The Painted Table(49)
Saffee can’t remember if she and April have ever helped their dad outdoors. He seems surprised and pleased when they join him.
“The Winesaps got the worst of the storm,” he says, as together they pile splintered limbs on the edge of the west bank that overlooks the long, sweeping valley. The orchard is narrow and deep, stretching from the road to the bank, with five rows of apple trees parallel to the house.
April drags a large fallen limb she finds beside the road. As Saffee and Nels carry armloads of brittle branches toward the bank, she broaches the topic of hospitalizing her mother again. “Dad, have you reconsidered taking Mom to see a doctor?”
“Now don’t go talkin’ that way again. She was fine at Thanksgivin’ yesterday, wasn’t she? Just fine. See? There’s nothin’ wrong with her.”
Overhearing him, April says, “You call that fine? I guess yesterday could have been worse, but now, one day later, anyone can see she’s not fine.”
No one has a heart to say more. They continue to gather and lug branches, noting that the sun will soon be down. April scoops up a few rotted apples, recently frozen and now thawed, oozing brown. She flings them into the valley.
“I used to get a royal stomachache from eating green ones,” she says.
“I remember seeing you throw apples with some little boys one summer. It looked like fun,” Saffee says. “I wanted to do it too.”
April gives her a puzzled look. “Well, why didn’t you?”
Saffee doesn’t answer. April, who lives life exuberantly, not unlike, it seems, the nameless, swirling masses of people on the college campus, would not understand.
With a decisive move, Saffee picks up an apple, reaches back her arm, and flings with all her might. The soggy fruit plops not far from her feet. She is embarrassed, furious with herself.
“It’s okay,” April says. “Try again. Let your fingers open sooner.”
The second toss arches high, streaks across the setting sun, and skitters through brush far below. The sisters’ eyes meet. Saffee suppresses a giggle, and then, with impulsiveness, both girls scamper to gather a reserve and begin a competition.
Saffee throws with uncharacteristic abandon, disregarding brown, mushy stains collecting on her jacket and gloves. She wonders if Joann might have made a tiny rip in the newspaper and is watching them, disapprovingly, through the dusk.
Nels joins in. “Let’s see who can hit that there willow way down at the bottom.” He hurls a missile that flies twenty yards beyond what had been the girls’ best shots.
“I can beat that, Daddy!” April challenges. “Just watch!”
They scramble for more ammunition and throw furiously. Unused to such camaraderie, or perhaps solidarity, Saffee’s face flushes. Throwing apples, laughing, with April and Dad. At every toss, Saffee’s delight is coupled with an inner grief that cries, Why didn’t we do this long ago, Daddy? Why didn’t we play? Why didn’t we ever, ever have fun together like this? She is pink from exertion, as well as emotion.
Their diversion is interrupted by a police car. Was there a siren? Afterward, they can’t remember. Through the dusk and bare branches, they sense a commotion at the blue house. A man yells; the black Lab barks.
“Wonder what’s going on!” April takes off running through the fallen leaves. Nels and Saffee follow until they see a figure in pink chenille, spotlighted by a harsh yard light.
Horrified, Nels shouts, “Joann! Whatcha doin’?”
Disheveled, and with wild-eyed terror, Joann lunges here and there at things invisible in the Petersons’ yard, her crutch discarded on the ground. She brandishes a butcher knife, stabbing the air with delusional drama. Brown dormant chrysanthemum plants lie strewn haphazardly at her feet.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
ROTTEN APPLES
Blue tares, blue tares,” Joann shouts. “The axe comes to lay at the root of blue tares!”
A man and woman, presumably the Petersons, cower on the porch. “Be careful, Officer, she’s got a knife,” the man calls out.
Joann veers toward the approaching policeman. “The axe is laid . . .” He advances slowly.
“Get back!” Joann screams at him in manic alarm. “Don’t come near me. Don’t touch me. Leave the blue tares alone. I must get rid of them.”
The frenzied dog behind the backyard fence barks and growls.
The officer takes another step. “Mrs. Kvaale, stop right there.” He is calm, but firm.
“Joann,” Nels shouts, striding across the Petersons’ yard.
“Get back! Stay away! Our God is a consuming fire! Get back, Nels.” She grips the knife with both hands, bayonet style, pointing it at the policeman’s stomach. He darts forward and grabs one of her arms, applies pressure until she drops the knife. The sharp knife. The knife that carved yesterday’s turkey.