Chapter 6: Apple Trees

It was the smell that got to Tom. Wet earth, torn wood, and something electric. It stuck in his nostrils. “That’s a very odd smell,” he said. Charlotte, standing next to him, nodded. “It really is.”

She had a fresh white bandage on her arm. It was the morning after the storm, and the two were standing just off the patio. The property was littered with bits of tree branches, torn roof shingles, and paper ripped from their recycling bin. On a second, calmer examination – after Tom’s hasty one when the winds first died down – the barn and the shop were indeed intact. And by now Tom had nailed plywood over the broken kitchen window and was expecting replacement glass later that day, or the next. The glass guys were busy.

He knew one of his Fuji apple trees had taken a hit. Walking the line, he discovered a second one had as well. “What a shame,” Charlotte said. “I loved those apples.” Tom kicked a torn stump. “Well, we can plant new ones. Besides, the wood will be great for the smoker.”

She knelt and ran her hand over the raw, broken wood. “Thank heaven for small favors.”

The air today felt drained of energy, and the sky was such a hard shade of blue it seemed you could bounce a rock off it. It was cool – much cooler than the day before – and dry. The land looked stunned, festooned with the debris of human lives like an odd uniform. And it was strangely quiet. Tom noticed the usual noisy songbirds were either gone or silent. He even found himself lowering his voice.

Still, aside from the downed trees, a few shingles off the roof, and scattered bits of paper, that seemed to be the worst of it. The funnel cloud had come close, and sometimes close is everything.

Now they had walked fifty or so yards from the house, and Charlotte stopped to look back at it, recalling her terror as the storm had approached, roaring like a freight train. “I’m so thankful the house survived,” she said. Tom looked too. Something about seeing the house from this distance made his chest tight. He loved the place. Its simple square profile, the neat gables over the second-story windows, the unfussy clapboard siding. He could see maybe twenty or thirty missing roof shingles. Easily fixed. “Me too,” he said.

He stepped behind Charlotte, wrapped both arms around her, and squeezed – minding her injured arm. “But even better, you’re OK,” he said. “Christ, you scared me.” Charlotte placed her good hand on his forearm and leaned back into him. They stood in place for several long minutes, then let the embrace go and began walking again

Soon they were at the edge of Tom’s twenty acres and coming up on the much larger property of Tom’s neighbor, Jim Baker. From behind the broad trunk of a Southern live oak, Baker himself appeared, maybe a football field away. “Jim!” Tom shouted, waving.

Baker waved back and walked toward them. As he approached, Tom thought that he would fit effortlessly into a Larry McMurtry novel: Sweat-stained hat, frayed jeans, silver belt buckle. But the details put to rest any idea he was a caricature. The wire-nicked hands were real, as were the deep crow’s feet around his gray eyes, and the way he moved as if to minimize wasted energy. “Tom, Charlotte,” he said, unselfconsciously tipping his hat. “Morning.”

“Morning, Jim.” Charlotte said to him. “How did you manage in the storm?”

“Oh, not bad,” Baker replied. “Lost some trees. The barn has part of oak leaning against it.”

“The barn?” Tom asked, concerned. “Are your animals OK?”

Baker nodded. “Oh yeah. Horses got spooked but they’re OK.”

Charlotte sighed audibly. “That is so good to hear,” she said, remembering a horse of his that she particularly liked, an Appaloosa mare named Winnie.

“Jim, do you need any help, with that tree?” Tom asked. “I can come by this afternoon with my Stihl.” Jim nodded slowly. “I’d be grateful. The two of us should make short work of it. And you’re welcome to any of the wood you want.” Tom nodded too. “OK then. Look for me around 2.”

Jim tilted his head. “Appreciate it.” He sauntered off as slowly as he had approached.

Back at the house, Tom decided to drive to Tractor Supply to buy bar oil for his chainsaw. “Wanna come?” he asked Charlotte. “We can get a sandwich.” She perked up at that “You got it, mister,” she said. “Something fun.”

They were maybe two miles from the house when they encountered two pickups – a battered blue Chevy and a clean, newer red Ram – parked along a stretch of storm-flattened fence. A woman with curly dark hair was kneeling over something. Next to her, Tom realized with a start, was his friend Peter. He had another start when he clocked that the woman was Margaret Spence. Peter was single now. Margaret was not. The day before he had literally addressed an invitation to Margaret and her husband Barrett.

“Interesting,” he said as he took in the tableau.

“Fascinating,” Charlotte echoed.

Tom pulled off the highway. “What do you think is going on?” he asked Charlotte. “Should we investigate.”

“Absolutely,” she said. Tom turned off the ignition, and they both climbed down from the truck. “Margaret. Peter,” Tom said, his eyes running over the two people as well as the fence. “What happened?”

Margaret looked up. “The fence caught a calf,” she said. “Killed it.” Then Tom saw the tawny, inert figure. “Awwww…” said Charlotte. “I’m so sorry.” Margaret shrugged a little. “Not one of ours,” she said. “I think this is the Jenson property, but we couldn’t reach them, so Peter suggested we at least get the fence secure.”

Tom looked at Peter. “I’ll help you load the calf in your truck. While I’m here, we can get this fence back upright too, if not totally nailed down.” Tom went back to his Ford to get some gloves. Peter followed. “What brings you out here?” Tom asked.

“I was just driving by and saw her,” Peter said, not quite looking at Tom. “Stopped to help.” Tom smiled at him. “Such a good neighbor,” he said amusedly. “That’s me,” replied Peter, smiling back.

Tom looked at the women and saw Charlotte crouching next to Margaret, picking up shattered bits of fence. Margaret looked tired, a man’s Carhartt work coat swallowing her slender frame. As Tom and Peter began to wrestle a fence post, out of their earshot, Charlotte spoke to Margaret. “It’s kind of you both to take care of things out here,” Charlotte said. “We’ve seen enough bad things already with this storm.”

A tractor-trailer rumbled by with a loud roar and a “whoosh” that tossed the women’s hair and made the men flinch. “Fuck,” Tom muttered. “That guy wasn’t taking any prisoners.”

The noise receded.

“Well, couldn’t be helped,” Margaret said. She looked at Charlotte’s bandage. “What happened to your arm?” she asked. “A cut,” Charlotte replied. “A branch took out a kitchen window, and I managed to catch my arm on broken glass.” Margaret winced sympathetically. “It’s OK?”

“Five stitches. Tom had already patched me up. But it hurt.”

Charlotte watched Margaret’s hands for a moment as they worked at the splintered rail. Then she lowered her voice. “Tell me something,” she said. “How did Peter happen to stop by? Do you two know each other?”

Charlotte knew enough to figure they ran in different social circles. Barrett and Margaret were, if not quite local aristocracy, then at least well known. Peter was a fundamentally decent guy who for his own reasons had simply opted out of the local rat race for money and prestige. Tom often wished he would show a bit more resolve.

 Margaret passed a hand over her forehead. “I…well…it’s complicated,” she said resignedly. “He’s been coming by lately, offering to help with things. When I’m alone.”

Charlotte’s eyes widened a touch. “Is that all it is?” she said. “What about Barrett?” A big, dark man who had made money in property. He liked to hunt and the stories were it wasn’t just for deer.

Margaret picked up a length of fir post, pretending to examine it. “Barrett has been gone a lot,” she said. “Business, hunting. Peter does things that Barrett hasn’t had time for.” She paused. “Or interest in.” Charlotte tipped onto her knees. She shaded her hand with her eyes for a moment to watch Tom and Peter. Then she returned to Margaret. “I see,” she said. “That must be difficult for you, Margaret. Having to deal with such a heavy workload alone.”

Tom laughed at something.

“It has been challenging, yes,” Margaret replied. “But having Peter around some -- it’s been nice. He listens, and he cares. More than Barrett ever has.”

Charlotte considered that. “I’m curious,” she said. “How did you two meet? She almost said How in the world but caught herself in time.

Margaret looked up at her, gauging what to say. Then she also came up onto her knees.

“Well,” she said. “I guess it was sort of ‘meet cute.’ I had a flat tire – I’d hit a cotter pin on the road. He happened to drive by and saw me holding the jack in my hand. He stopped to help. We got to talking, and…”

That “and” was doing some heavy lifting and Charlotte knew it.

She paused, considering her next words. “I think I can see that,” she said. “Sometimes we never know where help might come from. Maybe Peter is what you need right now. And that he just appeared when you could use a hand. Maybe meant something.”

 Margaret looked at her. “You’re right, Charlotte,” she said. “Sometimes life surprises us.”

She began to hum a tune, then broke into a few sad words.

“That’s beautiful,” Charlotte said. “What is it?”

“Opera,” Margaret said. “Vissi d’arte from Tosca. It’s about a woman who gives and gives – and then gets only pain. I sang some in college. This one seems appropriate.” Charlotte began to see that Margaret ran deeper than she had – probably unfairly – assumed. “Do you still sing?” she asked. Margaret shook her head. “Not much – mainly for myself.”

Charlotte had an idea. “We’re having a barbecue in a few weeks – it looks like everything important at the house came out OK from the storm. You’re invited but we’re just mailing the invitations today. And Barrett too. Maybe you could sing!”

Another shake of the head. “No – I don’t think I could.” Charlotte’s face fell a little, then she went back to collecting splinters.

Margaret stood, gently clapped her hands together to knock off some dust. “Strange day,” she said, looking around. “It’s so beautiful compared with…yesterday.”

Charlotte stood too. “It really is,” she said. “That was terrifying. Tom said we sheltered in the bathroom. But it’s so odd – I don’t remember much of that at all. You’d think I would have. He sure did.”

Margaret looked at her. “Maybe you just blanked out. From fear. It happens.” Charlotte nodded. “That could be.”

Margaret watched the two men working on the post for a moment. Then she said, “You know, sometimes I wonder what might have been different if I hadn't married so young. If I'd taken more time for myself before settling down.”

Charlotte tossed a length of broken post into the bed of Peter’s truck. “I don’t think you’re alone in wondering something like that,” she said. “I think everyone wonders about a different path. Tom does. He wishes he’d studied history and then written books.”

Margaret glanced at her. “And what about you?”

Charlotte looked at her and wiped her hand across her forehead. “That’s such a good question,” she said. “But I don’t know – I don’t know. I kind of feel like my life went by and I just ended up – ended up right here.”

She decided to change the subject. “I hope you don’t mind if I ask,” she said. “But do you have kids?” Margaret smiled faintly. “Yes – one,” she said. “Jack. He’s a freshman in college.” She paused. “He is the light of my life.” Her eyes began to shine a little. Charlotte noticed. She stood and put a hand on Margaret’s shoulder. “I’m glad you have him,” she said. Margaret wiped her eyes. “Me too.”

Down the road, Tom twisted a wire tight and looked at Peter. “We were a little surprised to see you two here,” he said. “Is there something going on?”  That came out more bluntly than he intended. “Of course not,” Peter said. “But…” He glanced toward Margaret. “She’s lonely, Tom. You can feel it from fifty yards away.”

Tom looked along the fence line. “OK,” he said. But lonely doesn’t always mean reckless.”

Peter shrugged. “Probably not.” Tom realized that Peter, Barrett, and Margaret might all be at the barbecue – even pictured them sitting at the same table. That could be awkward. But it wasn’t his rodeo, he decided. They stomped dirt around the post and walked back to the vehicles. Margaret saw them coming and fell quiet.

“Here,” Tom said to Peter. “Let’s get this calf in the back of your truck.” With a mutual grunt, they lifted the dead animal over the tailgate of Peter’s Chevy. Margaret turned away, unable to watch. Tom took off his gloves. “Anything else we can help with?”

“No,” said Margaret. “I appreciate your help.”  She took a step towards Charlotte and gave her a hug. “Thank you,” Margaret said. “It’s good to see you. We should have coffee sometime.”

Charlotte took her phone from her pocket. “I would love that. Give me your number and I’ll call you and then you’ll have mine.”

After the number exchange, Tom and Charlotte got back in the Ford. Tom turned the ignition and put it truck in gear. “Well,” he said as he accelerated onto the highway. “That was interesting. What did you learn? I saw you two talking.”

 “I learned that Margaret feels alone,” Charlotte said. “And that Peter has helped fill a void.” Tom watched a truck approaching in his rear-view mirror. Probably should have let him pass first.

“It may be mutual” he said. “Peter hasn’t been quite himself since he and Peggy split up.”  Charlotte nodded thoughtfully. “It seems there’s a lot more going on than meets the eye.”

“I guess so,” Tom said. The tires hummed.

“Margaret said something else,” Charlotte added. “I told her I didn’t remember the time in the bathroom very well – you know, during the storm. I thought maybe something was wrong with me. She thinks being frightened caused me to forget.”

Tom considered that. “Entirely possible,” he said. “But that still doesn’t explain why you suggested playing cards.” She crossed her arms. “I still don’t think I said that. And even if I did it was just to be helpful.”

“Okay then,” Tom said with a soft laugh. “That’s settled.”

Then his face became a little serious. “You know,” he said. “About Margaret and Peter. I hope Peter knows Barrett keeps guns in the house. Lots of them.”

Charlotte’s eyes widened. “Oh my goodness. That’s worrying. Do you think there will be trouble?”

 “God, I hope not. But this is Texas.”

They drove on for a minute. Tom broke the silence.

 “I’m starved.”

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