James was the first of the Goodenoughs to improve enough to get up. To start with he could only stagger around the kitchen to get Sadie water or sit at the table for a little while. Soon he was fetching wood, a log at a time, from the stack outside the door. Eventually he was able to stop using the chamber pot and go out to the outhouse, though the barn and the orchard seemed impossibly far away when each step tired him. He was glad to take in the fresh air and feel the sun on his skin, but it was jarring too, for all of his senses were heightened on first stepping outside. The sun was brighter, the breeze stronger, the rattle of the leaves and branches louder, the surrounding buildings and trees in crisper outlines.
Though warm enough in the afternoons, the sun was at a slant now, radiating a golden rather than a white heat. September always felt like a turning point to James, when the ease of the summer must be replaced by hard work and a gearing up to survive the winter. It was a matter of measurement. Were there enough oats and corn and hay to feed the animals for a year? Was the pig fat enough to slaughter soon? Had the garden produced enough to see the Goodenoughs through to the next growing season? He was always anxious until the barn was full, the pantry was full, the cellar was full. And they were not always full at the end of the harvest. The Black Swamp was fickle land: too wet, or too dry, or too rotten, or too dead. It was too unpredictable to guarantee a good crop.
Once he was able to walk further, there was a lot for him to catch up on. He needed to go to the barn to look in on the animals and see that John Day had brought in the hay all right, and check on the kitchen garden. The last of the corn needed bringing in: he should at least inspect the field even if he couldn’t help yet.
James should have concerned himself with his corn, his vegetables, his pigs. They were where he should have focused what little energy he had. Instead he went to see his apple trees—stopping twice to rest and joined midway by his youngest son shadowing him again.
To James an orchard in September was at its climax. The whole cycle of an apple tree—the sap and leaves and blossoms—peaked in its fruit. As he stood with Robert on the edge of the orchard and looked at the Goodenough trees, he saw a field full of laden trees that could feed his family for months. He knew you could not eat fruit and nothing else, but if it were possible he would be content to eat only apples every day.
Most of the apples were not quite ready. They had grown to full size but were still green, with red creeping across here and there. James preferred them now, before they could be eaten, when they hung on the trees and promised much. It was like finding a wife but not yet marrying her—lusting after her and not knowing about her temper or her laziness or her roving eye. These apples might end up mushy and full of worm holes or as bruised windfalls only good for cooking—but they were not yet. On the trees, they were perfect.
The three Golden Pippin trees were particularly heavy with apples, and of the fifteen trees he and Robert had grafted in the spring, twelve had leaves on them and were thriving. The deer fences with their spikes had held up all summer and kept out the deer, and Sadie. In two or three years they would produce sweet apples.
The fifteen seedlings from John Chapman that spring were all growing in their own small nursery, and could be transplanted the following year when James had cleared land for them. After the harvest and before the ground froze he would make a start on it.
“Looks like we’ll reach fifty trees producing in a couple of years,” he said, aware that he had said this before but for once truly meaning it.
Robert nodded. “That’s good, Pa.”
“Yes. Then we’ll really be settled. All right, let’s give these a week, then we’ll pick them.”
The next day James felt well enough to work again, though he had to rest often. Sometimes his heart beat fast like a bird’s and he went to sit in the shade of an elm next to the field where he and Robert were bringing in the corn. Soon Caleb was able to join them, then Nathan. Sadie and Sal were the last to get up from their beds, leaving Martha the bulk of the cooking and cleaning. Her face was becoming more and more gaunt, with blue rings hooking under her eyes and a vertical frown line growing between her eyebrows that should not be seen on a young girl’s face.
One evening James came back from the barn to find Sadie sitting on the bench outside the door, smoking a pipe in the late sun. She looked peaceful and rested and entirely clear of fever. There were no rings under her eyes, no frown line.
“Why aren’t you helping Martha?” he said. “She’s had enough to do looking after us all.”
Sadie leaned back against the house with her pipe between her teeth. “Ain’t that why we have children—to do our work for us?”
He did not even hesitate before slapping his wife. The pipe flew from her mouth and landed in a patch of dried grass, and James went to stamp it out to be sure it didn’t catch fire. When he turned back, Sadie was gone.
Inside she was not helping Martha. He could hear her up in the attic, getting into bed there. Martha did not look up from frying johnnycakes on the range. James was glad, for he did not want to see her frown line appear.
It suited me when he slapped me. I never felt easy when James and I was gettin along. Havin a common enemy like Hattie Day jest messed things up, put us on the same side and that didnt feel right. James hadnt been on my side since back in Connecticut. Maybe not even then.
Eventually I got bored pretendin to be sick. I made Sal get up too so I wouldnt have to face the little mouse in the kitchen alone. Cause I hated how without even sayin a word Martha made me feel like I was the worst mother ever in the world. Which I probably was.
At first I was weak as a rag doll so I did my work sittin at the table, let Martha do the fetchin and the stirrin. Thats why I didnt see the jar of pickled eggs for a few days. Then one day I went back in the pantry lookin for some cucumbers to set out with the bread and cheese and lettuce and tomaters. There were three jars of pickled eggs on the shelf, and one of them was colored pink. I brought the jar back with me and set it on the table. Whats this, I said to the little mouse.
She was mendin the nine-patch quilt and looked up all fearful the way she always did. Pickled eggs, Ma.
I know what they are. Whyre they pink?
Martha cleared her throat like maybe that would make a different answer come out. That was from the beet Mrs. Day put in to make it colored that way, she said.
I told you I didnt want colored water. I know you heard me say that.
Martha didnt make even the tiniest squeak. She tried to go back to her sewin but her hands were trembling so much she couldnt hold the needle. So she set it down and went to tuck her hair behind her ears.
Dont you touch your goddamn hair. Whyd you go against what I said?
Sorry, Ma, she said so quiet it was like she was hummin.
Sorry nothin. You like Mrs. Day better than me. Is that it?
No, Ma.
You want Hattie Day for your mother?
No, Ma.
I think you do. Maybe I should jest send you over there right now and be done with it. Let her dress you in one of them straw hats. Youd like that, wouldnt you.
No, Ma. The look on her face was a sight to see.
Then why did you do it when you know I didnt want my eggs sittin in pink water?
She didnt answer for a while. Then when she did I couldnt hear her. Whatd you say? I said.
I thought itd look pretty, she whispered. She was cryin by now.
Pretty? I laughed at that. You dont think its pretty enough around here? You dont think thats pretty? I pointed at the quilt in her lap. Martha had been fixin the tear down the middle but it still didnt look so good. What about my face? I added. Aint that pretty enough for you? Or Sal? Shes the good lookin one in the family.
Martha was fumbling with the quilt corner to dry her tears.
I didnt say anymore but kept gettin supper on the table. But as I was passin I let my elbow nudge the jar of eggs and it fell and smashed.
Oh dear,
you better clean up that pretty mess, I said. Cause I sure as hell aint.
Once the corn was in, the apples were ready, apart from the three Golden Pippins, which needed a few more days. James had Robert and Martha and Sal to help pick them, while Caleb was digging up the garden and planting onions and cabbage. Nathan had gone back to bed with fever.
Illness had taken the bite out of Sal, subduing her enough that they were able to have a peaceful time in the orchard. Wearing a sack tucked into a belt, Robert climbed the trees and picked the hard-to-reach spitters while Martha gathered those closer to the ground. Sal picked up the windfalls—they were already bruised and would be used for cider, so it didn’t matter how rough she was with them. James reminded Robert and Martha to twist the apples so that they came off at the stem rather than taking part of the branch with them, and also to keep the stems on—otherwise a hole where the stem should be might turn mushy and rot. They must also place the apples gently into their sacks so they didn’t bruise. Though most of the spitters would be immediately cooked or dried or pressed for cider and so could be bruised without consequences, James remained a perfectionist, determined to keep his apples unblemished. He kept the windfalls separate from the rest, and he had the children empty their sacks slowly into the wheelbarrow to avoid knocks, taking them back to the house himself. Those that would be eaten he placed one at a time in boxes in the cellar; the windfalls went into barrels outside, to be pressed for cider in Port Clinton.
He brought a wheelbarrow full of spitters in to Sadie. She was busy making bread while the last of the tomatoes from the garden stewed on the range. “There’s good strong sun today,” James pointed out. “You can get a start on drying apple rings. You want me to send Sal back to help? She’s only collecting windfalls, and they’ll be all right for a day or two more on the ground.”
“Don’t tell me how to keep house,” Sadie muttered. She was kneading dough, punching and slapping it hard. Its surface reminded James of the smooth soft flesh of her buttocks back when they were first married. To his surprise the memory made him hard, and he had to turn away to hide it while he was unloading the apples.
He sent Sal back to help Sadie anyway, while he and Martha and Robert remained in the orchard to finish picking and storing the apples. As he trundled to the house each time with a laden wheelbarrow, he watched Sadie and Sal’s progress; by mid-afternoon they had cut up dozens of apples and laid the rings out on the nine-patch quilt to dry in the sun. He noticed, though, that the apples had not been cored—they were not rings so much as slices, with the seeds and tough membrane left in, forming stars in the centers.
When they finished picking the apples from a row, Robert celebrated by climbing the tallest tree in the orchard—a spitter James had planted next to the Golden Pippins the first year that was now twelve feet high. Martha watched, and James felt sorry for her. Though long past his tree-climbing days, he still remembered the freedom of being up in the branches, swaying with the sun on his face.
“Come up.”
For a moment James thought Robert was speaking to him.
“I don’t know how,” Martha said, standing at the base of the tree, her face turned up towards her brother.
“Put your right foot onto that low branch, and your left hand onto the branch above you, then pull yourself up and put your left foot up onto the next branch.” When Martha hesitated, Robert said, “You’re stronger than you think.”
That seemed to spur her on. As James watched, his daughter put her foot and hand into position, remained like that as if assessing her folly, then gritted her teeth and pulled herself a foot off the ground.
“All right, now, reach with your right hand and grab the branch, then put your left foot up as high as it will go.” Robert steadily talked Martha through the moves that brought her higher and higher off the ground. James resisted the temptation to go and stand under the tree, for that would just scare her into letting go. Besides, this was their game; it did not include him.
Eventually she was sitting in a fork in the tree, Robert a little above her. Both were smiling, and Martha was swinging her legs and humming “Blest Be the Tie That Binds.”
James did not want to break up their pleasure, and sought his own, moving aside part of the deer fence and picking a Golden Pippin. “Come down and try this,” he said.
Robert coached Martha down, then they shared the apple between the three of them, James nodding at the taste. The Golden Pippins were almost ready.
When they came in at the end of the day, their cheeks were flushed and their eyes bright as if they had fevers. They were not sick, however, but happy. The house smelled of apple butter Sadie was making from more of the spitters. The apple rings had been brought inside to dry overnight. James should have kept his mouth shut about them not being cored, kept the peace, protected that rare happiness he shared with his children. But he couldn’t help it: Sadie had a way of stamping her mark on everything, even on apple rings. “Couldn’t you find the corer?” he said.
Sadie was ladling apple butter into jars and ignored him.
“Sadie,” James said.
She didn’t look up. “What.” Her arm jiggled so that a ladle full of hot apple butter hit the table and splattered. James jumped back to avoid being burned.
“Why didn’t you core the apples before you cut them into rings? With those seeds in, the rings won’t go sweet but will taste bitter.”
“I did it for Martha.” Sadie glanced sideways at her daughter. “She’s got such a taste for pretty things now Hattie Day’s been here turnin’ her head that I thought she’d care more about the stars in the rings than the sweetness. You like them stars, don’t you, gal?”
Martha ducked her head as if trying to dodge her mother’s sudden attention. “Core the next batch,” James said, knowing as he spoke that telling Sadie would make no difference. Indeed, it might encourage her to do the opposite, and then he would have to respond to her deliberately disobeying him, which was what she wanted. And so their feud would continue, probably for the rest of their lives. The thought exhausted him.
There was no time to find out how she might have responded, however, for at that moment they heard John Chapman’s unique whistle. “John Appleseed!” Sadie dropped the ladle into the pan of apple butter and ran to the door. She was never so eager to see any of the family as she was John Chapman. James knew he should not care—it was understandable that someone you saw only two or three times a year would be more exciting than the people you were with every day. Still, he gritted his teeth and had to force a cheerful greeting when John Chapman followed Sadie in. She was clutching two bottles of applejack.
“Sit yourself down, John!” she cried. “Take the rocker by the fire. It ain’t that cold yet but you don’t get much time inside, so you need to warm up proper. Here, have a dish of apple butter. I jest made it. Must’ve known you were comin’.” Sadie set down the applejack with the sort of care James reserved for sweet apples, then ladled apple butter into a bowl. In her eagerness to serve him she handed him the bowl so quickly that hot apple slid over the edge and spilled onto the floor. “Don’t worry about that!” Sadie knelt to wipe it up with her apron. “There. Will you take some cream on it? Martha, git Mr. Chapman some cream!”
“No need,” John Chapman reminded her. “You remember I don’t eat animals or anything that comes from them.”
“Leave it be, Martha, you silly fool! Didn’t you hear the man?”
Martha stood stricken at the sideboard, pitcher of cream in hand, looking as if she might drop it. Then Robert was at her side, taking the pitcher and setting it back down.
Was it only five minutes ago, James thought, that we were happy with apples?
But John Chapman smiled at Martha and she gave a weak smile back. He looked as ragged as ever with his bare feet and his long hair and his coffee sack for a shirt. “I’m glad to see you’ve got your apples in.” He nodded at the drying slices. “Good crop this year?”
James ope
ned 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.”