Beneath the Apple Leaves(80)

The muscle and bone and flesh pain didn’t matter. He would work by Wilhelm’s side silently and without complaint until his uncle gave the word to stop. For Andrew had seen a man die that day at the market. He had watched a proud, strong man who had tamed the railroad turn to ash that day. It would only take a fleeting wind to blow that ash away. So, it did not matter that his hand bled or that his shoulder was nearly disjointed or his head dizzied from dehydration. Andrew would work next to his uncle and step between him and any wind that dared to blow.

The corn seed had been delivered earlier in the week and they were already behind getting it into the ground. Andrew didn’t ask where the corn came from or how it was paid for. He already knew. Saw the way Wilhelm had nearly pummeled Frank Morton, the taste of disgrace hardened and stuck to his mouth.

At the mount, after the endless rows of overturned earth, Wilhelm turned off the engine, and the sudden lack of noise was startling. It made the ding in Andrew’s ears throb worse with the reprieve.

“Slow goin’!” Wilhelm shouted, his ears still deaf. “Corn should be in by the end of the week, though. Don’t you think?”

Andrew nodded, scanned the acres of hard-won clearing.

“Let’s break for supper and pick up later. Moon will be full, so we can work late.”

Back at the house, Lily cooked at the stove and Andrew knew a good midday meal was coming his way. She set the roast chicken and boiled potatoes in front of the men. Andrew picked up the serving spoon and it dropped from his fingers, the ting loud upon the table. Eveline caught a glance at his swollen fingers. “My word, look at your hand!” She turned on Wilhelm. “His hand is nearly raw to the bone.”

Andrew hid his hand under the table. “It’s nothing.”

“Nothing? Let me see you pick up your fork.”

“Let it go, Eve,” Wilhelm ordered. “Comes with the work. It’ll heal.”

“You let him drive the tractor until it does,” she commanded.

Wilhelm ignored her and stabbed into his potato.

“It’s too hot in here. Going to eat outside.” Andrew didn’t want the stares or the pity and carried the plate outdoors, sat on the granite slab. He used his tight and bloated fingers to pop the small potatoes into his mouth, his appetite nearly gone.

The screen door opened. Lily sat down, tucked her dress around her legs. The calico cat crawled from under an azalea bush and rubbed against her shins. Lily gave her a good scratch behind the ears.

“Rather you didn’t see me eat right now,” Andrew said. He stared at the food, gave a half smile. “Embarrassing enough I can’t hold my fork.”

She smiled and took the plate from his lap and gently pulled his wrist to her lap. From her pocket she removed a small, round tin and took off the lid to reveal a yellowy paste. Gently, she held the hand and opened the curved fingers. Andrew flinched, the scabs breaking with the movement. She took the cream and with a touch of a feather rubbed it thickly into the red and broken skin. At first the pain left him squirming, but soon the oils made the tight skin pliable and his muscles relaxed. “What is it?” he asked.

“Mutton tallow.” She watched her work as if she were playing a beautiful song upon the piano keys. “Found it in the root cellar. Doesn’t smell so great but will keep your hand from tightening.”

The pain was leaving and the feel of her fingers upon his skin came through; the rhythmic circles of her tender strokes left him mellow and sleepy.

“I heard what happened,” she said softly. “At the market.”

He didn’t expect the pang of humiliation, but it entered, hard and swift. He didn’t want her to know and yet he wanted her to know. He wanted her to look at him in that way that was at once gentle and urgent—that look that said all would be all right and if it wasn’t, she would still be there.

“How’d you hear?”

“Old man Stevens.”

Andrew stared into his plate, remembered the look on Will’s and Edgar’s faces. He remembered how Eveline had cried when she heard, remembered that white, deathly look on Wilhelm’s face.

Lily’s arched eyebrows narrowed and her forehead creased. “It’s not right. Not right what people are doing. What they’re saying.”

Andrew picked up a potato, long cooled, and chewed slowly.

“Were you scared?” she asked.

“No.”

“I didn’t think so. You were mad, though. Weren’t you?” She grinned. “Bet your blood was boiling.”

“Yeah.” But he didn’t grin, continued to chew slowly. “I’m still mad.”

“I know.” Her head nodded as if she were still saying it.

Andrew watched her. He pushed the words away, pushed the day of the market away and leaned in, kissed her on the cheek.

Her eyes sprung wide and she touched the spot, glowed. “What was that for?”

He wasn’t tired anymore. He wanted to lean her against the stones and kiss her neck until she squirmed and giggled underneath him.

She stared back at him. “I want to show you something.”

His veins ignited just with the tone. “And what’s that?”

“Finish your meal, then meet me by the woods.” She pointed to the row of pines that stood as a line between the deciduous trees. “I’ll be waiting there.”