Трейси Шевалье - At the Edge of the Orchard

James opened his mouth to answer, but Sadie jumped in first. “Oh, it’s been the best season. More apples than ever. We’ll have plenty for cider and jack, besides the butter and the stewed and the dried.”

“How are your Golden Pippins?” John Chapman directed this at James.

James sat up, pleased to be asked. “A heavy crop. They’re never big apples, but there’s a good number. I’m giving them a few more days before picking. But there’s one or two ripe at the top of the tree. Do you want a taste?”

“I’d like that.” John Chapman sat back and rocked.

“Robert, run and pick Mr. Chapman a good ripe Golden Pippin. Get two if you can find them.” Because Golden Pippins were abundant at the moment, he could afford to feel generous.

The whole family watched while John Chapman bit into the Golden Pippin Robert brought him-even Nathan, who had come to sit at the top of the attic ladder when he heard the visitor come in. Though his expression didn’t change, John Chapman nodded. “There is that surprising taste. Pineapple, did you say it was?”

“That’s how my father described it,” James replied. “Though I never tasted pineapple myself. There’s a pine needle flavor to it too. It’s still a little tart just off the tree. They mellow over time. Here, take this.” He handed John Chapman another Golden Pippin. “Save it till Christmas, then eat it. It’ll be sweet as honey then.”

“Enough apples!” Sadie cried, clearly put out that she’d not had John Chapman’s full attention for a few minutes. “Have a bite of applejack. It’s too late to be medicinal-we’re over the fever already-but it’s surely welcome.” She pulled the cork from the bottle and poured a slug each into two mugs.

John Chapman pocketed the Golden Pippin. “Thank you, Sadie, but just a drink of water for now. I want to savor the taste of that apple.”

Sadie shrugged and drank the shot from one mug, then the other. “Martha, git the man some fresh water.” She shoved one of the mugs across the table at her daughter. Martha fumbled with the mug and it clattered to the floor.

After supper John Chapman told me the news fresh from Heaven. Everybody else disappeared to their beds or out to the barn, which was rude of em but that was all right with me as it meant I had him all to myself. Him and James had spent most of supper talkin apples, which jest about killed me. You would think after all these years theyd have nothing left to say about apple trees. Thank God the jack took the edge off. It was good and fiery. I was careful with drinkin it, as itd be a couple months before itd be cold enough to make more.

I let John Chapman go on with his God talk till real late and the fire was low and the candles burned out and everybody was asleep. He kept talkin about the need to take a moral inventory of our lives lived so far. I didnt know what that meant. I liked hearin him talk but it never moved me the way the preachers did at camp meetings. I tried not to think of the last camp meeting but of course once it was in my head I did.

John Chapman stopped talkin then and gave me a funny look. You all right, Sadie? Youre looking red. The applejack too strong for you?

No no, I said. Its not that. I didnt want to tell him about bein abandoned by my family at the camp meeting. Do you ever wish you was somewhere else? I said.

What do you mean?

Do you ever jest want to jump in your canoe and go?

John Chapman smiled. That is what I do. All the time.

Thats what I want to do too. Maybe I could go with you.

There is no room for more than me and my trees, Sadie. You know I go alone.

There was space-he had a whole canoe jest for his trees. There was space for me there. Goddamn trees, I muttered.

What is it that bothers you about trees?

I thought a second. It only took a second cause Id thought about this before. Ill tell you what it is, I said. When we come from Connecticut James brought his sticks from his damned Golden Pippins and planted em here. Stuck em right in the trees you sold him and they were like magic cause three of em grew up and are doin as well as any tree around. Its like theyve always been here.

Why does that upset you?

I aint upset, I said. But I was and John Chapman knew it. Its jest-well, those trees are doin better in the Black Swamp than I ever will. Theyve got used to it here. And theyre jest trees!

John Chapman didnt say anything, but looked at me with his flinty eyes.

Trees aint supposed to move, and then thrive when they do, I added.

Sadie, trees move all the time! My business is about moving trees. I go to Pennsylvania in the winter, get sacks of seeds from the cider mill there. Then I take them and hand them out to some, plant others in my nurseries. A year or two later I dig up those seedlings and sell them to people all over Ohio and heading into Indiana too. And they do fine. Most of this countrys finest apples have come from somewhere else-usually from Europe. When you think about it, trees always move at the start. A seed has to land a ways from its mother to grow, otherwise its in the shade and wont thrive. Birds can take seeds for miles in their bellies, hundreds of miles even, then shit them out and the tree grows where it falls just fine. Now you know Im not a believer in the grafting your husband does. But I have to admit its impressive that the branch of an apple tree in Connecticut has been turned into a tree out in Ohio. And that tree came from a branch back in England.

Well. Aint trees jest the best thing ever, I said. Guess theyre better than people. I jumped up and started rakin ashes over the coals to bank the fire for the night.

John Chapman chuckled. Actually trees are ruthless. They fight each other for light, for water, for all the good things that are in the ground. They survive only when they have enough space between them. You ever notice how your husband spaces his apple trees far apart? The closer you put them to each other, the less fruit they produce. You see all the saplings around in the woods? Most of them wont grow up. Just one will, and kill off all the others. Its a battleground out there.

I looked at him. In here too.

Im only talking about trees. I am no expert in people.

Time to sleep. Heres your beddin. I grabbed the nine-patch quilt that was layin on the floor with the apple rings on it and thrust it at him, letting the rings rain down all over without pickin em up.

In the morning John Chapman was gone and the apple rings were layin out on a sheet all tidy in rows. I never asked who did that.

Every day James checked the Golden Pippins, feeling the flesh for the slight springiness that would indicate they were ripe. Robert often came with him to inspect the fruit, and Martha sometimes too. Now that she could climb, she liked to go up the largest spitter tree and sit in the fork, smiling down at them.

During the last few days as they waited for the Golden Pippins to be ready, Sadie grew drunker. She’d had no applejack since May, and took up drinking it again as if it were water or coffee. The applejack John Chapman had brought was particularly strong, and it took only two mugs full to take her legs out from under her. At least the bottle would be empty soon. John Chapman had carried off three barrels of windfalls in his double canoe to Port Clinton for them, and James would make sure when he returned with cider in a few days that he wasn’t bringing more jack as well. Once Sadie had made her own, James would secretly water it down, as he usually did.