Poison Apples

by Nancy Means Wright

  He dropped the apple; she heard it squash on the bare floor. “You going to wear that chastity belt?” he said, leaning over her, and she smiled, of course she wasn’t. She got up and pulled off her shirt, her jeans. She felt suddenly shy, standing there in her bra and panties. But he pulled her down on top of him, he’d take care of the rest, he said, slipping on a condom. And he did.

  After that it was the Flip’n Out again, she was out of control, spinning dizzily; he was inside her, they were going sideways, upside down, an upheaval of love and pain and blood—and then, as suddenly as it started, the ride stopped. There was that sensation of flipping off into an aching space, of floating in cramping sheets, sinking.. . .

  The spread was damp under her buttocks, but it was all right; finally she was at peace. She tried to make herself believe it had been wonderful, beautiful, but it hadn’t been—not for her. Maybe next time it would be better. Of course it would. It was nice just lying here with Adam, being part of him the way his brother had been part of him. She felt an enormous tenderness for him. He’d lost his brother. Could she fill that space? After that girl took him away? What was her name—Carol?

  Carol, she thought. That was the name of the Earthrowl girl. Carol. Could it have been the same? No, too much coincidence. She’d bring it up another time, not now. Not while they were lying here together; not when she was beginning to feel so warm, so beautiful, even—she tried to think of pink and white apple blossoms. She could smell what was left of the apple, the sweetness. . . . She bent over to kiss him—and discovered he was fast asleep. Asleep .. .

  Why, then, did she, all at once, feel so alone?

  Chapter Fifty-six

  “I saw her, I did, getting into a Volvo,” said Vic, who knew his cars, and Ruth pressed her lips together. Emily had said she’d changed her mind about going to the fair with Adam, was spending the night with her friend Hartley Flint. And Hartley had a Colt, Ruth had seen it only a month ago. Not a Volvo.

  “So they borrowed someone’s car,” said Colm, “decided they’d go to the fair. She’s not a kid anymore, Ruthie. Jeez.”

  “It was just that I invited her to come with us, and she said no, that fairs were boring. That’s what she said, ‘boring’! She didn’t say that when we all went to Field Days this summer.” She walked on ahead of Colm, she didn’t want him making excuses for Emily.

  He caught up with her, of course, with one more excuse. “With us it’s boring. With one other peers it’s not. Right, Vic?”

  “Right,” said Vic, who admired Colm and for the moment was planning to be a policeman one day—an astronomer on the side, of course, maybe a veterinarian. These careers were more exciting to him than farming.

  “Oh, I guess so,” said Ruth, and waved away the worry. It was silly, of course, Emily had her own life now. It was just, well, all these things that had happened lately. And in her own life: the cows slashed, Pete’s demands, the hemp torn up—although now she was convinced that Bertha and her cronies had something to do with the hemp.

  Vic and his friend Gerry wanted to go to the petting zoo, so that would be the first stop. Then they’d take in the sheep shearing, her friend Carol Unsworth was taking part in it. There was the cattle tent, of course, and for Vic, the demolition derby. She’d had her choice, Colm said, between the Lynyrd Skynyrd concert and the demolition derby, and since neither was exactly a priority, she let Vic decide.

  She loved the petting zoo herself: all those furry baby animals with the huge wild eyes. Vic and Gerry headed for the angora bunnies, while Colm pulled her over to the llamas. “This is what you ought to breed, Ruthie, instead of growing hemp. They’re an all-purpose beast. You can milk ’em, breed ’em, ride ’em, shear ’em for wool. They make good golf caddies, too.”

  “I don’t play golf,” she said. “I don’t have time.”

  “They’re a clean animal,” he went on, ignoring her indifference. “They use a communal potty pile. You can bring them indoors for parties. Vic’s next birthday: a llama in the kitchen.”

  “No, thank you. They roll. They spit.”

  “Only when they’re mad. You got to humor them. You’d love the milk.”

  “Can you sell the milk? Whoever heard of drinking llama’s milk?”

  “That’s just it, Ruthie. You have to use your imagination. Start a trend. I’ll bet it would go over big in the natural foods stores.”

  “And you’ll help? Buy me one to start?” The price for a baby llama, she saw, was two thousand dollars. Whoa! “Fork over,” she said, holding out her hand, and saw him grin, pull out his wallet, flutter a dollar bill in his fist. Colm was so impulsive, so impractical. Back in high school he’d treat ten kids to hamburgers and milkshakes, then go without lunch for three days.

  Was this why she wouldn’t marry him now? His impracticality? She didn’t want to downright discourage him. She loved Colm, she truly did, but in a sisterly way—at least for now. After all, she’d only been divorced for a short time; divorce was like a little death; it took months, years, it seemed, to come back to life.

  Besides, she liked her independence. Admit it, Ruth, she told herself, you like being in control, the one to decide what to do on a Saturday night, to decide whether you want to grow hemp or Christmas trees—or raise llamas on your dairy farm. Or make cheese .. . that might be her next diversion. Though she could never compete with Cabot Cheese.

  “No llamas,” she told Colm. But she might give in on the angora bunny.

  “I’ll do extra chores,” Vic pleaded. “I will, I promise. You’ll see. I’ll clean the stalls, I’ll take care of all the calves—not just Madonna.”

  “Though Madonna will get special attention, I know that,” she teased. They’d named the latest calf after Madonna because it sang, Emily said; it lifted up its nose and warbled, while its white head and hips waggled back and forth.

  “Mom, they’re only fifty dollars. I can pay half of that, I’ve saved up.” And when she gave in: “Thanks, Mom, oh thanks!”

  They had hot dogs, fried dough, and candied apples for supper, and Colm got molasses on his glasses; she had to lead him to the toilet while he spit on the lenses and rubbed them on his kelly green corduroys. He looked like a nerd, she told him, and when he asked her to marry him, she said, “How can I marry a man who can’t even find his way to the potty?”

  When they came back into the grounds, headed for the rides—she’d promised the boys two of their choice, and not the Whip Lash!—she saw Colm cringe under a heavy hand on his shoulder.

  “Jeez,” he said. “What are you doing here, Fallon? Heading for the Ferris wheel?”

  It was the Branbury police chief, all right, with his wife; he chuckled his freight-train chuckle. “Treating the wife here to a night out. She loves that fried dough. Don’t you, Honey?”

  Honey giggled. She was a small woman with gray-blond hair scooped up in a disheveled bun; the bangs fell, poodlelike, into her eyes. She knocked the hairdo further askew with her hand and patted her plump belly. “You bet I do,” she said. “It beats cooking at home. All this man wants to eat is meat and potatoes, potatoes and meat. Mention vegetables and he walks away from the table.”

  “Besides, we’re celebrating,” the chief said, and winked at Colm. “Honey’s quit that Messengers group. Though it lasted longer than the last one you joined, right, Honey?”

  “I was duped,” Honey said. “I thought they had something. I was taken in by that lovely Saint Dorothea.” She patted her chest with her pudgy fingers. “Then I discovered Reverend Turnbull wasn’t Reverend Turnbull.”

  “S’the truth,” Chief Fallon said, and nodded significantly at Colm.

  But Ruth knew that. His real name was Chris Christ. Or was it? Roy Fallon was going on, “Name is Arnold Wickham, married—you won’t believe it—”

  “I will,” said Colm, and glanced at Ruth. She’d helped him steam open a letter he’d found in the minister’s mailbox that indicated a pending divorce: from one Cassandra Wickham. He�
�d meant to tell Fallon.

  “Born in Bristol, Vermont, son of a hippie actor came up to get away from a rap down in New York City.” Fallon’s voice changed to a soft rasp as he went on with the story. “Arnold Wickham’s wanted for bombing an abortion clinic over in Oregon. He was seen hanging around another one before a shooting in Buffalo. S’the truth. I got it from the FBI. He’s out of town, but I got the word out—Vermont, New York State, you know. We’ll nail the sonofabitch. He doesn’t know that we know. Yet, I mean .. .”

  “You’d better,” Colm said. “Jeez, he could get wind of all this, take off to Afghanistan. I mean, there are things we have to resolve here in Branbury. That orchard, Roy. Turnbull, Wickham—whatever his name is—sent threats, you know. I’m wondering about that tray of apples in Saint Dorothea’s hand.”

  “Oh, she wasn’t mixed up in that,” Honey assured him. “Dorothea lived way way back—in the fourth century.”

  “It’s our anniversary,” Fallon went on. “The little woman here, um, wants to ride the Whip Lash.”

  Honey giggled. “I’ve never ridden it, that’s why. It’s a challenge.” She leaned closer to Ruth. “That’s why I joined the Messengers. I’d never done it. I thought it might give me something I’m looking for.”

  “And what’s that?” Ruth asked politely. This woman wasn’t exactly Bertha, but a kook on her own account.

  “The secret of youth,” Honey said. “Ways to stay young. Oh, I don’t mean this kind of young,” and she patted the inflated cushion of her belly. “I mean the mind. The psyche. Change. We all need change, new ideas, to come alive.” She lifted her chin toward the glittering white way, the neon rides. “The Whip Lash,” she said with a toothy smile. “That’s what I need.”

  Chief Fallon smiled apologetically at Ruth. “She’s nuts, but I love her,” he said, and chuckled his freight-train hahahahaha.

  “So you’re riding the Whip Lash, too?” Colm said.

  “Hell no,” said Fallon. “You think I’m suicidal? I’ll stand and watch, that’s all.” And the chuk-chuk-chuk started up again.

  “By the way, Roy,” Colm said as Honey trotted off, “how did your wife find out Turnbull’s real name? I only knew from a letter I, um, happened upon—I’ve been meaning to give it to you. And is Wickham the real name, or one more alias?”

  “Ask her sometime,” Fallon said, winking, and disappeared with his Honey through the crowd.

  Chapter Fifty-seven

  Adam ordered pizza and they sat side by side on the bed, eating it. It was as if they were husband and wife; Emily luxuriated in the warmth of it. She could imagine spending months, years, in this room, with this gorgeous man, eating pizza. It was a tomato and cheese and pepperoni pizza, the cheese stuck in her teeth; she turned and grinned at Adam; he was slurping up long strings of cheese still attached to the crust. She kissed him and their cheeses mingled. They washed it all down, finally, with beer that Adam had found in his friend’s refrigerator.

  “Shouldn’t we replace it?”

  “Nah,” he said, “Jimmy owes me. Drank me dry one time when he came down to Waterbury.” He was slurring his words a little, but she was feeling woozy, too. It was all right. She’d make coffee if she could find some.

  The mention of Waterbury made her think again of that dead girl, Carol Earthrowl. She said, “The Earthrowls’ daughter who was killed in that accident was named Carol.”

  She felt him stiffen beside her. “Is that right?” But then he took another slug of beer and his body slumped back into the pillow.

  “It was a boy from Waterbury who was driving the car—a Trevor, yes, Mother mentioned the name.” If it was his Trevor who caused the accident, she had to know. She had to know everything about Adam—he’d been keeping too much back. Good and bad. Better or worse. “Was it your .. . ?”

  He turned and looked at her. His eyes were dilated a little, blurry. Or was it her vision that was blurred? “Putting two and two together, aren’t you?” he said. “You’re a regular little spy.”

  She was hurt; she moved to the edge of the bed and he put an arm around her, yanked her back.

  “Okay, it was Trevor. But he was really, really gone on that girl. I tried to talk him out of it, she wasn’t worth it. Sure, she was a nice girl, but that was it. A nice girl. Not a drop of music in her bones, she wasn’t even a good dancer. I saw them together. She didn’t have the rhythm.”

  Emily winced. She wasn’t such a good dancer herself. Singer, either: She always went flat on the high notes. But she loved good music, she did!

  “But he still loved her?”

  “Yeah, yeah, I guess you could call it that. It was the first real thing for him, he didn’t have the experience. Shit! He didn’t know what was good for him. He could have had it all. Women, music, a full life. And that girl took it away. His whole goddamn beautiful life.”

  Emily was confused. “But it was Trevor who took it from her.”

  She’d said the wrong thing. He jumped up off the bed, he was staring down at her, his eyes blazing blue-black. “She kept calling him up, you know that? She did! The parents didn’t want her going out with him. He wasn’t good enough, they said. ’Cause he drank a little, did a little stuff—though she didn’t tell her mother that. But they found out. ’Cause he wasn’t headed for some fancy degree. The princess and the swineherd, that’s what they saw. But the princess was after Trevor. I’d almost opened his eyes for him; we were going to move out, head for the city— after I quit college. Then one day after school she shows up in our doorway. Ooh la la! Here she comes, long red hair, that Snow White look. Fairy-tale stuff. Wanting him to take her to the ball. He fell for it. He said he’d go. Whose fault was it he went?”

  She shook her head. She didn’t know. She couldn’t get it straight in her mind.

  “Well, think, and you’ll see,” he said. She tried, but could see only Carol with her long auburn hair, in that shimmery green gown—the one she never really wore. It was Emily’s dress now.

  He was quiet, he sat back down on the bed. He had an anguished look on his face as though he were seeing the accident—or maybe it was the half-brother’s death—all over again. She wanted to know more then; she had a right, didn’t she? They were lovers now, lovers—that strange, grown-up word— and she wanted to know everything. She wanted to look deep, deep into his soul.

  “How did the accident happen? I mean, I know you weren’t there, but what do you know about it?”

  He gazed at her with those tragic eyes. They were heavy-lidded, his full lips quivered. “It was after the gig—the ball, they called it—huh, ball! I’ll bet there was a little balling.” The dimple flickered in his cheek. He said, “They took off for her house, that’s all I know. Trevor said she had to go home right after, he fell for that stuff, she was still the princess. She’d lose her slipper at midnight, you know. Only it was two in the morning when it happened. Her fault, you can bet! Trevor would’ve gone along with the parents—he told me that. The way she came on to him that time she arrived at the house! You know she would’ve wanted it, wanted him to park someplace, make love. I suppose they did. Drank a little.”

  “He was on something that night?”

  He looked sternly at her, the way her mother looked when Emily said she had to stay after school and couldn’t help with chores. His voice was thick, like he’d swallowed maple syrup. “No. No, he wasn’t. She was the princess, remember? Trevor was clean. A little bourbon, maybe. I don’t know. Maybe she brought it—that Carol. I wouldn’t put it past her. They were drinking some, yeah, Trevor admitted that. But mostly, well, it was icy, you know, slick roads. It was late, he was probably driving too fast. I mean, he had to get her home, didn’t he? Already two hours past the curfew?” He sighed heavily, dropped his head between his knees. The ponytail was loose from their lovemaking, his hair streamed down his back. She stroked it.

  “That’s all I know about that night,” he said. “The car skidded into a tree, they were near a bridge, it
rolled down the embankment, into the river. The steering wheel got bent when they hit the tree, the girl was wedged in. Trevor got out his window, tried to get the girl out—he couldn’t.”

  “How long . . . how long,” she asked, “before he—he—”

  “Long enough for the torture to knock him out. He would have been all right, I was with him. He talked and talked, you know, all that guilt stuff, couldn’t get that girl out of his head. Like he was guilty! Guilty of what? I said. Laying that ice on the road?”

  Adam was crying now; it was a strange, feral sound. She took his head in her hands, cradled it, stroked and stroked his hair, smoothed it with her fingernails. Crooned to him, until finally he quieted.

  There was one more thing she had to know. “How did he— how did Trevor die?”

  For a long minute there was no answer. Her lap was damp from his face. Finally he said, “Killed himself. I found him. I was playing music down on Pine Street. I wanted Trevor to go, he wouldn’t. He’d stopped playing since the accident. That was the worst, that I was gone. He’d been drinking a lot since .. . the girl. I couldn’t make him see she wasn’t worth it. Well, I came back, it was three in the morning, I found him. He was . . .” He took several quick breaths, as though he were seeing the scene all over again. She waited.

  “Hanging,” he said in a thick voice. “He hanged himself. With the telephone cord. My God, I didn’t know those cords were strong enough! Trevor was big, he was six-two, but it held him. He’d drilled a hole in the beam, it was that deliberate. I mean, he must’ve been thinking about doing it all night. He’d knocked the stool off, he was just.. . hanging there.”

  “What did you do?” she whispered.

  “What could I do?” He was almost shouting; she shrank back. “Cut him down, called an ambulance. It was too late, of course. He’d been dead a couple of hours. If I’d come home early that night... if I hadn’t gone ...”