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.
The applejack ran out the day the Golden Pippins were ready for picking. Though he didn’t really need them just to pick the apples from three trees, James had Robert and Martha help him anyway. First they pulled up the sharpened sticks that made up the deer fences around the trees and stacked them to one side. Then they started with the smallest Golden Pippin—James on a ladder reaching for the highest apples while the children picked the rest. When they’d filled the wheelbarrow, they took it back to the house, lifted the cellar door and transferred the apples to the wooden boxes, James crouching in the dark cellar while Robert handed them down to him. Sal was in the kitchen, churning cream into butter while Sadie lay still on their bed, sleeping off her hangover—or so James thought. When he climbed back out of the cellar, he glanced over and saw that his wife had her eyes open and was watching them, though she did not move.
“You all right, Sadie?” James said, surprising himself, as he never asked her such a thing—for he knew the answer.
Sadie just looked at him, the corners of her mouth pulled tight as a drawstring bag. James said nothing more, but picked up the handles of the wheelbarrow and trundled it out, Robert at his heels, the thump-thump-thump of the churn following them.
Back in the orchard, they were almost done picking from the second tree when Sadie appeared, heading towards them in a swift hobble, as if coming down a hill and unable to stop herself. The sight made James’ stomach tighten: hers was the gait of someone ready to cause trouble. She stopped at the bottom of the ladder he had climbed. “Where’s my bottle?” she said, running her hands up and down her thighs.
“It’s empty—you finished it last night.”
“You poured it out, is more likely!”
“No, you did the damage to that bottle all by yourself. But don’t worry—John Chapman will be back in a day or two with cider, and when it’s cold enough you can make your own jack.” James turned away from her fury and back to his apples. He could feel her eyes on his back almost as a physical presence. Then, suddenly, the press of them was gone, and he dared to look down. Sadie had fixed her gaze on the third Golden Pippin tree, still laden with fruit. It was the largest of the three—Robert would need to climb it to pick the topmost apples. James studied his wife as she studied the tree, every part of her lean frame alert now. “Leave it alone, Sadie,” he warned, knowing the moment he spoke that he’d made things worse by sparking the idea in her.
Robert and Martha paused from their picking and stared at their mother. Sadie saw them all watching her and snorted. “Git
your Goodenough eyes off me.” Then she turned and strode back towards the house with the same jerky gait.
James let out his breath. “All right, now. Almost done.”
They were loading the last of the second tree’s apples into the wheelbarrow when she returned. “Pa,” Robert warned in a low voice.
James looked up. Sadie held an axe. He just had time to stumble after her, knocking apples from the heaped barrow, before managing to grab her arm as she swung wildly at the third Golden Pippin tree.
“Git your goddamn hands off me!” Sadie whirled around, brandishing the axe. “I’ll kill the whole lot of you!”
James took a step back. “What’s gotten into you, woman? Put that axe down, you’ll hurt yourself!” Out of the corner of his eye he saw Martha dart over to the large spitter and scramble up it. Behind him he heard rustling but didn’t dare to take his eyes off his wife. He guessed it must be Robert picking up the spilled Golden Pippins. Then he couldn’t resist, and turned. “Don’t put those back with the others, they might be bruised. Set them aside for eating now.” He needn’t have said it—Robert knew about apples.
It was the mistake Sadie had been waiting for. She turned back around, stepped up to the Golden Pippin tree, swung the axe hard and sunk it into the trunk with a thud. It bit deeply, but did not cut all the way through.
“No!” James cried. He ran to the tree and grabbed Sadie as she was wresting the axe from the trunk. They struggled together, then fell against the trunk, sending a blow through the tree that caused apples to rain down around them. Hugging each other, the axe between them, they stumbled and crashed into the neatly stacked pile of poles, scattering them into a pile of spikes that stuck out like a porcupine’s quills.
At last Sadie managed to butt her head against James’ forehead with a crack that sent him reeling away with a blinding pain. Shaking his head to clear it, he saw three flashes of his children: Sal striding down from the house, arms folded across her chest, looking just like Sadie; Robert, apple in hand, frozen by the wheelbarrow full of fruit; and Martha’s pale leg with a muddy boot on the end dangling from the spitter tree. Then he saw Sadie spinning with the axe to give the Golden Pippin what he knew would be a mortal blow, and all he could do was throw himself in between.
The axe sank into his side, cracking his ribs and collapsing a lung and filling his chest with blood. James fell to his knees, the shock of the blow blunting the pain. “Pa!” he heard over the roaring in his ears, but he did not know which of his children was shouting. Sadie was staring at him, her eyes as blue as her dress.
“Damn,” she said. “I guess I won.”
It wasnt what I meant to do. I meant to take the axe to every one of them apple trees and cut em all down. Without em we wouldnt have to stay in the Black Swamp. We could go anywhere we wanted. We could go west to the prairie where there werent any trees. Or we could go back east, back to Connecticut even. Anywhere but here, was what I wanted. We could move, like those seeds in the belly of a bird. But I made the mistake of startin with the Golden Pippin. Stupid of me. James would never let me touch the tree he loved best.
I went up to him and reached out for the axe in his side. There was blood everywhere and he was makin a terrible rattlin noise. I wasnt thinkin straight. Maybe I was thinkin if I jest pulled it out, his flesh would close over the hole in his side and he would be all right. Maybe I was thinkin I would continue cuttin down the trees. Whatever it was I was thinkin to do, thats not what happened. James saw me comin and kicked my ankles so I lost my balance and tumbled backwards, flappin with my hands and fallin right into the pile of fence poles. One of em was stickin up and went straight through me.
Funny, it didnt hurt more than a bee sting at first. I lay on the pile of poles under the tree lookin up. I could see Marthas leg hangin down but it wasnt close enough for me to reach up and touch it. It was real quiet. Then all of a sudden it got hard to breathe.
After a little while I heard the sound of a bob white out in the woods and wondered was that John Appleseed come back with the cider. I sure could do with some nice fresh cider.
Then Robert was standin over me. Ma, he said.
I looked up at him and though I was hurtin—in fact I was dyin—I knew it was time to tell him what he ought to know. Your uncle Charlie is your father, I said. Not him. I looked over at James. His eyes were open so I guessed he heard me. My last blow.
Somethin happened to Roberts face, like a jar that got broke, like a cracked mirror where I could see myself cut in two. It hurt too much to hurt him, my changeling son, the one I loved best out of all of em. Hes probably your father, I added, to soften the blow. Cant know for sure. At least you know youre your mothers son.
He stood there at the edge of the orchard, lookin like he would never be whole again, the way I wasnt whole either. You go now, I said. Get out of this swamp. Go out to the prairie where there aint no trees.
He looked up at Martha sittin above us in her tree, her foot swingin back and forth.
Leave her, I said. Shell jest hold you up.
Marthas foot stopped swingin.
You got to save yourself, I said. Go on out there now. Go.
So he went. And so did I.
Black Swamp, Ohio
1844–1856
Days’ Farm
Black Swamp
Near Perrysburg
Ohio
June 25, 1844
Gilbert Hotel
Racine
Wisconsin Territory
Dear Robert,
Today Mrs. Day brought me a letter you wrote from Wisconsin. It is 6 months old. She got it when she was at the general store in Perrysburg and Mr. Fuller had it sitting there waiting for a Goodenough to come along. It has been there months because Caleb doesn’t use the store much, and no one thought of me, until Mrs. Day happened to see the letter.
I was so happy to hear from you that I cried. It has been almost 6 years since you left home, and I am very glad to know that you are alive.
You will want to know what has become of your brothers and sisters after what happened. Caleb and Nathan ran the farm as best they could, but could not manage it the way Pa had. We were all right that first winter, because we had what you and Mr. Day and Pa had brought in from the summer, and you and I had put up the garden, and all of the apples. The boys hunted, and we got through the winter, though the house was always cold and not as clean as it should be. The Days looked in on us and brought us sacks of flour and some wild turkeys. Other neighbors helped us out too. Mr. Chapman came by with the barrels of cider, and when he heard what had happened he left and has not been back to the Black Swamp since.
The next summer the oats were poor, and they stored the hay damp so it rotted. Sal and I kept the garden but it was hard to remember everything we had to do and how to keep the rabbits and deer out. I did remember to prune the apple trees, and they were all right. Our clothes were too small and we had no money for anything, and barely enough to eat. Then Nathan took the fever and died, and then Sal ran off. She lives in Toledo now. I am ashamed to say what she is doing, so I will not write it.
After that Mrs. Day asked me did I want to live with her and her husband. She and Mr. Day never did have any children and she needed the help. I was glad to leave, for I did not like being alone with Caleb as he has taken to drink. I became a kind of daughter to the Days, except they worked me harder, more like a servant, except unpaid. It was Mrs. Day who taught me my letters well enough that I can write this to you. Do you recall her straw hat? She still wears it to town and it makes me smile to see it.
So that is how we all are. Caleb is still on the farm, though he does not grow crops except a bit of corn for the horse and the cow. He sold the team of oxen. Mostly he hunts and trades furs. I do not go by the farm much, but once in October when I was with the Days I did, and I am sorry to tell you the apple crop was poor, very small what there was and Caleb had not bothered to pick them so there were many windfalls. Mrs. Day said it was a waste
of God’s bounty.
Now I can be happy, for I know where you are and that you are remembering your family. When are you coming back? Please write to me at the Days, for I do not think Caleb will give me a letter from you. Or send for me and I will come, as though the Days are kind enough they are not Family.
I am your sister
Martha
Days’ Farm
Black Swamp
Near Perrysburg
Ohio
January 1, 1845
Gilbert Hotel
Racine
Wisconsin Territory
Dear Robert,
I have been waiting for a letter from you. I know it takes time for letters to get to their destination. I do not know how far Wisconsin is from here but Mr. Day told me it is a long way west. So I thought my letter might take 2–3 months to reach you, maybe until September. And then when you wrote back it would take 3 months again to reach me. So I did not expect to hear from you until December, though of course I could not help myself: even just after I sent you a letter I would get excited when Mrs. Day went to Perrysburg because there might be a letter waiting for me.
But there has been no letter all these months and so I am writing again—on New Year’s Day, the way you did. It is night, for I could not take the time during the day—Mrs. Day kept me ironing during much of it, to dry the clothes we washed yesterday and that were frozen. It is hard as my hands are little and the iron heavy, and I burn my arms. But at least it is warming work, and that is something in this cold. We were snowed in before Christmas for a week. But you said in your letter that it was even colder in Wisconsin than the Black Swamp. I hope you are keeping warm with all the horses.
I remember all the lines of your letter, from reading it over and over—though I no longer have the letter itself. Mrs. Day felt Caleb ought to see it since it was addressed to all of the Goodenoughs. When we gave it to him, he said he would read it later as he was busy—though all he was doing at the time was sitting in the doorway and whittling—this when there was plenty to do. Also I do not think Caleb can read, and I would have read it to him but he did not want that. A few days later I went back to get the letter but he said it had dropped in the fire and burned up. I cried a little then—not in front of Caleb, but when I was alone.