Songs of the Humpback Whale: A Novel in Five Voices

by Jodie Picoult

  I have to give her credit for this: she’s got determination. I can see it in the way her whole body goes into the throw, as if she’s pretending it’s me she’s hurtling into the barn. Here I was thinking she was getting into some kind of trouble. She’s something else.

  I try to keep my footsteps quiet as I walk up to her. “It’s more challenging with a gun,” I say.

  She turns around fast, her eyes adjusting to the dark clearing where I’m standing. When she focuses on me, her face falls. “I didn’t know anyone was here.” She points to the mess in front of the barn wall. “I’m sorry about that.”

  I shrug. “They’re cheap. I’m glad you didn’t get pissed off in the parlor.There’s antique china in there.”

  Jane wrings her hands in front of herself, fidgeting. You’d never guess she was ten years my senior; she looks like a little kid. From what I’ve seen, she acts like one more often than her own daughter. Maybe I’ve been too hard on her. “Look,” I say. “About what happened at the table. I’m sorry. I’ve had this headache, and I overreacted.” She looks at me strangely, as if she’s never seen my face before. “What?” I say, selfconscious. “What is it?”

  “I’ve just never heard you talk without sounding angry,” Jane says. “That’s all.” She walks towards me, swinging her arms at her sides. She is still holding two clay pigeons. Just in case I get out of line? “Tomorrow morning Rebecca and I will check into the closest hotel.”

  I feel that headache coming back. If she does that, I’ll never hear the end of it from Joley. “I told you I was sorry,” I say. “What more can I do?”

  “You’re right. It’s your house, your farm, and I shouldn’t be here. Joley imposed on you. He shouldn’t have asked you to do something like this.”

  I smirk. “Thank you, I know what ‘imposed’ means.”

  Jane throws up her hands. “I didn’t mean it that way.” She turns in such a way that the light from the barn falls over her face, enough to let me know she’s on the verge of crying again. “I don’t mean anything the way you take it. It’s like every sentence I say goes through your head the reverse of the way I intended it.”

  I lean against the shed and start to tell her about my father. I tell her how I used to fight with him about how the orchard ought to be run. I tell her how the very minute he moved to Florida, I was digging up trees and replanting them where I thought they should go.

  She listens patiently, her back to me. Then she says, “I get your point, Sam.” But she doesn’t know anything about the way I run my business. And what’s worse; she doesn’t see it as a business. To her, an orchard is another form of farming. And working with your hands, to a born and bred Newton girl, is sure-fire second-class. I feel at that moment something I haven’t felt since I left Tech: shame. Running an apple orchard isn’t what people do in the real world. If I was really someone, I’d want to make a lot of money. I’d own more than one suit, and I’d drive a Testerosa, not a tractor.

  “No,” I say to her, “you don’t. I don’t give a shit if you think this orchard should grow watermelons and cabbage. Go tell Joley and tell Rebecca and whoever the hell you want. And the day I die if you can convince everyone else, go ahead and replant the place. But don’t you ever tell me to my face what I’ve done so far is wrong.” I lean closer to her, so that our faces are inches apart. “It would be like-like me telling you your daughter is no good.”

  When I say that, she takes a step back, like I’ve hit her. Her face goes white.

  She looks up at me with incredible force-that’s the only way I know how to describe it. It’s like she could physically move me with the strength of her eyes. And as for me, I look at her, and I really see her for the first time. That’s when I see something written all over her face- Please.

  She opens her mouth to speak, but she can’t seem to find her voice. Then she clears her throat. “I wouldn’t plant watermelons,” she says.

  I smile, and then I start to laugh, and that makes her laugh too. “Let’s start over. I’m Sam Hansen. And you’re . . . ?”

  “Jane.” She smooths her hair back from her forehead, as if she’s concerned about this first impression. “Jane Jones. God, I sound like the most boring person on earth.”

  “Oh, I doubt it,” I say. I hold my hand out to her and feel quite clearly the pattern of her fingerprints when she presses her palm against mine. When we touch, we both get a shock-probably static electricity from moving around on the dusty floor of the shed. We both jump back, equal distance.

  The next morning Jane is sitting in the kitchen when I come downstairs. It’s early, and this surprises me. “I wanted to make sure I was out of the shower,” she says, smiling.

  “What have you got planned for today?” I ask, pouring myself a glass of juice. I hold the bottle out to her. “Do you want some?”

  Jane shakes her head, pointing to a mug of coffee. “No thanks. I don’t know what I’m going to do today. Joley was asleep by the time we got back in last night, so I haven’t asked him what the plan is.”

  After we talked last night, I walked Jane around the grounds of the orchard. It is careful going in the dark, but if you know it as well as I do there’s nothing to really be afraid of. I showed her which apples would go directly to Regalia Clippe, which ones would be seconds for the public stand in the fall. We even placed a five-dollar bet on one of Joley’s latest grafts; she said it would take, and I said it wouldn’t. The tree’s past hope, the way I see it-and even Joley can’t work miracles all the time. Jane asked me how she was going to get her money if the graft took after she’d left Massachusetts. “I’ll mail it,” I said, grinning at her. She said I’d forget. “No I won’t,” I told her. “If I say I’ll stay in touch, I’ll stay in touch.”

  On the way back to the Big House, we talked about what everyone else thought must have happened to us. We agreed they probably figured we’d killed each other now, and they were waiting till day to find the bodies. And then, halfway there, a woodchuck crossed our path. It stopped a second to look at us and then leaped down a hole. Jane had never seen one before. She crept up to the hole and stuck her face close, trying to get another glimpse. Most women I know who see a big old ugly woodchuck run in the other direction.

  I watch her swirling her coffee in her cup. “I was thinking today I’d take you down to Pickerel Pond. There’s this really nice area to go swimming.”

  “Oh,” Jane says, “I’m not much for swimming, but Rebecca would love it. It’s hot enough.”

  “You can say that again.” Now, barely seven in the morning, it’s at least eighty-five degrees outside. “I was thinking I’d do a little fishing before everyone else gets up.” I slide into the seat across from her at the table. “I usually take Quinte, but I think you’d make better company.”

  “Fishing,” Jane says, like she’s weighing it in her mind. She looks up at me and smiles. “Sure. I’d like that.”

  So I take her out to the sheep pen and overturn a mound of soil with a spade. Underneath all this manure there’s more worms than I know what to do with. I pick ten long juicy ones and put them in a canning jar. To my surprise, Jane gets down on her hands and knees. She reaches right into the soft earth and pulls out a thick wiggling worm. “Is this a good one?”

  “You don’t care about touching them?”

  “Not really,” she says, “but I’m not going to thread your hook.”

  I run to the shed for my fishing stuff and then we walk down to the shore of Lake Boon. I’ve got an old wooden rowboat there, one I’ve had since I was a kid. I keep it turned upside down on the yellow reeds, with the oars underneath. It’s green, because that was the color of the primer I used when I was twelve and decided to paint it. Except I never got around to buying the paint.

  This is my favorite time of the day at the orchard. The water sings to us as I row into the center of the lake. Jane sits across from me, prim, with her hands in her lap. She’s holding the jar of worms.

  “It’s nice
out here,” Jane says. Then she shakes her head. “That’s an understatement.”

  “I know it. I come out here almost every Sunday if I get the chance. I like feeling that I’m part of this picture, kind of.”

  “I must be ruining the harmony, then,” Jane says.

  I open up the tackle box and take out a hook and a leader. “Not at all. You’re just what this place needed.” I point to the jar. “Hand me a worm?” Jane unscrews the lid and pulls out a fat worm without a second thought. “You should try catching the first bass.” I hand her the fishing rod. “You know how to cast?”

  “I think so.” I tell her to aim for the lily pads behind me. She stands up precariously, balancing the boat under her feet, and releases the catch on the reel. She whizzes the line over my head; a really good cast, actually. Then she chokes up on the line a little and sits back down. “Now I just wait?”

  I nod. “They’ll be here soon. Trust me.”

  I like fishing because it reminds me of Christmas, when you’re handed a box and you don’t know what’s inside. You get a tug on your line and you have no idea what you’re going to pull up-bass, sunfish, pickerel, perch. So you reel in, but slowly, because you don’t want the excitement to be over too quick. And then there’s something thrashing on the end of your hook, scales catching the sun, and it’s yours, all yours.

  We sit in the calm cradle of the rowboat, letting the sun drip down the necks of our shirts. Jane holds the cork grip of the rod lightly, and I think, please God, don’t let her drop if it she gets a bite. The last thing I want to do is to lose my lucky rod overboard. She leans back against the bow of the boat, balancing her elbows just so. The backs of her legs rest on the seat, supporting the rest of her. “I should have told you this before,” I say, “but I hope you know you’re welcome to use the phone. If there’s someone you need to call in California. Your husband, or whoever.”

  “Thanks.” Jane gives me a perfunctory smile, and rolls the fishing rod around in her palm. If you ask me, she should call that scientist guy. He’s probably going out of his mind wondering if she’s all right. At least I know that’s the way I would be if my wife up and left me. But I don’t say anything. If I’ve asked Jane not to interfere in the way I run my life, I’m sure as hell not going to meddle in hers.

  Jane asks me when everyone else gets up on Sundays, and I’m about to answer when the tip of the rod jerks down violently. Her eyes fly open, and she grabs tight onto the rod while the bass starts running with the line. “It’s strong!” Jane cries, and as she says this the bass leaps arching its back, trying again to make a getaway. “Did you see it! Did you see it?”

  I reach over the side of the rowboat and pull the end of the line up. The fish comes out of the water, blue-green. The hook is caught in the corner of its jaw, and still it does not give up without a fight.

  “Well,” I say, holding up the bass. Its hinged mouth, a perfect round O, is translucent. You can see right through to its insides. It’s tail flaps back and forth, curving the body into such a half-circle it seems impossible the fish could have a spine. I hold it up on the line in such a way that one filmy green eye stares at me, and the other one at Jane, taking us both in at the same time. “What do you think of your fish?”

  She smiles so I can see all her teeth-neat and white and even, like the small rows on Silver Queen corn. “He’s delightful,” Jane says, poking a finger at the tail. As soon as she touches the fish it thrashes in her direction.

  “Delightful,” I repeat. “I’ve heard them called ‘huge,’ or even ‘feisty,’ but I can’t say as I’ve ever heard a fisherman talk about a ‘delightful’ catch.” As I talk I run my free hand down the slippery body of the fish. I can’t touch it too much because then it’ll smell like human when I release it back into the water. I edge the hook back out of its hatched jaw.

  “Watch this,” I say, and holding the fish over the water, I release it. It floats for a second near the surface of the lake, and then with a mighty whip of its tail it dives so deep we lost track of its movements.

  “I like the way you set it free,” Jane says. “How come you do that?”

  I shrug. “I’d rather catch it again for sport than fry up such a tiny fillet. I only keep the fish if I know I’m going to eat it.”

  I hold the rod out to her again, but she shakes her head. “You try,” Jane says.

  So I do, pulling up in rapid succession a sunfish, two small-mouth bass and another large-mouth. I hold each one up into the sun, glorifying the catch, and pointing out to Jane the differences between each. It’s only when I cut the last bass free that I realize Jane’s not really listening. She’s holding her right hand with her left, cradling it in her palm, and squeezing her forefinger. “I’m sorry,” she says when she sees I’m looking at her. “I’ve just got a splinter, that’s all.”

  I take her hand and after holding the cool fish I’m surprised at the heat of her skin. It’s a deep splinter, fairly far below the surface of her skin. “I can try to get it out now,” I say. “You don’t want it to get infected.”

  She looks up at me, grateful. “You’ve got a needle in there?” she asks, nodding towards the tackle box.

  “I’ve got clean hooks. That’ll do.”

  I take a brand new hook out of its flimsy plastic wrapper and bend it so that it is straight, like a little arrow. I don’t want to hurt her too much, but the point of a hook is constructed to grab onto whatever flesh it catches, so that a fish can’t free itself. Jane closes her eyes and turns away, offering her hand. I scrape at the surface of her skin with this needle. When blood comes, I dip her hand into the water to clean it.

  “Is it over yet?”

  “Almost,” I lie. I haven’t even come close to the splinter. I dig and dig through the layers of her skin, looking up from time to time to see her wince. Finally I nudge the silver of wood up, and then using the hook, I push it to an upright position. “Easy now,” I whisper, and then I bring my teeth to her forefinger, pulling out the splinter. Holding her hand under the water, I tell her she can look now.

  “Do I want to?” Jane says.

  Her upper lip is quivering, which makes me feel awful. “I’m sorry it hurt, but at least it’s out.” She nods bravely, looking just like a little kid. “I guess you never wanted to be a doctor.”

  Jane shakes her head. She pulls her hand out of the water and looks critically at her finger, assessing the damage. When the pit of skin begins to fill with blood, she closes her eyes. I watch her take her finger and stick it in her mouth, sucking the wound dry. I should have done that, I think. I would have liked to have done that.

  53 OLIVER

  It takes several seconds to hone in on my faculties of perception. I have never in my life blacked out; I have never in my life awakened in strange environs and not been able to account for my whereabouts. And then, blinking at the fringed curtain of that waitress Mica’s apartment, the whole grisly situation starts to come back to me.

  Mica herself is sitting cross-legged on the floor, several feet away. At least I remember her name. “Hello,” she says shyly, holding out the chain she is making from gum wrappers. “You’ve given me some scare.”

  I sit up and to my surprise discover I am wearing nothing but my boxers. I gasp, and pull a woolly brown afghan over myself. “Did anything . . . ?”

  “Happen?” Mica says, smiling. “No. You’ve been entirely faithful to the long-suffering Jane. At least for the time you’ve been here.”

  “You know about Jane.” I wonder what I’ve told her.

  “She’s all you talked about before you passed out for three whole days. I took off your clothes because it’s a hundred degrees outside, and I didn’t want you to get sunstroke while you were catching up on your beauty sleep.” She pushes the gum wrapper chain at me, and, since I know of nothing else to do with it, I hang it around my neck.

  “I’ve got to get to her,” I say, trying to stand. But unfortunately I change positions too quickly, and the roo
m starts to spiral. Mica is quickly at my side, pulling my arm around her neck for support.

  “Easy,” she says. “We’ve got to get some food into you.”

  However, Mica is not one for cooking. She picks up a photo album and hands it to me. Inside are take-out menus for everything: pizza, Thai, Chinese, barbequed chicken, health food. “I don’t know,” I say. “You pick.”

  Mica studies these. “I think Thai is definitely out, since you’ve been off solid food for three days. My guess is some hummus and a tofu dip from ‘Lettuce Eat.’ ”

  “Sounds wonderful.” I prop myself onto my elbows when I feel my body can take the strain. “Mica,” I ask, “where have you been sleeping?” If memory does not serve me wrong, this is a onebedroom apartment with very little extra space.

  “Next to you on the futon,” she says noncommittally. “Don’t worry, Oliver. You’re not my type.”

  “I’m not?”

  “You’re too-I don’t know- preppy for me. I like guys a little more BoHo.”

  “Of course. How stupid of me.”

  Mica calls the vegetarian restaurant. “Fifteen minutes.”

  It strikes me that I am indeed starving. I hold my hand to my stomach. “I wonder,” I say, “you don’t know of any apple orchards around here?”

  Mica rolls her eyes. “Oliver, you’re in the heart of Boston. The closest I come to an orchard is Quincy Market.”

  “This place is in Stow. Or Maynard. Somewhere like that.”

  “Out west. With every other apple orchard in Massachusetts. You’re welcome to call information.”

  So I roll onto my stomach and reach for the phone. “Yes,” I say when a rhythmic voice answers, “in Stow. I’m looking for Joley Lipton.” The woman informs me she has no one there by that name. Nor in Maynard, nor in Bolton.