Orchard

  The house was dark, and though Sonja and June were probably sleeping, Henry burst in as if it were mealtime. He stamped the snow from his boots, but he was in too much of a hurry to take them off. Henry had his words and their order locked in tight, and he wanted to deliver them before they got away from him. He would keep his voice level and low and tell her—no argument about it—Sonja, you’ve been posing for that artist. I don’t know your reasons, and for now I don’t care to hear them. You’re going to stop, no ands, ifs, or buts.

  As he pounded up the stairs, he scolded himself. A gun—what the hell did he think, that he couldn’t control his wife or handle that little bastard and his paintbrushes without taking up a weapon?

  But Sonja was not asleep. She was not even in bed. She was sitting on a chair in the corner of the darkened room, and Henry was so startled to see her there that the thread on which he had strung his little speech snapped.

  “What are you doing up?” he asked.

  “Waiting for you.”

  “I told you I’d be home late.”

  “No, you didn’t.”

  “You knew I’d be fishing and playing cards at Charlie’s.”

  “I should not think you fell through the ice?”

  “I haven’t so far.”

  “So far.”

  “I’m a big boy. I can take care of myself.”

  “A big boy . . .”

  Was she crying now? He hoped not—not before he had his say. “Look here, we’re going to have a talk.”

  She was wearing one of Henry’s flannel shirts over her nightgown, and she pulled it tighter around herself.

  “I know what you’ve been up to,” Henry said, “and it’s got to stop.”

  She said nothing, but that wasn’t unusual. Sometimes she could not think of the English word for what she wanted to say, and there was nothing to be done but give her time. Henry thought that as her years in America increased she should need less time to find the right word, but instead it seemed as though her silences had become more frequent and longer-lived. He was never sure how long he should wait, but now Henry felt his anger and frustration mount with each hushed second.

  “What made you decide to pose for him, can you answer me that?”

  She was looking in his direction, he could see that much.

  “Did he flatter you? Tell you how beautiful you are? Did it make you feel important to have this famous artist painting you?”

  If only there were more light in the room, enough for Henry to see Sonja’s expression, then he might have been able to imagine what her reactions were and then address them before she could give them voice.

  “Whose idea was it for you to undress? Did he suggest it or did you come up with that on your own?”

  He was groping, stumbling—what happened to that clarity of purpose, that sense of certainty, that he felt when he entered the house?

  “Was that it? Did he tell you how good-looking you are, and then by God you just had to show him he didn’t know the half of it—you had to strip down and show him all your charms.”

  When she still didn’t utter a word, Henry began to walk toward her, but slowly, as if floorboards might be missing in his path. Standing over her, he said, “Get up.”

  She didn’t move.

  “I said, get up!”

  Sonja did not obey his command, but neither did she resist him when he grabbed her wrist and pulled her out of the chair. She allowed him to tow her across the bedroom, and only when they reached the doorway did she draw back.

  “You think you’re such a goddamn beauty?” Henry was close to shouting. “Is that what you think? Well, I’m going to show you just exactly who you are!”

  When Sonja tried to grab the doorframe Henry jerked hard on her arm and her fingernails scraped across the wood. Once they were in the hall, the rag rug bunched and rippled under Henry’s feet as if it too wanted to slow him.

  At the end of the hall was a commode that had once been in the home of Henry’s grandparents, but it was the mirror attached to this low chest of drawers toward which Henry hauled Sonja. As he drew closer, Henry slapped on the hall light and shoved Sonja in front of the glass. He stood behind her, held her in place with his hands on her shoulders, and forced her to confront her own image.

  “Take a look,” said Henry. “You think that face is a fucking work of art?”

  That still wasn’t what Henry wanted to say, but Sonja’s tight-lipped impassivity unnerved him. He shook her hard, desperate for a response from her. “Are you looking? Are you getting an eyeful?”

  Later in his life, when Henry thought back to this moment, he would not be able to recall June running out of her room to join her father and mother in front of the mirror. She appeared so suddenly it seemed as if she had, for the second time, sprung from her mother’s body. Mother and daughter clung tightly to each other and stared into the mirror, their eyes widening with fear and defiance as they kept watch on Henry.

  Henry saw now a resemblance between Sonja and June that had previously escaped him—something in the shape and set of the jaw—no, that wasn’t it, not entirely. It wasn’t physical. It was the ability—a gift? a curse?—to absent herself, to be present in body but not in mind or spirit. No, that couldn’t be it either, they were there, all right, or else why would they be cowering in front of their husband and father. But they had both discovered a way to preserve a small portion of herself for herself, to keep it untouched by the moment. Henry envied them. He had nothing to protect himself from the shame he felt as he backed down the hall, moving slowly away from the two creatures he loved more than anyone or anything living under the sun or the stars.

  Mother and daughter continued to hold each other close and keep their faces fixed on the mirror. Henry knew that meant he vanished from their sight sooner than if they had turned to watch him go.

  After Max Sherry left, Henry House was the Top Deck’s only customer, sitting alone at the bar with Max’s sorry excuse for a pistol weighing down the pocket of his mackinaw. Henry had hoped Frankie Rawling would be the one mixing his drinks that night, but neither she nor Owen was in the establishment. Owen’s sister, Agnes, was working behind the bar, and she told Henry that the owners were in Green Bay on business.

  “Expecting them back tonight?” Henry asked.

  Agnes, whose brashness made her closer in spirit to her sister-in-law than to her taciturn brother, said, “Yes, and they sure as hell better get here soon. I don’t feature closing up this place and spending the night.”

  Henry knew that Agnes didn’t drive, and he considered volunteering to take her home, but he was fairly certain she lived in Ellison Bay, the village farthest north on the peninsula. A light snow was falling, and though it wasn’t likely to amount to much, it would wax up the already slick roads. He’d have one more drink, and if Owen and Frankie didn’t return before he finished, he’d make the offer and hope Agnes refused.

  He was down to nothing but the cherry and a final watery swallow of brandy when the Rawlings walked through the door.

  Frankie and Owen both took off their coats and laid them on the bar, but Frankie immediately tossed her husband’s back at him. “Huh-uh,” she said. “You’re taking Agnes home.”

  “She can sleep on the couch,” said Owen.

  Frankie merely jerked her head in the direction of the door. Owen thrust his arm into his coat sleeve with almost as much force as a punch, but that was as much argument as he allowed himself to make. “Come on,” he grunted to his sister.

  Before the headlights of Owen’s departing car swept past the window, Frankie was fixing Henry another drink. She put it down in front of him, then locked the door and turned off the outside lights that announced the Top Deck was open for business. She sat down on the stool next to him and pulled one of his cigarettes from the pack.

  Henry held out a match for her. “Have I ever seen you in a dress before?”

  Frankie exhaled with a tired sigh. “Not unless you went to my m
other’s funeral. And that’s going on ten years.”

  Henry didn’t know much about women’s clothing, but Frankie’s dress, with its boxy shoulders and below the knee hemline, looked as though it went out of fashion in the forties. “Maybe you should wear one more often. That sure looks good on you.”

  One by one Frankie kicked off her high heels, sailing them halfway across the room. “What the hell. I can still button it.” She tugged at her bodice, but there wasn’t much play in the fabric. “But I had a supply of safety pins just in case.”

  “And what was the occasion that got you all dolled up? Agnes said something about business.”

  In reply, Frankie reached over, dipped her index finger into Henry’s glass, and stirred. Then she put her finger in her mouth and sucked on it longer than it took to absorb the full flavor of the brandy. “How’s the drink?” she asked. “Fixed to your liking?”

  “You know it is. Perfect. Every time.”

  “Well, get yourself ready: It’s soon going to be a new hand dropping in the cherry.”

  “How’s that?”

  “We’re selling the place. Sold, is more like it. We signed the papers today. The Top Deck’s new owners are a couple from Waukesha. He’s always wanted to own a bar, and she’s always wanted a place where she can show off her collection of carnival glass, whatever the hell that is.”

  “Jesus, Frankie. I didn’t even know you were looking to sell. I don’t know what to say.”

  She stabbed out the half-smoked cigarette. “You don’t? How about congratulations? How about, I’m happy for you, Frankie? No more having to serve drunks and then clean up after them. No more listening to the sad fucking life stories of men whose lives wouldn’t be so fucking sad if they’d get off their asses instead of sitting on a bar stool telling me their fucking life story. How about that—huh? Huh?” She punched Henry playfully on the arm.

  Henry stared down at his drink where the ice cubes still gently rocked from Frankie’s finger. The bar was almost dark, yet the ice and amber liquid shimmered as if a light somewhere in the room were trained on his glass, a phenomenon as inexplicable to Henry as the behavior of women increasingly was. “I’m sorry, Frankie,” he muttered. “Congratulations. What will you and Owen do?”

  Frankie was silent for a long moment before reaching over and grabbing Henry’s face. She squeezed his cheeks, puckering his lips in the process, and then swiveled his head until his eyes met hers. “Now, what did I go and do?” she asked. “Did I hurt your feelings? Did you come here tonight to tell me your life story?”

  Henry pushed Frankie’s hand away, but even with his mouth unencumbered, he didn’t speak.

  “Come on. What’s on your mind? Tell Frankie.”

  Henry had to direct his attention back to his brandy in order to ask the question: “What can you tell me about Ned Weaver? The artist? You know who I’m talking about?”

  “He used to come in here all the time. I haven’t seen him for a while.”

  “So you know him.”

  Frankie shrugged. “I know we probably sold this place for less than people are willing to shell out for one of his pictures.”

  Henry cleared his throat. “Did he ever paint your picture, Frankie?”

  “He talked about it, but he never got around to it.” She slapped herself on the thigh. “Maybe there’s just too damn much of me to fit in the frame.”

  Henry crushed out his own cigarette. He started to count the butts in the ashtray, all his but one, but then stopped himself. “He’s been painting Sonja.”

  “No kidding? Well, what of it. Your wife’s got the kind of looks that painters like to paint.”

  “It’s not just her face, Frankie. He’s painting her naked. It’s been going on for a long time. She ’s . . . I don’t know. She’s his regular model, I guess.”

  Frankie removed her hand from Henry’s shoulder. “Is she getting paid?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “As far as I know, he usually pays the people who pose for him. And that’s men and women both. He did a few pictures of old Pete Donley down there by his boat. The best money Pete ever made. Shit, Henry, would you rather she took in wash? Or worked as a maid in one of the hotels? Or go back to waiting tables for Axel?”

  “At least she’d be doing it with her clothes on.”

  “Not if Axel had his way.”

  “Come on, Frankie. You know what I mean. If she’s laying around naked in front of this fellow . . . Alone with him . . .”

  Frankie took another of his cigarettes from the pack then put it back. “This is mighty strange talk coming from a man who’s looking to fuck another man’s wife.”

  “That’s not what brought me here tonight, Frankie. I swear.”

  “Well, that’s what you’re here for now, Mr. House.” She stepped down from her stool and walked around behind the bar. She unsnapped her nylons and rolled them off and then wriggled out of her girdle. She stepped out of her panties and laid all her underthings on the bar next to her coat. “When we signed the papers today, I thought, Now, what do I have to do before we clear out of here?” She came back to her stool, lifted her dress up to her hips, and sat down again, spreading her legs wide. “Now, drop your trousers and step up here so I can cross you off my list of unfinished business.”

  Henry hesitated, pondering questions of morality. Would the sin of fucking Frankie Rawling be diluted if, like an obedient boy, he was merely following an order? He’d had too much to drink too—did that further erode his volition until it was next to nothing? And what if a man’s wife had strayed down her own path—what obligation did he have to walk the straight and narrow? Before he could come up with a single satisfactory answer, he found himself standing between Frankie’s thighs and trying to push her dress and brassiere out of the way so he could get his hands on those big breasts.

  Frankie unbuckled his belt, then began to fumble inside the sleeves of his mackinaw. “Come on, let’s bare those broad shoulders. What do you think I bought my ticket for?”

  Henry shrugged out of his coat and let it fall to the floor. There was a clunk from Max’s gun in the pocket, and Henry had a funny thought: What if the gun went off and shot him in the ass? Better he should die on the spot than try to explain a wound like that.

  Frankie was working on his shirt buttons. “This has got to go too, hon. And push up here a little higher. Uh-huh. That’s right, that’s right. Uh-huh.”

  Henry knew there was nothing, nothing his imagination could concoct that this woman would be unwilling to do, but almost immediately upon entering Frankie, he lost some of his enthusiasm for the act. Something was not right. Entering Sonja, it always seemed to Henry as though she surrounded him—Sonja, Sonja, everywhere!—yet inside Frankie he felt as though he were thrusting his cock into nothing but darkness. He pushed harder, close to violence in his attempt to touch something in her that almost certainly could not be touched.

  And then, as suddenly as if the door of the Top Deck blew open and a cold wind ran up his spine, the realization struck him: The darkness was his. The place that couldn’t be touched was in him. He wanted to be done fucking Frankie Rawling, but when he increased the speed as well as the force of his thrusts, he felt as though he might be slipping, as if Frankie’s long-ago admonition—that he’d better hold on tight or she’d throw him off—were coming true. The stool rocked, Frankie yelped and dug her fingernails into his buttocks, and that was enough—with a final plunge Henry finished. He staggered back and almost tripped over his own coat.

  “Jesus!” Frankie inhaled sharply to catch her breath. “Did you have something stored up there, Mr. House?”

  Henry didn’t answer. He buckled his trousers and then picked up his mackinaw, careful not to let the pistol slip from the pocket.

  Frankie didn’t bother going back behind the bar to put her underwear on and button herself up. She began to roll her stocking up her leg then quit and tossed it in the direction of her shoe. “The hell with it,”
she said, reaching for Henry’s cigarettes.

  “How long until the new owners take over?” Henry asked Frankie.

  “I told them we’d be out by the middle of April. That should give them plenty of time to change things around if they like and still be ready for the tourists.”

  “You and Owen staying in the county?”

  She took a step forward and kissed Henry on the corner of the mouth, the first kiss between them. “You sound like a man who’s already worrying about a return engagement.” Then Frankie stepped back, smoothing her dress over her body. “If it was up to Owen we’d stay. I’m for getting the hell out. Florida or Arizona, maybe.”

  “Someplace where you can lay out in the sun all year round, eh?”

  “Well, somebody finally noticed.” She held up the back of her hand for inspection, as if, even in the darkened tavern, she could gauge how well her tan was holding up. “Why not? Why not someplace where you don’t have to put up with snow half the goddamn year?”

  “Folks around here will miss you, Frankie.”

  “Let’s not get too teary about this. I ain’t gone yet. Besides, you’ll sell too someday. All it takes is the right price.”

  “I don’t know about that. The Houses have lived here close to a hundred years. Almost as long as Door’s been a county.”

  “The right price, baby. That’s all it’ll take. Don’t think you and yours aren’t for sale too.”

  Her reference to his family stung, but that Frankie’s remark might be intended to include Sonja too was a deeper hurt. To keep her from saying any more, Henry reached out and pinched the point of her dress collar between his thumb and index finger. With no more pressure than he’d use to tear a petal from a flower, he pulled Frankie close.

  She gently pushed him away. “Sorry, baby. I’m shooing you out. I don’t want you here when Owen comes back. My life’s complicated enough right now.”