At the Edge of the Orchard. Tracy Chevalier
was short and stout and shapeless, with a broad, smile-free face and a sideways look that implied many thoughts, all held back. She had unfortunate taste in hats; today she was wearing a stiff straw one with a straight brim that sliced across her forehead, trimmed with tiny white silk flowers that had gone gray from swamp life. James did not notice women’s hats much, but he could see it did not suit her. Even Sadie’s ragged bonnet was better than those limp gray flowers.
But he would not judge. The Days had been their neighbors for seven years, and Hattie had set aside her own wordless judgment many times in order to help out the Goodenoughs, whether through fever or flood or hunger or one of Sadie’s rages when she ran out of applejack. The Days were prudent farmers, John Day a good hunter, and they had no children, so they always had enough to spare.
It wasn’t all one way. Sal and Martha had been sent over on wash day to help Hattie. James and the boys had helped John Day build a bigger barn and harvest corn and hay. But the Days seemed to be in control of their farm, and treated the Goodenoughs’ help as if they could get by without it—which they probably could. James never talked to John Day about apples, or offered to trade scions or help him to graft eaters. He couldn’t help envying how the Day farm seemed steadily to grow, with a little more land cleared, an extra cow bought, a smokehouse added, a pantry filled with more jars of food than they could eat in a year. The only way in which they did not expand was children—which made the other expansion irrelevant in James’ eyes. For all his envy of the cows, the army of jars and an orchard planted with exactly fifty apple and pear trees, he would not want to switch places with them.
“I’ll tell you what I did,” Sadie continued now to the group of women. “We only had a few eaters left, and I used ’em all up in a pie! You should’ve seen my husband’s face when he tasted it. You’d of thought he was eatin’ his own children, the way he went on about it!”
The women around her laughed, except for Hattie Day, who seemed to take a step away from Sadie’s words, and began examining bolts of fabric. Her move away was not subtle enough, though. James could have told her there was nothing Sadie hated more than to have someone choose not to listen to her. Leaving her admiring circle, she followed the one person not taking in every word. “What would you do if your husband was crazy about apples, Hattie?” she said.
Hattie Day gazed at Sadie. “I would be glad my husband was growing something good and plentiful to eat,” she said. “It’s a hard life in the swamp. Least he can do is enjoy his apples.” She turned her back on Sadie and went over to the shopkeeper, pointedly engaging him in conversation. Sadie stood alone for a moment, the other women smirking behind her at such a public slight.
It was a rare feeling, but James pitied his wife. She had never really learned how to get along with other women, he’d noticed. Those worthy of her did not take to her, and Sadie usually ended up with the sycophantic or the unsound. She’d had a terrible time with his brothers’ wives: seeing her with them was like watching someone pet a cat against its fur.
He looked down, then stepped towards her as if he hadn’t seen her or heard what she’d said about him and the apples. “Got the fur money,” he said. “You can get some sugar, and a ribbon or two.”
“White sugar?”
“Yes, white sugar.” It was worth the further debt he would get into, just to see her rare grateful smile. Women might shun her, but James would not.
Id never been to a camp meeting till we moved to Ohio. They aint something New England Methodists ever needed—we had our churches to go to every Sunday. But there were no churches in the Black Swamp, only one in Perrysburg. Imagine wadin through all that mud or snow or with a fever to get to a church twelve miles away, then find out the preacher was sick or stuck somewhere.
So we got our religion readin the Bible, and once or twice a year at camp meetings held out in the woods outside of Perrysburg. People came from all over, and like us Goodenoughs they were straight out of the swamp and starved of company. Wed gone when there were a thousand people gathered, maybe even two thousand, sleepin in wagons or under canvas strung between trees.
This time we left our wagon and went into the woods to find a place to set. James hung back cause he was always like that at camp meetings, leavin it to me to fit us in. It was crowded with people settin all over, spreadin out quilts to claim their place. Looked like there werent no space but I found a little opening between two families and spread out a Goodenough quilt—a frayed old nine-patch I would have to get Martha to mend again—and though they gave us the side eye, the people next to us shifted a little and we squeezed ourselves in. Five minutes later another family done the same thing, and by this time we were old hands and had the right to grunt and roll our eyes at them for makin it more crowded. But for the most part people was that happy to be with others that no one stayed mad for long.
At the camps everybody brought food and cooked over fires, some families for themselves, others pitchin in together. Course James wanted the Goodenoughs to keep to ourselves, while I was all for joinin with others. But I was the cook so I decided what we were goin to do. Near us there was a big pot hung over a fire, and I added a knuckle of ham to it without askin James or anybody else. Once Id done that the women tendin the pot got a whole lot friendlier, welcomin me in to cook and chat. I sent Nathan and Robert off to look for firewood. Nathan complained that with so many people around and hundreds of fires, there wouldnt be wood close by and theyd have to go a long way to find any. But I made em go anyway, and Sal went off to find some other gals, and James went out to the road to stand by the wagons and listen to the other men without sayin a word himself. Then I could relax and start to enjoy myself.
There were so many people campin that we were a ways from the platform where the preachers stood so everybody could see em and hear em. Once Id made sure people had seen me do my share of stirrin the pot and Nathan and Robert had brought back armfuls of wood, I slipped off to hear some God talk.
I hadnt been to a camp meeting since the previous summer, and the only God talk Id had since then had been John Chapmans, with all his big words like correspondences and redemption and regeneration. These preachers were very different from him. They was usually Methodist ministers, but now and then youd get a stray Baptist or Congregationalist preacher come through and get a turn to speak. We wasnt picky that way. In fact of all the preachers I liked the Baptists best. The Methodists I was used to from my childhood, and they talked a long time without sayin anything new. But the Baptists shouted with fire straight from their bellies—straight from God, I expect. Also they asked questions and we could call back to em.
When Id pushed my way up so I was close enough to hear I knew I was in luck and it was a Congregationalist preacher—they was almost as good as the Baptists. I couldnt see him but I heard him ask: Where do you think God is today?
Hes here, people round me answered.
Where did you say He is?
Right here with us.
Does He ever leave you?
No he does not.
Is He in your heart?
Yes he is.
Is He in your hands?
Yes he is.
No! You are in His hands. Where are you?
In His hands.
Right away I got that soarin feelin of not havin to think or make any decisions, jest answerin with the crowd what the preacher and God wanted me to say. Thats what I loved about camp meetings—lettin go of my whole life so I didnt have to think about James or the children or what we were gonna eat or the hardship of livin in the Black Swamp. I could jest be.
Course it helped that I had a little jack in me by then. Somewhere between the cookin pot and the preacher Id managed to get handed a bottle, and I took a big gulp cause I didnt know when Id get another chance. It was powerful strong jack, stronger than what I was used to. It cut a path straight to my belly then spread out all over so that I tingled to my fingertips