The Orchardist by Amanda Coplin Page A

smiled again that sad, reticent smile. You might have some trouble on your hands. That man isn’t in his right mind—
    T almadge asked Caroline Middey if he was doing the right thing, letting the girls stay with him, or if she thought he should find a better place for them. Caroline Middey had been thinking about it all, of course, but had just been waiting for him to ask her. She told him that he should at least apprise the sheriff of their situation, that it was possible they might all be in some danger.
    He told her she was right. But he did not talk to the sheriff. What if there was some law of which he and Caroline Middey were ignorant, that judged the girls, and the baby, as Michaelson’s property? It was preposterous, and immoral, but there were immoral laws out there, he knew. And what if he had broken a law in fostering the girls? What if, in contacting the authorities, he inadvertently made things worse? He sensed looming trouble, but could not verify its shape. He would wait and see; he would ask the Judge about it, maybe.
    He knew that he should be careful, he should be clearheaded and strategic more than ever, but he felt, those first few weeks after the child’s birth, as if he could not concentrate, as if he was living in a dream.
    He was startled, now, coming up through the apricot orchard, to see the cabin vivid with moving forms; girl-shapes floating past the windows, the chimney perpetually exuding thick smoke. Caroline Middey beating rugs on the porch, her voice moving like a constant chord over the lawn, some objects absorbing, and others reflecting, her voice. Sounds moving over the planes of wood of the cabin and porch. And above and below all this was the sound of the child’s cries, hovering in the trees, seeming to come from all directions at once. Was it a comfort? It was all new—the company, the sounds—but also he felt as if it had been going on for a long time. He was, he thought—and was shocked at this discovery—happy.

 

    D ella lay beside Jane, who was sleeping turned to the wall. The door of the room was open, and Talmadge and Caroline Middey sat out in the front room and talked. They had left the door of the cabin open out of sympathy toward the girls, since they—the girls—were not allowed to go outside the cabin after nightfall. They must stay indoors now, they must rest. With the door open, perhaps it was not so bad. An hour ago Caroline Middey had examined Della and applied ointment to the stitches. Della was to lie still and not move.
    And what if the stitches tear? Della had asked her.
    Well, it would be unpleasant, said Caroline Middey. There was a risk of infection, besides. And what was infection? Della had wanted to know, but had not asked.
    Jane? whispered Della now, but Jane did not answer.
    The night air came through the cabin door and crossed the threshold of the outer room and reached the bedroom where she lay, her face turned to it. She could see the darkness off the porch. The air was cool, with an edge of cold, even. She could hear but not see the trembling leaves.
    Again there was the murmuring back and forth of the two adults, punctuated by one word or a string of words spoken louder than the others, or Talmadge clearing his throat. Spans of long silence. A sigh, a single sentence. Talmadge crossed the room to stoke the fire in the woodstove. There was the sound of the upset heat and embers and then the creak as the stove door was closed. Talmadge cleared his throat, returned to sit.
    Della rose and put her feet over the side of the bed. There was a tightened feeling, a deep itch, where the stitches were, and she wanted to laugh and cry. She stood and went into the other room where they were, and they both stopped speaking and turned to her.
    What is it, dear? said Caroline Middey.
    Della stood near the table. She had come to get something. Had she been sleeping? Was this all a dream?
    Della?
    She went over to where they sat. Between them lay the sleeping