Beneath the Apple Leaves(63)

Emily Campbell sat with a group of girls in the front row, their giggling and close conversation bringing the nerves to Lily’s reserve again. She took a seat a row over from the group, tried to ignore their stares and snickers. Lily focused on the men milling on the far edge of the field. On one side, men in red shirts; on the other, those in green. She had no idea which team Andrew was on. Then the men broke and headed into the brown open dirt to take their positions and line up.

“Is that him?” Emily asked her friend. “The pitcher?”

“That’s him,” the young woman confirmed. “Andrew. Kiser, I think.”

The chatter floated and Lily strained for every word.

“Your father have a fit if he found you courting a German,” another girl warned.

“Well, Daddy won’t find out, will he?” Emily Campbell stretched out her neck to see better. “Besides, not courting him. Just looking.” She played with the satin ribbons in her pretty hair and turned around, saw Lily looking at her.

“Mind your business, Morton!” she hollered.

For once, Lily met the woman’s beady eyes and didn’t flinch. From the field, a handsome young man called to Lily, waved his red cap in the air. She stretched her arm out high and waved back, her breath catching at the sight of Andrew.

Emily glowered and pointed to Fritz Mueller sitting alone on the next bench. “Shouldn’t you be sitting with the other freaks?”

Lily stood, faced Emily unwaveringly. “Actually, I think I will. Smells like horse over here.” She was courting Andrew and the pride made her bold, made her walk calmly past the gossiping lips.

“Watch out, Lilith,” called Emily cruelly. “Your horns might start to show. Inbreeding does that to a girl.”

The slap came hard and swift, cracked open the mortification and shame that always threatened to seep and drown her no matter how hard she tried to bury the truth. Shovelful after shovelful, hands and body dirty—nothing more than covering broken shells with sand only to have them washed up again.

So long ago, Claire had been the first target of the harsh words, those rare days of heading to town to buy what little food they could afford, her hand clasped in Claire’s, the taunting fresh and blinding to Lily’s innocence. And her sister’s hand would sweat under the teasing, squeeze her fingers with the ridicule. She would look up to Claire’s white face and lips, witness the trembling of her chin, and Lily knew that she was the cause, knew it to her core. And so they shared this condemnation, the scars, and held securely to each other as they fought to stay upright. Lily had felt Claire’s terror, her stigma, since birth—she had inhaled it with her first breath of life.

The sound of a bat against a ball brought her back. The heat burned, but Lily gritted her teeth and crushed the memories to pulp. She headed for the other bleachers, pushed the evil words and chortling of the girls away. “Fritz,” she asked softly, her voice tormented, “may I sit with you?”

“Sure, Lily.” The giant man-boy moved his bottom over to the right. “Sure thing!”

Breathe. Breathe. Fritz probably did not know her past, and if he did it was as incomprehensible to him as it had been for her—as it still was for her. She had always known Claire was her mother, the same way she knew that fact should never be mentioned or acknowledged. One does not speak or analyze depravity; one runs from it as if it were a plague.

A man in a green jersey stepped up to the plate and readied his bat. Andrew pulled back his right arm, lifted his knee and blasted a ball past home plate. “Good one, Andrew!” Fritz screamed. He clapped his hands clumsily, tried to whistle through his fingers but only made a wet wheezing sound instead.

Breathe. The wind fluttered her skirt; her hands sat smooth and feminine on the folds. Today, she thought, I will not be soiled. Today, I can be pretty. Normal. She turned to the young man by her side, grateful beyond words for his simple, beautiful ignorance. “You like him very much, don’t you?” she asked with affection.

“Uh-ha.”

Her body weakened at the sight of Andrew. Here she could watch him openly. Here she was allowed to stare and smile while she thought of his strong body next to hers. Another ball whizzed past the plate. “Strike two!”

Fritz pounded the wood with his fist. “There you go!”

“We’re lucky they moved from Pittsburgh, aren’t we?” she said, relaxing. It was nice to talk to someone in public, even if he didn’t respond. If Fritz weren’t here, she’d still be stuck a row over from Emily Campbell.

“Andrew goes to Pittsburgh,” Fritz said as he watched the players.

“Strike three! You’re out!”

“No,” Lily corrected kindly. “He’s from Pittsburgh.”

“No, Andrew go to Pittsburgh.” He clapped his hands heartily as the next batter took his stance. “To see the whore.”

Something deep inside of her curled and died. “What did you say?”

Fritz smiled, drooled slightly. “To see the whore. Pretty lady, too.”

Lily’s hand found her stomach. There was no way. She looked at Fritz’s profile to see if there was truth in the words, but he just stared out to the ball field. Fritz was slow minded, she reminded herself. He didn’t know what he was saying.

“Fritz,” she asked softly, “do you know what that is?”