Beneath a Thousand Apple Trees

by Janie DeVos

  Suddenly, Natty snorted and my eyes snapped open. Realizing that I must have fallen asleep and was now staring up into a blinding noonday sun, I quickly shut them and rolled over onto my left side. I was busy watching the orbs of light dance behind my eyelids when suddenly I heard a soft, scraping, papery sound come from above and to my right. Turning my head toward the sound, I saw a hand pulling back from the wagon’s seat. Fearing it was Ray Coons again, I lay quietly, not breathing, and prayed to God that Ray would not see me tucked in the back. After a minute of stillness, I cautiously sat up and looked on the seat.

  There, lying on the passenger’s side of the wagon’s bench lay a small, brown paper bag. I reached out and poked at it, afraid something alive, slithery, and poisonous might be lying in wait inside. But when nothing poked pack, I gingerly picked it up with two fingers and placed it down by me in the wagon’s bed. Inside, glistening and wonderful and delivered from some heavenly birthday angel above, were two brand new, beautiful peppermints sticks. My mouth formed into a perfect surprised O, then quickly but timidly I peeked out over the side of the wagon. Settling back onto the faded blue-flowered couch in the bed of the strangers’ wagon was the dark-haired boy. In his hand was another brown paper bag. He looked up at me as though he knew I must be watching, and seeing that I was, he opened his bag, pulled out a peppermint stick, smiled the most beautiful smile I’d ever received and promptly stuck it in his mouth.

  I laughed out loud in response, and then, while never taking my eyes off of him, I reached into my own bag and promptly stuck a peppermint into my own waiting mouth. I saw his shoulders rise and fall in a slight chuckle. He seemed pleased by my surprise and delight. I couldn’t know if it seemed like a little thing to him, this kindness he’d shown me, but it was a large and indescribable moment for me. With his one small act of compassion and sympathy, this boy had created his own place in my heart. He was my ally and friend, and I instantly loved him. Now all I needed to know was his name.

  CHAPTER 14

  Into the Mist

  The end of 1921 and most of 1922 were an ongoing process of trying to regain and maintain some semblance of normalcy in our lives, as normal as our family could hope to be, anyway. We’d all been affected by Mama’s actions. She kept pretty much to herself, and because of that, our garden had never been more bountiful, our clothes had never been kept as spotlessly clean and well pressed, and our family’s cemetery had never had such a frequently revolving array of fresh flowers gracing each headstone as it did with Mama’s almost obsessive care of it. She involved herself in her chores as enthusiastically as most parents involve themselves in their children’s lives. The space that she’d created between herself and the family was apparently a comfortable place for her to be. And, so, we mostly gave it to her. Merry Beth, however, seemed intent on pleasing Mama, perhaps in the hope of keeping her happy enough to not try giving us away again. Merry’s chores were always finished before Mama could issue a second request to do them, and she constantly made, found, or, on rare occasion, bought little gifts for Mama. It was both pathetic and irritating to watch my little sister’s attempts at trying to win Mama’s affection and approval.

  Prescott, on the other hand, continued to be so angry with our mother that he found things to do away from home as much as possible. Cutting firewood for a couple of widows who lived close by, as well as painting, mending fences, and working in their gardens, gave him legitimate reasons for being gone all day, most every day. But all of that changed when Mama told him on his fourteenth birthday that he was far too old to continue sharing the loft with Merry and me. Thus, Prescott—and Papa, whenever available—began construction on the addition that would be his new bedroom. He worked feverishly throughout the warm weather months, and well into the cold ones until his hands shook from the freezing temperatures as he tried to hold a nail steady while hammering.

  When Papa allowed, Prescott accompanied him to the sawmill to help cut logs for the addition, and he even undertook some simple carpentry work, building several simple but sturdy pieces of furniture for his room, including a desk, chair, and frame, head-, and foot-boards for his bed. Prescott carved a beautiful wolf in the headboard, and even though he was a novice, he was actually very good. But sometimes the materials just weren’t available at the mill and with every delay, Prescott showed growing impatience for the maddening interruption of his beloved project. The widows, however, were glad for those delays, and Prescott was mollified by the small income the extra work brought.

  Mama’s sympathetic decision to allow Prescott the space he needed—both literally and figuratively—brought about a shift in Prescott’s attitude toward her. He seemed to find some peace for himself, and, apparently, some forgiveness for her, for the heaviness that had permeated the air around them ever since she’d returned home gave way to an easier relationship between them. It struck me as ironic that it was Mama’s idea to build on to our home and, consequently, build up the relationship with her son when she had come so very close to completely tearing both apart.

  Papa went about his usual routine at the sawmill, with business getting better it seemed, for our bill at Taft’s was paid regularly. There was plenty of sugar, flour and coffee in the cabinets; and our clothing didn’t fall off of us before enough money was scraped together to purchase more, or to buy new material so that it could be made. Papa, not wanting to upset Mama in any way, tried overly hard to do for her and please her. It seemed as though the guilt of having to threaten her with a divorce in order to learn our whereabouts ate at him. He loved Mama, that much was clear, but the whys and wherefores of that love were way beyond what I could understand. It seemed to me that the threats he’d been forced to make had been well deserved. But, apparently, Papa was so affected by the intensity of his anger toward this fractured woman whom he’d promised to always love, cherish, and protect that he continued to try to make it up to her.

  On their eighteenth wedding anniversary, Papa presented Mama with a brand new buggy. Dark green with gold fringe running along the edge of the carriage’s top, it was the most beautiful conveyance I’d ever seen. Mama ooohed and ahhhhed over it, while I stood back in disbelief. There was something about the whole scene that was unsettling to me, and I didn’t know what to say. Grandma, on the other hand, trying to see the good in things as usual, said it’d be wonderful to take a Sunday drive in it, and if they’d like to do that after church service, she’d be glad to put on a pot of chicken and dumplings for our dinner. Merry immediately jumped up onto the driver’s seat and said she thought that’d be fun and could they ride over to see our cousins’ new colt. Grandma told her that she’d be staying put with Prescott and me, and helping her bake a carrot cake that afternoon. As we rode to church in the new buggy, two questions plagued me: Why had Papa been given, while I had not, the blessing of a heart that loved so deeply that forgiveness was given automatically and completely? And how had Papa been able to afford the buggy?

  Grandma’s relationship with Mama had done its own share of shifting and was as complicated as everyone else’s, although Grandma had said numerous times that things behind us should be left there. But it wasn’t as easy as that, not even for her. She had never been an overly demonstrative woman, but was even less so with Mama now. There was a touch of sharpness in the way Grandma spoke to her, and looked at her, and rarely did a smile accompany Grandma’s words or reach her eyes. The space between the two women was the widest and saddest of all in some respects, and I just figured it was because Grandma was mad at Mama for what she’d done. It never occurred to me that Grandma might have actually been mad at herself.

  My relationship with Mama was quite different from the others’, though. Simply put, it had flatlined. My anger and hurt had dimmed over time, but I was left with a heart that had little feeling in it for her. And the little bit that was there bordered on indifference. I viewed her as weak and broken, and I had little tolerance for her. Had I been brutally honest with myself, however, I would ha
ve admitted that I was scared to death that the apparent cracks in her soul might have been passed on to me. I wouldn’t even let myself consider the matter, though—at least not consciously. It was just easier and more comfortable to distance myself from her. I knew that the Bible told us to judge not, lest we be judged, but I didn’t care. And I thought that Jesus had some nerve expecting me to forgive and forget all when He’d had the mother of all mothers. She’d never abandoned Him!

  One of the things we were most grateful for during that time was that no family deaths were recorded in our Bible. We did lose one friend, however: Delford Mays. He wasn’t a close friend, but he was a member of our “church family,” so we were required to feel sad about it. Personally speaking, I wasn’t. Delford had a terrible habit of adjusting his crotch whenever he was passing the time of day with someone—as long as it was a female someone—and he didn’t particularly care who that someone might be: young, old, or in between. Making matters even more repulsive was the fact that his breath always smelled like onions. I asked Grandma about his crotch-grabbing habits one Sunday as we rode home from church, and she said that “Delford was trying to convince everyone he had more down there than in his durn head!”

  “Mama!” my mother admonished.

  “Well, it’s the truth, Anna,” she countered, with a twinkle in her bright blue eyes. “That man is still tryin’ to get hitched, and to let his possible bride-to-be know that she’s in for a good ol’ time.”

  “Lord, Mama!” my mother sighed, exasperated.

  “He sure ain’t shy about it neither,” Grandma continued. “He does it in front of everyone—including the preacher’s wife! Guess he’s not discountin’ anyone as a possibility!” Then she snorted with great laughter. We all laughed with her, even Mama.

  Delford was only forty-four years old when he suffered a heart attack while working on a story for our town’s weekly paper, The Update. Ironically, the article he was writing was entitled, “The Road Home,” a piece about the return of our servicemen and -women following their tours of duty. Many a remark was made about that little irony of life, and not all of the quips were complimentary of the way Delford had lived his. Not everyone was so sure that the road he had taken home went north instead of south. “He never did like the heat, poor ol’ thing,” Mrs. Alvina Brown laughingly remarked, “bein’ heavy and all.” More snickering and unchristian-like comments from the Christian ladies followed that statement.

  So, considering that we still had a roof over our heads, food on the table and in the feed troughs, wood for our stove and fireplace, a fancy buggy in the barn, and all family members could be counted alive, it hadn’t been a bad year at all.

  I turned twelve that October, and I actually received the birthday present I’d asked for—a brassiere. As humiliating as it was to ask for such a thing, it was a necessary item, especially when trying to jump rope at school.

  I figured my folks must have felt sorry to be giving me so mundane a gift, though, because tucked beneath the undergarment, hidden in a soft green silk pouch, was a lovely little pearl bracelet. Quickly tucking the bra into the pocket of my flannel robe, I set my attention to my new bracelet and thanked Mama and Papa with joy.

  “The ‘thanks’ goes to Grandma, honey,” Mama corrected. “She’s the one responsible for the bracelet. It belonged to her.”

  I looked over at Grandma, and she pretended to be thoroughly involved in folding up my discarded wrapping paper. “Thanks, Grandma,” I said, smiling with deep appreciation. Though a bra was what I most needed, it was one of the least desired items I’d ever asked for. Grandma’s beautiful and generous gift was a wonderful and welcome surprise. It saved my birthday for me that year.

  “Every young woman should have a piece of pearl jewelry,” she answered, giving my new age status a little extra emphasis, along with a knowing smile. She knew that the much-needed bra was an obvious indicator that my body was changing, but Grandma was also aware that my thoughts were changing, too.

  One day two weeks earlier, Grandma and I were in the barn milking our cows, Tess and Minnie, and I asked her if she’d heard any more about the goings-on with the Harris family (whose boy was the ever-fondly-and-frequently-thought-of “peppermint boy”). We knew that the family had gone into partnership with Maybree Lomax and her apple orchard, and were now the proprietors in residence since Maybree had moved in with an old maid sister in Hardeeville, South Carolina.

  They’d worked hard in the months following their arrival, fixing up the orchard’s store, the adjacent home, and the struggling orchard itself, but Mother Nature had given the family an early lesson in who was truly in control when she zapped the newly budding old apple trees with the terrible spring blizzard of twenty-two. Injury was heavily added to insult when three days of howling winds followed, coupled with relentless single-digit temperatures. The cold didn’t settle down into the valleys because of the winds, and because the orchard grew up the sides of three mountains, the frigid winds attacked the trees with demonic force. It was the granddaddy of all freezes, killing or damaging quite a few of the old apple trees and their offspring in the orchard. The cold also killed an enormous number of the county’s trees and vegetation, countless animals, as well as five people in and around Howling Cut. I couldn’t help but wonder if the Harris clan felt they’d made a colossal mistake in going into the hugely difficult, not to mention enormously risky, business of running an apple orchard.

  Although the Harris children were obviously school-aged, they hadn’t set foot in our one room schoolhouse yet. I had seen them outside of the Howling Cut First Methodist Church on several Sunday mornings, though, as it was just down the road from our church. The boy—Jackson, I’d learned his name was—had waved to me twice. I didn’t wave back, though, as I didn’t want questions or comments from my family. Mostly, I didn’t want my parents to know there had been some trouble in town with Ray Coons, even though it had been a year before. And I didn’t want to explain Jackson’s involvement.

  My family, however, figured he was waving to them all and they waved in return. But Grandma’s head snapped around to look at me, as though she understood that his wave was directed at me, and she smiled an amused, knowing smile. Knowing what? I irritably wondered. But Grandma just knew a lot about . . . well . . . a lot. She was, after all, the Wart Buyer. So, when I asked her what news she’d heard about the Harris family as we milked the cows, she answered that she had not gotten “any more particulars on ’em,” and then she turned away from Minnie’s udder to smile broadly at me, looking as though she’d just heard something quite funny come out of my mouth.

  Lordy, I thought, I’m only askin’ a dad-burned question. But, the grin on Grandma’s face made me uncomfortable enough that I abruptly jumped up from the milking stool, hurriedly grabbed the bucket from underneath Tess, which caused a good amount of its contents to slosh out, and announced that the cow had given all she could for the day. Grandma’s amused cackling burned my ears far more than the north wind as I hurried out of the barn and crossed the yard heading for the kitchen door.

  About a week after my birthday, as I walked back to the kitchen after gathering enough eggs from the henhouse for our breakfast, I saw a gentle veil descend over our yard. It danced and floated like a coy spirit, evasive in its movements. The early morning fog, born of the rain the evening before, gently played down around Mama’s freshly hung laundry and me. I stood still and watched it for a moment, wondering how it must feel to be that free. How it must feel to be able to come and go and be, and do those things you were simply moved to do. And I swore then and there that I would go and be and do the things I chose to. But I knew that in order to find out exactly what my choices might be, I would need to venture out and away—perhaps far away—from this place.

  The realization shot through me with a frightening and powerful jolt, and I quickly moved on toward the house. Then I ran. I knew that the eggs had to make it with shells intact to the kitchen counter, but standing the
re feeling the weight of my future waft in and out and around me struck an inexplicable fear in me. Perhaps it was because I suddenly knew that there was no “forever” in my life in regards to this place. Or perhaps it was because I suddenly understood how quickly the ideas of yesterday could be changed and rearranged by a simple night’s sleep, by swirling fog, a trip to the henhouse, or by just standing still in one’s own backyard.

  “Rachel! Slow down with them eggs!” Mama scolded from the back porch. “You’ll break every single one of ’em.”

  Looking at Mama as I slowed my pace caused the tightness in my stomach to begin loosening up. Not because the sight of her reassured me. On the contrary, it made me that much more determined to move on one day, freely, boundlessly, into the mist of my future. Wherever and whatever that might be.