The Orchardist (36 page)

Angelene was looking at the items on the bed.

It’s my birthday soon, she said.

He hesitated.

I know, he said.

T
he next day they set out from the orchard in the early morning, and by the time they arrived at the station it was early afternoon. People were filing onto the train as Talmadge stepped out of the wagon. He gripped the top of the canvas sack in his fist and looked up at Angelene where she sat in the wagon seat.

You going straight to Caroline Middey’s?

She nodded.

I don’t want you to go back to the orchard today. Too much driving in one day.

She nodded, then hesitated.

But you drove all the way here. If I drove back, it would be like I was driving just once—

He looked at her.

She looked down the road.

All right, she said.

Caroline Middey’s expecting you.

All right.

He continued to stand there. He glanced at the people getting onto the train.

You better hurry up, she said.

He looked up at her. He wanted to tell her something but had forgotten what it was. For a long and untethered moment—how frightening it was—he forgot her name.

Talmadge, she said.

What.

You’re going to miss it.

But he didn’t miss it. He got on and found a seat and sat down and looked out at the girl sitting slightly hunched in the wagon, looking straight ahead of her. She did it—she remained there—for his sake, he thought; she would much rather have made her way immediately to Caroline Middey’s house, or back to the orchard.

What are you going to do today? he had asked her, and she had said, after some contemplation, hesitating, glancing at him: I might go fishing.

In the river? In that place by—

Yes.

He nodded. That should be nice, he said.

The train pulled away and she was gone; soon there was new country out before him, rolling by.

H
e had said to Caroline Middey two days before, when they were discussing Della: She will come stay with us, later—not soon, but later—

Caroline Middey looked at him sharply.

Maybe after I’m gone, he said. She’s the one—she’s going to stay with the girl.

Caroline Middey was silent. But then eventually she said: And you’ve spoken to Della about this? Angelene? They’ve agreed to it?

Talmadge turned his head slightly as if hearing a sound across the field. He sniffed, was silent.

Talmadge.

He did not answer at first. Finally he said: They’re kin.

Caroline Middey stirred. Said: I knew the girl only a short time, of course. Lord knows I have sympathy for her, for her situation. And then she was silent for a minute, reflecting, remembering. But if she remembered too much, if she called too much forth, she would be unable to say what she was going to say. We each of us decide for ourselves. You can’t force her into coming back.

Talmadge was silent.

You are Angelene’s family. I am her family, if you want to think of it that way. Leave the girl alone. Della, I’m talking about. Let her go. She wants to wreak havoc, get into trouble, why hold on to her? Is that who you want to come back to take care of Angelene?

Talmadge lifted his chin as if he was going to speak, but he did not speak. He was waiting for her, perhaps, to spend herself. To convince him.

Have the two ever even spoken? I mean, since you found Della? Do they want each other? Does Angelene even want her, Talmadge?

It doesn’t matter what we want, he said. It’s blood—

Oh, Talmadge, said Caroline Middey, surprised. The chair squeaked suddenly as she shifted again. Blood! Blood, you speak of! Blood means nothing—

W
ith Talmadge gone from the orchard and Angelene working alone, the place took on a delicious strangeness, and she often felt as if she was looking at things for the first time.

There was the creek, endlessly clattering, and the main room of the cabin, smelling, no matter how much it was aired out, of beeswax and old paper. There was the smell of the shed, of damp wood and sun. The smell of earth and grass, the leagues of forest, after a rain. The smell of cornbread in the oven. The crows in the yard, the glossy midnight of their backs. The interminable chores, both large and small, that constantly, rightly, occupied her. The bright and silent stars at night, so close you felt you could walk into them. The cacophony of birds at dawn.

There was a certain uncanniness Angelene felt opening her closet in the morning, her oatmeal-colored dress hanging in the space on its hanger, her workboots leaning against each other on the porch. (You turned them over and shook them, knocked them on the post, for mice.) The narrow bed with its purple, red, and green quilt, the bedside table with its jar of rocks, piled books. The porcelain basin near the window where she washed her face, the pitcher with the brown rose painted on it, the large crack like a vein in the bottom of the basin. The apricot orchard, the buzzing bees like a haze in spring. The barn—the smell of hay and manure, grease, old leather. The sun streaming through the slats. The mule’s nose in her palm.

All of these things she kept inside herself, constantly rearranged them, to create her happiness. Being alone, she was able to see each thing more clearly. Although there was fear in solitude, somehow this only made things sharper. It could not be sustained, this solitude, this level of sensitivity, but for the short time that Talmadge was away it was glorious, it was a great gift to herself.

L
et him visit her, she thought, going down to the creek for water. What was it to her, Angelene, anyhow?

It was not the presents laid out on the bed, or the airing of, the constant fussing over, his suit. Not the slow, deliberate polishing of his good shoes, and wrapping them, for safety, in a paper bag. She was only a little wary of these things. Suspicious. But what she feared most were his silences. The times when she felt him prepare to speak, but ultimately falter. Turn away. The leagues, which his eyes revealed at times, of what he did not say.

A
t the boardinghouse in Chelan, Talmadge unpacked his canvas sack: his suit, his shoes, his shaving kit, Della’s gifts. There, at the bottom of his pack, he spied something foreign: a small flat box the size of his palm, tied multiple times with twine. A note stuck within the twine—he carefully disengaged it—read “For Della.” The deliberate script, the hand, he knew immediately. He replaced the card and held the box for a moment, considering it, and then put it on the bed beside the others. He shaved, and then combed his hair, put on the suit, looked at himself in the dented mirror. But as before, he could not adequately see himself.

A young woman stood behind the desk at the courthouse. She had red hair piled on top of her head, and a small nose, eyes the color of ice. When he told her he was there to see the warden, he had an appointment for three o’clock, she slit her eyes and then opened them very wide and said in a quiet voice: Oh! You must be Mr. Talmadge! and then she turned and went immediately to the back of the room, exited through a doorway.

Talmadge remained standing there.

When the woman returned a minute later, she was followed by a slight, bespectacled man of middle age. The warden introduced himself. He was soft-voiced, hoarse. He and Talmadge shook hands.

The warden’s office was small. There was just enough room for a desk, two chairs, and a drab green filing cabinet. At the warden’s back were two large panes of beveled window glass. In the corner was a small potted ivy that the warden fussed with momentarily—he bent over it, gently pinched its leaves—before motioning for Talmadge to sit in one of the chairs before the desk.

Talmadge sat, and removed his hat. Cleared his throat. Said, surprising the warden, who was preparing to speak: I wanted to talk to you about—Della. About her situation here.

He cleared his throat again, touched his hat on his knee. He had practiced saying those words, was relieved to have executed the sentiment without blunder. He wanted, as he and the Judge had discussed, to show the warden that he, Talmadge, was a serious, dependable sort: he wanted to make a good impression.

The warden nodded. He aimed his frown over Talmadge’s shoulder and said, as if just remembering: I was called away on important business that day, or else I would have been here to meet with you personally. And I recognize you came quite a ways. Down near Wenatchee, isn’t it? If I remember correctly, when we determined you would be unable to see her, we sent you a telegram—

Talmadge nodded, vaguely. He had never received a telegram. Where would it have gone to? The post office?

—but I fear it reached you too late. You came—cross country, I suppose? By horse?

Wagon, said Talmadge. Mule. But—the train, this time.

The warden nodded again. His eyes traveled to the sack leaning against Talmadge’s knee.

Gifts, said Talmadge. For her.

The warden nodded absently and then briefly met Talmadge’s eyes. There followed an uncomfortable silence.

Forgive me, said the warden. It is perhaps—none of my business. But who are you? What relation do you have to Miss Michaelson, if you don’t mind me asking?

Talmadge stirred. He had anticipated this question, of course, but was still unsettled by it.

I looked after her for a while, when she was younger, he said. Before she—set out on her own. I took care of her. Her and her sister. And I’m here to help her now, if she needs it.

The warden was watching him closely. I see, he said. Then, after several moments passed: I assume Mr. Marsden has updated you on all that’s happened? About—

The man at the lumber camp, yes, said Talmadge, and cleared his throat again. I heard about that. And, he said—his voice rising, as if he were trying to convince the warden of something—she turned herself in . . . and, well, that’s a good thing, I’d say.

Yes, of course, said the warden. He was thinking about something else, testing something, Talmadge thought. He was looking over Talmadge’s shoulder, scrutinizing different sections of the wall.

They are investigating her claims, said the warden. It might be a while until we hear anything. We haven’t heard anything yet, and it’s been a month and a half—

I want to know why—Talmadge interrupted—why she was locked up the last time I was here. Why I couldn’t see her.

The warden raised his eyebrows at Talmadge’s interjection but otherwise did not move. I apologize for not being here the last time to explain it, he said, and then fell silent. Again he considered the wall over Talmadge’s shoulder. He doesn’t know whether he should trust me, thought Talmadge suddenly, and was both impressed by the man’s discrimination, and bothered.

She misbehaved, said the warden, frowning. She—acted out.

Talmadge waited for him to continue. He imagined Della throwing a temper tantrum, like a child. Throwing her food tray against the bars, throwing her boot at a guard. But surely that would not warrant locking her away.

How?

The warden pursed his lips. Hesitated. Said, finally: She—attacked somebody.