The Orchardist by Amanda Coplin Page B

child, stomach-down on a folded quilt. An ogreish-looking thing. Della was still amazed that it had come from the inside of Jane. No one had told them exactly how it would work. And yet Jane had known, somehow. They were blessed, said Jane; they were going to give birth to themselves. It would be themselves they gave birth to, only better. That was why she and Della must work so hard to protect them, their children. In protecting the children Jane and Della would also (Jane explained this over and over again) save themselves—
    Della took up the child awkwardly and put her against her shoulder. The gentle snuffling, the warm weight. Hush, said Della, jostling her. Hush. Talmadge and Caroline Middey watched her silently. Warily. She turned and walked to the open door and stood looking out into the night and then turned, went to the woodstove. There was a slow and penetrating heat coming from it. With one hand she took the leather mitt and put it over the handle and opened the door.
    What are you doing, dear, said Caroline Middey now, and both she and Talmadge rose. But they did not come forward, not yet.
    What do you want? said Caroline Middey. We’ll get it for you. Are you hungry? Are you cold?
    Jane appeared in the doorway of the bedroom, her eyes small with sleep. She glanced at Della and then looked out the open door, into the night. After a moment she came forward and took the child from Della, who resisted her only momentarily, then shuffled back into the bedroom. Shut the door.
    Della, her arms suddenly empty, stood and stared into the orange heat.
    Caroline Middey came and closed the stove door. Her hand rested on Della’s shoulder. They tried to talk to her a few minutes more, but then Caroline Middey gave her a mug with a little brandy in it and she drank it and Caroline Middey put her back to bed.
    Don’t close the door, murmured Della.
    We won’t.
    No, I mean the other one, the other one. Keep it open.
    All right, dear, we will. We’ll keep it open. You go to sleep now.
    Yes.

 

    T almadge walked the apricot orchard, slowly, looking at the trees, which appeared the epitome of health. The bright fruit. His hands, reaching up to feel the branches, surprised him. Had he always had hands like this, red and splotched? Was he really so old? The bark beneath his thumb was gray and ridged; he rubbed it several times before he took his hand away.
    I n the weeks following the child’s birth, he felt a precarious weight in his stomach. Instead of feeling relieved, as he had expected to feel—the girls had given birth, and it was terrible, but it was over, and neither of them had perished—he felt as if he had forgotten something. It was Michaelson, of course. But Talmadge told himself that Michaelson would not find them; even if one of the townspeople did surrender the information of his whereabouts, the orchard was tucked far back into the foothills, hard to access if you did not understand the roads or the lay of the land. But nevertheless he could not avoid the feeling of deep unease; it would not leave him. He did not tell Caroline Middey about it, but suffered alone, thinking it would pass.
    T wo days after Caroline Middey left, he woke to his room full of light. The baby was crying. He sat up, confused. Della stood in the doorway of his bedroom. She had reached out her hands to brace herself within the doorframe, placed one bare foot on top of the other, and gazed at the corner of the bed.
    Jane told me to come get it, she said, of the child, who lay beside him. It took him a moment to remember what she, the infant, was doing there. And then it came to him: she had fussed in the middle of the night, and neither girl had roused to tend her, and so he had brought her into his own bedroom, and fallen asleep as she cried. Still confused, Talmadge understood that Della would not cross over into the room to retrieve the baby. And so he lifted the child and delivered her to the waiting girl, who retreated with the