The Orchardist

by Amanda Coplin

  The men on horseback came out of the trees, one after another, and lifted their arms in greeting. Clee’s horse, a dark palomino with yellow-stained mane and tail, a silver medallion on its breast strap, came stepping out of the forest. Clee too lifted his hand, but seriously, unsmiling. Something had happened, Talmadge thought; something had happened on their journey to make them early, this was why Clee looked so grim now. He and Angelene had by this time made their way into the field; the men simultaneously rode through the horses toward them.

  When Talmadge and Clee and the wrangler settled on the porch and removed their hats, and Angelene had gone inside to get coffee, the wrangler told Talmadge that one of the men had spotted a scout—the law—two days before, and they, the men, decided to go another way—to go north, and loop around, which they usually avoided because the terrain was rougher and more difficult to navigate. But the possibility of danger was less threatening than certain danger seen at a distance; and so they had risked it, this other route, and passed unscathed. That’s why they were early. While the wrangler talked, Clee wiped the sweat from his face with a large handkerchief, his eyes closed, and then replaced the handkerchief in his pocket.

  Talmadge nodded. He said that he and Angelene were more or less ready for them. What they needed to do in order to prepare for them, the last work, could be absorbed by all of them in the next couple of days.

  In fact he was relieved to have the men come early, because he had not yet told Angelene about Della. Angelene seemed to not want to talk about it. Now they could work, all of them, and he could put aside the task of discussing Della for at least a little while longer. But he must tell her soon, he thought, because the situation involved her. He would tell her after the men had gone, when by that time the excitement of the men would have diluted the fact of his trip to Chelan; the trip would have waned, become unimportant; would have less potential to hurt her.

  The men had hunted deer that morning, and the carcasses were thrown over the backs of several of the horses. Soon after they arrived, some of the men, Clee included, took the deer to the opposite side of the field, downwind from the horses, and butchered them. They erected a camp and cooked the venison over large fires.

  Clee, having overseen the food preparation, sat beside a fire and packed a pipe full of tobacco. Talmadge sat beside him, in a collapsible chair made of wooden poles and canvas. He watched the other man’s movements dully, but thought about all the years he had watched Clee do this. Pack a pipe full of tobacco. Clee’s movements, his face, were as familiar to Talmadge as his own, and yet there existed a chasm between them that they never regarded directly. Different lives. He had seen this action—this habitual movement—since he was a teenager, sitting beside Clee, the odor of the horses and woodsmoke in the air, but the movements at the same time seemed singular, new—the deft hands, the long fingers, working. It was the casualness, but also the ceremony, the severe quietness, that Talmadge appreciated.

  Clee’s hands were stained red from the butchering. Blood smudged on his cuffs. He pulled on the pipe a few times and then there was the odor of tobacco smoke mixing with the odor of fires and venison. The sky overhead was darkening, and when Talmadge pulled his face away from the fire—the smoke was in his eyes—the outer air was cold. Evening had set in. The fires sent their flames high. The men talked and laughed, and behind and beyond them was the sound of the horses, which never died. The sound was loud and soft at the same time, like the sound upon which other sound was built. You didn’t hear the horses until you listened for them; and then they were very loud. Already Talmadge was becoming used to them. How that presence equated with silence until it was gone, and then you understood what silence really was.

  Clee was regarding him; held up his pipe: Where was Talmadge’s pipe?

  Talmadge held up his pipe, which he had gripped in his palm, lying in his lap.

  Clee passed him the pouch of tobacco, and after a moment—what had he been thinking about?—Talmadge began to pack the pipe. His hands shook slightly. Clee watched him for a moment, then looked away.

  They sat smoking in silence, and then Talmadge said:

  The Judge found the girl—

  Clee looked up. He pulled on the pipe, blew smoke rapidly out the corner of his mouth.

  She’s in Chelan, in a jail there—

  Clee remained still; and then, after a moment, he leaned forward, removed the pipe from his mouth. Spat. Paused for a long time, his eyes downcast and unmoving.

  She tried to kill a man, said Talmadge. Stabbed him with a broken bottle, something like that. Well—I don’t know the half of it. It was the Judge that found her—

  Clee put the pipe in his mouth, slowly.

  Angelene doesn’t know about it. I haven’t told her yet. I mean, she knows I went to go see her, but I didn’t tell her about the jail—

  Clee nodded, understanding. Then he looked at Talmadge. He made a slow, deliberate, heavy movement with his head, staring hard at Talmadge, which meant: You went to see her?

  Talmadge brought the pipe to his lips, found the fire had gone out in it. Clee, after a moment, dropped his eyes, fished for matches in his vest pocket.

  I didn’t see her, said Talmadge, and leaned so that Clee could light his pipe. She was—in a cell where they wouldn’t let her see anyone. She was—misbehaving. She did something wrong. They wouldn’t tell me about it. He put the pipe in his mouth.

  Clee, after a minute, nodded.

  They’re going to keep her in there—I don’t know how long. She might have killed the man she stabbed, they don’t even know. It’s like she—well, like she wants to be there. She turned herself in—

  Clee glanced at Talmadge. They were silent for several minutes.

  When Talmadge looked out, he caught sight of Angelene as she loitered between the fires and the men. She passed among them meekly, letting them know by her insistent presence that she was available to help them, if they needed it. But, like always, they largely ignored her. It had always been that way. It had been that way too, in the beginning, with Della, he remembered. At times, after a long day of working in the trees, they might acknowledge Angelene; they might even joke with her or tease her; but for the most part they simply let her be among them, they did not bother to pay her any special attention. This was not in anger or resentment; it was, Talmadge thought, a sign of respect: toward Angelene, toward himself. Not to be coddled, not to be made an exception. She understood this, he thought, though she was puzzled at times at their seeming rejection of her.

  Just now, a man whistled softly out the corner of his mouth and nodded to the nearby low table beside Angelene, meaning, Bring me that plate, and she hurried to the plate and brought it to him, and he put some meat on it. He spoke to her briefly, not looking at her, and she nodded and took the plate to a group of sitting men, one of whom took the plate from her and said something to her, smiling. Angelene said something back, and the group of men laughed. When Angelene turned, Talmadge saw that she was smiling, also blushing.

  Later he remembered Angelene moving through the darkness of the camp. By the firelight she looked as if she wanted something; there was a kind of sorrow there. But if he were to call to her, she would turn and come to him, and by that time her face would be closed; or, if not closed, then there would be another expression there. The plain, the normal gentleness with which she always regarded him.

  But what was that expression before she came to him? What did it mean? Was she unhappy? Did she too, or some part of her at least, wish to leave?

  This look of sorrow as she walked among the fires—it was familiar to him, he had felt that way too, when he was younger. How to talk about it, how to talk about such things. When he was a boy he was happy when the men arrived, and in a way wanted them to remain forever—but he was also anxious that they had arrived, that he was no longer alone. The sorrow came from those two feelings—the happiness of company, the anxiety of interrupted solitude. That was what he had felt, he thought, a
nd what to some extent he still felt. But never to the extent he had then, when he was young, when he did not know what to make of his feelings. When one is young, he thought, one thinks that one will never know oneself. But the knowledge comes later; if not all, then some. An important amount.

  Angelene: he could only guess her mind. Did she herself know the root of her sorrowful expression? If she were to know it, if he were to tell her, Your face is full of sorrow, would she understand even a little the feeling that gave rise to it? Maybe she was truly sorrowful; maybe she was unhappy. Of course she loved the land; but maybe she did not know what else was inside her. Maybe she wanted to leave the orchard but did not know it. She was still young. She still had much to discover about herself. He had not told her yet—how could he have this conversation with her?—that it was all right to think of leaving; one should not expect to be constant one’s entire life. He certainly did not expect her to stay: or this is what he would tell her. If she ever wanted to go, she could leave. He would not try to stop her. But then he wanted her, in a way, to remain constant in her childish dream of becoming an orchardist alongside him; because she was good at it, and—this was the main reason, he knew—because he loved her and wanted her to remain close to him.

  But he would try to tell her eventually that it was all right to leave. There was the possibility, he reminded himself, that her future did involve the orchard, and that her choice to remain there was made not out of fear of the outside world but rather a knowledge and willful rejection of it. There was the possibility that her becoming an adult did not necessarily mean that she would move away from him. She could change, he told himself, and still remain in the orchard. But despite her apparent love of the trees, despite her intelligence and skill and aptitude in caring for the entire homestead, he remained doubtful. It was too much to wish, much less assume, that she would remain by his side.

  Angelene walked over to him, leaned against him, put her hand on his shoulder. She smelled, faintly, of licorice.

  The wrangler, who had come and sat beside Clee, addressed her, his eyes smiling: Are you coming to the auction, then? Talmadge was just telling me how much you wanted to go— There was an edge of laughter to his voice, although he was not laughing; he was teasing her, because he knew she was a homebody, and even though she was awed by the horses, she wanted little to do with them.

  But Talmadge waited to hear what Angelene would say.

  She squeezed his shoulder.

  I don’t want to go, she said, shyly, glancing down at Talmadge. Not really. Or, I would go, if Talmadge comes too—

  Well, go if you want to go, said Talmadge, and his voice, surprising them all, was gruff. There was a moment of silence, and then Angelene took her hand away.

  He shifted in his seat. Incredibly, he heard his voice again:

  Those places are no places for girls. I should have known that a long time ago, but like a fool—

  Clee peered out toward the forest. He puffed on his pipe. Angelene was still. He knew that if he were to look at her, there would be a look of confusion on her face. But underneath, he knew, she understood. She understood exactly what he was talking about.

  Another guard replaced the angry, pimply-faced guard who had told Della that Michaelson needed an operation. This new guard was also young—maybe just twenty years old—and was what others would call handsome. His name was Frederick. He stuck his arm through the bars the first day, to shake her hand. She stood away and observed the gesture, surprised.

  Frederick smiled at her—he had a complexion the color of newly washed buckskin, and dark ash-blue eyes. Dimples one could fit a knuckle into. When she didn’t come forward, he pulled his hand back through the bars. But kept his smile.

  That’s all right, he said. Then: I heard about you. Only woman they’ve had in here for quite some time. Then: You turned yourself in, didn’t you? Isn’t that what I heard?

  I have no idea what you heard, she said, and he laughed. Not a mocking laugh. She glanced at him, despite herself, thinking: And maybe this one was different. Maybe.

  For his second trip to see Della, Talmadge would bring gifts. Some green apples, and candy—lemon drops, she had always like those—and magazines. He stood before the magazine rack at the feed and supply store, deciding what she might like. The clerk, when he saw how long Talmadge stood before the rack, asked if he could help. Talmadge said he was looking for something to give a young woman. The clerk said, Angelene? and Talmadge immediately regarded him. He was younger than Talmadge would have thought—he had in fact hardly taken note of the young man when he entered the store, barely saw he was a copy of the owner, and assumed he was the owner’s son; or could it be his grandson? In any case Talmadge did not recall ever having seen him before. The boy was no older than seventeen, had hair the color of a newly hatched chick. No, said Talmadge, after a moment, and turned his attention back to the rack. Someone else. The clerk pointed out the domestic magazines and the fashion magazines. Talmadge picked these up, looked at them. They were all wrong, of course. He put all back but one, and then withdrew two horse magazines, and a Wild West magazine. He didn’t know what she would like, but there was something there for her, anyhow, out of the ones he had chosen.

  He told Caroline Middey, later that day when he went to see her, that Angelene hadn’t wanted to come to town that morning; she had told him at the last minute, after he had prepared the wagon, that she had chores in the orchard she wanted to tend to.

  Caroline Middey didn’t say anything to this at first. They settled on the porch and ate some sliced bread and cheese, some cherry tomatoes. She was going to say something but then checked herself and rose, went inside for coffee. She returned, and sat. They poured their coffee. Caroline Middey asked again why the girl hadn’t come.

  Chores, you said? But shouldn’t you be out there helping her?

  Talmadge brought his mug to his lips. Of course they could both see through the girl’s excuse; but Talmadge did not particularly want to discuss it. He said: She wanted to get a head start on things. I told her we could wait, but she didn’t want to—

  Caroline Middey picked some bread crumbs off her dress front. Without looking at him, she said: She’s not jealous, is she?

  Jealous? Even as he said it, an idea was blooming in his mind.

  Caroline Middey looked at him.

  You going around all over town collecting gifts—I don’t know, a girl might get jealous of something like that. Then: You better have a superior gift for her, is all I’m saying. For her birthday, she said, when her statement failed to garner any reaction from him.

  Talmadge looked to the road across the field. In fact he had forgotten the girl’s birthday, that it was coming in a month’s time.

  Oh, Talmadge!

  He cleared his throat.

  I’ll think of something.

  You’d better, said Caroline Middey. And then, a minute later, hesitantly: You’re going to tell her? About her mother? You always said you would tell her when she got to this age—didn’t you? In my opinion she is ready, she was ready a year ago at this time, she is a proper young woman now, it’s right to tell her—

  Heavy clouds had moved in since he had arrived. The landscape darkened; a cold wind moved over the porch. And then the clouds moved over the sun and all was mellow gold, and a fine rain fell.

  Caroline Middey peered out at it.

  You going home in this? You want to stay the night?

  This? I’ll be all right.

  How you planning on getting to Chelan? You’re not taking the wagon again, are you?

  He shook his head.

  Taking the train, he said. In fact it was the Judge who had recommended it. Talmadge had gone to see him the week before, to tell him about the trip, and the Judge asked him how he had gotten to Chelan the previous time, and suggested the train might be more convenient, more comfortable for a man in his situation. He too thought Talmadge was getting old, thought Talmadge.

  The girl goi
ng with you?

  Talmadge shook his head again.

  She doesn’t want to go on the train? Incredulous. Does she know about the train? You told her you weren’t taking the wagon—

  I told her about it. She’s taking me to the station.

  He had not told Angelene about his plans to visit Della again, but she had guessed them. The day before, as he took out his suit from the closet, he turned to see Angelene in the doorway of his bedroom, regarding him.

  You going to see her again?

  He folded the suit over his arm.

  Yes—

  She nodded, shortly. Then, as if trying to hide her interest: You’re not taking the mule again, are you?

  I was thinking about the train this time.

  They both stood in silence.

  Is the Judge coming out to—

  No.

  I’ll take you, then, she said.

  Caroline Middey sighed and got up from her chair, went inside. When she came back a minute later, she wore a shawl and had two packages wrapped in butcher paper in her hands. She held up the package in her right hand.

  This here’s what you asked for. I was able to mend them all right. It would help if we knew how big she was now. Probably hasn’t gained in height, but in other ways—well, she’s still a growing girl, I suppose. But I guessed, I did my best. If they’re way off, bring them back, and I’ll work on them.

  Talmadge nodded.

  And this—Caroline Middey held up the other package—this is for our girl Angelene. Tell her it’s an early birthday present. She smiled to herself as she handed it over. Oh, she’ll like it, she said.