Mike gobbled up the rest of the applesauce, then let the taste of it linger in his mouth. He imagined his wife Eliza in her apron standing at the stove, the steam from a pot of cooked apples curling the stray hair around her temples and the nape of her neck, the rest pinned up in a bun. Her strong hands turned the food mill, pressing the hot messy mixture of apple flesh, skins, seeds and cores into something delicious, filling the house with the aroma of autumn. Mike inhaled deeply and reached for his wife but she evaporated into a cloud of steam. “Don’t leave me!” he cried. Then he closed his eyes, hoping to catch another glimpse of her. Apples again. In this dream he was older, a teenager working in the orchard. His father was collecting disability then, so it fell to his mother to inspect the crop. Mrs. Merrill walked by each row of trees, pausing to peer down at the baskets of fruit lined up waiting to be hauled away. She was busy. She was always busy, it seemed. She rarely smiled, but when she did it was like the sun coming out after the rain. Her whole face lit up, making him feel that everything would be all right, even if it wasn’t. Mike was trying to make her smile but she wouldn’t. He picked up an apple from a basket at his feet. But she rejected it because it was lopsided. He handed her another; it had a scab. On the third she found a soft spot. On the fourth, a worm hole. The fifth, she said, was too small. He handed her a hundred apples but not one was good enough… Upstairs, Lila was running the water for her son’s bath. Bobby was by her side, all bare, standing unsteadily on chubby legs, using the side of the tub to balance himself. She turned off the water and slid him into the tub with his rubber ducky and a toy boat. He splashed and played as she washed his hair. The phone rang and Lila groaned. “Steve, that better be you,” she muttered. She reached to pick up the baby but he slipped out of her soapy hands, falling hard on his bottom. He howled. Grabbing a towel, Lila wrapped Bobby in it, under protest, and carried him like a soggy football to the bedroom phone. Steve’s voice came on the answering machine. “Hon, are you there? Lila?” She picked up the phone and punched a button to stop the feedback in her ear. “Where are you?” she demanded. Bobby was still crying.
“On my way home. There’s a blow-down blocking the County Line Road.” “Sweet Jesus,” Lila exhaled. “The wind came out of nowhere. I called the sheriff’s office but I don’t want to wait for a crew to come out. I’ve got my chainsaw in the truck so I’m gonna take a whack at it. Just knock off enough branches to get by.” “How long will that take?” “Can’t say exactly.” “Okay, cut up the damn tree and get your butt home. I need another able-bodied adult in the house.” Storm clouds gathered over the Merrill farm and the houses on the hillside hastening the twilight. The wind was shifting from the south to the northeast. It moved in great gusts, turning the leaves on the maple inside out and making the orchard tremble. Mr. Merrill still dozed on the front porch, his worn corduroy jacket providing inadequate protection. Cool, dank air found its way down his collar. He awoke with a stiff neck and numb legs. Alarmed by the darkness and the rising storm, he tried to stand but couldn’t. Leaning hard on the flimsy arms of the plastic chair, he muscled himself up, then stamped his feet to get some feeling to return, inadvertently kicking the chair over. When he turned to pick it up, he lost his balance, tripped over the chair, bumped his head on the railing and then tumbled down the porch steps into the dooryard. Upstairs in her bedroom Lila heard the noise coming from the front porch and smiled. “Daddy’s home,” she cooed, as she wrestled Bobby into a pair of one-piece pajamas. She smoothed the little bit of hair on his head with her fingers, then kissed him on the cheek. “Can you say Daddy?” “Da da da dadada,” Bobby babbled, making his mother smile. Lila scooped him up, settled him on her hip and walked to the top of the stairs. “We’re up here, Steve,” she called. “C’mon up. You’ve got to hear this.” The fall should have killed him, but it didn’t. Mr. Merrill rubbed his throbbing head and felt a lump already beginning to rise. He moved his legs and discovered they weren’t broken. Working deliberately, and breathing very hard, he rolled onto his hands and knees and pulled himself up. The strength of the wind nearly knocked him over again.
COA | 41