by Jodi Picoult
“Thanks, Mrs. Slegg, but I’m not very hungry yet.”
“You call me Mother Slegg,” she urges. “And no wonder, a little thing like you. You can probably barely stand alone in a wind, much less take this kind of pain standing tall.”
Uncle Joley walks over to the window. He peers out at the mountain. “Where is the funeral going to be?”
“Not far from here. A cemetery where my husband is buried, God rest his soul. We have a family plot.” She says it so casually that I start to watch her for signs: did she not love her own son? Is she a closet mourner, tearing at her hair when everyone leaves?
A boy comes into the kitchen. He takes the milk out of the refrigerator before acknowledging us. When he turns, he looks so much like Hadley I feel as if I have been punched. “You Rebecca?”
I nod, speechless. “You’re—”
“Cal,” he says. “I’m the younger one. Well, I was.” He turns to his mother. “Should we go?” He is wearing a flannel shirt and jeans.
Cal, two of Hadley’s friends from high school and Uncle Joley are asked to be the pallbearers at the cemetery. There is a preacher who gives a nice, respectable service. In the middle of it all a robin lands on the casket. It begins to peck at the ring of flowers. After ten seconds of watching this peacefully, Mrs. Slegg screams to the preacher to stop. She falls onto the ground and crawls towards the casket to grab the flowers. In the flurry of noise the bird flies away. Someone leads Hadley’s mother away.
I do not cry throughout the entire ceremony. No matter where I turn I can see that mountain, waiting to claim Hadley again when he is part of the earth. Here I will remain with worms that are thy chambermaids, I find myself thinking, and for the life of me I cannot place the quote. It must be something I have learned in school but it is hard to believe. It seems so long ago, and I was such a different person.
The four men step forward and lower the leather straps that drop the casket slowly into the ground. I turn away. Up until this point I have pretended that Hadley is not in there at all; that this is just a token and he is waiting back at the Big House for me. But I see the struggle of muscles in Uncle Joley’s back and the sinews in Cal’s fingers. I am convinced that there is indeed something in the rough mustard box.
I cover my ears so that I do not hear him hit the bottom. The cape falls away from my chest and exposes what has happened to me. Nobody notices except for Mrs. Slegg. She is some distance away, and she only cries a little bit harder.
Before we leave the cemetery, Cal presents me with the shirt Hadley was wearing the night before he died. The one I wrapped around myself when my father and Sam came. It is blue flannel checked with black. He folds it into triangles, like a flag. Then he tucks in the corners and hands it to me. I do not thank him. I do not say goodbye to Hadley’s grieving mother. Instead, I let my uncle escort me to the truck. In near silence, he drives me back, where everyone else is waiting for their world to end.
12 OLIVER
I head to the Institute as if nothing has happened at all. I do not go in every day, and I have no real reason for going today of all days, except for the fact that as I walk through the halls I hear reverential acknowledgments of my presence—“Dr. Jones, Dr. Jones”—and this is somehow life-affirming.
When I couldn’t sleep last night, I took the videotapes of the last trip to Maui and played them over and over on the VCR in the bedroom. On these tapes the humpbacks rise majestically out of the water, arch in midair, and slip back into the ocean, opening holes that weren’t there. Under the water you can see them, anticipate when they will break through the strained surface; their fins glistening and their flukes pulsing, and for that blessed moment before the magic ends, Jesus, they become pure beauty.
I had watched the tape several times before the sun came up, and when it did I inexplicably found myself wondering how many months it had been since Jane and I had made love, and I am disappointed to say I could not come up with a concrete number.
At the Institute, my office overlooks the San Diego Marina. There are three walls of glass, if you can imagine, and then one oak paneled door. It had been blond wood, but I decided to stain it to better see the grain of the wood, and Jane, who was up for a project at the time, insisted on doing it for me. She came into my office for an entire week, trying patches of stains on different pieces of the door molding: names like Colonial Cohasset and Mahogany Sheen and Natural, which seemed to me an irony. Finally she picked a shade called Golden Oak which was more brown than gold. I was at my desk the day she arrived with a squeegee and a disposable brush and a gallon of the stuff, although a quart would have done the job. She was very methodical, so much so that I was proud of her, working from the bottom to the top to avoid dripping, blotting the door after each coat. In truth she was quite lovely to watch. Then, when she finished, she stepped back from the door towards my desk. “What do you think—” she started to say, and then she covered her mouth. She ran to the door and began to scrape at the drying stain with the squeegee. I ran up and put my arms around her, trying to calm her down. “Don’t you see it,” she insisted, gesturing wildly. She pointed to several lines in the grain of the wood.
“It looks beautiful.” Indeed the grain stood out.
“You don’t see it,” she cried. “There. It’s plain as day now. The face of the devil.”
Jane has not come to my office since then, since I refused to have the door stripped. I sort of like it. I close the door behind me, and twisting my head this way and that, I try to make out this face.
It is obvious that she is headed to her brother’s, and that she is doing this via automobile or train—she can’t get Rebecca to fly. Most likely she is not taking a train; it would be too easy for me to trace the tickets. I could second-guess her and take a plane to Boston, and be there by the time she arrives. But then again her godforsaken brother would already be there, and he would find some way to warn Jane. They have this telepathic connection that, although astounding, frustrates.
Second option: I can contact the police after a matter of time, and have an APB put out. After all, I did not do anything illegal that would make Jane leave, and I can bring her in on charges of kidnapping. Of course then I lose the freedom to act on my own.
Third option: I can go after her myself. Somewhat like trying to put a butterfly on a leash and take it for a walk, but I imagine if I got the knack of the route I could catch her.
I have never written a conclusion without collecting data to ground the hypothesis. And I have never been stumped scientifically. Perhaps you just go, and take inventory along the way. Perhaps you catch her and then decide what you are going to say.
“Shirley.” I buzz my secretary, a tall woman with dyed red hair who I imagine has a crush on me.
She swings open the oak door. “Yes, Dr. Jones?”
“I have a problem that I’m afraid you are going to have to take care of.” Her lips set in a straight line, ready for the responsibility. “In regards to the trip to Venezuela . . . I need you to cancel.”
“The trip?”
I nod. “Do anything you have to do. Lie, cheat, anything. I need at least a month of personal time. Tell them that. Personal.” I lean across my desk and I take her wrists (her wrists) in my hands. “I’m counting on you,” I say softly. “Our secret.” The Institute will eat the coast of this trip, and I’m afraid to say in the frenzy, poor Shirley will lose her job. I must remember to send her something when this is over.
She nods, a brave soldier. “Dr. Jones, will you be calling in for your messages?”
“Twice a day,” I lie. I would rather wrap this mess up quickly and get entrenched in my research again than do a mediocre job, ten minutes here and ten minutes there. I will not call until I have found Jane.
When the secretary leaves, I switch off the overhead lights and pull the blinds. I put on the Stellwagen tapes, the haunting, tortuous medley from the floor of the ocean. In the late 1970s, the Voyager spacecraft went into orbit carrying
greetings in fifty-five languages, music from Bach, Mozart and a rock group, and these songs of the humpback whale.
The map of the United States I pull out of my drawer is faded but functional. It looks foreign; I am accustomed to the swirls and eddies of navigational charts. With a ruler and a red marker I draw a three-inch radius, and then expand that into a circle. This is as far as they could have gone last night. Phoenix, or Vegas, or Sacramento, or Guaylas, Mexico. My parameters.
If I can track whales, which I hardly know at all, then I can surely track my wife.
Except this requires thinking like Jane: sporadic, eclectic, impossible. With whales we have clues. We have currents, feeding grounds and sightings. We know the starting place of their journey and the end point. We work forward, connecting the incremental pieces that we find. It is not much different from navigation by sonar—the process used by whales, in which sound waves are bounced off of geological formations underwater to chart a clear course.
If Jane and Rebecca are headed to Massachusetts, they will not be going via Mexico or Sacramento. With a green highlighter I cross off those two cities. This leaves the circumference segment between Phoenix and Vegas. And they could truly be anywhere.
Resting my cheek against the cool marble of my desk, I give myself to the melody of the whale songs. There are no lyrics, no refrains. They are more like the chants of African tribes: the pattern, though regular, is foreign to our culture. Not chordal, not symphonic. Themes that you least expect recur, patterns you have heard twice already come through yet again. Sometimes the whales sing together, and sometimes, dramatically, they cry through the ink of the ocean, bemoaning alone.
I find myself humming along. To think like Jane. To think like Jane.
I prop my head up on my elbows. Whales don’t have vocal cords. We don’t know how it is that they make these sounds. It is not through the expulsion of air; there are no bubbles surrounding whales when they sing. And still there are these clicks, these whistles, these cello groans.
Jane’s door faces me. Without warning, immersed in the sounds of the sea, I can clearly see her devil.
13 SAM
The apple, I tell them, came before Adam and Eve in the story of Creation. It had to have been there at least three years because that’s how long it takes for a new tree to bear fruit, much less carnal knowledge.
That’s the first line of the talk I give every year at my old alma mater, the voc-tech high school in Lexington. I’m a big draw at the school. I’m the head of one of the only profitable apple orchards left in Massachusetts, I have a staff of fifty, one hundred thriving acres, a good rapport with the buyers for Sudbury Farms and Purity Foodstores, and U-Pick-Em fields that attract the public on weekends from as far away as New York. I kind of fell into the position when my father retired after his heart surgery, but I leave that part out of my speech.
The kids seem to get younger every year, although I suppose you could make a case that I am getting older. This time, there aren’t as many of them as there used to be because of the economy; they all want to go into steel production or microchip processing—farming doesn’t pay. I watch them filter into the auditorium and they are still ninety-nine percent male, which I understand. It’s not that I have anything against women’s lib, but working at an orchard requires grit and muscle that few ladies have. My mother, maybe, but she was an exception.
I don’t plan to talk about running an orchard, or profitability margins, or scabs or even textbook examples of management. I’ll tell them what they are least expecting to hear, and I try to draw them into my life. The stories my father told me when I was growing up, when we would sit on the porch and all around us the scent of cider would make us dizzy; these are the very things that bred pomology into my mind. I never made it past high school and I may not have the smarts of a high-style manager; I admit there are many things I do not understand, and I will not waste their time. Instead, I tell them what I know best.
In reality the apple mentioned in the Bible probably wasn’t an apple. Apples didn’t grow in Palestine, but the first translations of the Bible were done in some northern country, and the apple comes from England, so there you go. I have heard that there are shells fossilized in the peaks of the Rocky Mountains, left from a time when the water reached that high on the earth. Well, apples have been fossilized too. Archaeologists have found remains of apples, charred in the mud in prehistoric excavations sites near Switzerland. Imagine.
The apple spread west, and it spread fast. It grows from a seed. Toss an apple core into the ground and in a couple of years you’ll have a sapling. When I was a kid, apple trees sprung up on the farms of my parents’ friends, in just about every place where there wasn’t something growing. The trees would fight against the cows that grazed on their leaves, and after a few years they’d get above the cows’ necks and drop the fruit at their bases. Then the cows would cluster at the bottom and eat the sweet apples, inadvertently planting new seeds. In our own cow pasture we had a tree that grew apples as red as fire, that made pies almost as good as Macouns. Never did figure out that variety, or market it . . . if I had I probably would be a lot richer than I am today.
You can find apples in Norse mythology, Greek mythology and fairy tales. My father told me all the stories. There’s Snow White’s poisoned apple and Eve’s fall from grace. In Scandinavia, a character called Iduna kept a box of apples that, when tasted by the gods, gave them new youth. As late as the 1800s in England, fertility salutes were dedicated to apple trees to ensure a bountiful harvest. And here in New England, when little girls peeled apples, they tossed a long curl over their shoulders to see what letter it would make when it fell—the initial of their future lover.
At this point I ask Hadley-who graduated from Minuteman Tech with me and has been working at the orchard since-to pass out the apples I’ve brought. When these kids taste for themselves what the work and patience of human hands can do, well, they understand a lot more than I could ever tell them. I open the floor up for questions, and then I have no problem giving information. Lectures I have trouble with. But questions are a different story. I have always found myself to be a much better listener than talker.
“Are you hiring?” kids ask. “Do you break even?” One industrious boy asks something about the merits of scion grafting versus bud grafting, the official names of which I didn’t learn until about two years ago. But the question I will like best will come from the kid in the back, way in the last row, who hasn’t said a word. I jump off the podium and walk down the aisle and lean over towards him, and he turns red. “What do you want to ask?” I say softly so no one else can hear. “I know there’s something.”
There is, it’s in his eyes. “What is your favorite?” he asks, and I know what he means. Spitzenburgs, I say, but they’ve about died out now. So suppose I have to say Jonathans. It’s the question I never got to ask when my own father gave this speech, when I was still a student.
Afterward, I send Hadley back with the truck. Me and Joellen, a math teacher at the school and my first girlfriend, go out on the town. There’s a Chinese place we like; I don’t get to eat too much of that in Stow. I order her a Mai Tai, which comes in a porcelain coconut with two pink umbrellas, and I get a Suffering Bastard myself. When Joellen gets a little drunk, she forgets that she hates me for some reason or another, and like last year we will probably wind up in the back seat of her Ford Escort, on top of textbooks and abacuses, clawing at each other and bringing back the past.
I do not love Joellen. I never have, I think, which may be the reason she thinks she hates me.
“So what you been up to, Sam?” she says, leaning across the Peking fried chicken wings. She is a year younger than me but she’s looked thirty for as long as I can remember.
“Pruning, pretty much. Getting ready for the troops in the fall.” In late September we open the orchard up to the public. Sometimes I can gross over a thousand dollars in one Sunday, between bushels of apples and fresh-pressed cid
er and retail-pricing wholesale Vermont cheddar cheese.
Joellen grew up in Concord, one of three or four fairly poor families living in a trailer park, and she came to Minuteman Tech to be a beauty stylist. She has a reputation for doing nails. “Find your own variety yet?”
For years I have been working in a greenhouse, grafting and splitting buds in hopes of coming up with something really incredible, some apple that will set the world on edge. My own form of genetic engineering, I’m trying to bring back a Spitzenburg, or something like it that is easier to grow and more adaptable to our climate, so that this time it won’t die out quite so fast. I can’t tell if Joellen is interested, or mocking me. I have always been a lousy judge of character.
Joellen dips her finger into the duck sauce and deliberately sucks it clean between her lips. She holds her hands out to me. “Notice anything?”
Her nails, which are what I have been trained to look at first, are covered with tiny caricatures of Sesame Street characters. Big Bird, Ernie, Snuffelupagus, Oscar the Grouch. “That’s good. Where’d you learn that?”
“Kids’ Band-Aids,” she sighs, exasperated. “I can copy pretty good. But that’s not it. Look again.” She wiggles her fingers, so I start to look for new creases in her skin, cuticle damage, anything. “The ring,” she says finally. “For God’s sake.”
Christ, she’s engaged. “Well, that’s great, Joellen. I’m happy for you.” I don’t know if I really am, but I know it is what I am supposed to say. “Who is it?”