Poison Apples

by Nancy Means Wright

  There was no response. She threw a second handful. She wanted to see Adam. Needed to. Had to! She’d come all this way. It was then she noticed the Butterfields’ car was gone, where it was usually parked behind the bunkhouse—recalled they’d talked about a new movie in town. Adam was alone, then. He’d fallen asleep, maybe over his book. She laughed out loud, pushed open the bunkhouse door, surprised: Someone had hung a single strand of white blinking lights over the door. The bed was empty! Had he gone to the movies with the twins? Maybe. Oh, he’d be tired tomorrow!

  She sat down on his bed. It was made up neatly, the way she would have expected. Adam was neat in everything: his clothing, his hair—her mother might complain about the ponytail, but it was usually combed, clean, tied back in a ribbon. He looked like . . . Hamlet. She pulled back the spread: The pillow bore the indentation of his head. She put her face close to it, embraced it; then

  pulled the cotton spread back over. The twins’ bunks didn’t have spreads, she noticed, only rough gray blankets; it was like Adam to have a bright blue coverlet. She pulled out the drawer in his bedside table—feeling a twinge of guilt, of course. Should she look inside? She was sure he wouldn’t mind! What did they have to hide from each other? Although there was so much still she didn’t know about him. She guessed you never really knew another person until you lived with him. And even then, her mother told her, you didn’t really know him.

  But her mother was thinking of her father and his taking off with that woman. Her mother was prejudiced against men, Emily really thought so. That was why her mother had closed the door against her father’s coming back. Oh yes. She was sure things would have worked out if her mother had been more forgiving, more open-minded.

  The drawer contained paper clips, tacks, tape, a pruning knife, several letters. Two were postmarked California, where his stepmother had moved after the divorce from his father. One of the letters was from the father. The name and address were on the envelope: 107 Park Drive, Waterbury, Connecticut. The town sounded familiar. Adam lived in Massachusetts, he’d said. Well, she supposed the father had moved to Connecticut for business or something.

  There was one letter that sparked her curiosity. It was on pink stationery. She pulled it carefully out of the envelope. She held it a moment, hardly breathing, then slowly unfolded it.

  “Adam sweetie,” it read, “have you broken your writing hand? It’s been two weeks since your last letter. I’m still thinking of hitching up there to Vt but I can’t get off work. I mean, I need the money for my dowry. Ha ha. Just kidding. Why get married these days? Work is lousy, why did I drop out of college? You were the one persuaded me, the role model. Drop out and we’ll go round the world, you said. Well I’m waiting, baby. I’d go to the ends of the world with you. Sounds romantic, huh? But it’s true. . . . Remember that night...”

  Emily didn’t want to know about that night. She stuffed the letter back in the drawer—it wrinkled in her nervous hand. She was flustered, she couldn’t think. She looked back at the envelope for the address. Waterbury, CT, it read. He would have lived there, then.

  The blood was up in her head now, her eyes were stinging. She jumped up, left the bunkhouse. Where was Adam, anyway? Of course she should have known he had girlfriends. A good-looking guy like that? She’d blocked out those thoughts. You still write to Wilder, at college, don’t you, dummy? she reproached herself. Of course you do. Don’t get after him now, you’ll lose him. . .. Anyway, he hadn’t written very often to that girl. Because of one Emily Willmarth, that was why.

  She felt better now. She wouldn’t say anything to Adam about that girl’s letter. She didn’t want him to know she’d been reading it! She really wasn’t that kind of person, the kind who read other people’s mail. Not usually. Hardly ever! She got back on her bicycle, started down the path toward the driveway. An ancient blue car was just turning in—it belonged to the twins, she recognized the sound of it; it needed a tune-up. “Hey,” she cried, waving her arms, “hey!”

  The car stopped and Hally Butterfield leaned out the driver’s window. “Hi, sweet pie,” he said. Hally always kidded her about Adam, he knew she was sweet on him.

  “Adam in there?” she said, peering in the back window. But Adam wasn’t there. Only Rolly, grinning beside his brother in the passenger seat.

  “He was headed into the orchard when we left couple of hours ago,” Hally said. “I thought he was seeing you.”

  “Ooh woo,” Rolly joined in.

  She felt a small stab in her chest, but she smiled. “He likes to play his guitar. Down in the trees where he won’t bother anybody.”

  He was down at the toolshed, then, that’s where he’d be. Playing his guitar. Two hours wasn’t such a long time when you were doing something you loved.

  The Butterfields drove on into the parking area and she sped down the path that led to the hut: past the pond—and woke up the geese. The large male ran after her, flapping his wings and squawking; finally gave up and fluttered, sputtering, back to his mate. There was a faint light in the hut; it would be Adam’s flashlight perhaps, or a candle. Most of the songs he knew by heart. She heard a soft strumming, a high-pitched note. It was lovely, music in the night. She leaned her bicycle against a tree, listened a moment. Then knocked on the hut door. They hadn’t planned a rendezvous; she didn’t want to just walk in, although she knew he’d be glad to see her. He would, wouldn’t he?

  The music stopped. There was a hushed silence. But he’d think it was Rufus, or Moira, wondering what he was doing in there when he should be in bed, getting rest before the morning picking. “Adam, it’s me, Emily,” she said; she pushed open the door.

  And shut it again quickly.

  A moment later Adam came out. “Emily, wait—it’s not what you think. Emily...”

  But she was on her bike, speeding up the path. He was still calling to her. Then, more faintly, she heard Opal’s voice: “Oh, come on, Adam, come on back in.”

  Chapter Fifty-two

  Moira heard the whirring sound of a bicycle crunching up the driveway and peered out the window. It looked like a girl—Emily perhaps? A rendezvous with Adam Golding? Oh dear. And here she’d been weaving imagined scenarios with her own daughter into her loom. Nights were the worst, or the early morning hours: That’s when the past came flooding back, crowding her mind with possible replays of that last night. Carol had the flu, she never went to that dance at all. Or she went, but was feverish when the dance ended. “I have to go home, take me home,” she tells the boy, and the boy pleads, “Stay.” But Carol is firm, she’s sick, after all! And they go straight home. The beer, the wine, still uncapped in the car. And Carol, safe at home, in bed . ..

  But Carol hadn’t come home, and the liquor was consumed, and at two-thirty in the morning they’d had the call, the police at the door. An accident. Carol dead—drowned ...

  She must have made a noise because Stan said, “Moir? Moir, hel me outoo thi dam shair? Bringa goddam walker?”

  She was glad, actually, for the interruption; she brought the walker, helped him up onto it, moved along with him, although he waved her away. He didn’t want help now—that terrible pride of his. Stan’s objective, as usual, was the liquor cabinet. He wasn’t supposed to mix alcohol with his medicine, but she couldn’t complain every minute. “I’ll mix it,” she said, “let me.”

  He gave a sly smile. He knew she’d make it weak. “No way, jush geme a glash. Icesh.”

  This time she mixed herself one, too. A nightcap. Then she’d go to bed, leave the door open for Opal, who’d taken to wandering the orchard at night—”to think,” she told Moira, to play her guitar far down back where she wouldn’t bother anyone. This was uncharacteristically thoughtful of the girl. Tonight, in fact, the girl had gone out in her nightgown, with only a thin sweater over it. Moira had insisted she put on a jacket, at least. The Jamaicans were all in bed, but there were others who might still be out at nine o’clock: the Butterfields, Adam Golding.

  Well,
she’d try to have a good night’s rest—if Stan didn’t need her in the night, that is. Get up at six with the Jamaicans. They cheered her up, those men. Nothing bad could happen while they were singing, shouting to each other in the trees. The weatherman called for mostly sun tomorrow. She lifted her chin, imagining it on her face.

  And Stan called again for ice.

  Chapter Fifty-three

  When Emily came to pick the next afternoon after school, Moira Earthrowl stopped her. “I’ve a bag of apples for your mother,” she called from the porch. “I’ll leave them here. You be sure to take them to her. I’ve thrown in a couple of ripe pears, too. Did you know we have a pear tree behind the house?”

  Emily knew, she’d noticed it. They were rosy ripe. In fact, she’d eaten one—and now her cheeks turned rosy, thinking of it. She tried to smile, but she was tired, she didn’t feel like chatting. She hadn’t slept well the night before; she’d tossed and turned all night, trying to make excuses for Adam, but finding few. She kept seeing Opal in her pink nightgown, squirming against Adam while he played. . . .

  “Emily,” Ms. Earthrowl said, sounding shy, “I hope you can use that green dress. I mean, it’s all right to shorten it, anything you want to do with it to make it yours.”

  “Oh. Oh yes, thank you. It was so ... so thoughtful of you. Thank you so much. And for letting me work here in the orchard.”

  Suddenly the woman grabbed Emily, embraced her, then let her go. “Well,” she said, sounding like she was laughing and crying all at once, “you’d better get on with your picking. You’re saving money toward college, your mom says.”

  “Yeah. That. And other things. You know.” She waved her arms. She felt dumb, awkward. “I’ll see you. I’ll take those apples to Mom.”

  “They’re Yellow Transparent, good for pies,” Moira called after her.

  But Emily’s mother didn’t have time these days for pies. She hadn’t baked a pie, in fact, since Emily was ten years old. Sometimes Emily wished she had a mother who stayed home and baked pies. Emily might even bake with her. Instead of cleaning out cow dung.

  She ran down to the apple barn to fetch her picking gear. Mr. Yates was there, heaving drops into the cider press. She strapped on her bucket, checked the schedule for her picking area, and ran out. The locals were to pick in the far south orchard today, not far from the cemetery. The apples in this area were Gala apples. Though Emily didn’t feel very gala today. Millie Laframboise motioned her to an adjacent tree, indicated a crate she was to put the apples in. Opal was picking two trees away; she gave a sly glance at Emily, then smiled, slowly plucking off an apple. At the rate she was going, it would take her all day to pick the tree. Adam was in the tree beside her. When he saw Emily, he jumped down off the ladder. “We need to talk,” he said.

  “I don’t think so,” she said. She ascended the ladder; she’d begin at the top of the twelve-foot tree. The trees were taller in this area, older. She was aware of Adam below her.

  “I can explain,” he hissed up, and she saw Opal peer over at them. “Please, Emily, it’s important. Emily, answer me.”

  “I’ll give you five minutes,” she said. “At quitting time. Down there by the .. . cemetery.” The toolshed, she decided, was out of bounds. She never wanted to see that shed again! “Five minutes, that’s all I’ll have time for.” She leaned into the picking, blotted Adam out of her mind—or tried to.

  * * * *

  He was waiting at the cemetery when she arrived. They’d driven the apple crates to the barn; she’d helped the men load them onto the truck that would take them to the Shoreham Co-op, where they’d be packed. Derek had kidded her: “Gotta boyfriend, hey, girl?”

  “No, Derek,” she said. “No boyfriend. He’s a snake, that Adam. The snake in the grass!”

  But Derek kept grinning. “Adam and Eve,” he said. “I learn all dat Methodis’ Sunny school. You eat de apple, hey? Bad ting happen.” He pretended to chew and then drop a crate. Then, seeing Rufus frown, he hefted it up into the truck, lightly, as though it were made of cardboard and not wood.

  Adam was sitting on a flat headstone, gazing into the sky as though he wished he were up there and not down here, squatting on a dead person. She crossed her arms. He could have the first word.

  He looked down and then up at her, as though surprised to see her, as though he hadn’t known she was coming. “Hi,” he said, and when she didn’t answer, he said, “Okay, you saw us. It was no rendezvous, nothing planned, I’ll tell you that. That girl has been after me since the day she arrived. She’s a mixed-up kid. Needed someone to talk to, couldn’t talk to the relatives. Had an abortion just before she came, she tell you that?”

  “No,” Emily said, sucking in her breath.

  “It threw her, you know, the guy just split. She’s lonely, feels guilty. Said her mother would kill her if she knew. I had to listen, that’s all.” He wrapped his arms around his knees, stared at the stone underneath, as though it would give him more words to use.

  “You said it was unplanned? It sounds like you’ve had a lot of conversations.” She heard her voice harsh; she might be coming down with a cold.

  “Last night? Yeah. I just went down to play, that’s all. I didn’t know the Butterfields were out, they must have decided at the last minute. She came down, in that nightgown. I was about to throw her out when you arrived. That’s all, Em.” She heard him swallow, then cough. “And now. You can explain a few things, too.” He stood up, confronted her. She took a step backward. His eyes lit into hers like lasers. She waited.

  “You were in the bunkhouse. Well, okay, but you were going through my things. My mail. I don’t care for that, Emily.”

  “I didn’t read anything.” She trembled with the lie.

  “Oh yes, you did. That letter on the pink stationery was from an old girlfriend of mine. I could tell the way it was crumpled— you didn’t even put it back in the envelope! We broke up at home. It was before I came up here, but she holds on, one more needy kid. I haven’t written her in weeks, you read that!”

  “Home? She was from Waterbury, Connecticut. You said you were from Massachusetts.” She was on the offensive now. It was time to attack. He was the one in the wrong, not her! “Why did you fib? What was the point?”

  He shrugged. “The Earthrowls are from Waterbury. I didn’t want any ‘Do you know the Pupplebuddies?’—that sort of thing. I never met the bloody Earthrowls down there. Never laid eyes on them! Besides, I really am from Massachusetts. I mean, more or less. I have a P.O. box in Cambridge. My dad still lives in Waterbury. I suppose you saw that letter, too.”

  “I didn’t read it.”

  “My stepmother moved to California after the divorce. Dad hangs on, his business. Look, Em, I’m sorry about last night. But that girl, Opal—she’s like a mosquito you swat, and she whips away, and then flies back at you.”

  He was standing in front of her now, arms limp at his sides, eyes downcast, like a small boy sorry he’d filched the cookies in your lunch box. She had to laugh. He laughed with her then, took her in his arms. “Valley Fair tomorrow, right? Couple of good bands playing—derelicts, but still got spunk. Lynyrd Skynyrd: They’ve got a triple guitar front, you’ll love them, Em. Steppenwolf, too. I’ve got a room for us, friend of mine has a pad. He’s gone, won’t be back till Sunday noon.”

  She couldn’t speak, filled with the thought of tomorrow.

  “We’ll be back to pick Sunday afternoon. Might not make it up to Montreal—the Volvo needs a part—I can’t get it fixed till Monday.” He looked into her eyes. She felt the red crawl up her neck, flood her cheeks. She still didn’t know about the overnight. What would she tell her mother? Then she was angry at her mother for treating her like a child. When she was almost eighteen. Eighteen!

  “Okay, Em? That Opal, she’s a cruiser. That kind’s not for me. I like open, earthy girls—like you, Em.” He smiled at her, and though she knew he was loading it on her, she gave in, let him kiss her. But a moment later th
ey heard Rufus’s voice, the sound of Jamaicans, their chatter, two of them singing a high-pitched gospel tune. She caught the phrase: “... a balm in Gil-e-ad-d .. .” They’d be picking up the last of the crates. Adam grabbed her wrist, hard. “Okay, then, Em, okay?”

  “Okay,” she said, feeling giddy, and swerved about, ran crazy-legged back down the path, ducking between trees to avoid Derek and the blue-eyed Zayon, who were juggling an enormous crate between them. They smiled at her.

  It was like she was running down a mountain toward a cliff:

  Any minute she’d leap off—and into what? She stopped running a moment, clasped a tree trunk. It was an old maple tree, not an apple. It felt solid, stable; she pressed her face into it, heard her breath come in raggedy gasps. Tomorrow ….

  Chapter Fifty-four

  Turnbull—no, Chris Christ, though Colm couldn’t think of him by that name, doubted even that was the real one—lived in a condominium, one of the more expensive ones in town, near the college. The place had old-fashioned-looking gas lamps along a curving drive. A marble walk lined with orange and yellow chrysanthemums led to the door of Number 3. REVEREND MICHAEL TURNBULL, an aluminum door plaque announced.

  Colm knocked: a shiny brass knocker. His heart lurched a little: He didn’t know why he should be nervous, but he was. He’d called ahead; the man had hesitated a long time before granting the interview. Colm had tried to sound laid-back, like it wasn’t so important to speak to the guy. But Turnbull knew. “You’re the one who’s been talking to my women,” he’d said, like he was king of the concubines—Colm had to smile, thinking of Bertha. Finally Turnbull said, “I’m a busy man, I have charities, I have prayer sessions.” He had “important agenda”—as though a homicide (Cassandra) and an orchard under siege were of little import.