The Orchardist by Amanda Coplin Read Free Book Online

the boy had gone. There was no other sound, no movement in the town. He looked at the trees—the evergreens—the boy had indicated. He knew enough to turn around and go home. But still he hesitated. Eventually, he urged the mule forward.
    A s soon as he entered the clearing from the trees, a boy separated from a gambrel-roofed barn in the distance and drew toward him. As he neared, Talmadge saw that this boy was lean, pale, and red-haired, and walked with his elbows held slightly out. Talmadge saw the strong jaw and hardness around the eyes. He was about fifteen years old, Talmadge guessed.
    Your mule, mister.
    Talmadge sat the mule a moment, taking in the land and the situation of the house and barn. The house was maybe fifty yards away. No smoke came from the chimney. The barn was farther away, set back in the expansive field. One portion of the barn was charred and had collapsed in on itself. Swallows flew intermittently in and out of the collapsed portion.
    Talmadge got down off the mule.
    Somebody tried to burn it down, said the boy. A couple of good-for-nothing girls.
    What?
    The barn.
    Talmadge handed him the reins. He adjusted the strap that held the rifle—hooded in canvas—on his back. I’m here for Michaelson.
    The boy nodded toward the house. Hey, he said, when Talmadge turned away.
    Talmadge turned back to him.
    Your gun, said the boy.
    Talmadge again touched the strap across his chest, reflexively. But he did not remove it from his body.
    The boy finally raised his eyebrows. Suit yourself, he said. But he won’t like it.
    The house was a blend of pulpwood and spruce timber and was poorly built. The porch groaned nauseously beneath him. Two lanterns hung on hooks on either side of the door, the glass oily with soot. The door was open but screened. He could see inside the house, into a room like a parlor and then beyond that into another room, the kitchen, maybe, with a window of smudged light. He hesitated and then rapped twice on the doorframe. From the bowels of the house there was movement, and Talmadge drew himself up and listened. There was someone clearing his throat and muffled steps and then a man appeared behind the screen. He was tall—a whole head taller than Talmadge, who was just over six feet—with a large head, dun-colored pate, a wide mouth, large, stone-colored, heavy-lidded eyes. Talmadge was struck with the possibility that the man was blind: he aimed his stare, heavy, over Talmadge’s shoulder. And he moved very slowly: shuffled. But then he met Talmadge’s eyes, and there was recognition there. The man could see him. Talmadge looked at him and then looked away. Gripped—again, reflexively—the leather strap at his shoulder. The man watched Talmadge without blinking—but he had taken in the rifle, Talmadge felt—and opened the screen door while simultaneously rolling up the cuffs of his worn white shirt. Come in, he said. An uninterested murmur.
    Talmadge stepped inside.
    The screen door thwapped shut.
    The man absently splayed his hand to indicate the wealth of seating—several sofas covered in crushed velvet, musty smelling, and three chairs in the same velvet in different colors—emerald, ruby, mustard. Have a seat, said the man, and scratched the back of his head—again the uninterested tone—and sat down on the edge of the emerald chair. Talmadge sat opposite him, lifting the rifle over his head and laying it across his lap. Michaelson leaned forward and opened a cigar box on the low table and lifted his eyes in Talmadge’s general direction—an offering—but Talmadge raised his hand to decline. The man took a cigar for himself and lit it and took one puff and remained sitting still in his chair. He stared at the floor—worn, scratched pine boards—and seemed to fade into a stupor; he pressed his lips together as if recalling a former agitation.
    And then he seemed to come out from whatever spell he was under.
    No one offered to relieve you of your weaponry, I see,