Beneath a Thousand Apple Trees

by Janie DeVos

  CHAPTER 15

  The Moon Man

  The next Saturday morning, the first in November, Grandma hitched Natty up to the wagon and placed a basket in the bed of it.

  “Where you goin’, Grandma?” I asked as I approached her from the door of the barn while she tucked a light blue-and-white checked dishtowel more securely in and around the food in the basket. I could smell some of the ham biscuits from this morning’s breakfast, as well as the blackberry pie she’d made last night, which I’d assumed we’d have after dinner today.

  “I’m goin’ to see Samuel Harold. You know, the Moon Man.” She smiled. “It’s his birthday,” she added in an off-handed way as she turned back to her task.

  “The Moon Man! Who’s the Moon Man?” I quickly moved up beside her. She had my undivided attention.

  “Samuel Harold. You know, chil’, the Moon Man!” she emphasized, as if doing so would clear things right up for me. She placed two jars of bread-and-butter pickles, ajar of pickled beets, and one of split runner beans into an old crate that she had braced against the wicker basket.

  “I don’t know him,” I stated.

  She turned and stared at me in the oddest way for several seconds as if processing this newly acquired bit of information, and then told me to run into the house and tell someone that I was going with her. Strangely enough, she told me to tell someone other than Mama, and to beat it back to the wagon in a hurry. The fact that Grandma wanted me to avoid letting Mama in on our plans was utterly delicious to me.

  I ran into the house to find that Mama was taking stock of the jars of food in the pantry, so I ran up the ladder to the loft where Merry was sitting before the vanity’s mirror working on braiding her thick dark hair. When I told her I was going with Grandma, Merry Beth said she wanted to go, too, as I’d expected, and started toward the ladder. The discussion ended quickly enough, though, when I pointed to her feet and told her to put on her thickest snake boots for there were plenty of them where we were going. I knew she hated the reptiles with a passion, and my tactics for dissuading her from going worked perfectly; she abruptly turned back around, went back to her braiding, and offered up the excuse that if she went with us there’d be no one else around to help Mama with the cooking. Issuing a compliment on how considerate she was of others, I made a hasty retreat down the ladder, and hightailed it out to the wagon, where Grandma was waiting and ready. I pulled myself up onto the seat next to her, and then, leaning forward, she picked up the reins and slapped them against Natty’s back. We lurched forward as the wagon rolled out of the barn.

  “Who’s the Moon Man, Grandma, and where’re we goin’?” I asked again once we turned onto the sawmill road. I figured that since I was now part of this mysterious mission, I had the right to know.

  “Samuel Harold, like I said before,” Grandma firmly stated. “Don’t ask any more questions right now, Rachel. Let’s just listen to the world go about its business around us for a spell, while we go on about ours.”

  After that, I kept my questions to myself, loving the whole idea that just Grandma and I were headed to parts unknown, to see a man who was also unknown—to me, anyway. Soon I would be privy to the world of one Samuel Harold, a.k.a. The Moon Man, and I couldn’t help feeling excited. But, at the same time, there was an unexplainable feeling of anxiousness, too. After all, I was with my Grandma, a strong and reliable force in my life, so what was there to fear?

  It was just so uncharacteristic of her to be so cryptic about something, and because this was behavior I’d rarely seen in her before, and it was in relation to some aspect of her life that I had no knowledge of either, it gave me a very unfamiliar feeling of being uncomfortable in her presence. I just didn’t know what to think, much less to say, so abiding by her request, I said nothing more for a long while. Instead, I just watched the dirt road weave and wind and lead us onward into unexplored territory.

  We crossed the Titan Mountain pass, which was about seven miles north of us. Then we took a series of switchbacks, and crossed Lightner’s Creek, the Bolsey River Bridge, and came out on the river road. I had only come this way one other time in my life and that was to attend my second cousin’s wedding at a small Methodist church nearby.

  I glanced over at Grandma, and watched the wind whip loose the strands of her hair from the knot at the base of her neck. She must have felt me watching her for she glanced over at me and gave me a smile—one that seemed a little nervous, I thought. There was apprehension there, and as quickly as the smile came, it was gone; then she redirected her focus back to the curving road, and her own thoughts.

  A couple of hours after we’d set out, we turned left onto a well-rutted and worn path that was just past the Bolsey River Gristmill. Giant oak, maple, and hickory trees encroached on the ancient-looking trail, blocking out the dim November sunlight with their heavy branches, many of which were adorned with browning yellow and red leaves. Some of the branches hung down low enough to knock us off the wagon’s seat. I scooted closer to Grandma, and she mumbled something about the trees having grown so much over the years, which made me wonder just how many years she’d been coming to this isolated, dark place. We traveled about a half-mile further down the old path until we came around a bend and into view of one of the strangest sights I’d ever seen before.

  In the middle of a clearing stood a very old, rather small log cabin that had been weather-darkened to a deep molasses brown. Over the front doorway was a plaque with the Lord’s Prayer handwritten in what had once been bright blue paint, with two simple crosses painted in now-faded white on each side of the words. But it wasn’t the cabin with its religious signs that made the scene strange, it was the trees, or rather what was in the trees. For there, hanging from and amid the branches were hundreds of hand-cut and carved wooden or metal crescent moons, in all shapes, sizes, and colors. Some had faces painted or carved on them, while others were plain and somehow frighteningly beautiful in their own simplicity. They hung from the tree branches with fishing line, so that it seemed as if they floated on their own. They spun, bounced, and swirled in the chilly November wind, then calmed in their movement between the gusts to a gentle swinging and swaying.

  “What are they doin’ here, Grandma?” I asked in a breathy whisper. And what are we doin’ here, I silently asked myself.

  “Keepin’ haints out,” she answered.

  Warding off ghosts was not the answer I’d hoped to hear. That was not one of the calming, reassuring answers that I could usually count on from her. This was an answer that almost began to make me sorry I had come along for the ride . . . almost, but not quite.

  “How many are hauntin’ this place, Grandma?” I whispered.

  “Only one, that I knows of anyway,” she answered.

  “Who is it?” I asked.

  “Your granddaddy, chil’.”

  I immediately looked at the plaque over the front door, and when I understood the reason for it, started reciting the Lord’s Prayer to myself: Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy name. Thy kingdom come . . . This was as good a time for it as there ever had been in the history of mankind. Oh, God, oh, Jesus! Oh, God, oh Jesus (and any others that might want to jump right in here to help me!), I prayed, I swear on my family’s Bible that if you’ll keep that ghost—my granddaddy!—away from me, I’ll try to like Mama better again, and I’ll not wish bad things on Ray Coons. Well, I won’t wish for things to happen to him that could kill him, anyway. And I’ll never touch my breasts—or anyplace lower—under my sheets at night again.

  I was so scared I couldn’t even ask why my granddaddy (who’d died before Mama was born) was haunting this, of all places. And, most importantly, why was he haunting any place at all?

  Suddenly, a shotgun blast snapped me out of my holy supplications, and caused Natty to buck and try to turn around.

  “Whoa, Nat! Whoa!” Grandma called to the startled horse, while pulling on the reins in quick response. As no other shot was forthcoming, Grandma loudly ca
lled out, “Sam, it’s Willa. Willa Holton! Come out here, old dog, where I can see ya.”

  “Great day in the morning!” An excited voice exclaimed from around the back of the cabin. “Willa? Is it truly you, gal? Sweet Savior! Hold on, I’m a-comin’!”

  And, with that, a rather thin but strong-looking man of medium height came into view with a shotgun in his right hand and a long, fat, dead rattlesnake in the other. He had thick, mostly gray hair, but with golden blond streaks running through it, and his eyes were an intense rich brown. I wasn’t sure which one I should be more afraid of, but I was pretty sure it was the old man given that the snake’s head was gone. I leaned into Grandma, who patted my knee reassuringly, and then yelled back to the man in a high-spirited, animated way: “Samuel Harold. Look at the likes of you! My land, but you’re lookin’ fairly good for a man who’s a celebratin’ sixty-two years today!”

  “Ah, Willa, my gal. Is it my birthday? I hadn’t thought about it.” He lowered his eyes and shook his head in a reflective, where-have-the-years-gone kind of way. Then he looked back at Grandma, and displaying a handsome smile that boasted a full set of teeth, he said, “Come down here and give this old man a squeeze!”

  Grandma actually did as she was bidden and it was a moment I knew I’d never forget. The years seemed to fall away from her as she slipped over the side of the wagon. And with a most submissively feminine act of compliance, this woman of unbendable strength and wisdom, a woman who almost always managed to keep her feelings in check, gave in to this stranger’s appeal and went without hesitation into his outstretched arms. “There’s a first time for everything,” I’d heard her say countless times. I knew that this was certainly one of those “first times,” and, perhaps, the last time that I’d ever see my grandmother so unabashedly caught up in such an intimate moment.

  They spoke softly and it was obvious that their words were only for each other. Strain though I might, I couldn’t make out full sentences and just caught a murmured “good” or “missed” and several “blessings” in their quietly private conversation.

  There was something about their meeting that was both joyful and sad. I didn’t understand the why of any of it, because I didn’t know their story yet, but it was clear to see that there was indeed a story, and it was one that was not an open book for the world to read. I knew I was privy to a scene that was one of the later chapters from a tale that had begun a long time ago; one that deeply involved these two lives, but that had somehow brought them to this near-conclusion of moon-filled trees, ghosts (of many kinds, I was sure), and rare, yet emotion-filled words. These were all part of a deep and cherished understanding between them. I felt confused by it, and awkward, yet absolutely fascinated as I witnessed the latest moment in their story.

  “Sam, this is Rachel, my eldest granddaughter. You’ve heard me talk a lot about her,” she said, suddenly self-conscious as though she’d just remembered I was there—and watching them.

  “Great day in the mornin’! Rachel!” he said, looking at me as though I’d come from one of his hanging moons. “My God, but you look like your grandma! All except the color of your hair, ’a course.”

  I smiled, pleased to be compared to her, and muttered a soft “hello,” and “thank you.”

  A rising wind made the moons dance and swirl in an agitated way. “Let’s go on in,” Sam said, looking up at the sky and sniffing at the same time. “I smell rain, and it’s comin’ in quick.”

  “Well, help me with the food I brought ya, Sam. There’s a pie in there that’ll be ruined if we don’t get ’er in quick-like.”

  With that, I followed the Moon Man and Grandma over to the wagon, and grabbing the crate and wicker basket, we hurried inside.

  I glanced up at the hand-painted plaque with the Lord’s Prayer on it before stepping inside, hoping it would ward off any ghosts that might otherwise be lurking in the corners, not to mention large spiders or the family of the beheaded rattler. From the outside there didn’t appear to be any gaps between the logs, but varmints still had a way of finding their way in to seek the warmth of a fireplace, not to mention the occasional crumb that the Moon Man might carelessly drop. But upon entering, I realized that the cabin was well cared for and far neater than I’d expected.

  Just inside the door was a lovely old oak hall tree. It had delicate, richly detailed carvings of birds and flowers adorning the top edge, and centered below was an oval beveled mirror. Though darkened by age, the piece was elegantly beautiful and free of any smudges or dust. There were wooden hooks to each side of the mirror and an oilskin jacket and hat were hung from one, while neatly placed on the floor below were galoshes that were well-worn but wiped free of mud. The Moon Man hung our coats on the hall tree’s empty hook and then we followed him into his sparsely furnished but pleasant and warm living room. There were two matching wing-backed chairs that were done in a faded but still handsome green-and-red plaid, and between them was a small, round table where a Bible and a copy of the Sears catalog rested. Before the large fireplace, which was made from river rock of varying hues, lay a long, thin old cat that had not moved at all since we’d come in. I immediately went to the golden animal and bent down to pet it. It quickly raised its head and then laid it back down as if satisfied that I meant no harm, but offered, instead, a much-desired stroking.

  “That’s Thomas,” the Moon Man said. “He’s an old one, he is. Must be near ‘bout twenty years old now. He’s blinder ’n a bat, and deaf as a doorknob, but he’s still good company. Don’t ask for much other than a meal now ’n then, and a warm place to wait out the winter. I’m thinkin’ this may be his last one, though. He’s been sleepin’ more ’n usual and not eating enough to keep a flea goin’.”

  I somehow understood that the loss of this animal would affect the man deeply. Though they were both independent creatures, they relied upon each other for their basic needs: the cat for food and shelter, and the man for companionship. There was no question that when the time came for one to be without the other, it would be painfully felt.

  “What happened to Roscoe?” Grandma asked, looking around as if maybe she’d just overlooked him when she’d first come inside.

  “Lost him a few months ago,” replied Sam. “He broke his leg one day while out gallivantin’ around and it never did heal right. Poor old feller limped around for some weeks while that darn leg festered and festered. I finally put the dog out of his misery,” he said, glancing up at the rifle he kept over the front door.

  “I’m sorry, Sam. I remember when you found him under the bridge at Fork Crossing. Darn cute, he was. He grew into a mighty fine hunter. Mighty fine.” She patted Sam’s arm. “Now, how ‘bout if I make us some coffee?” She moved into the small kitchen that was off to the left.

  “I’ll help you, Grandma,” I said, following her in.

  “Rachel, take the pie out of the basket and we’ll have a little celebration for Sam’s birthday. Sam, it’s your special day, so sit down and relax.” He didn’t argue. Instead, after putting another log on the fire, he pulled out a chair from the kitchen table and sat down as requested, then watched us move around the small space with a look of absolute pleasure on his face.

  “It’s been some time since I had two beautiful gals in my kitchen, and with a pretty pie, to boot. Will wonders never cease?”

  Grandma reached up into a cabinet to the left of the sink and retrieved ajar of coffee. Sitting on the counter below was a percolator. Grandma handed me the pot. “Run to the pump out back and fill this up,” she instructed, nodding her head toward a door that was just to the right of the sink’s counter. I opened the door and stepped out onto a covered, fairly narrow back porch. There was a stack of firewood that ran the length of the porch, which was ten feet or so long, and a low roof, which the stack of wood nearly touched. It took up most of the width of the porch and I had just enough room to keep out of the light rain that fell while I looked around to see where the pump was located. It was about a dozen yards away, o
ff to the left, so I gave the yard a quick survey, recalling the fact that the Moon Man had been out back with the rattler when we’d first arrived. I didn’t see anything more threatening than an old washtub next to the pump, a broken wagon wheel, and an old soot-blackened metal barrel. I hurried over to the pump, filled the pot, and ran back onto the porch without getting too terribly soaked.

  As I neared the back door, I looked through its window and saw Sam standing there facing Grandma. His left arm circled her waist, while his right hand reached up to tuck a wisp of hair that had escaped her bun back behind her ear. Then, bringing his face down close to hers, he gently kissed her lips for several seconds, while his right arm completed the circle around her. Her hands came to rest on his chest. I thought for a second she might push him away from her, but she didn’t. Her hands rested on him in a familiar, practiced way. It was clear that she’d done this before. They’d done this before. I knew I was watching something that I shouldn’t. I knew it was a moment that was solely intended for the two of them. But I was transfixed. I stood there watching a woman I’d known so well—at least I’d thought I did—act in a way that made her bizarrely unfamiliar to me. It frightened me and intrigued me, and, for some reason I didn’t understand, it saddened me.

  I walked loudly on the porch to let them know I was back from my short errand and they moved apart, busying themselves with china plates and cups that he handed her from the cabinet.

  “Here’s the water,” I managed, though I couldn’t bring myself to look either one of them in the eye. That seemed all right with them, however, as neither one seemed to want to make eye contact with me.

  Sam placed the china on the table, while Grandma started the coffee perking. “Put the pie on the table, Rachel,” she said as she pushed a candle down into the flakey crust. She’d asked me to take the candle from a kitchen drawer back at our house when I’d run in to let Merry know I was going with her. It was half the size it had originally been, but it had also lit quite a few birthday cakes and pies over the last year. It was never left to burn long, just long enough for the birthday celebrant to make his or her special annual wish. So, after closing his eyes for a brief moment, he opened them, blew with unnecessary gusto, and the candle blinked out immediately, saving the short remains to grace a couple more birthday desserts to come.