“You like the cow?” Hadley says to Rebecca, helping her out of the truck.
She nods. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”
Hadley leads her over to a split-rail fence, with an extra layer of barbed wire running above the top rail. It encloses a large grassy meadow dotted with Holsteins. It looks like they have been arranged by a photographer, really. “This place reminds me of New Hampshire,” Hadley says. “That’s where my mom lives now.”
He hops over the fence, which almost grabs the attention of the lazy cows. One actually turns its head. He holds his hand out to Rebecca and helps her climb over the barbed wire so that she is in the field too. “When are you going to be back?” I ask my brother.
“Dinnertime,” Joley says, “with all the traffic.”
Hadley takes Rebecca by the hand and leads her up to a placid cow. It is sitting, its knees folded up underneath. Rebecca, guided by Hadley’s hand, holds her fingers out to the cow, which starts to lick them. Rebecca laughs and steps back. “You get many of these in San Diego?” he asks.
Rebecca shakes her head. “What do you think?”
“They have four stomachs. I don’t know what they do with each one, though.”
“Four stomachs,” Rebecca says, awed. “Wow.”
Hadley takes a step back; you can tell he isn’t used to being revered as an expert on much of anything. “And you can’t keep them in the same field as sheep, because the sheep eat the grass too low and then the cows can’t wrap their tongues around it to rip it up.” He is visibly enjoying this. “They only have one set of teeth, the bottom.” For a girl who never cared about livestock, Rebecca is hanging on his every word.
“They have this ear language,” Hadley says, even more animated. “Two ears back is happy, two ears forward is mad. One forward and one back means, ‘What’s up?’” Hadley laughs. “If you lived here,” he says, dropping his voice a little, “if you lived here for real I’d get you a calf.” He holds Rebecca with his eyes for a few seconds, and then he turns away.
“I’d like that,” Rebecca says. “A calf. I’d call it Sparky.”
Hadley, who has been walking in a circle, stops in his tracks. “No kidding,” he says, his mouth dropping open. “I had a cow named Sparky as a kid.”
He stares at Rebecca with such curiosity she looks down at her hands. “So what are the spots for?” she asks, shy.
“Camouflage.”
“Really?” Rebecca traces the side of the cow, a blotch in the shape of a teapot.
“Actually, they never draft cows to the front line. Just bulls.” He waits until Rebecca laughs with him. Then he leans closer and whispers something to Rebecca I can’t hear.
Whatever it is, it gets Rebecca running. She steals a look at Hadley and then starts to chase him around the field, leaping over some of the rocks and dodging the cows, which have been frightened into standing. “Is this dangerous?” I ask.
“They move quicker than the cows,” Joley says. “I wouldn’t worry.”
It’s a game of tag. Hadley overcomes Rebecca-after all, he’s got much longer legs. He tosses her into the air. Rebecca, out of breath, tries to pull Hadley’s hair, beats her fists against his shoulders. “Put me down!” she yells, laughing. “I said, put me down!”
“He’s good with kids,” Joley says, finishing his cone.
Rebecca stops fighting Hadley so that he’s holding her in the air, his hands caught under her armpits, like a ballerina and her partner. Rebecca’s arms go limp and Hadley slowly lowers her down to the ground. Rebecca stops laughing. Hadley turns away from her. He rubs the back of his neck. Then he motions towards me and starts to walk back. “Wait!” Rebecca cries, running after him. Hadley doesn’t answer. “Wait for me!”
In the afternoon, when everyone is gone, I spend time walking around this rolling stretch of land and thinking about Oliver. It’s remarkably hot out; too hot really, to be outside, but there’s even less to do inside the Big House than there is to do out of it. The orchard is boring without Joley around; I haven’t seen Rebecca since we’ve come back from Buttrick’s, and I’m not about to spend time with the field hands. So I take off my shoes and walk around the land that borders the lake.
I start to think about Oliver only because my skirt is singing his name. With each step it swishes back and forth, catching in the air like a nursery rhyme: Ol-i-ver Jones. Ol-i-ver Jones.
What is the rule, anyway? Can two people change so much in fifteen years that a marriage can be past the point of no return? What is it called in divorce cases-irreconcilable differences. I wouldn’t say we have that. Sometimes, it’s true, Oliver can look at me and make me think I’m back on the pier at Woods Hole, watching him waist-deep in the water, arms covered in mud, tenderly holding a quahog. Sometimes when I look at Oliver, I can fall into those pale aqua eyes. But the truth is those times are few and far between. The truth is that when I do feel like that, I’m actually surprised.
Suddenly I realize Rebecca’s standing in front of me. I put my arm through her arm. “You can feel the heat just hanging here, can’t you,” I say. “It’s enough to make you want to go back to California.”
She’s knotted her T-shirt into a halter top and rolled the sleeves, and she’s still got a line of sweat running down her chest and her back. She’s braided her hair to get it out of her face, and wrapped it with a dandelion’s stem.
“Not much to do here, is there. I was off with Hadley but he’s ignoring me today.” She shrugs, as if she doesn’t really care-of course, I know better. I saw what happened at the ice cream place: Rebecca got too close, and Hadley, respectably, stepped back. She’s crazy about Hadley; a summer crush. And like Joley said, he’s good with her; brushing her off with an excuse about work hurts much less than saying she’s just a kid. Rebecca purses her lips. “He’s acting like a big shot with Sam gone.”
Sam. “Oh, please,” I say, hoping the story of this morning’s escapades in the bathroom will cheer up Rebecca.
Rebecca’s face lights up. “Did he see you?”
“Of course he saw me.”
Rebecca shakes her head and leans closer, staring at me knowingly. “No,” she says, “did he see you?”
At least I’ve piqued her interest. “How should I know? And why should I care?”
She goes on to tell me the same old blah-blah story I’ve heard from Joley already: how Sam is God’s gift to business, how he built up this orchard from nothing, how he’s the exemplary benchmark of success for the community. I’m sure she can tell I’m not listening. So she tries to grab my attention. “Why do you and Sam hate each other so much? You don’t know him well enough for that.”
I laugh, but it comes out a snort. “Oh yes I do. Sam and I grew up with these stereotypes, you know?” I tell her about what Newton girls thought of the guys at Minuteman Tech-how absolutely wrapped up they were in their vocational schooling, when we all knew the value of a truly good education. “There’s no denying that Sam Hansen is an intelligent man,” I tell her, “but don’t you think he could do better than this?” I gesture with my arm, but when I really start to look at what I’m pointing to I stop. Even I have to admit it is lovely, spattered with the colors of the season. It may not be for me, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t worth something.
Rebecca starts to pick at the grass. “I don’t think that’s why you hate Sam. My theory is you hate him because he’s so unbelievably happy.”
I listen to her go on and on about simpler things in life, and achieving all your goals, and then I raise my eyebrows. “Thank you Dr. Freud.” I tell her that I’m not here because of Sam, anyway; I’m here because of Joley.
That’s when she catches me off guard: she asks me what we are going to do next. I hem and I haw, telling her that we’ll just stay a while until we come to some decisions, and then she rolls up on one elbow. “In other words,” she says, “you have absolutely no idea.”
I lean towards her. “What is this all about, Rebecca? Do you mi
ss your father?” She is the one thing I haven’t really considered when it comes to Oliver and me. Where does she fit in?-half me, half him. “You can tell me if you do,” I say. “He is your father. It’s natural.” I try to remain as nonjudgmental as I can, for her sake.
Rebecca looks up at the sky. “I don’t miss Daddy,” she says. “I don’t.” Then the tears start to roll down her face. I pull her closer and hold her to me. That’s when I remember her the day we left California. She was the one who was sitting in the car. She was the one who had packed a bag. Long before I had realized I was trying to leave, she’d been planning.
At some point when I was growing up I realized that I had no love left for my father. It was as if each time he hit me, or came into my room at night, he’d draw a little of it out of me, like blood.
It didn’t hurt to feel nothing for him. I assumed, as I grew up, that he had done this to himself. I had to become desensitized; if I had continued to feel as strongly as I had when I was little, I would have surely died that first time he came to my room.
I can tell from Rebecca’s face, and even from the temperature of her skin, that she is thinking about what it means to love your father, and whether or not he is worth it. Because once you get to that point, I am not sure you can return.
“Sssh,” I say, cradling her head. I’d do anything to keep her from having to get there. I’d go back to Oliver. I’d make myself love him.
In the distance a Jeep drives up. I can just see it, a dot far off by the barn. I see Joley get out of the car; the other person I know must be Sam. Even from this far away, my eyes connect with Sam’s. Although I cannot tell what is going through his mind, I find myself trapped, entirely unable to turn away.
52 SAM
For the past two days, I’ve had a headache. Not a normal headache, either- but one that starts back by my ears and works its way across my eyes, over the bridge of my nose. I’ve never had a headache this bad, not in twentyfive years. Which makes me believe it’s all on account of Jane Jones.
This morning I walked in on her in the shower, and she took it all the wrong way. I had an appointment to get to, and when I’m running late and Joley or Hadley is showering, they don’t care much if I come in and do my business. Maybe I’m just not used to having ladies in the house. But anyway, this one happens to keep getting underfoot.
Joley and I are on our way back from Boston, where we’ve had one hell of a successful meeting with a buyer from Purity who renewed our Red Delicious contract. I can’t say I much like Regalia-she’s fat and always eats more at lunch than I do-but she signed us on again. “I think this is the start of a very long, prosperous relationship for both of us, Sam,” she said today over her quiche. She lowered her eyes, giving me this look. It’s funny, I started taking Joley along to meetings with the female buyers or supermarket chains because he always turns a head and knows how to lay on the charm. He’s got all that social finesse I never as good at. But Regalia has a thing for me. So, being the businessman, I smiled at her and winked. Sometimes I think it’s dishonest to do that-but then again, one in a million produce buyers is a woman, and I might as well use what I’ve got to cut a deal.
Joley’s driving. We’ve just passed the hand-painted sign that welcomes you to Stow when he starts to speak-he’s been quiet since we left Boston. “I want to talk to you about my sister, Sam.”
“About what?” I say, drumming my fingers on the dashboard. “There’s nothing to talk about. You’re having a good time with her. Enjoy it.”
“Yeah, well, I figure I’d better get in all the time I can before one of you kills the other one.”
“You’ve got it all wrong, Joley. There’s nothing going on with us. We’re just steering clear of each other.”
“What made you get off on the wrong foot?”
“Oil and water don’t mix,” I tell him, “but that’s no reason they can’t both sit in the same jar.”
Joley sighs. “I’m not going to push you, Sam. I’m sure you’ve got your own ideas about this. But-for my sake-I wish you’d cut her a little slack.”
“There’s no problem,” I say.
Joley looks at me. “All right.”
He pulls into the driveway, and when we get out of the Jeep, we can see Jane and Rebecca in the distance. I catch Jane’s eye. It’s like we’re locked together; neither one of us is about to break away first. That would mean losing. “Are you coming?” Joley asks, heading off in their direction.
“I don’t think so,” I say, still staring at his sister. “I’m going to start dinner.”I swallow hard and turn away, feeling her still staring, boring through my back.
Inside, I hack at zucchini and potatoes, setting them into pots, ready to boil. I quarter two chickens and dip them in flour and then fry them up. I slice up almonds for the vegetables and I shell fresh peas. These are all things I have learned from my mother. I do almost all the cooking here; if I left it to Hadley or Joley we’d be eating Chef Boyardee.
Three-quarters of an hour later, I ring the rusty triangular bell on the porch for dinner. Joley and Jane and Rebecca come in from the east side of the orchard, Hadley comes in from the west. They file upstairs to the bathroom to wash up and then one by one fill in the places around the table. “Dig in,” I say, helping myself to a chicken breast.
Joley tells his sister all about Regalia Clippe, a conversation I tune out. After all, I was there. I concentrate on watching Hadley, who’s being awfully quiet. Usually at the dinner table you can’t get him to shut up long enough to eat. But tonight he’s pushing his peas around on his plate, colliding them with the mashed potatoes.
We all go on eating for a while so that the only noise is the scraping of silverware against my mom’s old country plates. Joley holds up his drumstick and waves it at me, nodding, his mouth full. When he swallows, he tells me how good it is. “You know, Sam,” he says, swallowing, “if the orchard ever folds you could go into gourmet catering.”
“I don’t call fried chicken gourmet. Besides, it’s just food. No reason to make a big deal about it.”
“Sure there is,” Rebecca says. “ She doesn’t cook this well.” She lifts her elbow in the direction of her mother, who puts down her knife and fork and just stares at Rebecca.
“So what did you two do today?” Joley asks. Jane opens her mouth but it’s clear that Joley’s talking to Rebecca and Hadley. Hadley’s face reddens to the top of his neck. What is going on here? I try to catch Hadley’s eye but he’s not looking at anyone. My fork slips out of my fingers, hitting the edge of my plate.
The noise makes Hadley jerk his head up. “We didn’t do anything,” he says, testy. “All right? I had a lot of stuff I had to get done.” He mutters something, and then crunches his napkin into a ball and aims for the garbage pail. He’s off by several feet, so he winds up hitting Quinte, the Irish setter. “I’ve got somewhere I have to go,” he says, and then he almost knocks his chair over getting up from the table. He slams the door when he leaves.
“What’s his problem?” I say, but nobody seems to know.
The disruption makes everyone sort of quiet again, which is just fine with me. I’m not one for talking through dinner. Then out of the clear blue Joley’s sister starts to speak. “Sam,” she says, “I was wondering why you don’t grow anything but apples.”
I exhale slowly through my nose. I’ve fielded this question at least a million times from dumb, pretty girls who thought this was a good way to act interested in what I do. “Apples take a lot of time and effort,” I say, knowing damn well I haven’t answered her question.
“But couldn’t you make more money if you diversify?”
That headache starts to come back. It’s near enough to drive me crazy. “Excuse me,” I say to Jane, “but who the hell are you? You come in here and two days later you’re telling me how to run things?”
“I wasn’t-”
The pain is shooting now, straight down the back of my neck. I start sweating. “If you knew a
damn thing about farming maybe I’d listen.”
Maybe I’ve been talking rougher than I should have. She looks up at me and she’s practically crying. For a second-just a second-I feel awful. “I don’t have to take this,” she says, her voice thick and hoarse. “I was just making conversation.”
“Sam,” Joley says, a warning. But it’s too late. Jane stands up and runs outside. What is with these people today? First Hadley, now Jane.
It is just the three of us around the table. “Any more chicken?” I say, trying to break the ice.
“I think you overreacted. Maybe you could apologize,” Joley says.
I can tell it’s going to be two against one, here. I close my eyes to make that headache go away and I see Jane wandering around the orchard, which is not very well lit. She’s liable to hurt herself.
What am I thinking? I shake my head hard, getting back my senses. “She’s your sister,” I tell Joley. “ You invited her here. She just doesn’t belong in a place like this.” I sort of smile. “She’s should be wearing highheeled shoes and clicking along some marble parlor in L.A.”
Rebecca leaps out of her seat. “That’s not fair. You don’t even know her.”
“I know plenty like her,” I say, looking right at Rebecca. For a minute I think she’s going to cry too. “Okay,” I say, “would it make it all right if I went out there and apologized?” I want to do it for my own conscience, but they don’t have to know that. I’m not about to lose face in front of Joley, though, so I set my chin and pretend to sigh. I say, “Shit. For a little peace and quiet.” I push away from the table heavily. “So much for a happy little family dinner.”
Outside the crickets are sounding a symphony. It’s a humid night, so all the wildflowers around the house are drooping, exhausted. I hear noise coming from the shed where we garage the tractor and the rototiller, next to the barn. It’s a high-pitched mechanical scream and then the sound of something being shattered. I walk in the direction of the noise and turn the corner to find Jane Jones presiding over my box of clay pigeons, the orange ones I used for target shooting. She reaches into the box and grabs a disc, then whips it like a frisbee against the red wall of the barn about twenty feet away. By the time it explodes into splinters and dust, she’s got another disc in her hand, ready to go.
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