Talmadge was nodding, absently.
The young man, though momentarily defensive, was sorry for Talmadge, Talmadge could see that. It was no use pressing him for information, or trying to persuade him to let Talmadge in to see Della. This boy didn’t have it in him to break the rules—Talmadge could see that clearly—and he, Talmadge, wasn’t going to make him feel bad about it.
You can keep waiting, said the young man, or you can come back tomorrow. I’m sorry I can’t be any more help.
I can’t come tomorrow, said Talmadge. I have to be getting back.
The young man looked pained. I’m sorry, he said.
Talmadge wondered, walking down the street to the boardinghouse, blind now to the novelty of the place, the details that had captured his attention just hours before, what it was, exactly, that Della’s file contained. Was it everything that they knew about her since the beginning of her incarceration, or did it contain other information as well? Did they know, for instance, anything about her past? Had she told them anything about herself? Talmadge wondered if, alongside all of the information about her, there was a list of names of the people who would be willing to help her in the case that she was released. A list of people who would vouch for her. Surely, he thought, such a list—himself, Caroline Middey, the Judge, Clee, Angelene—would make a difference. He made a note to talk to the warden, and the Judge, about it.
He slept through supper that evening at the boardinghouse, and when he woke, around ten o’clock at night, he dressed and went downstairs. The house was quiet. Several lamps were lit in the sitting room, and under one of them, in a chair in the corner, the landlady sat, knitting. She looked up at him as he paused in the doorway.
There’s a plate for you in the oven, she said. I didn’t want to disturb you. She looked down at her knitting, which she had not interrupted. When he continued to stand there, she stopped all at once, put the knitting aside, and stood.
That’s all right, said Talmadge. I can help myself to something to eat, if—
It’s not a problem—
He followed her down the dark hallway. In the kitchen she lit a lantern and told him to sit. He sat at a table near the window from where he could see the lake. She took a plate from the warming oven and set it before him. It was mashed potatoes and gravy, roast chicken, green beans.
Can I get you something to drink?
Thank you, I can help myself to some water, if you—
Water? It’s water you want? Wouldn’t you rather have some milk?
Well, I—
She brought him a glass of milk and then left him alone. He ate the food, looked out at the lake and the trees, listened to the stove ticking.
When he finished eating, he found the landlady again, sitting in her orb of light, knitting. She looked up at him.
Did you get enough to eat?
Yes, thank you.
Is there something else? You have enough blankets up there to suit you?
When he didn’t answer, she stopped knitting and put the yarn aside and asked him if he would like to sit.
Again he hesitated.
I have to ask a favor—
She regarded him.
Do you think—would you mind taking dictation for a letter?
There was only the slightest of hesitations, from surprise, before she answered.
Of course—
And she got up to get a piece of paper.
The worst thing about solitary confinement was that she lost the sense of the order of things. What was she doing? Where was she? Was she making a mistake? It had all seemed a bright formula to her, before. But now in the darkness doubt reared its head, rose up before her.
It was very still and Della might sleep and then she woke and there were no men and no horses, there was no orchard and orchardist and child, there was no fruit and no sky, no wet-smelling air; only emptiness. There was no time. There was no wilderness to lose oneself inside. She touched her face in the dark; she had her self. But then, she thought, her self was nothing. She was nothing.
Why are we born? she thought. What does it mean to be born? To die?
Talmadge was halfway back to the orchard—he had woken before dawn in the back of the wagon, in the biting cold, and had prepared a fire and eaten, and taken up the reins in the blue-gray air, before he realized, the sun breaking in the east: he should not have left her there. He should not have been so lenient with the young man. He should have demanded to see the warden, demanded to see Della. It was not impossible, after all, to see her. She was not dead. It was up to the warden whether Della could receive visitors or not. And Talmadge was capable, he knew, somehow—didn’t he have the power of speech? Wasn’t he, in the least bit, sympathetic?—of changing the man’s mind.
But what had he, Talmadge, done? He had written a letter to the girl: I will come back to see you. And would it be worse for her to know that he was there, but had not pressed anybody for her sake, had not insisted on seeing her?
He slowed the mule in the road, stopped. Silence of another landscape surrounded him. He considered going back. But there was Angelene, alone, ignorant of all these developments, in the orchard. He did not want to frighten her by his extended absence. After minutes of indecision, he finally urged the mule forward, toward the orchard. Away from Chelan.
A man came to see you, said the warden.
Della, who had been in a cell with no windows or light for three days, sat before his desk. She tried to remain indifferent and calm but was unable to hide her discomfort. The light in the office, though weak—the warden had drawn the blinds, sensitive to her condition—seemed to abrade her. The shadows on the wall, the small movement of the warden’s face as he spoke now, touched a deep part of her. She was alarmed by the feeling that she was going to cry. But there was no reason to cry, not now.
She eventually came around to recognizing what the warden had just said: that a man had come to see her.
What man?
He left this for you. The warden reached into his front shirt pocket and removed an envelope, handed it across the desk to her. The letter had been opened.
Protocol, he said.
When he had walked with her down the hall after her stint in solitary confinement—gripping her elbow, for she had trouble standing; the darkness had weakened her more than she could have imagined—he had also been gently jovial: Now, I know that was unpleasant, but I’m sure you understand now why we use that as a deterrent—
She took the letter from him. As an object it was completely foreign to her, as if he had handed her a piece of the moon, or a diamond necklace. He was waiting for her to say something.
Hesitating briefly, she handed the letter back to him without opening it.
I can’t read it. And by “can’t,” it was obvious that she meant she was literally unable to read the letter.
The warden let a minute pass in silence. The letter lay before him on the desk, but he did not consult it.
He wants to come see you. I told you before. His name is William Talmadge. Then, watching her face: How do you know him?
And Della remembered: the day before she attacked Michaelson, the warden had come out to join her in the yard. He said he had received a letter from a man, a lawyer, down near Wenatchee, who was asking permission on the part of a client to come and see her.
Do you want to see him? the warden had asked that day in the yard.
He wants to come here? said Della. Thinking, after the initial surprise: Of course he couldn’t come there. But upon hearing his name she had felt a brightness in her abdomen.
No, she said. I don’t want to see him.
That was what she had said that day in the yard. But the man—Talmadge—had come anyway. Della said now, mustering her strength at reason and argument—she was tired and confused, they should have let her rest longer before this meeting—Why did he come, if you said he couldn’t see me?
The warden touched a sheaf of papers on his desk. He did not answer right awa
y.
I told him to come, he said.
Della, who had already begun to understand, was silent.
I don’t think you realize—I don’t think you understand—how much trouble you might be in. With the assault you already admitted to, but now, especially, with this most recent action—the warden shook his head. I don’t think you’re in a position to be denying help. Forgive me. I only have your best interests at heart—
Della said nothing. She was not moved by the warden’s words of concern. She had thought he was intelligent, though not beyond manipulation; but after that solitary confinement business, she was not sure he was not like other men she had known: like Michaelson. After that, she did not know what to think of him. These words—I only have your best interests at heart—she excused at once without believing them. They were just words, used to further control her.
She let herself think, briefly, of Talmadge. Imagined him coming to Chelan—did he take the mule? Or would he have taken the steamboat? The train?—and drawing to the courthouse, searching for her. She knew what had happened: he had come at the appointed time, and when he was denied, when he was told what had happened to her—but what would they have told him, exactly?—he had perhaps thought of arguing, but had not. He had accepted the circumstances. He had written her a note. She suddenly knew what the letter said, she did not have to read it: He had come to see her, but had been unable to do so. He hoped she was all right. He would come to see her again.
And when the warden read her the letter—at his insistence, not hers—this is what it said.
Will you see him? asked the warden, folding the letter and inserting it into the envelope.
Do I have a choice? she said: without animosity, without sarcasm. It was simply a statement, reflecting that she understood her powerlessness in the matter.
The warden smiled faintly. It is for the best, he said. Let him—and this lawyer—help you.
I don’t need help, she thought, as she was led back to her cell. I need time, and quiet, to think: to figure out how I am going to get through this all, how I am going to complete this task—
The mule, which had grown sluggish during the last day and a half, picked up speed in the forest mountainside from Cashmere, feeling the familiar terrain beneath its hooves. Talmadge too felt the closeness to home. His heart beat through him hollow and light; he was dazzled by the sun in the trees. The mule traversed the final hill, wheezing, and Talmadge called to it, and the mule broke out of the trees into the bright pasture and coughed, ambled down the slope, its mouth agape, bridle clinking.
The orchards were blue- and silver-leaved. The regular cries of birds, which the silence of the road had made him forget, rose and crossed in the sky. And there were the mingling odors: of water, of fruit and blossom and dust.
Always dust.
By a trick of light—it was the way the canyon was shaped, the distant canyon rock and upper forest rearing against the sky—some parts of the valley were cast in shadow, and other parts, like the part holding the cabin now, were lit up as if it were morning.
Angelene had come out onto the porch, her hands at her face, shielding her eyes.
She waved. When he came up into the yard, she had gone back into the cabin but soon came out again, went to the wagon, and helped him down onto the grass. How was it she knew he needed help? For he was the one who needed help now, he realized. Had he ever leaned on her like this? (He leaned on her heavily, more heavily than he would have liked. He was shaking; he longed, momentarily, for the old motion of the wagon. He was sick with fatigue.) He said something into her hair as he struggled against her, and she said, What? But she bore his weight and helped him across the grass to the porch, she did it as if she had done it a thousand times. It did not even register on her face that it was something out of the ordinary. They headed up the steps, and then on the porch he lowered his weight into the birchwood chair and she was leaning over him, speaking to him. He saw for the first time that her hair was wet, slicked back, and she wore her market-day shirt, the white shirt with the design in pink thread embroidered on the collar. Had she been to market by herself? She was leaning over him, speaking to him, and then—he did not know what happened next—he was asleep.
When he woke, he was in his bed, and it was dark. Crickets called outside the open window, and over everything wafted the odor of fried onions. She passed by the open door of the bedroom, and when she saw he was awake, she came inside. Sat on the edge of the bed. Helped him sit up. A lantern was bright in the room behind her, and he could not make out her face. After a moment she placed a hand on his hand.
I knew you were coming today, she said. When I woke up this morning, I knew it.
There was a silence. He thought he should tell her about Della. Where should he begin? But before he could speak, she said: Are you hungry?
He nodded.
She rose, and returned with a plate of food. Eggs scrambled with bacon and onions, bread and tomatoes thinly sliced, coffee. She sat on the edge of the bed while he ate.
Aren’t you going to eat? he asked her.
I already ate.
How long have I been asleep?
Three hours or so.
After she took his plate away, she came and sat beside him again, but this time in a different position, and he could see her face. The dark, generous eyes, the puzzled brow. They regarded each other.
He began to speak.
You don’t have to tell me now, she said, and averted her eyes, picked a piece of lint off the quilt. Smoothed the fabric with her hand. You don’t have to tell me now. You rest—
Was she still angry? At him? There was that hardening of her mouth—anger, but also sadness.
It would all become clear, he thought, it would all come to the surface, when he talked to her, when he told her what had happened—recently, on his trip to Chelan, but also in the past. It would all become clear—
Did you go to market? he asked her the next day.
Yes—
How did you get there?
The horse, she said. And then, when it failed to register on his face that he knew what she was talking about, she said, The horse Clee left the last time. I took a small load and set up where we usually do—
The horse? he said, and at his tone, she looked at him, silent now. He knew which horse she meant. Clee would at times leave a horse behind so that Talmadge could use it in his work, if he needed a creature stronger than the mule.
Yes, she said, and looked away from him now, soberly. It’s all right, Talmadge, it was fine—
He was amazed that she had sensed, before he realized it in himself, that he was upset with her. But why, he thought, should he be upset with her?
It was the old reaction, him and the horses—but this girl, Angelene, was fine. She was fine, he admonished himself, and reached out, touched her shoulder, pretended to brush something off that was there, a bit of leaf, a strand of hair. She smiled faintly. The smile meant: I forgive you.
Della, alone in her cell, took the letter out from the envelope and looked at it, the words on the page.
He hadn’t written it, she was certain of that; it was a woman’s hand. She wondered, briefly, if it was Angelene’s hand, but then dismissed that. It was too mature-looking.
She went to the window, looked out.
So he had been to see her, and would come see her again. She supposed there was no harm in it, not really; she supposed seeing him would not disturb her plans too much. It was nothing for her to see him—she would see him and get it over with—but it was imperative that he, Talmadge, not find out that Michaelson was there in the jail as well. That might change things.
But he did not necessarily have to find out about Michaelson. Even if the warden discussed what had happened—her attack on Michaelson—he, Michaelson, was going by a different name now. Talmadge would not, unless he investigated further, come to any easy conclusions by himself.
But still, she worried.
But th
ere was nothing to do but to see him. She must not raise a fuss, not about this; she must be patient, she must bide her time.
He would leave the orchard again in two weeks. He had talked to the Judge about it. He would tell Angelene—what exactly he did not know, but he would tell her something—and also try to fit as much work as he could into the weeks before he left. He could feel her wondering at his renewed energy, his bustle, which he knew was agitated: but she said nothing, perhaps thinking he still suffered from his recent overexertion from the trip to Chelan.
They worked in the apple orchard outside the canyon mouth when, suddenly, Angelene pulled her arms out of the limbs in which she worked and turned her head to the forest. Expression like an animal sensing weather. It’s too early, he told her. He knew she was waiting for the men; he was waiting for them too. But it was too early. They came the first week of July, and it was barely June. She went back to working, reluctantly. A minute later she stopped again, pulled her head out of the limbs, turned to the forest. She began to say something, and the forest line shook, began to produce horses; first two or three abreast and then a great surge of them, the bulk moving from the trees into the field.
Well, he said, and he and Angelene began to disengage from the trees. Headed down the hill to the creek, toward the horses.
He was struck, as he was always struck, by the horses’ simultaneous ugliness and beauty. Different shapes, heights, colors: cream-colored, black, brown, yellow horses, horses with dappled rumps, with stockings; some white horses with pink snouts and blue eyes; tall horses, with muscular necks; others short, stunted, dwarfed-looking. All weighing around a quarter ton, some just over. He had seen these herds for years, and yet when they came through the trees he was always surprised by them. They were dirty, unkempt, stinking; overall unpredictable. Perhaps what made them so impressive was their unhandledness. They had encountered no human up there in the mountains where they were captured. The men had gone up there, to the places where the horses lived, and dragged them—the horses—down to the plateaus and lowlands, and as a result the horses held the deepest grudge; they tore this way and that, tossing their heads, breathing rancid horse breath out of their rancid horse lungs. This is how he imagined it, as a boy lying awake at night, unable to sleep because of their presence in the field. He did not understand what they were. What do you mean, what are they? his mother had said. They are horses, Talmadge. But they were unknowable, both singly and as a herd. Even now it was difficult to look away from them.
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