.

“I already know how to do the Scottish reel. A tedious dance. Unnecessarily complicated and provincial. Lots of clapping and figure eights,” he scoffed.

“I think a dance is a great idea. You all work so hard. You need to have some fun.”

After a long pause he said, “Right.”

I'd offended him. Why had I said that? I was in no position to instruct him on what he needed.

“Listen,” I said. “I wanted to tell you I thought it was brave that you were willing to test out the fog. If I was in your situation, I would have done the same thing.”

He frowned at an apple just out of reach. He shook the branch, catching it before it fell to the ground. “But you are not in my situation, are you? You're free to come and go.”

“To Greengage. But I'm far from free in my own life. I'm just as stuck in my own way.”

I hadn't planned on being so honest; the truth just came barreling out of me. Last time I was here, I'd been so careful with what I'd revealed to him. I'd wanted to keep it simple. I was a widow with a young son and I worked as a waitress. But I hadn't told him how difficult or lonely my life really was. Suddenly, in this moment, I wanted him to know me.

“Joseph!” shouted Friar. “A little help, please!” He and another man were trying to hoist a full barrel of apples into the wagon.

Joseph climbed down off the ladder. He put his hand ever so briefly on my shoulder. Even after he left, I could still feel the heat of his palm. A calming pressure. Rooting me.

I spent the rest of the morning picking and spying on Joseph. He pitched in wherever he was needed. Doing the heavy lifting. Ferrying basket after basket to the wagon. He was clearly a leader, but one of the group as well. Everybody wanted to claim him, everybody wanted to be in his presence. They'd already forgiven him for his momentary lapse of judgment that morning. Perhaps they even liked him more for it, for proving he was as flawed and desperate as all the rest of us.

After lunch I sought out Fancy. I found her at the house, rummaging through drawers, collecting any swath of plaid fabric she could find. A tablecloth. A blanket. A scarf.

“Oh, Lux, it's tragic. I'm afraid we are quite short on kilts, and everybody knows it's not a proper Scottish reel without kilts.” She sighed. “We'll have to make do with what we have.”

“You're going to make the men wear tablecloths?”

“If only they would. No, these are decorations. A little Highlands flair.” She eyed my knapsack. “You don't happen to have any kilts in there, do you?”

I put down my pack. “Feel free to look.”

Last night I'd run around my apartment looking for things to bring to Greengage, just in case. I ended up with a time capsule of 1975: a carton of Marlboros, Canadian Club whiskey, a thumb-worn
People
magazine, and a bottle of Gee Your Hair Smells Terrific.

Fancy grabbed
People,
the August 18 edition.

“Who is this little man? And why is he wearing glasses shaped like palm trees? ‘His new look: everything's slimmer but his wallet,' ” she read. “Was he fat before?”

“His name is Elton John, and yes, I guess he was getting a little chunky.”

“What does he do?”

“He's a musician. British, in fact.” I sang a few bars of “Rocket Man.”

“That is a very odd song.”

“Yes, well, he's a millionaire because of it. It's one of Benno's favorite songs.” In fact, it was the song Benno currently listened to when he wanted to induce the happy-sad feeling.

She slipped a pack of cigarettes into her pocket. Then she opened the bottle of shampoo and sniffed. “Oh my!”

“I know. Every time you move your head, you'll give off that scent.”

“And if I were dancing? If I were being spun around?”

“And if you were being spun around, the entire room would smell of you.”

“Oh, Lux.” She threw her arms around me. “I don't care what my brother thought. I knew you'd come back. I knew you wouldn't desert us.”

“He didn't think I'd come back?”

“When he wants something very badly, he won't say a word about it. He never mentioned you the entire three weeks you were gone. That's how I knew. I wanted you to come back, too. I think it's safe to say we all did. You finding us—it's made our situation tolerable. We aren't completely cut off anymore.”

I worked to keep a straight face, trying not to reveal my happiness at her disclosure. They all wanted me to return. And I had no intentions of being a freeloader. I would pay my own way by being their conduit to the outside world.

“This dance is a very good idea. It's just what's needed. It'll perk everybody up.”

Fancy's eyes sparkled. “Precisely! You just can't work, work, work all the time.”

“Where's it going to be?”

“In the dining hall. After dinner we'll clear away the benches and chairs and make a proper ballroom.”

“I wish I could stay.”

“Can you?”

“I don't think so—it's already Sunday afternoon. My friend is watching Benno, my son, and I promised I'd be home tonight. I should be leaving right now in fact.”

“But you just said Benno's safe and being looked after. Your friend will understand, and if she's a real friend she'll want you to have a little fun. Stay. Please. I desperately need your help setting things up.”

I was torn. If only I could call home and ask Rhonda's permission. Speak to Benno—confirm for myself that he was fine. But of course he was fine. He was with Rhonda and Ginger. They'd have a lovely Sunday dinner, the three of them, and she'd let him watch
The Wonderful World of Disney
before bed.

“I don't know how to do the Scottish reel,” I said.

Those were the magic words.

We spent the next hour in the parlor, Fancy giving me private dance lessons. She taught me the Dashing White Sergeant and the Duke of Perth. Joseph was right. There were lots of figure eights and lots of clapping. He was wrong, however, about it being tedious. Fancy and I bowed and swung and dipped around the room, laughing our heads off.

“Golly, Mummy would have loved this,” said Fancy to Joseph.

The dining hall had been transformed. All the tables and chairs had been pushed back and stacked in the corners. The room was awash in candlelight. Blankets and tablecloths hung from the rafters in lieu of streamers.

“What is that smell?” asked Joseph. He leaned into Fancy and sniffed her hair. “Good God, it's you!”

“Gee, doesn't my hair smell terrific?” she said.

“It smells nice,” said Martha, being diplomatic, but I could tell by the little wrinkle on her nose she thought the scent was cloying as well.

“Did your mother like to dance?” I asked Fancy.

“Oh, yes, she was a constant mover, a whirler, a swirler. Wasn't she, Joseph? She loved parties,” said Fancy.

Joseph grunted.

“You think I don't remember her,” said Fancy.

“You were four when she died.”

Fancy's eyes flashed with anger. “I remember her.”

Martha picked up Fancy's hand and squeezed it. “They're about to do the Hamilton House. Aren't you and Magnusson one of the pairs? He's waiting for you.”

Magnusson was watching us intently. He'd dressed up for the occasion in a clean white shirt and a pair of pressed trousers. He'd even bathed. His face was shiny, his hair swept back. He looked quite debonair.

Fancy groaned. “Save me, Lux. He's such a bore. You dance with him.”

“You didn't teach me the Hamilton House.”

“Fine.” She flounced off.

The fiddles started up and the center of the room filled with couples. They separated into two lines and faced each other. They advanced,
stamp, stamp, stamp,
and they retreated,
clap, clap, clap.
I watched them longingly, tapping my foot on the floor. Fancy had loaned me a green silk dress and a pair of dancing slippers; I didn't want to spend the entire night on the sidelines.