A Piece of the World(54)

“Dr. Pole showed us page after page of testimonials from people he cured,” Al says.

“Katie,” Papa says intently, putting her hand on Mother’s, “this could be the remedy.”

She nods slowly but doesn’t say anything more.

“How much money is it, exactly?” I ask.

“It’s reasonable,” Papa says.

“How much?”

Al looks at me steadily. “Papa hasn’t had hope for a long time.”

“So what does it cost?”

“Just because nothing worked for you, Christie . . .”

“I can’t understand why we have to buy apples when we have a perfectly good orchard full of them.”

“This doctor is an expert. Papa could be cured. You don’t want that?”

I once read a story about a man named Ivan Ilych who believes he has lived justly and is outraged to discover that he must suffer a horrible fate, an early death of unknown cause. My father is like this. He is furious that he has become a cripple. He has always believed that industry and cleanliness equal moral rectitude, and that moral rectitude should be rewarded. So I’m not surprised that he is so eager to believe this preposterous story about a cure.

Papa signs the contract and pays for thirty sessions over thirty weeks, the minimum required. Every Tuesday Al helps him into the passenger seat of the Model T and drives to Rockland. At each appointment—which, as far as I can tell, consists merely of paying more money for mysterious tablets and cataloging his intake of those expensive apples—a divot is punched in his contract.

Papa has always run the farm with a firm hand, selling blueberries and vegetables, milk and butter, chickens and eggs, cutting ice and managing the fishing weir for extra money. He’s always stressed the importance of saving. But now he seems willing to spend whatever this doctor tells him to in the hopes of getting well.

One Tuesday morning, about four months into the treatment, only an hour after Al and Papa have left for the weekly trip to Rockland, I hear a car door slam and look out the kitchen window. They’re back. Al has a grim look on his face as he helps Papa get out of the car. After taking him upstairs to his room, Al comes into the kitchen and sits down heavily. “Oh Lord,” he says.

“What happened?”

“It was all a ruse.” He rubs his hand through his hair. “When we got to Pole’s office, the whole building was shuttered. A few days ago, they told us, he was chased out of town by angry patients. A lot of people lost their shirts.”

Over the next few months, the severity of our situation becomes starkly clear. Papa’s two thousand dollars in savings are gone. We can’t pay our bills. More infirm than ever, Papa is listless and depressed and spends all his time upstairs. I try to be sympathetic, but it’s hard. Apples. The fruit that tempted Eve lured my poor gullible father, both seduced by a sweet-talking snake.

IT’S A CHILLY Thursday morning in October when Papa asks Al to carry his wheelchair down to the Shell Room. An hour later, a sleek four-door maroon Chrysler glides up to the house and a woman in a trim gray suit steps out of the back. The driver stays in the car.

Hearing a knock on the front door, I make a move to answer it, but Papa says gruffly, “I’ll handle it.”

From the back hallway I can hear some of their conversation: . . . generous offer . . . wealthy man . . . desirable shorefront . . . doesn’t come twice . . .

After the woman leaves—“I’ll let myself out,” she says and does; I watch out the window as she ducks into the backseat of the Chrysler and taps the driver on the shoulder—Papa sits in the Shell Room for a few minutes by himself. Then he wheels awkwardly into the kitchen. “Where’s Alvaro?”

“Milking, I think. What was that all about?”

“Fetch him. And your mother.”

When I’m back from the barn, Papa has wheeled himself into the dining room. Mother, who spends most of her time upstairs, sits at the head of the table, a shawl around her shoulders. Al troops in behind me and stands against the wall, grimy in his overalls.

“That lady brought with her an offer from an industrialist by the name of Synex,” Papa says abruptly. “Fifty thousand dollars for the house and land. Cash.”

I gape at him. “What?!”

Al leans forward. “Did you say fifty?”

“I did. Fifty thousand.”

“That’s a hell of a lot of money,” Al says.

Papa nods. “It’s a hell of a lot of money.” He pauses for a few moments, letting the news sink in. I look around—all three of us are openmouthed. Then he says, “I hate to say this, but I think it would be wise for us to accept this offer.”

“John, you can’t be serious,” Mother says.

“I am serious.”

“What an absurd idea.” She sits up straight, pulling the shawl tight around her shoulders.

Papa raises his hand. “Hold on, Katie. My savings have been spent. This could be a way out.” He shakes his head. “I hate to say it, but our options at this point are few. If we don’t take this now . . .”

“Where would you—we—go?” Al asks. I can tell as he stumbles over the words that he’s trying to assess Papa’s state of mind, wondering if he and I factor into it at all.

“I’d like a smaller house,” Papa says. “And with the money I could help you set up your own homes.”