Sweet Hush

by Deborah Smith

  I pulled him outside to the veranda. “It may be a lost cause, but I have to attempt some kind of normal routine—for their sake as well as mine. I’m putting her and Davis to work. It’s what they want, but it may not be what they expect. Certainly not glamorous. I’ll give her a kitchen job, in The Barns. She’ll be out of public sight and the work isn’t that hard, physically. Just boring. You have a problem with that?”

  “I’m all for it. Boring work is safe work. All right, so what about me? How do I earn my keep around here?”

  For one split second my eyes betrayed me, and I gave him a onceover that could rightfully be interpreted the wrong way. By the time I caught myself he had returned the favor. He leaned against one of the veranda columns with just enough humor in his eyes to give me an easy out. “Is that job hourly or by the week?”

  I arched a brow. “That job’s only in your imagination, Lt. Colonel.”

  “Seriously.”

  We’d pretend the moment hadn’t happened. All right.

  “You want work to do, Jakob? I’ll give you work. Put you on the payroll. Farm chores, shipping, packaging, loading apples. Gruncle is in charge of all that. So do whatever Gruncle tells you to do. Are you willing to salute an old man who’s bad-tempered and unreasonable?”

  “I’ve had a lot of experience. I’ve been in the army. Consider me hired, Mrs. Thackery.”

  I ASSEMBLED FAMILY, employees, Davis, Eddie, Smooch, Logan, and Jakobek in the apple-sorting room of the public barn that also housed our bakery and gift shop. More than forty people stood among the alleys of wood-framed conveyor belts and crates and rinsing shelves and steel channel-ways that guided fresh-picked Sweet Hushes into plastic bags and small shipping crates and pretty little oak-slat baskets that would be wrapped in apple-red cellophane with red bows on the tops for the retail shelves. The barn’s wall vents channeled the smell of fried apple turnovers baking in the ovens of the kitchens of the barn next door. The piney scent of wood shavings rose from the old-fashioned floor beneath our feet. Life was good and fragrant, at least in my apple barns.

  “I have some wonderful news,” I lied to the whole crowd, looking out on old and young faces wreathed in red Sweet Hush tractor caps or hygienic red Sweet Hush logo-ed hair bonnets atop a human quilt of crisp white Sweet Hush Farm aprons over blue jeans and flannel shirts with Sweet Hush Farms crests—a dear and loyal and hard-working crowd of people who glanced with grim wonder from me to the somber Jakobek then to the bravely smiling Eddie and the stern Davis, who held Eddie’s hand and stood at attention.

  I told them bluntly. Meet Eddie Jacobs Thackery. Yes, just as you’ve heard. Eddie and Davis are married. They’re going to stay here for the season and work with us. And yes, there is more good news. As y’all know, I’m going to be a grandmother.

  Tentative hands clapped slowly, while all eyes went from me to the newlyweds to Jakobek and back to me again. Davis clamped his mouth tightly at the less than enthusiastic reaction of his family and stared straight at the offenders, a muscle flexing in his cheek. “We came here to be part of the family and the community and the legacy my parents have built with your help. I know you’ll love Eddie and make her feel welcome. She wants to be treated like anyone else. I expect . . . no, I know . . . that you’ll treat her with friendship and respect.”

  He told them all he had come home and given up Harvard gladly to help me run the family business, but when he said that some of his younger cousins—who idolized him and his adventures in the world—shook their heads. Some of the less polite old men and women wiped tears of disappointment off their faces.

  Others glowered at Eddie as if she were five-foot-seven inches of skinny, seductive ruination—and a damned liberal Jacobs, to boot. Their resentment included the towering, rough-faced Jakobek. He had bloodied Davis and blown the bees off me. Tribal symbolism brought my relatives’ defenses to the surface—a stranger had walked into the kingdom, thrown down the prince and tried to seduce the widowed Queen. Hamlet by way of the Hollow.

  I knew what I had to do, like it or not. Family harmony requires as much grit-your-teeth maneuvering as any political campaign, and often just as much spin-doctoring on the truth. I went over to Eddie, pried her hand out of Davis’s grip, and gave her a ceremonial hug to warn all my relatives I had accepted her. She uttered a small cry of surprise, then wrapped her arms around me and whispered brokenly in my ear. “Thank you. I won’t let you down.”

  “Share the favor. Introduce your cousin Jakobek and give everyone a dose of sweet-talk on his behalf,” I whispered back. “Or they’ll hoist him on his own petard.”

  She gave me a bewildered look but faced the audience. “You are all such a legend to me. Davis has told me all about his family and this wonderful place and his love for the land and for his mother and the memory of his father and for the proud business they built together. I come from a legacy of strong family values, too. I respect what you’ve all accomplished. I’m here because I want my life choices to reflect the same values.

  “In that same vein, I want you all to meet the relative of mine who has come here solely for my benefit, solely to represent my parents, who could not be here today. I asked Hush to let me introduce him personally.” Eddie held out a hand to indicate Jakobek. “My father’s nephew, my first cousin and . . . and surrogate older brother and—” her voice broke gently—“one of my true heroes, along with Davis—Lt. Colonel Nicholas Jakobek, retired from the United States Army.”

  Jakobek sank his big hands in the pockets of his rumpled trousers and nodded to everyone, but still managed to look stiff and worldly and as sweet as a Rottweiler behind a security fence. He stood before my suspicious family in khakis and old flannel, as simple as any of us, but not like a one of us, not like anyone we knew, a wolf in apple farmer’s clothing. He inclined his head in acceptance of the introduction. “The President and First Lady send their hello’s,” he said. “They intend to stay on top of this situation.”

  This sounded more like a threat than a kindly message from new in-laws. Mutters of concern went up. Jakobek frowned and looked at me for advice. “It’s all right, Jakob,” I whispered. “Around here, men are expected to shoot something or drive too fast or get drunk to show they care. You don’t have to make a big sloppy, sentimental speech. But you might want to make up something about ‘best wishes,’ or such.”

  He turned back to the muttering crowd. “And they look forward to meeting all of Davis’s family and friends. They . . . send their best wishes.”

  The mutters faded, but people still regarded him suspiciously.

  Jean Fruitacre Bascomb, an aging cousin to my grandmother on her father’s side, stepped forward with a look of rheumy impatience. LimaJean ran the kitchens. “Sweet Davis,” she said to my son in a voice cracked like old paint, “Your mama came to us 20 years ago with this crazy plan to build barns and sell apples to rich fools from Atlanta. We stuck with her, and she was right. We believe in her and she hasn’t ever let us down. You look around: You see old people with pensions and insurance. You see young folks with college money. You see mamas and daddies taking care of their kids in comfort. All because we stuck together – and all because of your mama. Don’t mess with that. Don’t come in here and give up on your college and show off a famous wife and say ‘I’m a man and I’m an apple farmer and I’m here to run things.’ You’ve got to earn the right to stay here. It’s not about what you’ve given up. It’s about what you’ve taken on.”

  “Yes, Miss Jean, I know,” Davis said stiffly. “I’m not here to ask for handouts.”

  “Good. You won’t get any. Your mama didn’t ask for any, and look what she’s built up for us all. And you, Miss Eddie. You look like a fine, smart girl to me. I didn’t vote for your daddy but I’ve got nothing against him, except his politics. But are you born in the ways of an apple? Are you for us or against us or just don’t give a damn one way
or the other?”

  “I’m for you,” Eddie said fervently. “Ma’am, I am the daughter of a woman who believes wholeheartedly in the fair and just treatment of all human beings and the daughter of a man whose family built a proud American dream that began with nothing but the clothes on their backs at Ellis Island.”

  “Big talk,” Jean said gently. “But it doesn’t pay the bills.”

  My Gruncle, an old, troubled warrior hunched inside a white Sweet Hush sweater and baggy dungarees with rolled-up cuffs, stepped out of the group and pointed a bony finger at Jakobek. I gestured for the nearest great aunt to ward him off, but it was too late. “Let’s get down to the dirt. We’ve heard what you did when you got here, Boy!” Everyone under sixty was a boy or a girl to Gruncle. “We don’t like strangers who take liberties with our Hush.”

  “Hold on, everybody, the man took no liberties,” I announced. “My liberties are safe and sound, so let’s just calm down.”

  “But the man hurt your son, Girl! Are you gonna look the other way on that insult, too?”

  “Gruncle, I was a witness to what happened and I’m here to tell you the Lt. Colonel deserves no blame. The incident was between him and Davis. They’ve made their peace, and it’s nobody’s business but theirs.” I paused. “Davis is a grown man. He can take care of himself.”

  “No, it’s family business when a dangerous honcho sets up housekeeping right in our own yard! I’ve heard about this Jakobek on Haywood Kenney’s radio show.” Gruncle glared at Jakobek. “The President has kept you out of sight all these years for a reason, Boy. What devil do you dance with, Boy, and what misery are you gonna bring into our midst, and how many people will you admit you’ve killed? Did you kill for mean avarice or did you kill for God and country, Boy?”

  “My cousin’s a hero,” Eddie interjected fervently. “I assure you his reputation has been twisted and—”

  “I don’t care about God or country,” Jakobek interjected quietly. We all went stone-cold still and looked at him like small creatures hearing the high, hunting call of a hawk. Eyes narrowed. Hands went to Bible verses in shirt pockets and flag decals tucked into wallets. Opinions hardened. Jakobek looked back with the quiet of a statue in a war memorial. He would not be moved.

  “What do you care about?” someone called.

  Before he could answer, a distant rumbling outside grew loud enough to grab our attention. Lucille and her fellow agents rushed to the barn’s big plate-glass windows, cupping their hands over their eyes and looking upward. Jakobek and I followed, and then everyone else, until we were all gazing outward and upward anxiously. A small, blue-and-white helicopter approached over Ataluck’s wooded ridges. Jakobek turned to Davis and Eddie. “Move her back from the window.”

  “Yes,” Lucille agreed quickly.

  Eddie stiffened. “No. I refuse to react as if I’m always a target for every lunatic and monster in the world. Not anymore. Here on this farm I’m as safe as—” Davis picked her up and carried her to the center of the barn, then set her down. She frowned and looked up at him in wounded surprise. “Et tu, Brute?”

  “I support your stand on the issues,” he said. “But not your stand by the window.”

  “It’s a camera crew,” Lucille called. By now the helicopter was only a hundred feet over the farm’s public yards, and I could see the logo of a cable news network, one of the sleazier ones, if that’s not redundant. A camera man, harnessed to the copter’s open door, hung out in the air, filming the barns and orchards. I grabbed Logan by one arm. “They’re invading our privacy. They’re trespassing. Nosy sons of bitches! They can’t do that.”

  “What do you want me to do, Sis? Shoot them down?”

  “Hell, yes.”

  Jakobek walked to a set of large double doors while we were mewling among ourselves, and the next thing I knew he opened the doors and stepped outside, and he reached within his shirt, and pulled out a kind of sleek, long-barreled automatic pistol. I rushed out behind him. “As mad as I am, Jakob, I didn’t really mean to shoot at the damned helicopter.”

  “Are you willing to bluff?”

  “Bluff?” I gestured fervently at the cameraman. “He’s filming every move you make. Don’t provoke him.”

  “He’s not just filming me.” He glanced at me pointedly as he jacked the pistol. “He’s filming us. I’ll take care of this. Go back inside.”

  After a moment, I shook my head. “No, let’s scare the S.O.B together.” He smiled, raised the gun to the sky, and aimed at the helicopter. The cameraman scooted inside the open door of the copter like a Florida beach crab backing into its hole. I caught one glimpse of the wide-eyed pilot mouthing words I didn’t need to hear to understand.

  The helicopter rose quickly and disappeared back over the horizon. Everyone crowded around Jakobek and me, looking at him with troubled respect. A feeling like guilty, excited fingers crept up my spine. He lowered the pistol and slid it back inside his shirt. “I take care of my family,” he said. “That’s what I care about.”

  He turned and walked through the crowd. Everyone made a path for him. Including me.

  Eddie exhaled a soft, keening sound. “Maybe I shouldn’t have encouraged Davis to bring me here. I’m so sorry my introduction was married by an attack on the very autonomy and privacy that makes this Hollow such a sanctuary.”

  A strange thing happened. My family—all ornery, independent individuals, fiercely patriotic on many levels, fervent about family loyalty and homestead defense and the sanctity of the land, but still reeling from Jakobek’s dramatic demonstration of the right stuff on behalf of kith and kin—suddenly took a second look at Eddie Jacobs and saw, instead, Eddie Thackery.

  At the very least she was Davis’s wife, the mother of his child, in need of sympathy and protection whether she’d earned it yet or not. As her dowry she’d brought a strong male cousin, this Jakobek, a man willing to speak his mind and point a gun at trespassers and damn the consequences. If he did dance with the devil, at least he made the devil let him lead.

  “I’m so sorry for the disruption,” Eddie said again.

  Davis wearily put an arm around her. “It’s all right, Honey.”

  “No, it’s not. I have lived with the limelight all my life, but I won’t subject your family to—”

  “Time to get to work,” I said. “Eddie, Davis—both of you are on my pay roll. We have apples to sell. You can’t get squeamish on us, now. We need you on the job.”

  Davis gave me a look that nearly melted the anger between us. Eddie put a hand to her heart and smiled. The family nodded. One of the Thackery aunts—a big, fleshy mama with hands that could peel a bushel of apples faster than a machine—plopped a Sweet Hush baseball cap on Eddie’s soft brown hair. “I claim her for the kitchen. We’re short a hand in the production line for the apple fritters. I got over four hundred units to package before the UPS man makes his pick-up tomorrow morning.” Everyone watched Eddie withheld breath. The President’s daughter. Working on the fritter line.

  “I’ll be happy to perform kitchen chores,” Eddie said earnestly. “When I was growing up, Mother and I studied culinary arts with some of the finest chefs in world. We used to spend an entire week every summer at The French Laundry in California, actually working as assistants to the owner. My father would play golf at one of the local clubs during the day and the three of us would share the most wonderful meals at night. Cooking was our special family hobby . . .” Her voice trailed off and tears gleamed in her eyes as the memory of happier times with her estranged parents sank in. She quickly wiped her face and gazed at Davis with poignant self-discipline. “What’s a fritter?”

  As he explained the nuances of fried apple slices to her I turned and looked after Jakobek. The wide autumn majesty of the mountains framed him as he walked up the gravel road through the parking lots. He idly tapped one hand to his r
ight leg. Four of the farm dogs, two cats, and a black-and-white baby goat that had escaped from our petting barn followed him with the devotion of simple beings, sensing kindness as well as strength.

  I found myself touching my fingertips to my throat and my lips in fevered wonder. Following him, too, but without the courage to admit it.

  LIFE IN THE HOLLOW would never be the same, and that day had proved it.

  Lucille set her agents up at motel rooms and inns throughout the county, but she, herself, rented a basement apartment at Logan’s pragmatic cedar-wood bungalow on a winding back lane in Dalyrimple. How that arrangement came to be agreed upon by my brother and Lucille, I didn’t ask. Puppy latched onto the big blonde woman with immediate affection, and nicknamed her Lucy Bee. The newly monikered Lucy Bee was spotted sitting on Logan’s front porch on crisp afternoons wrapped in an apple-woven afghan, reading to Puppy from one of Logan’s hunting magazines. ‘Bambi—Stew, Steak, or Roast?’ was probably the topic. Puppy, regardless, was enthralled by Lucy Bee.

  We kept Eddie out of sight in the kitchens and the back barns and the house for her own good and our sanity, a situation she accepted graciously, to her credit. Dozens, and sometimes hundreds of people called the farm every day asking to speak with her, claiming to be friends, or shouting obscenities or stupid comments into the answering machine of my office. Love it or hate it, she was famous and infamous.

  And now, so were we.

  Part Two

  Chapter 13

  THE FOOTAGE OF HUSH and me standing shoulder-to-shoulder in a potential surface-to-air attack against the news chopper made the rounds on national television. Kenney told his national radio audience I needed to be checked for rabies—and that it appeared I’d already infected Eddie’s new mother-in-law, too.