Beneath the Apple Leaves

by Harmony Verna

  Their eyes locked and he was too tired to pull away, leaned upon the open gaze as a dying man leans upon his bedpost. And then she was holding him. Not with her eyes, but with her arms, wrapped so tightly around his abdomen that her hands nearly clasped the opposite elbows. She leaned her warm head against his chest and he could feel the wetness of her tears through his shirt, but she didn’t cry out or make a sound, just held him there in that steel embrace. He lowered his head and kissed the top of her silky hair, soft as milkweed threads, let the texture tickle his lips. It felt so good to feel something other than pain and she lifted her head, found his lips with her own, let her tears wet his cheeks and grieve for that which he couldn’t feel yet.

  “You can do this,” she whispered. She gripped his back and kissed under his ear, said with a full and deep heart, “You can save this family.”

  And the weight of her words unleashed the fear, gave context to the ax that seemed to hang above his crown ever since Wilhelm died. He was in charge now. There was no more Wilhelm at the helm, and if this farm was to live it was up to him. He pressed his forehead against hers, gritted his teeth. It was too much. Too much.

  “No,” she said as if she had heard him. “It’s you. It’s always been you.” The tears alighted anew. “You’ve given this family hope from the beginning. It’s always been you. You knew what made the twins sick and saved the rest of the family. It’s you who brings smiles to Will and Edgar when their life is falling apart around their feet. It’s you who Eveline leans on when she’s about to break. It’s you who cares for the animals and plants the fields.” She squeezed his sides. “Don’t you see? It’s always been you.”

  He heard the words, saw the mouth that they came from, and a passion sizzled inside that was urgent and without warning. He kissed her fervently, slid his hand in the thick hair and kissed her neck, kissed the tears from her eyes.

  “I love you.” She breathed the words between panting kisses. “Please know that I do.” He unclasped her dress. She found his shirt buttons, nearly ripped them out from their threaded knots.

  He stepped forward, leaned her against an invisible wall, moved his arm under her and lifted her to him. She wrapped her legs around his hips, wanting him, opening for him. They were bound by the depth of emerald stalks and by creasing fabrics and Andrew swiveled again, lowered her onto the soft ground between the bending corn.

  Lily fell into the rhythm of his hips between her, to his soft kisses and the sureness of his touches. She pulled at his belt, plucked the last two buttons of his shirt, the heat rising quickly throughout her body as his shirt opened, showing the line of dark hair from his navel and the muscles at the stomach. She pushed him upward and straddled his thighs, his hand at the small of her back as he kissed her neck.

  A man’s face flashed in her mind, but she stomped it away, held tight to Andrew’s lips, kissed them harder to keep the face away. She wanted to lose herself in his body, make the other memories go away, purge the old with their lovemaking. Replace one with the other. She pushed the shirt off his right shoulder. He tightened. His movements stopped and he looked at her, his eyes wide and waiting, scared. Slowly now, she slid the shirt off his left shoulder, saw the ragged scars that lined the tissue. Andrew closed his eyes and turned away.

  The scars broke her heart, the pain he had suffered. She looked at his beautiful face and her throat closed. He was so perfect—so very perfect.

  The other face came back and shot through her mind, cut at her with razors. She twitched her head to get the image out of her brain, but it was there, stuck and glued and bringing the sickness and degradation to her like the fire that had burned the barn.

  A tear formed in her eye and dripped unmolested down her cheek. Andrew was so perfect, had suffered so much. And here she was, tainted and impure, made of filth. She shuddered with the memory that was beating its way to her present, to her now. She bit her lip, forced blood as she punched the past away.

  She looked at the scars upon Andrew’s shoulder and she covered her mouth, wished it were her arm that was gone, that both of her arms were gone, just to remove what she had to see in her mind every day, to know what she had done.

  Andrew looked at her, watched the pain in her face as she cried. He glanced at his arm and the shame came quick and hot. She couldn’t bear to look at it.

  She watched his eyes turn cold against her. He saw through her. He was starting to really see her. Whatever veil he had seen her through was now gone. He could see what she had done, could see that she wasn’t good enough. “I’m sorry,” she wept.

  He pursed his lips. Don’t pity me. He thought Lily had come to know him, had seen beyond his scars. But she couldn’t and he knew this now. She would never be able to see him as a whole man, not after seeing it with her own eyes. She would never be able to look upon him without pity, without disgust and horror.

  Lily pulled back, turned from him. He was so perfect. She was all that was opposite. He had been hurt enough. She would only bring him pain and humiliation. He would grow to hate her and what she was, what she had done. She possessed only one gift she could give him—freedom.

  Andrew watched her turn away. She couldn’t even look at him anymore. He nodded. Felt such a fool, the hatred of his form making him angry. Bitterness settled deeply. Bitterness that she couldn’t see past his deformity, bitterness that she couldn’t see to his heart and his love for her that made a mere limb pale in importance.

  He wiped away the memory of her kiss, of her touch. Crushed his wanting of her, buried it in the grave next to his father, the twins and Wilhelm. He pulled on his shirt roughly and jerked away, stormed through the waving corn.

  CHAPTER 47

  A month passed before Lily was ready, her preparations finalized. “Claire,” Lily hushed, jostling the woman’s shoulders. “Wake up.”

  Lily knelt by the bed, peeked next to Claire to make sure Frank still slept. The Veronal she had laced in his whiskey would keep him knocked out to noon the next day, but she didn’t want to take any chances. This would only work once.

  “Claire, wake up.” She shook her sister again and she finally stirred, sat up on one elbow.

  “What’s wrong, Lily?” The voice was loud and magnified in the still room.

  “Shhhhh!” Lily’s heart pounded in her chest, loud as Frank’s snoring. She took her sister’s hand. “Come downstairs with me.”

  “Why?” She yawned and laid her head back on the pillow. “I’m tired.”

  “No, Claire,” she hurried her, grabbing the shoulder again. “I need to talk to you.”

  Claire wiped her eyes. “About what?”

  Lily pressed her palm to her forehead. “Listen, Claire. We need to go on a little trip. Just you and me. Okay?”

  “A trip?” She was awake now, but the confusion stuck.

  “Yes. A little trip.” Her pitch rose, broke the whisper with the tinge of panic. “It’s important, Claire. I need you to do this for me.”

  Claire turned to her husband, turned back to Lily. “He won’t want me to go, Lily. You know he doesn’t like me leaving the house.”

  “It’s okay.” She tried to smile through the urgency, the anxiety poking like pins. “I left him a note.” She hoped her sister didn’t remember that Lily couldn’t read or write.

  With Claire’s indecision, the clock mocked her, each second of delay twisting the hands to daylight. Frank stirred and tossed onto his back. Lily froze.

  Claire followed Lily’s gaze, her eyes resting on her husband. “We’ll talk more downstairs,” she assented. “Let me just get dressed.”

  Claire reached for the squeaky closet door and Lily grabbed her. “I have all your clothes downstairs. Have coffee already made.” Her voice cracked with pleading.

  In the kitchen, Lily went from cupboard to cupboard. Opened and closed—click, click, click. She shoved bread and cans in a burlap bag, her fingers frantic, the items wobbling in her shaking hands. By the door, two traveling bags limp with the fe
w clothes inside, the money divided and stuffed in the corners. She was sick to her stomach, the nausea threatening to make her retch. Adrenaline made her sweat even in the cool air.

  Claire’s firm, pale hand grabbed her forearm, stopped her wild movements. “What’s going on, Lily?”

  Lily covered her face, bent into tears. “We need to go,” she croaked. “Please, Claire. Please don’t ask me why. Just—” She pleaded with every cell. “Just please come with me.”

  Fear entered Claire as it always did, swift and with images that left her hollow. “No.” She retreated, stilted in her withdraw. “No. I-I-I can’t leave and you know it. He’ll tell. He’ll tell what I did.” The terror seized Claire in a choke hold and she curled into the corner. “I-I-I can’t leave! I can’t—”

  The clock ticked louder, beat in Lily’s chest. Her stomach twisted—around and around—squeezed. She crossed her arms over her chest and swung her head low, swollen tears dropping to the floorboards. She fell to her knees in front of Claire. Please hold me, she wanted to weep. For once, help me.

  Lily’s mouth stretched in a silent wail. She clutched Claire’s cold hands. “I need your help.” The request was a rush of air with only a hint of sound attached.

  Claire blinked. The stuttering mouth and limbs stopped. Lucidity entered sedately. “Did Frank hurt you?”

  Her bones crumpled, her voice mute. She nodded, embraced her waist with wrapped arms, curled into the agony that ate with gnashing teeth.

  “He let a man hurt me.” Her throat strangled, but she forced the words. “Let a man hurt me like Papa hurt you.”

  Claire’s eyes died. The face rigid and ghostly white, lost.

  “Please come with me.” Lily looked into the face of the woman who had raised her, birthed her. The curse of what she was, of her constant reminder to Claire of what had happened to her, haunted. “Please, Mama. Help me.” Mama. She had never said the word before, the title longing and horrific for them both.

  Tears dripped in solid lines down the woman’s cheeks. “He’ll tell them, Lily.” The fight, the panic, evaporated, resignation in its place. “He’ll tell them I killed Papa.”

  Lily drifted into the haze of that day, the picture now crisp. He had come for her. The belt lashed red fire across her shoulder, then the backs of her legs as she ran in circles around the house to escape. He was faster, snapping the leather at her heels. Claire chased him and screamed for him to stop, tugged at the belt until her hands bled. Lily had stopped then, dead in her tracks. Tired of running. Weak from terror. Ill with Claire’s wounds. She closed her eyes, waited for all to end. A gun fired. A high-pitched shriek. A splash. Her eyes opened. Her father gurgled in the reddening puddle. Claire dropped the gun, her body quaking. Lily held her—two shaking figures in the stillness.

  Lily reached for her sister, for her mother, as she did that day, but she no longer shook. “No.” A final word that left no room for debate. “He won’t tell. And even if he did, we’ll be too far away.” She placed a gentle hand on Claire’s skirt. “We can start over. You and me. In a place where nobody can hurt us. Never again.”

  CHAPTER 48

  The pounding at the front door rattled the house. Eveline wiped the steam from her eyes and put the lid back on the soup before heading to the porch. The knock picked up, and by the time she saw who was at the door Frank had turned the handle and entered.

  “Where are they?” he hollered.

  Eveline stepped back, his figure looming in the open doorway.

  “Where the hell are they?” He stormed past her, into the kitchen, through the dining room and back around again through the parlor. Eveline stationed herself inertly, too shocked to move, to be angry at the forced entry.

  He circled again, a caged animal, went to the bottom of the steps. “Claire!” he yelled. “Lily! I know you’re up there!” He ran up the stairs two at a time, yelling their names to the empty rooms.

  He barreled downstairs and grabbed Eveline’s arm. “Where are they?”

  She looked at the large hand on her sleeve. There was a time his touch would have given her a rush, made her flush to her hairline. She met his unhitched gaze stonily. There had been a time she had found the face handsome. Strong and handsome. But now? Grotesque, the features transformed into monstrous flesh, devilish and distorted. She jerked her arm away and spit, “They aren’t here.”

  “They’re with Andrew, aren’t they?” He headed to the door, shoulders first, his fists balled.

  This time she grabbed him by the back of the shirt with as much force as to rip the seams. “They aren’t here, I said!”

  He grabbed at his face, the anger turning it bright red, but somewhere he heard the truth of her words and his fists unclenched. “Then where the hell are they?” Frank suddenly fell silent—an eerie space filled with comprehension. “She drugged me.” He turned to Eveline slowly. “That little whore drugged me.”

  Eveline recoiled at the foul speech. “I’ll not have you using that language in my house.”

  He laughed heartily. “It’s what she is, Eveline! You didn’t know that?” His face turned smug, cruel. “Your sweet Lily ain’t nothing but a two-bit whore.”

  She slapped him hard across the face, so hard she could feel the saliva from his teeth through the sting along her palm. He recovered quickly and came at her. She ducked to miss the blow, but he had her in his arms and kissed her viciously against the mouth, grabbed at her breast until she pushed out of his grip. His hands clutched her blouse. She spit out the taste of him, then wiped her mouth against her sleeve.

  “Don’t act like you don’t like it, Eveline,” he said arrogantly. “You’ve been wanting me to kiss you from the first moment you met me.”

  The words sickened—a nightmare thrown back into her face. The old Frank could no longer be seen. There was no kindness in his eyes and she felt like such a fool, ill with guilt at what she had imagined in her loneliness. This man before her was a beast and she missed Wilhelm so much that her heart burned.

  “Take no shame in it, Eve.” He smiled scornfully. “I wanted you, too. Still want you. Especially seeing your fiery side. Claire never liked it rough. I tried, but she got all weepy.” He winked confidentially. “But you . . .” He came closer and she backed against the wall with a thud. He wiped a hair away from her face and rubbed her cheek. “You’re a spitfire, aren’t you?” She turned away and he pressed closer. “I know how to handle a woman like you. Kind of woman wasted on a man like Wilhelm.”

  With that, she tried to punch his face, scratch off the gritty words, but he held her hands above her like a child’s. But then he let go and retreated slowly, his hands still up in the air in mock surrender. “That loan still stands, Eve. Growing bigger every day. You got another way to pay up, you know. Take care of it once and for all. For this farm. For those boys of yours and that cripple. Remember that.”

  He left and the screen door slammed over and over again in his wake. Eveline fell to her knees and wept, missed Wilhelm with a hurt as raw as a body without flesh.

  CHAPTER 49

  Andrew finished tucking in the boys and came down to the kitchen. Eveline had a cup of tea waiting for him, her own mug warm in her palm as she sat at the worn oak table. Without earlier words indicating a meeting, they both knew they would talk this evening.

  Andrew took the hot, brown liquid to his lips, didn’t bother to add cream or sugar. It didn’t matter that it would keep him up. He wouldn’t sleep. Neither of them would sleep. Maybe never again.

  Eveline settled her eyes on her handsome nephew, the smooth features of the nose and forehead. Those blue eyes whose color and light she had never seen matched in another human save her sister. “You haven’t said anything about Lily and Claire being gone,” she finally began. Word had traveled through the town of Plum and beyond about the missing women. And theories, if there were any, were kept close to the vest. No one wanted to cross Frank Morton in his thrashing state.

  Andrew watched the smoot
h surface of the tea, fell into its depths. “There’s nothing to say.”

  “Well.” Eveline tapped her index finger on the rim of the mug. “Thought you might be worried. Mrs. Sullivan nearly having a fit.”

  He grinned morosely, a simple expression full of irony and without humor. After all, Andrew knew why Lily had left. She couldn’t face him, couldn’t look at him. He thought about the last time they were together, the way she couldn’t flee fast enough. “Maybe she wanted a better life.” He sipped his drink with the same irony, savored it as if it were sweet instead of bitter. “Maybe she found a man who made her happy.”

  “She found that here.”

  “No, she didn’t.” He stiffened his jaw. “It’s better she’s gone.”

  Eveline’s mouth fell open. “You don’t believe that, Andrew.”

  He glared at her without comment and she reached for his hand. “I don’t know why she’s done the things that she has, but I saw the way she looked at you. A person could live to a hundred and never see a look like that.”

  “Don’t say that,” he said sharply, and slid his hand from her touch. The weight of the words and the untruth of them grated his sensibilities like nails upon chalk. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be cross, Aunt Eveline. I just don’t want to talk about her. Don’t want to hear her name again.”

  She nodded and let it go. “Are you hungry? I have some corn bread.”

  “No.” Now it was his turn to talk. He shut Lily out of his mind, shoved her far away. “We’re going to lose the farm.”

  “I know.” Eveline thought about Frank’s kiss, could still taste the saltiness of the mouth. She wiped her lips across her palm, drowned out the taste with tea.

  “Thanks to Mrs. Sullivan’s connections in Westmoreland County, we can sell there, make enough to feed the family, pay for the necessities. Nothing more, but it would be enough.” His voice sounded like a man’s voice and the sturdiness of it, the sureness, belied the crippling fear of not saving this family.