Beneath the Apple Leaves(36)

The man stretched to his full height and Andrew gulped; he’d never seen a man so tall. The hands in the air quaked violently.

“Who are you?”

The arms shook more, rattled down the wide back.

“I said, who are you?” Andrew pushed the pipe harder into the back.

A whimper radiated from the enormous body. “Don’t shoot me!” he wailed. Deep sobs winded the man. “I’m sorry!”

Andrew pulled the pipe away. “Turn around.”

Slowly, the man faced Andrew, his face red and slimy from tears. But it was not the face of a man, the features puffy and nearly childlike, a young boy’s head transplanted on a statue of a lumberjack. “I’m sorry,” he whimpered. “Didn’t mean to hurt nobody. I’m sorry.”

“For Christ’s sake, Fritz!” Another voice gained momentum as a figure jogged down the lane.

The blubbering man ran and grabbed on to the stranger. He bent and cried into his shoulder. “I’m sorry, Pieter! I’m sorry!”

“Goddammit, Fritz, what you go and do now?” Pieter’s anger waned as he patted the big man-child on the back. “Settle down now. Okay? Just settle yourself.” He met Andrew’s eyes square and then rolled them. “I’m sorry about this. My brother doesn’t know what he’s doing sometimes. He didn’t hurt anyone, did he?” Fritz looked up at Andrew, his eyes pleading.

Andrew dropped the pipe and kicked it away. “He was throwing some rocks is all. Kids got spooked.”

Edgar snuck out of the barn and pointed. “He threw rocks at me and Will. Hit me square in the head!”

Pieter shook his head. “What the hell you doing throwing rocks at kids, Fritz?” he scolded, exasperated. “Know better than that! What the hell you doing that for?”

Fritz crumpled onto his bottom and held his knees to his chest, rocked against the reprimand.

Edgar glanced at Andrew and approached the crying form. “I’m okay,” he consoled tentatively. “Didn’t really hurt.” He fished through his pocket and pulled out a piece of hard candy, unwrapped and stuck with pocket lint. “Here.” He handed the sweet to the man-boy. “It’s butterscotch.”

Fritz blinked at the outstretched hand and smiled so widely through his tears that the sun nearly came from his skin. He took the dirty butterscotch and put it in his mouth, stared at the little boy as if he loved him.

“What you say to these people now?” prodded Pieter.

The man sucked on the butterscotch, content and lively. “I’m sorry I threw rocks at you. I ain’t gonna ever do it again.” His enormous jaw bit into the candy. “Fritz ain’t never gonna cause trouble again.”

Edgar, suddenly enlivened by his new friend, the rock pummeling now erased from his mind, grabbed Fritz’s hand. “Come on. You can help me clean the coop.”

Pieter watched the two disappear around the corner. He rubbed the back of his neck, struggling between humor and embarrassment. “Sorry about my brother. He’s not a bad kid, just doesn’t know any better.” He carved the toe of his boot into the ground. “Wouldn’t know it by looking at him, but he’s as gentle as a mouse. Just thought he was playing a game. He just doesn’t know better.” He stuck out a hand of goodwill. “Pieter Mueller.”

“Andrew Houghton.”

“Houghton? Heard the name was Kiser.”

“My uncle. Wilhelm Kiser.”

The young man pumped the hand heartily. “Well, you already met my brother, Fritz. Would have come by sooner but been visiting my sister upstate. Just had her fifth kid. Was on my way over to invite you all up for dinner when Fritz barreled ahead. Ma didn’t want to bother you yet case your aunt didn’t have the house ready for guests. Women get all funny with that stuff, don’t they? Give me a rock to sit on and I’m happy as a goat.”

Pieter mirrored his age, maybe a bit older, mid-height and slim, night and day from his brother. He had blond hair and freckles from the sun that carried down his forehead and across the bridge of his nose. He pointed to the new pigpen behind the barn. “How many pigs you got?”

“Two.”

“Mind if I take a look? Know a thing or two about hogs. Got more than we can count up our way. Heard of Mueller sausage? Best damn German sausage in the state. Pa grew up in Nuremberg making the stuff.” He raised one eyebrow confidentially. “Secret family recipe.”

Andrew led the way to the sty where two enormous sows rolled in the mud and sunned scaly pink skin. “Look fine,” Pieter acknowledged, impressed. “Never can tell what you’re getting when you bring them in. Even at auction, can’t hardly tell if they’re switching out stock right before they load them up.”

A deep draw of air left Pieter’s mouth. “One of our gilts birthed early. Not able to feed the lot of them. Only enough milk to feed about two. Big birth, too. Nearly twelve in the litter. Two full ones, the rest runts.”

Andrew splashed freshwater from the rain barrel into the trough. “What are you going to do with them?”

“Nothing to do. Little ones won’t last more than a few days.”

“You bottle-feeding?”

“Piglets won’t make it. No use.”

Andrew thought of this, looked over at the two large pigs. “Would you be open to me taking the runts?”