Beneath a Thousand Apple Trees

by Janie DeVos

  Lightner’s Creek was high and running swiftly, and Grandma said that the area must have seen a good amount of rain for it to be that full and fast. We maneuvered around areas on the road that had been badly washed out, and around downed limbs, as well. When we finally turned down Sam’s road, the encroaching trees that I remembered so well were still there, but even those strong, ancient, and gnarled sentinels had incurred some damage. When we reached Sam’s cabin, we saw that one of the giant oaks that had displayed many of his handcrafted moons had been sliced vertically in two. And the moons which had swayed and spun so freely from the limbs lay on the ground among the debris of the remains of the tree. There was damage to Sam’s roof, as well. Quite a few of the old wooden shakes had been ripped away by strong winds and were scattered about the yard.

  “My God!” Grandma whispered as she surveyed the damage. “My God, where’s Sam!” She reined in Natty, and bounded off her seat with the agility of a young woman, and hurried up to Sam’s door. Trying the old doorknob, she found it was unlocked, but it was swollen and stuck from the dampness in the air. Tugging at it with great determination, she finally pulled it open, but almost fell backward when the door at last gave up the fight.

  “Sam! Sam! Are you here?” she urgently called as she rushed into the cabin while I gathered her carpetbag with all of its concoctions, as well as some of the food, and hurriedly followed her inside. I found her sitting on the edge of Sam’s bed, leaning over and softly talking to the pale and withered shadow of the man I’d met years before.

  “What’s happened, Grandma? What’s wrong with him?” I had come up behind her.

  “Ask me, gal! I ain’t dead yet!” Sam answered, and I could see a touch of a twinkle in his dark eyes. But the effort of talking brought on a sickeningly thick, rib-shattering cough.

  “Shh, shh, now,” Grandma said, gently patting his shoulder, “you don’t need to talk any more than necessary. Any talkin’ that needs doin’, I’ll do it. But you do need to tell me, Sam, what ails you, dear? What’s happened?”

  “We got the beginnings of what looked to be a bad storm,” he began before another fit of coughing interrupted him. Then continuing, “I went to the henhouse to get some eggs for my breakfast for the next mornin’, figurin’ it might be even worse by then. Soon as I got what I needed and was walkin’ back to the house, damn if a limb off that ol’ maple tree didn’t go a-crashin’ down right on me. Damn th”—he coughed again—“damn thing knocked me out for a while, and I guess bein’ out in the el’ments for too long did the damage. I was okay when I saw my neighbor the other day—well, better than I am now anyway—but she was worried. Guess she knew I was sicker than I figured I was. She come by to check on me yesterday, and she said she thought I seemed worse, but things really went downhill last night. I got real bad.” His voice faded off, but whether it was from fatigue or fear of what the outcome might be, I wasn’t sure.

  “She did right to call Taft’s, Sam. You know I’d want to know.” Grandma’s voice was thick. I looked over at her and saw she was about as choked up as Sam was, but in her case, emotion was the cause. “Now shut up, old man, and let me listen to your lungs. Breathe in and out, normal-like.” She laid her right ear against his heaving chest, listened for several moments, then said, “We’ll be right back, Sam. I need to brew up some medicine for you. You got lung fever.” I knew that lung fever was the old-timers’ way of saying that Sam had pneumonia. And I also knew that much of the time it was deadly.

  I followed Grandma into the kitchen and waited for instructions from her. “Go out to Sam’s cellar, Rachel—you’ll see the door to it out yonder—bring me a half dozen onions.”

  I went outside to the cellar door, pulled it open and traversed the steep steps down into its darkness, hearing the scurrying of disturbed creatures as I did. After a moment, my eyes adjusted to the dim light coming from the open cellar door and I could make out several baskets, barrels, and cases on the dirt floor, as well as countless jars, jugs, and bottles lined up on plank shelves. Hurriedly looking into the baskets, I found potatoes, carrots, and finally the onions. Using my ankle-length wool skirt as a makeshift apron, I picked out six large ones, then awkwardly navigated the steps back out into daylight.

  In the kitchen, Grandma had already gotten a good fire going in the wood stove. After we peeled and sliced the onions, she melted some bacon grease in a large black iron skillet then added the slices, as well as some sugar and a very small amount of water. She cooked the onions until they were well caramelized, then set them aside to cool slightly. While they did, she poked around in her carpetbag until she found a roll of rather thin cotton material, which I recognized as being a large piece of an old sheet of ours, and she quickly rolled it out on the kitchen table. Taking a pair of scissors from her bag, she cut a large square from it, and then another long, very wide strip. “Bring the pan,” she directed. I did as she asked, and we returned to Sam’s bedroom.

  “Sam, this onion poultice will feel good to ya, and it’s sure to help your breathin’. It’s a might warm, but it ain’t gonna burn ya. Sit up for me now, dear. I need to get your shirt off.” When Sam protested that he was freezing, she told him she’d get him good and warm, and he let her remove his flannel shirt. While he remained sitting up, she took the wide piece of cloth, folded it in two, and laid it on the bed behind him, positioning the ends out to each side of him. After she had Sam lie back down, she took the smaller square of cloth and laid it directly over his chest. “Spoon them onions on top,” she told me. As soon as I finished that, Grandma took the ends of cloth that were laying to each side of Sam, and wrapped them over the mound of onions. “Rachel, I forgot to get ’em. Grab me two large pins out of my bag, honey.”

  I quickly did so, then pinned the strips’ ends securely and the poultice stayed in place.

  “Sam, do you have any moonshine?” Grandma asked. “Any liquor at all?” He wasn’t as alert as he had been when we first came in, and he mumbled something we couldn’t make out. He was falling asleep, or perhaps unconscious.

  “We gotta break the fever, Rachel. The onions will help his congestion, but the fever will kill him as quick or quicker. Start looking in all the cabinets. We need to find some alcohol.”

  “Grandma, I saw jugs and such in the cellar! I’ll be right back!” I ran to the cellar again, and down its dark steps as quickly as I dared. Then, with too little light to allow me to read the handwritten labels pasted on each jar, jug and bottle, I began pulling cork stoppers out, or unscrewing the caps and smelling the contents inside. When I uncorked the fifth jug, the overwhelming smell nearly knocked me over. There was no mistaking what it was—white lightning.

  “Here, Grandma!” I thrust the jug at her as she rose from peering into one of the low kitchen cabinets. She immediately grabbed a glass from an upper cabinet and a small towel from a drawer by the sink, then told me to come with her, and we hurried back to Sam’s side.

  “Pour a fair amount on this towel,” she instructed. “Drench it good.” Both of us reacted to the moonshine’s overwhelming smell by drawing back from it as I poured a good amount into the towel she had loosely bundled in her hand. “Now fill that glass about a quarter full.

  “Sam! Sam! Listen to me,” she said, turning her attention to him. “You’ve got to drink this ’shine. We gotta burn that fire outta you! You hear me! You drink this down, or I’ll get it in you another way!” Slipping her left arm behind him, she helped him sit up. Then taking the glass of liquor from me, she began pouring it into his mouth in small doses. Like a baby bird opening its mouth to be fed, Sam opened his and submissively took his “medicine.” He coughed after each swig, but he’d no sooner stop than Grandma would get him to swallow another mouthful.

  “You tryin’ to get me drunk, or drown me?” Sam weakly asked, though it was clear that the potency of the alcohol had cleared the fog for him slightly and a little spark of the old Sam shone through.

  “I’m trying to save you. Now hush and
do what I’m tellin’ ya to do!” she barked, but the encouraged smile that lit up her face was unmistakable. He was fighting for his life, and that, more than poultices or moonshine, could save him. “Start spongin’ him down with that towel, Rachel,” and I did—first his back, while Grandma still had him sitting up, then his arms, hands, shoulders, neck, face, and feet. When I had thoroughly bathed those areas, Grandma said that she’d tend to the rest of him, and I quietly left Sam’s room.

  During the middle of the night, Sam’s fever broke. I had fallen asleep on one of the red and green wingback chairs in the living room, and woke up as Grandma stirred around in the kitchen.

  “How long was I asleep, Grandma? I’m sorry! What can I do?” I asked, while stiffly but quickly uncurling myself from the position I’d been in for quite some time. “How is he?”

  “It’s alright, honey. You stay put. The fever broke a little while ago. And his lungs are sounding a bit better. He’s still coughing, but at least he’s coughing stuff up. He’s sleepin’ some, and more soundly, too. You did real good, Rachel. Real good. Go on back to sleep now, but go in that spare bedroom. There’s a small cot in there.”

  “I’m okay, Grandma, but you need sleep too. Have you had any?”

  “I’ve dozed off ‘n on some in a chair by Sam’s bed. I still need to keep a good eye on him. He’s gettin’ close to the tree line, but he ain’t outta the woods yet.” She smiled. But as exhausted as her smile was, and as cautious as her words were, there was still relief in both. Sam, she felt, would make it.

  “Rachel, I’m thinkin’ about bringin’ Sam back with us. If he’ll go, that is. It’s gonna take some time for him to recuperate, and he’s gonna need some help doing it. I’d stay, but I can’t be gone from the work at our house. Lydia can’t stay there, and Merry isn’t much help, so I’ve got to get back or we’ll lose our boarding business. How do you feel about that? And how do you think Prescott will feel? To tell the truth, Merry’s opinion on things doesn’t concern me much.” I was surprised at her frankness, but I recognized it for what it was; it was the truth in a time when large decisions had to be made, and when lives would change because of them.

  Without hesitation I responded. “Bring him home, Grandma. It’s where he belongs. It’s where he’s always belonged.”

  CHAPTER 38

  A Mill Reincarnated

  It took quite a bit of convincing before Sam agreed to come home with us. One of his biggest concerns was that Malcolm’s spirit would follow us, although he’d admitted that he hadn’t seen it in a long time.

  My grandmother sat on the edge of the chair by Sam’s bed and took his hand in hers, “Sam, honey, you’ve got to leave the past behind now. It’s not only time for you to be free of Malcolm, but for Malcolm to be free of you. Don’t you see; he’ll stay here as long as you do. Have you ever thought that maybe he isn’t just haunting you, but haunting the place where he was killed, too?” Squeezing his hand firmly, and with tears collecting in both her throat and eyes, she continued: “When are we gonna stop lettin’ things keep us apart, Sam? You left prison a long time ago, but you’ve built another one for yourself here. When’s enough, enough? Do you have to die to set yourself free?” And with the thought of losing one or the other to death when they’d both worked so hard at keeping each other alive, Sam gently patted her hand and agreed to come home with her.

  We bundled Sam up that afternoon and settled him as comfortably as possible in the buggy, then, tying his horse, Milo, at the back, we headed out.

  We arrived home near suppertime, and God bless Lydia Harris, she was still there and cooking up a large pot of spaghetti sauce with none other than our Italian-born boarder, Salvatore Lupari, who stood at the stove enthusiastically instructing her in the making of the authentic recipe. “Willa! Rachel!” she cried when we walked in the kitchen door. “Thank God you’re home. We were gettin’ truly worried and I was gonna call Taft’s tomorrow to find out what was goin’ on.”

  “Well, we’re home now, Lydia, and all is well. Salvatore, we need you to help bring Mr. Harold in. Let’s put him in the little back room off the kitchen here. It’ll be warm and easy for him.” She was referring to our old pantry, which had been converted into a tiny additional bedroom for a boarder. It was the last room we offered for rent, as it was small and often stuffy, but for Sam’s recovery, it was perfect.

  The days that followed brought many changes. Sam continued to regain his health and it was wonderful seeing light and energy returning to the gentle man. Grandma fussed over him more than I’d seen her fuss over anyone in a long time. Her ministrations reminded me of the fierce battle she’d led, trying to keep my infant twin brothers alive, as well as the vigilant care she gave me when my foot was shattered. She told me years later that her greatest worry had been that my foot would become gangrenous.

  Sam seemed to bask in the attention, though he often told her to “stop your silly fussin’!” He fooled no one, though. We all saw the invincible bond they shared, and as Sam’s strength increased, so did their small outward displays of affection for each other, with a frequent kiss on the cheek, a peck on the lips, or with the simple holding of hands. They often took walks along the river in the warm months, and a very long time milking the cows in the barn during the cold ones.

  My siblings’ reaction to Sam was divided. Merry, for the most part, ignored him, and continued to be out and about doing God only knew what for many hours of the day. She seemed to try to avoid Sam, never sitting and talking with him, or involving herself with a puzzle he might be working on, or helping him with chores when another set of hands would be helpful. I figured that Merry knew Sam could see through her like thin tissue paper. There was no fooling him as far as what her goings-on were, and she could clearly sense his disapproval, but he knew it wasn’t his place to say anything about it.

  Prescott, on the other hand, was far more accepting than I thought he might be, but only after the first week. He missed our father terribly, and when Sam came into our home, I think my brother felt he might foolishly try to fill the position of patriarch, which no one, to my brother’s way of thinking, could ever do. But once he saw no threat of that from Sam, but realized Sam was trying to be a friend more than a substitute father or grandfather, Prescott relaxed a little. And when he did, he found they had much in common.

  Sam and Prescott spent many a night whittling animals and people from simple scraps of wood. They often used the flared-end pieces from the butts of logs that had been sawed off, and the works of art the two men created were nothing less than amazing. They taught each other, or learned as they went. And together they came up with new and wonderful tools with which to create more intricately worked pieces. I loved watching the bond grow between the men, but it concerned me that Prescott spent more time with his woodworking than he did at our still-failing mill.

  In late April of 1928, the Harrises decided to open the orchard for business a little early with a spring dance. The Halloween party had gone so well, and they’d sold so much in their gift shop, that Lydia and Harriet worked long and hard through the winter making more fine crafts to restock the store with. Prescott and Sam pitched in, too, with their exquisite woodcarvings, and the entire household looked forward to going—boarders included. I was more excited than anyone knew for I’d had to miss the fall party because of Sam’s arrival and the time-consuming care involved in getting him back on his feet.

  I took every opportunity to try different styles with my hair, and though the 1920s “bob” was a sleek, tomboyish look for many young women my age, it seemed more appropriate for girls in New York, Boston, or Atlanta. My hair reached down to the middle of my back, and I normally wore it in one neat braid, which was often pinned up in a circle at the back of my head. For the party, however, I planned to wear it loose with some spring flowers pinned above my ear. Cream-colored dogwood blossoms were easy enough to find, as were blue irises, and the soft, delicate combination of flowers would be the perfect accessory
to the beautiful dress Grandma had made for my seventeenth birthday. The upcoming party at the orchard was the perfect—and first—opportunity I’d had to wear it, and that alone was enough to make me look forward to the event.

  But my daydreaming about the party, or anything else pleasant for that matter, was constantly interrupted by worry over the fact that our mill was almost bankrupt and we’d be forced to close its door very soon. It weighed heavily on my mind throughout the day, and even wove its way into my dreams at night. I couldn’t get away from it.

  We had so few customers left, the amount they spent with us hardly made it worthwhile to keep the mill open and pay the expensive overhead. I came once a month or so to do the accounting work, so the spiraling down of our once lucrative business was clearly shown in black and white in our books. I studied our accounts, trying to figure out a way of cutting even more expenses, but the fact remained we were just too short on customers. There’d been talk that some of our former clients were returning after receiving unsatisfactory merchandise from the Hollis mill. But after Papa’s death, they remained “former,” and the Hollis mill continued to prosper. Our mill had replaced the power of the waterwheel with electricity some years ago, and the power bill alone was almost more than we could manage each month. I figured at the rate we were going, we’d be closed in six months’ time, if not before. I hated to insist we close the mill down, for it wasn’t just our family that depended on the mill for a living, meager though it was, but so did Nathan Oliver (our one full-time employee), and his family. Nathan was in his early seventies by then and suffered from arthritis. We knew it was only a matter of time before he would be forced to give up his job, but we hated to close before Nathan gave up. There was something symbolic and inspiring about his determination and loyalty, and his dogged spirit helped to keep us going, at least for the moment.