by Jodi Picoult
Maybe this is the way it would be if you had died. Maybe I would be crying, wishing there had been one extra minute. Maybe I would spend my time and money contacting mediums, reading up on the spiritual world, in hopes of finding you so that I�d have the chance to tell you things I hadn�t. Maybe I would look twice in the reflection of mirrors and store windows, hoping to see your face again. Maybe I would lie in bed like I am now, with my fists clenched so hard, trying to convince myself you are standing, flesh and blood, before me. But in all likelihood, if you were dead, I wouldn�t have any chance at all. I would not get to tell you what I should have been telling you every day: that I love you.
49 JANE
With the moves of a practiced dancer, the man twists the ram onto its side, catching its haunch in the crook of his leg and rolling it, a cross between a pas de deux and a half-nelson. With the ram breathing evenly, he peels away the fleece. It falls away in one continuous piece. It�s white and clean, the underside.
When he finishes he tosses the shears on the ground. Pulling the ram to its feet, he leads it by the neck out of the fenced gate. He slaps its behind and it runs off, naked.
�Excuse me,� I say, �do you work here?�
The man smiles. �I suppose you could say that.�
I take a few steps closer, watching the wet hay to see that it doesn�t stick on my still-white sneakers. �Do you know someone named Joley Lipton?� I ask, looking up. �He works here too.�
The man nods. �I�ll take you to him in a minute, if you�d like. I�ve got one more to shear.�
�Oh,� I say. �All right.� He asks me to help, to make it go faster. He points to the door of the barn. I turn to Rebecca, mouthing, I don�t believe this. I follow him into the barn.
�Hey little lady,� the man whispers, �hey my pretty little lamb. I�m gonna come a little closer. I�m gonna come a little bit closer.� As he says this he is creeping forward, and then with a shout he sinks his hands into the wool of the sheep�s back. �Take this side. She�s young and feisty, and she�ll get away.�
I do what he has done, and hunch over with my fingers roped into the fleece. All three of us walk out to the brown mat. �Where would you like me to put this?� I ask, wondering if I should just go off on my own to find Joley. God only knows how long this will take.
�Put her over here,� the man says, nodding his chin several feet forward. He lets go of his side, and, following suit, I do the same. The sheep takes a quick look at me and runs away. �What are you doing! Catch her!� the man yells.
Rebecca lunges at the sheep but it darts in the other direction. The man stares at me, incredulous. �I thought it would just stay put,� I say, explaining. The least I can do is catch the damn thing. I run to a corner of the pen and try to sink my fists into the wool of the sheep�s neck again. But suddenly I�ve lost my balance and though I reach for the fence, for Rebecca, I grab at nothing at all. I fall with an audible squelch and gag. �Rebecca,� I choke out, �get over here.�
The man is laughing in the distance. He grabs the sheep like it is no trouble at all and hoists it onto the brown cloth mat. He shears the thing in seconds, while I am trying to shimmy sheep manure off of my legs. I can�t get away from the smell.
�Tough break,� the man says, walking over.
I�ve had about as much of this asshole as I can take. �I�m sure this isn�t appropriate behavior for a field hand,� I say, putting on my most educated cocktail-party voice. �When I tell Joley about this, he�ll report you to the person who runs the place.�
The man offers his hand to me, but takes it away when he sees what�s covering my fingers. �I�m not too worried about that. I�m Sam Hansen. You must be Joley�s sister.�
This idiot, I think, this fool who�s gone out of his way to humiliate-me; this is the Boy Wonder Joley raves about?
I turn away, from embarrassment or sheer anger or whatever, and whisper to Rebecca, �I want to clean up.�
Sam takes us up to the Big House, as he calls it, the modest mansion-of sorts that overlooks the hundred acres of apples. He rattles off dates and facts that I imagine are meant to impress us: it was built in the 1800s, it is filled with antiques, blah blah blah. He leads me up the spiral staircase to the second room on the right. �Your stuff still in the car?� he asks, as if this is my fault as well. �This was my parents� room. You�ll fit into my mom�s stuff. Check in the closet.�
He walks out and closes the door behind him. It is a pretty room with a four-poster, a night table stacked with curly maple Shaker boxes, and curtains and a comforter in wide blue-and-white awning stripes. There are no dressers or bureaus or armoires. I lean against the wall and wonder where Sam�s parents put their clothes, and when I stand up again the wall juts open, hinged from the inside, pressing open into a hidden closet the size of a room itself. �How neat,� I say to myself. When you close the closet, the wallpaper matches so exactly-blue cornflowers-you�d never know there was a door. I press against the wall again and it springs off its magnetic hook. Inside are four or five sundresses and skirts, not half as dowdy as I�d imagined. I pick a pretty madras, which turns out to be two sizes too big, and I belt it with a bandanna that has been tied to a hook inside the closet.
I am tempted to leave the dirty clothes on the floor of this room but something tells me there won�t be maid service. So I gather them into my arms, inside out, and head downstairs. Rebecca and Sam are waiting. �What should I do with these?�
Sam looks at me. �Wash them,� he says, and then he turns and walks out the door.
�He�s a hell of a host,� I say to Rebecca.
�I think he�s pretty funny.� She shows me where the washing machine is.
�Thank God. I was expecting a scrub board.�
�Are you coming or what?� Sam yells through the screen door. �I don�t have all day.�
We follow him through the orchard, which I have to say really is beautiful. Trees spread their arms in octopus embraces, jeweled with waxy green leaves and bud necklaces. They are planted in neat, even rows, with plenty of room between them. Some have grown so big their branches entwine with the tree beside. Sam tells us which parts of the orchard are retail and which are commercial. Each patch of trees is cut by several roads, and the markers on the roads tell you what�s grown where and to whom it gets sold.
�Hey Hadley,� Sam yells approaching a tree, �come meet Joley�s relatives.�
A man steps off a ladder, which has been hidden by the trunk of the apple tree. He is tall, and he has an easygoing smile. I�d put him at the same age as Sam, by the looks of things. He grabs my hand and shakes it. �Hadley Slegg. It�s nice to meet you, ma�am.�
Ma�am. Such decorum. He�s obviously not a close relative of Sam�s.
He walks with us towards the lower quarter of the orchard, where I imagine we�ll find Joley. I can�t wait to see him-it has been so long, really, I don�t know what to expect. Will his hair be longer? Will he speak first, or just hug me? Will he be different?
�So I hear you�ve done quite a bit of traveling,� Sam says.
I jump; I�ve forgotten he�s here. �Yes,� I tell him. �All across the country. Of course I�ve also been to Europe and South America, with my husband�s research.� I stumble a little over the word husband and I catch Sam looking at me. �Lots of interesting places, actually. Why? Do you travel?�
�All the time. In spirit, at least.� He leaves it like that, cryptic, for a moment, long enough to make me wonder if there is more to him than meets the eye. �I�ve never been outside of New England, but I�ve probably read more books on travel and exploring than anyone.�
�Why don�t you take a trip?�
�You don�t get time off when you run a place like this.� He has a nice smile; he just doesn�t seem to use it a lot. �The second I set foot away from here, I think about all the things that are going wrong. It�s easier now that your brother�s here. Between him and Hadley I�ve split a lot of the responsibility. But it�s not like a regular business. You can�t reschedule a tree bearing fruit like you�d reschedule an appointment.�
�I see,� I say, not really und
erstanding at all. We walk a few yards without saying anything. �So where would you really like to go?�
�Tibet,� Sam says without hesitation. It surprises me. Most people say France or England. �I�d like to bring back some of the Asian strains of apples and propagate them in this climate. In a greenhouse, if need be.�
I find myself staring at him. He is young-younger than Joley- but he already has the beginnings of lines around the corners of his mouth. He has thick dark hair and a strong square chin and what looks like a perpetual tan. As for his eyes, you can�t tell anything from them. They are neon, really, blue but not like Oliver�s. They burn.
Sam looks up and, embarrassed, I turn away. �Joley tells us you�ve run away from home,� he says.
�Joley told you that?�
�Something about a fight with your husband.�
Sam is bluffing, I think. Joley wouldn�t tell people that. �I don�t think it�s any of your business.�
�Well, in a way it is. What you do is what you do, but I don�t want any trouble going on here.�
�Don�t worry. If Oliver shows up there won�t be a Tombstone showdown. No blood. I promise.�
�Too bad,� he says. �Blood�s good for fertilizer.� he starts to laugh, surprised that I don�t find this funny at all. He clears his throat. �So, what do you do for a living?�
I tell him I�m a speech pathologist. I look at him. �That means I go to schools in the San Diego area and diagnose children with speech problems caused by lisps, cleft palates, what have you.�
�Believe it or not,� Sam says sarcastically, �I did go to school.� He shakes his head and walks faster.
�I didn�t mean it like that,� I say. �A lot of people don�t know what a speech pathologist does. I�ve just gotten used to explaining it.�
�Look, I know where you�re from. I know what you think about guys like me. And to tell you the truth I don�t give a shit.�
�You don�t know anything about me.�
�And you don�t know anything about me, � Sam says. �So let�s just leave it at that. You want to come here to visit your brother, that�s fine. You want to stay a while, okay. Let�s just say I�ll do my thing, and you can do yours.�
�Fine!�
�Fine.�
I cross my arms and stare over the flat calm of the lake in the valley. �I want to know why you didn�t help me up back there.�
�In the manure?� Sam leans close to me and I can smell sweat and sheep and the honey of hay. �Because I knew exactly who you were.�
�What does that mean?� I call after him. He�s already begun to walk off, long carefree strides. �What the hell does that mean!� He squares his shoulders. �Pig,� I say, under my breath.
I take just two more steps and then I see the ladder propped against the tall budding tree. �It�s Joley,� I shout. �Joley!� I pick up the long skirt of Sam�s mother�s sundress and run across the field.
Joley is wrapping some kind of green electrical tape around a branch. His hair is still light and curling around his ears. He is wiry, strong, graceful. He opens his eyes, with their long dark lashes, and turns to me. �Jane!� he says, as if it truly is unexpected to find me standing there. He smiles, and the world turns inside out.
He jumps off the ladder and folds me into his arms. �How are you doing,� he whispers into my neck.
I blink back tears. I�ve waited so long.
Joley holds me at arm�s length, passing his eyes gently over my face and my shoulders and my hips. Still holding onto one of my hands, he walks over to Rebecca. �Looks like you survived the trip,� he says, and kisses her on the forehead. She bends in close, like she is receiving a benediction. He grins at Sam and Hadley. �I assume you�ve all met.�
�Unfortunately,� I murmur. Sam glowers at me, and Joley looks back and forth between us but neither of us will say a thing.
Joley claps his hands together and locks his fingers. �Well, it�s great that you�re here. We�ve got a lot of catching up to do.�
Sam, in a stroke of unexpected kindness, gives Joley the afternoon off. We stand in front of each other, just staring, until everyone else disappears. My baby brother, I think. What would I do without him?
Joley walks me over to a fat stunted tree with low branches. From the looks of the tree, which is blackened and leafless, it is not going to make it. �I�m doing my best,� he says, �but you�re right. I�m not sure about this one at all.� He straddles one of the bent arms and pats the space beside him for me to do the same. We look at each other and both begin to talk at the same time. We laugh. �Where are we going to start?� Joley says.
�We could start with you. I want to thank you for getting me here.� I smile, thinking about his reflective letters, on yellow ruled paper, words written without margins, precipitous, as if they would have fallen right off the page without the adhesive structure of sentence. �I certainly couldn�t have done it without you.�
�I�m glad you didn�t have to. You look great. You�re prettier than you�ve ever been.�
�Oh, that�s a crock,� I say, but Joley shakes his head.
�I mean it.� He smiles at me, and he holds one of my hands, kneading it with his fingers as if that is the way to start resuscitation.
�Are you happy here?� I ask.
�Look at the place, Jane! It�s like God just dropped down this gorgeous hill and lake, and I have the good fortune to work here. If you can call this work. I fix the unfixable. I bring trees back from the dead.� He looks into my eyes. �I�ve become mythic. The god of second chances.�
I laugh. �Sounds right up your alley. No wonder I�m here.�
�Which brings us to you.� Joley looks at me, waiting for me to start talking.
�I don�t know where to begin.�
�Start anywhere,� Joley says. �It�ll come to center.�
�I can tell you this.� A nervous laugh. �I didn�t leave because I had thought long and hard about it. I left on impulse. Just like that.� I snap my fingers. �I don�t know what I�m doing anymore.�
�What made you hit Oliver, then?� Joley smiles. �Don�t get me wrong. Not that I don�t think it was a wonderful idea.�
�You know the textbook answer to that. Abused child grows up to be an abuser herself. I�ve been thinking so much about Daddy lately. It�s classic, isn�t it? The sins of the fathers are visited upon the children?�
Joley stretches my hand out on the leg of his jeans. �Do you think he�s on his way here?�
�I give him ten days at most.� I twirl my wedding band, which I am still wearing, to my own surprise. �Unless of course he just decided to take off to South America like he had planned. In which case I get a grace period of a month.�
�I hate to admit it myself, but you used to love him.�
Joley comes to the heart of the matter faster than anyone I know. �I loved the idea of being in love with him,� I say, �but that can be a poor substitute for a life.� I stare at my brother. �I already told you this isn�t about Oliver. It�s about me. I just snapped when we were having that fight. I mean, we were arguing about whether shoe boxes or files should go in my closet. That doesn�t ruin a marriage.� I look into my lap. �I�m scared. I�ve spent fifteen years cutting up fruit the way Oliver likes it, folding his laundry, wiping clean his messes. I�ve done everything that I was supposed to. I don�t know what made me hit him that day. Maybe it was just a way out.�
�Is that what you�ve been looking for?�
�I don�t know what I�m looking for.� I sigh. �I got married young. I had a baby young. So when people asked me who I was, I�d answer by saying �a wife,� or �a mother.� I can�t tell you at all what I�m like, what Jane is like.�
Joley�s eyes do not leave my face. �What is it you want?�
I close my eyes, and try to picture it. �Oh, Joley,� I say, �I�ll go home and be the ideal wife, the perfect mother. I�ll do everything I�ve been doing and I won�t ever bring this up again. I�ll live the most ordinary life there ever was, just as long as you promise me that I�ll get five minutes of wonderful before it�s all over.�
50 SAM
From the beginning there�s fric
tion. I know she�s coming, but I�m not looking forward to it, and sure enough she shows up just when I�m in the middle of shearing. So I see her get out of the car with the little girl, but I pretend I haven�t heard her drive up. I am working the ram when she comes into the pen. I can�t tell much about her because I am facing the sheep, except that she has pretty good legs. I try to concentrate on running straight rows of fleece, on peeling the wool back from the sheep�s side like filleting a bass. Good wool is seventy-five cents per pound these days, belly wool goes for something cheaper. When my mother was alive she�d card and spin it, and then knit something out of it: a sweater, an afghan. But these days we just sell the fleece to the town pool. From time to time, I�ll buy one of the blankets they weave from everyone�s sheep.
She�s stepping around on the hay like it�s a mine field. For Christ�s sake, it�s just manure. Half the vegetables she eats at the supermarket have probably been mulched with the stuff. She asks me if I know Joley.
Maybe I shouldn�t give her such a hard time. After all, I don�t really know her. What I�m going on is an assumption. Still, I can�t resist. Just because I want to watch her out of her element, I ask her to help me get the next ewe, and she follows me into the barn. I�m figuring on a good laugh, and then I�ll tell her who I am.
She follows my actions, digging into the fleece like she is knotting her fingers into a net, and we walk slowly, hunched, with the sheep between us. She follows me out to the ledge where I�ve been doing the shearing. I steal a look at her, then, impressed. She isn�t afraid to get her hands dirty, at least. She has a high forehead and a little nose that goes up at the end, like it�s too small for her face. I wouldn�t call her a knockout, but she�s all right. In a fresh, just-washed way. Of course, I�m not seeing her all done up. Back where she�s from, she probably wears all that makeup and chunky jewelry and suits with crazy angles.
I have to keep myself from smiling: she�s doing a good job. I let go of the sheep to grab the razor and all of a sudden the ewe bolts, heading straight for the girl. �What are you doing!� I yell, the first thing that comes to mind. �Catch her!�
The girl-Rebecca, that�s her name-dives for the sheep but it runs in the opposite direction. I turn to Joley�s sister. I absolutely can�t believe someone would be stupid enough to let go of a sheep before shearing.
�I thought it would just stay put,� she says.
All it takes is common sense, for God�s sake. She looks up at me with this apologetic gaze and when she sees that isn�t going to work she runs after the sheep herself. She lunges for the ewe, but doesn�t see the manure heaped onto the hay. Naturally, she falls, smack in the middle of it.
I didn�t mean for anything like this to happen, honest. I expected to have a little fun with her, make the ol� Newton girl see what a working farm is really like, and then I was going to take her down to Joley. But now that it�s happened, really, it�s a riot. To keep myself from laughing, I catch the sheep and throw all my attention into shearing her. I rub the shears up the belly, across the hinds, between the legs, around the neck. I use my legs and knees to pin her on her side while I run the shears over her flanks, letting the wool roll off like a carpet of snow. It�s perfect, from the inside, white with only a few spots of lanolin. It springs back at the touch, crimped with natural oils from the skin. In a few minutes when I am finished with the sheep, I slap her lightly on her hind leg. She springs up, looking back at me once, a little angry. She bolts away, down into the field with the other sheep.
