The Orchardist (39 page)

Is it? Angelene regarded her, half smiling, guessing the woman was teasing her.

Certainly, said Caroline Middey, but did not explain right away. She took a bite of her bread, chewed it.

You are almost a young woman. Almost. Some girls are still children at this age. Playing with their dolls and such, talking in their baby voices. Some girls at this age can still be forgiven for doing and saying such things. But we think you are a young lady, we have thought so for quite a while. You are beyond your years, my dear, in many ways. I’ve talked to you about that before, haven’t I?

Angelene nodded absently, wiped up some soup from her bowl with a piece of bread. Talmadge did not know what Caroline Middey was talking about. Talking about the girl’s womanhood seemed premature. He looked out at the orchard.

Do you feel like a young woman? persisted Caroline Middey.

I— said Angelene, chewing. She swallowed, peered out at the trees.

Oh, now, said Caroline Middey. What I mean is, are you ready to put away childish things? Are you ready to embrace your responsibilities as a young woman, and especially a young woman on a homestead?

Angelene looked to Talmadge suddenly, thoughtfully.

He had the impression Caroline Middey was leading up to something, but he didn’t know what it was. She hadn’t informed him of what was about to happen, if anything. It had to do with the gift-giving, most likely.

Caroline Middey smiled wryly down into her lap.

I’m just saying, she said, last year I got you that set of whistles—

Angelene laughed. The woman had bought a set of bird whistles for the girl, who had delightfully confused the local bird population for two weeks after her birthday last year, whistling up into the trees the different calls of their kind. It had amused her for a short time, but the calls had gone unheeded since then. It was, he thought, a child’s gift, and by then, even last year, Angelene was not so much of a child. She was already something different.

Well, I brought you something different this year, and I wanted to let you know that this is a gift for a young woman, for a serious young woman with a homestead to run. And she put down her bowl and plate to the side of her, on the porch steps, and lumbered up; Talmadge and Clee both rose to assist her, but she waved them away and went inside the cabin. Angelene looked again at the trees. When Caroline Middey returned, she had a package under her arm, and she sat down, gave it to the girl.

Is it time? said Talmadge. Usually they waited until after the cake and coffee was served for the presents, to draw out the anticipation. Now it was Caroline Middey’s face that turned red.

I just couldn’t wait, could I? she said.

Well, I have to get mine, said Talmadge, and stood. Clee and the wrangler stood as well.

I’ll start the coffee, said Caroline Middey, and the girl rose also to help.

Clee touched Talmadge’s elbow, and the wrangler said that Clee had something to show him. The three of them traveled across the lawn, where the other men lounged, sated from the meal; smoking, some talking, some napping. Others had gone down to the camp on the edge of the field to sleep in earnest, and this is where the three of them walked now. Clee went into a small tent, and then came out a moment later, carrying a rifle. He handed it to Talmadge.

For the girl, said the wrangler.

It was Della’s rifle. Talmadge glanced at Clee, who was watching him, attentive, almost smirking with pleasure. Talmadge held the rifle in his hands, motionless, for a minute, looking at the different shades of wood that he had almost forgotten, and the intricate carving along the butt and forestock. He gripped the rifle tightly in his hands, rubbed his finger across the carving: brambles, ivy. It was, he thought—as he had first thought, holding it those many years ago—unusual and beautiful. He felt for a moment a welling of jealousy that Clee had found the firearm. But the jealousy dissolved as soon as it arose; he gave the rifle back to Clee, who watched him expectantly.

It’s beautiful, said Talmadge. And then, understanding Clee would give the rifle to the girl now, said: She will like it very much.

But Clee shook his head, and glanced at the wrangler, who said: He would like you to give it to her. It is an important gift—

Yes, said Talmadge, after a moment. He was going to say that Clee should give her the gun himself, because he had found it, and there was no reason why Clee should not give her the gun, and not himself. But then he thought about the book of clothing patterns wrapped in butcher paper waiting in the top drawer of his bureau, and gravely doubted himself. Why had he not thought of something as grand as this for the girl—and she had been wanting her own rifle for two years now—something important, with weight?

The wrangler was speaking:

He would prefer you give it to her. He found it for you to give to her. If you do not want it, he will take it back, he will trade it when we go to auction—

No, I will take it, said Talmadge. How much?

They settled on a price.

When they walked up the hill, they saw that the men were drawing to the porch for their cake and coffee. Talmadge put the rifle in the lower branches of an apricot tree, and they continued to the porch.

The girl opened the gift from Caroline Middey first. It was a set of hide curing and flint knapping tools. It did not come from the catalog, she told Angelene, but was an amalgamation of different tools she, Caroline Middey, had used over the years, and also those identical to the ones she still used, and swore by. If you are going to be an expert knapper, she said—in a way that made Talmadge understand that they had discussed this before, the girl’s eyes bright with satisfaction and pleasure—then this is where you start, and I shall show you how to do it all, after a bit here. The girl rose and embraced the older woman, and Talmadge wondered: Since when had the girl wanted to learn how to knap? And then Angelene came away from Caroline Middey and turned an expectant look at Talmadge, so open that she blushed and turned her face away.

Young lady, he said, I believe your gift is over there in the orchard somewhere.

She smiled at him, took a tentative step in that direction, confused.

You mean—

I mean, he said, you should go over to the trees, the one on the end there—and look for it.

She traveled across the grass, some of the men looking at her curiously—perhaps they had seen the gun too and known what it was she was getting even before he, Talmadge, did—and she went into the trees and then hesitated and then came out a minute later, holding the rifle.

Oh! said Caroline Middey.

Angelene came across the grass, holding the rifle awkwardly, turning it in her hands, looking at it. She paused before them.

It’s so—nice, she said. It has—flowers on it.

Let me see, dear, said Caroline Middey, and the girl went to her, handed her the gun. She seemed relieved to not be holding it. She looked at Talmadge, confusion drifting across her features.

Thank you, she said. I thought— She hesitated. It’s very nice. She would not look at him. When she did look at him, it was as if she had mistaken something about him; he had surprised her. She was looking at him as if she had just understood who he was. He was surprised at such an expression. What had she been thinking, before? Why was she so confused? Again he thought of the book of clothing patterns, which he had seen on display in a window in Chelan. He had thought the women on the package seemed sophisticated, cosmopolitan, and strong; and like a fool he had gone in there and inquired of the lady clerk about a gift for his young friend—that was what he had called her, his
young friend
—and she had suggested the book of patterns.

Where did you find this? said Caroline Middey now. It is a piece of art— Then, a minute later: It reminds me of something—

She handed the gun to Clee, who admired it. He nodded at it and smiled at the girl, and then handed the gun to the wrangler, who studied it briefly before handing it to Talmadge.

You-all haven’t had any coffee, said Angelene, moving suddenly toward the cabin door.

Clee stirred, and the wrangler said, Clee has something for you.

Oh, yes, said Angelene, drawing toward them again, blushing.

Clee took something out of the inside of his jacket pocket. It was a narrow wooden box that opened on a hinge along its spine. Angelene took it, looked at it. Oh, she said, opening it. It’s a cedar box. Smell that— She handed it to Caroline Middey.

Talmadge, when it was his turn to admire it, turned it over in his hands. The cover was carved with roses.

I’ve always wanted a pencil box, said Angelene, and, surprising them all, went to Clee, awkwardly embraced him. Clee looked askance, patted her back.

We find all kinds of things, said the wrangler, at the fairs and auctions—

When Angelene pulled her face away, she was crying. She smiled at them all. I don’t know why I’m crying, she said. My presents are very nice. And the food—the food—the cake—it is all very good. I just—it’s my birthday—and then she covered her face with her hands.

Now, now, said Talmadge, after a moment. We haven’t sung the song yet.

No, Talmadge, don’t sing it, please, she said.

But he began it.
For she’s a jolly good fellow
. Caroline Middey sang, and so did some of the men who knew the song, who still remained in the yard.

When she was younger, when she was four, five, even six years old, he would put her on his shoulders and they would walk through the apricot orchard, she grasping at the ripe fruit, he veering jerkily this way and that, and by her knees she would steer him, and she would shriek with laughter as he skipped and then slowed to a walk. Into the field! she would yell, and he would obey, hurry on his legs (already old then) down across the creek and into the waist-high grass. Why had they begun that ritual? The birthday walk, they had called it. They had begun it to wait for Della, he remembered, those years when she was tardy on the day of the girl’s celebration; to entertain the girl, distract her from the fact of her aunt’s absence, they would take a long walk, sometimes roam the field, pretending Talmadge was a horse and Angelene an explorer, and other times venturing as far as the outer orchard, waiting for a sign, waiting for the other’s appearance. They no longer went on the walk, he thought, because they knew she was not coming; and besides, he could no longer carry her on his shoulders. Standing, now—she had come over to him as they sang—her head rested against his sternum. Difficult to think that he had ever bore that substantial body on his shoulders. Even thinking about it now made him tired. To think of walking to the outer orchard and back after a day like this, of activity and the men’s faces in the yard, the unusual sight of them dressed in town clothes, of their like weariness, made him want to sit in the birchwood chair and give himself over to sweet unconsciousness.

The girl pulled her face away. Talmadge, she said. She was serious now. Talking about how this year she wanted to try a new apple in the outer orchard, she had been reading about it, she wanted to talk to him about it—

The girl was fourteen, he thought—fourteen!—and was immediately elated, and sad.

T
he handsome guard—Frederick—patted down Della before leading her back into the jail, and found the bottle. He told her to remove it from her waistband. Get it yourself, she said, and when he reached for it—after pausing momentarily—she grabbed it first and then brandished it in front of her. He stepped back—but unhurriedly, and with a strangely amused expression. But there was also concern there. He watched her warily.

Della, he said, and pushed his cap far back on his head. What are you doing, love.

Don’t call me that, she said. Then: You let me see him.

Frederick raised his eyebrows, feigning ignorance.

I want you to set up something so we can talk.

You must be dreaming, Miss Michaelson. Prisoner Michaelson.

I’m not dreaming. I need to speak to him. Wanted to say, but did not: You all harp on about civilized behavior. Well, that’s what I’m trying to do. Talking before killing. Letting him know—reminding him—why I’m killing him.

Seriously, said Frederick, giving her a frank smile—but still teasing her, she felt—you best throw that away, or give it to me—

No. You—you set it up so I can talk to him, and—

Me?

Yes. You do that, or else—she stopped to think for a moment—I’ll tell them you tried something with me. The warden won’t like that, will he? A young man forcing himself on a prisoner. A female prisoner! Paused. Then, quietly: I just want to talk to him, is all. For a minute.

Who?

You know who.

He turned his head, looked out over the yard. Squinted in the late sun. Chewed something in his back teeth. She felt, suddenly, that he might help her; and what a miracle it was. After a minute, still not looking at her—she had tucked the bottle again into her waistband—he said, quietly: Are you ready to go in, Prisoner Michaelson?

He did not take the bottle from her.