by Jodi Picoult
Rebecca looks up at the sky. “I don’t miss Daddy,” she says. “I don’t.” Then the tears start to roll down her face. I pull her closer and hold her to me. That’s when I remember her the day we left California. She was the one who was sitting in the car. She was the one who had packed a bag. Long before I had realized I was trying to leave, she’d been planning.
At some point when I was growing up I realized that I had no love left for my father. It was as if each time he hit me, or came into my room at night, he’d draw a little of it out of me, like blood.
It didn’t hurt to feel nothing for him. I assumed, as I grew up, that he had done this to himself I had to become desensitized; if I had continued to feel as strongly as I had when I was little, I would have surely died that first time he came to my room.
I can tell from Rebecca’s face, and even from the temperature of her skin, that she is thinking about what it means to love your father, and whether or not he is worth it. Because once you get to that point, I am not sure you can return.
“Sssh,” I say, cradling her head. I’d do anything to keep her from having to get there. I’d go back to Oliver. I’d make myself love him.
In the distance a Jeep drives up. I can just see it, a dot far off by the barn. I see Joley get out of the car; the other person I know must be Sam. Even from this far away, my eyes connect with Sam’s. Although I cannot tell what is going through his mind, I find myself trapped, entirely unable to turn away.
52 SAM
For the past two days, I’ve had a headache. Not a normal headache, either—but one that starts back by my ears and works its way across my eyes, over the bridge of my nose. I’ve never had a headache this bad, not in twenty-five years. Which makes me believe it’s all on account of Jane Jones.
This morning I walked in on her in the shower, and she took it all the wrong way. I had an appointment to get to, and when I’m running late and Joley or Hadley is showering, they don’t care much if I come in and do my business. Maybe I’m just not used to having ladies in the house. But anyway, this one happens to keep getting underfoot.
Joley and I are on our way back from Boston, where we’ve had one hell of a successful meeting with a buyer from Purity who renewed our Red Delicious contract. I can’t say I much like Regalia—she’s fat and always eats more at lunch than I do—but she signed us on again. “I think this is the start of a very long, prosperous relationship for both of us, Sam,” she said today over her quiche. She lowered her eyes, giving me this look. It’s funny, I started taking Joley along to meetings with the female buyers or supermarket chains because he always turns a head and knows how to lay on the charm. He’s got all that social finesse I never was good at. But Regalia has a thing for me. So, being the businessman, I smiled at her and winked. Sometimes I think it’s dishonest to do that—but then again, one in a million produce buyers is a woman, and I might as well use what I’ve got to cut a deal.
Joley’s driving. We’ve just passed the hand-painted sign that welcomes you to Stow when he starts to speak—he’s been quiet since we left Boston. “I want to talk to you about my sister, Sam.”
“About what?” I say, drumming my fingers on the dashboard. “There’s nothing to talk about. You’re having a good time with her. Enjoy it.”
“Yeah, well, I figure I’d better get in all the time I can before one of you kills the other one.”
“You’ve got it all wrong, Joley. There’s nothing going on with us. We’re just steering clear of each other.”
“What made you get off on the wrong foot?”
“Oil and water don’t mix,” I tell him, “but that’s no reason they can’t both sit in the same jar.”
Joley sighs. “I’m not going to push you, Sam. I’m sure you’ve got your own ideas about this. But—for my sake—I wish you’d cut her a little slack.”
“There’s no problem,” I say.
Joley looks at me. “All right.”
He pulls into the driveway, and when we get out of the Jeep, we can see Jane and Rebecca in the distance. I catch Jane’s eye. It’s like we’re locked together; neither one of us is about to break away first. That would mean losing. “Are you coming?” Joley asks, heading off in their direction.
“I don’t think so,” I say, still staring at his sister. “I’m going to start dinner.” I swallow hard and turn away, feeling her still staring, boring through my back.
Inside, I hack at zucchini and potatoes, setting them into pots, ready to boil. I quarter two chickens and dip them in flour and then fry them up. I slice up almonds for the vegetables and I shell fresh peas. These are all things I have learned from my mother. I do almost all the cooking here; if I left it to Hadley or Joley we’d be eating Chef Boyardee.
Three-quarters of an hour later, I ring the rusty triangular bell on the porch for dinner. Joley and Jane and Rebecca come in from the east side of the orchard, Hadley comes in from the west. They file upstairs to the bathroom to wash up and then one by one fill in the places around the table. “Dig in,” I say, helping myself to a chicken breast.
Joley tells his sister all about Regalia Clippe, a conversation I tune out. After all, I was there. I concentrate on watching Hadley, who’s being awfully quiet. Usually at the dinner table you can’t get him to shut up long enough to eat. But tonight he’s pushing his peas around on his plate, colliding them with the mashed potatoes.
We all go on eating for a while so that the only noise is the scraping of silverware against my mom’s old country plates. Joley holds up his drumstick and waves it at me, nodding, his mouth full. When he swallows, he tells me how good it is. “You know, Sam,” he says, swallowing, “if the orchard ever folds you could go into gourmet catering.”
“I don’t call fried chicken gourmet. Besides, it’s just food. No reason to make a big deal about it.”
“Sure there is,” Rebecca says. “She doesn’t cook this well.” She lifts her elbow in the direction of her mother, who puts down her knife and fork and just stares at Rebecca.
“So what did you two do today?” Joley asks. Jane opens her mouth but it’s clear that Joley’s talking to Rebecca and Hadley. Hadley’s face reddens to the top of his neck. What is going on here? I try to catch Hadley’s eye but he’s not looking at anyone. My fork slips out of my fingers, hitting the edge of my plate.
The noise makes Hadley jerk his head up. “We didn’t do anything,” he says, testy. “All right? I had a lot of stuff I had to get done.” He mutters something, and then crunches his napkin into a ball and aims for the garbage pail. He’s off by several feet, so he winds up hitting Quinte, the Irish setter. “I’ve got somewhere I have to go,” he says, and then he almost knocks his chair over getting up from the table. He slams the door when he leaves.
“What’s his problem?” I say, but nobody seems to know.
The disruption makes everyone sort of quiet again, which is just fine with me. I’m not one for talking through dinner. Then out of the clear blue Joley’s sister starts to speak. “Sam,” she says, “I was wondering why you don’t grow anything but apples.”
I exhale slowly through my nose. I’ve fielded this question at least a million times from dumb, pretty girls who thought this was a good way to act interested in what I do. “Apples take a lot of time and effort,” I say, knowing damn well I haven’t answered her question.
“But couldn’t you make more money if you diversify?”
That headache starts to come back. It’s near enough to drive me crazy. “Excuse me,” I say to Jane, “but who the hell are you? You come in here and two days later you’re telling me how to run things?”
“I wasn’t-”
The pain is shooting now, straight down the back of my neck. I start sweating. “If you knew a damn thing about farming maybe I’d listen.”
Maybe I’ve been talking rougher than I should have. She looks up at me and she’s practically crying. For a second—just a second—I feel awful. “I don’t have to take this,” she says, her v
oice thick and hoarse. “I was just making conversation.”
“Sam,” Joley says, a warning. But it’s too late. Jane stands up and runs outside. What is with these people today? First Hadley, now Jane.
It is just the three of us around the table. “Any more chicken?” I say, trying to break the ice.
“I think you overreacted. Maybe you could apologize,” Joley says.
I can tell it’s going to be two against one, here. I close my eyes to make that headache go away and I see Jane wandering around the orchard, which is not very well lit. She’s liable to hurt herself.
What am I thinking? I shake my head hard, getting back my senses. “She’s your sister,” I tell Joley. “You invited her here. She just doesn’t belong in a place like this.” I sort of smile. “She should be wearing highheeled shoes and clicking along some marble parlor in L.A.”
Rebecca leaps out of her seat. “That’s not fair. You don’t even know her.”
“I know plenty like her,” I say, looking right at Rebecca. For a minute I think she’s going to cry too. “Okay,” I say, “would it make it all right if I went out there and apologized?” I want to do it for my own conscience, but they don’t have to know that. I’m not about to lose face in front of Joley, though, so I set my chin and pretend to sigh. I say, “Shit. For a little peace and quiet.” I push away from the table heavily. “So much for a happy little family dinner.”
Outside the crickets are sounding a symphony. It’s a humid night, so all the wildflowers around the house are drooping, exhausted. I hear noise coming from the shed where we garage the tractor and the rototiller, next to the barn. It’s a high-pitched mechanical scream and then the sound of something being shattered. I walk in the direction of the noise and turn the corner to find Jane Jones presiding over my box of clay pigeons, the orange ones I used for target shooting. She reaches into the box and grabs a disc, then whips it like a frisbee against the red wall of the barn about twenty feet away. By the time it explodes into splinters and dust, she’s got another disc in her hand, ready to go.
I have to give her credit for this: she’s got determination. I can see it in the way her whole body goes into the throw, as if she’s pretending it’s me she’s hurtling into the barn. Here I was thinking she was getting into some kind of trouble. She’s something else.
I try to keep my footsteps quiet as I walk up to her. “It’s more challenging with a gun,” I say.
She turns around fast, her eyes adjusting to the dark clearing where I’m standing. When she focuses on me, her face falls. “I didn’t know anyone was here.” She points to the mess in front of the barn wall. “I’m sorry about that.”
I shrug. “They’re cheap. I’m glad you didn’t get pissed off in the parlor. There’s antique china in there.”
Jane wrings her hands in front of herself, fidgeting. You’d never guess she was ten years my senior; she looks like a little kid. From what I’ve seen, she acts like one more often than her own daughter. Maybe I’ve been too hard on her. “Look,” I say. “About what happened at the table. I’m sorry. I’ve had this headache, and I overreacted.” She looks at me strangely, as if she’s never seen my face before. “What?” I say, self-conscious. “What is it?”
“I’ve just never heard you talk without sounding angry,” Jane says. “That’s all.” She walks towards me, swinging her arms at her sides. She is still holding two clay pigeons. Just in case I get out of line? “Tomorrow morning Rebecca and I will check into the closest hotel.”
I feel that headache coming back. If she does that, I’ll never hear the end of it from Joley. “I told you I was sorry,” I say. “What more can I do?”
“You’re right. It’s your house, your farm, and I shouldn’t be here. Joley imposed on you. He shouldn’t have asked you to do something like this.”
I smirk. “Thank you, I know what ‘imposed’ means.”
Jane throws up her hands. “I didn’t mean it that way.” She turns in such a way that the light from the barn falls over her face, enough to let me know she’s on the verge of crying again. “I don’t mean anything the way you take it. It’s like every sentence I say goes through your head the reverse of the way I intended it.”
I lean against the shed and start to tell her about my father. I tell her how I used to fight with him about how the orchard ought to be run. I tell her how the very minute he moved to Florida, I was digging up trees and replanting them where I thought they should go.
She listens patiently, her back to me. Then she says, “I get your point, Sam.” But she doesn’t know anything about the way I run my business. And what’s worse; she doesn’t see it as a business. To her, an orchard is another form of farming. And working with your hands, to a born and bred Newton girl, is sure-fire second-class. I feel at that moment something I haven’t felt since I left Tech: shame. Running an apple orchard isn’t what people do in the real world. If I was really someone, I’d want to make a lot of money. I’d own more than one suit, and I’d drive a Testerosa, not a tractor.
“No,” I say to her, “you don’t I don’t give a shit if you think this orchard should grow watermelons and cabbage. Go tell Joley and tell Rebecca and whoever the hell you want. And the day I die if you can convince everyone else, go ahead and replant the place. But don’t you ever tell me to my face what I’ve done so far is wrong.” I lean closer to her, so that our faces are inches apart “It would be like—like me telling you your daughter is no good.”
When I say that, she takes a step back, like I’ve hit her. Her face goes white.
She looks up at me with incredible force—that’s the only way I know how to describe it. It’s like she could physically move me with the strength of her eyes. And as for me, I look at her, and I really see her for the first time. That’s when I see something written all over her face—Please.
She opens her mouth to speak, but she can’t seem to find her voice. Then she clears her throat. “I wouldn’t plant watermelons,” she says.
I smile, and then I start to laugh, and that makes her laugh too. “Let’s start over. I’m Sam Hansen. And you’re . . .?”
“Jane.” She smooths her hair back from her forehead, as if she’s concerned about this first impression. “Jane Jones. God, I sound like the most boring person on earth.”
“Oh, I doubt it,” I say. I hold my hand out to her and feel quite clearly the pattern of her fingerprints when she presses her palm against mine. When we touch, we both get a shock—probably static electricity from moving around on the dusty floor of the shed. We both jump back, equal distance.
• • •
The next morning Jane is sitting in the kitchen when I come downstairs. It’s early, and this surprises me. “I wanted to make sure I was out of the shower,” she says, smiling.
“What have you got planned for today?” I ask, pouring myself a glass of juice. I hold the bottle out to her. “Do you want some?”
Jane shakes her head, pointing to a mug of coffee. “No thanks. I don’t know what I’m going to do today. Joley was asleep by the time we got back in last night, so I haven’t asked him what the plan is.”
After we talked last night, I walked Jane around the grounds of the orchard. It is careful going in the dark, but if you know it as well as I do there’s nothing to really be afraid of. I showed her which apples would go directly to Regalia Clippe, which ones would be seconds for the public stand in the fall. We even placed a five-dollar bet on one of Joley’s latest grafts; she said it would take, and I said it wouldn’t. The tree’s past hope, the way I see it—and even Joley can’t work miracles all the time. Jane asked me how she was going to get her money if the graft took after she’d left Massachusetts. “I’ll mail it,” I said, grinning at her. She said I’d forget. “No I won’t,” I told her. “If I say I’ll stay in touch, I’ll stay in touch.”
On the way back to the Big House, we talked about what everyone else thought must have happened to us. We agreed they probably figured we’d killed e
ach other now, and they were waiting till day to find the bodies. And then, halfway there, a woodchuck crossed our path. It stopped a second to look at us and then leaped down a hole. Jane had never seen one before. She crept up to the hole and stuck her face close, trying to get another glimpse. Most women I know who see a big old ugly woodchuck run in the other direction.
I watch her swirling her coffee in her cup. “I was thinking today I’d take you down to Pickerel Pond. There’s this really nice area to go swimming.”
“Oh,” Jane says, “I’m not much for swimming, but Rebecca would love it. It’s hot enough.”
“You can say that again.” Now, barely seven in the morning, it’s at least eighty-five degrees outside. “I was thinking I’d do a little fishing before everyone else gets up.” I slide into the seat across from her at the table. “I usually take Quinte, but I think you’d make better company.”
“Fishing,” Jane says, like she’s weighing it in her mind. She looks up at me and smiles. “Sure. I’d like that.”
So I take her out to the sheep pen and overturn a mound of soil with a spade. Underneath all this manure there’s more worms than I know what to do with. I pick ten long juicy ones and put them in a canning jar. To my surprise, Jane gets down on her hands and knees. She reaches right into the soft earth and pulls out a thick wiggling worm. “Is this a good one?”
“You don’t care about touching them?”
“Not really,” she says, “but I’m not going to thread your hook.”
I run to the shed for my fishing stuff and then we walk down to the shore of Lake Boon. I’ve got an old wooden rowboat there, one I’ve had since I was a kid. I keep it turned upside down on the yellow reeds, with the oars underneath. It’s green, because that was the color of the primer I used when I was twelve and decided to paint it. Except I never got around to buying the paint.
This is my favorite time of the day at the orchard. The water sings to us as I row into the center of the lake. Jane sits across from me, prim, with her hands in her lap. She’s holding the jar of worms.
