that she lived up App Valley, thatâs out by Mr. Tallâs.)
A long time before, Mr. Tallâs young wife and baby daughter had drowned in the gorge. The three of them were on the way to Asheville on the train. A tree had fallen across the track, and while Tolliver and the rest of the men tried to move the tree, the women and children got out to walk around. Mrs. Tolliver walked with the baby toward the river. The baby fell in and Mrs. Tolliver went in after her. The rapids washed both of them up under a rock, where they drowned. Mr. Tall was never quite right again. He came to town less and less and eventually stopped coming entirely. Now everybody said he would shoot you if you set foot on his place. Of course, people also said that he had reasons other than not being right for wanting to be left alone. He had an apple orchard that his ancestors had planted when they came to the valley. People said he used the apples to make brandy. Twice a year Third Scott, who ran a mercantile in Argyle, hauled a load of supplies out to Tolliverâs and supposedly hauled a load of apple brandy back to town. (Plutina had seen Scottâs wagon go by and knew at least the hauling supplies part of the story to be true. The brandy part people only whispered about.) Nobody else ever saw Mr. Tall. All Third Scott would say about him was, if I was you I wouldnât go up in there.
One afternoon Plutina was sitting on the front step staring down the road when, for no reason she could think of, she turned and stared up the road instead. She said, out loud, âWhy, Mr. Tall,â as if he had walked up behind her on the street to say hello. She couldnât see his place, of course, because a shank of App Mountain ran into the valley between their two farms like a buttress, but she imagined him coming around the foot of the ridge. He was walking. He was riding a horse. He was carrying a gun. He wasnât carrying a gun. He smelled awful because he never bathed. He smelled good because Scott brought him soap and bay rum and he was the kind of hermit who was overly particular and washed himself every day. She imagined what she would do when she saw him. She would run in the house and bolt the door. She would fly up the mountain and hide in the woods. He would chase her. He would go on by. She would say howdy when he drew abreast of the house. He would howdy back, or he would stare straight ahead and pretend he didnât hear her. They would talk about how the garden could use some rain and how the watermelons were getting ripe, or they wouldnât. She began to tap the step with her foot. Mr. Tall was more fun to think about than the neighbor girl she knew would never come. It was almost like having a new friend. (She was getting a little tired of the neighbor girl, anyway; all she ever wanted to talk about was herself.) Soon Plutinaâs attention settled on the wooded, tapering ridge that blocked her view to the end of the valley. She figured that if she climbed it and looked over the top she might be able to see through to Mr. Tallâs farm. She bet the place was overgrown and falling in, the fields waist-deep in briars and hardwood bushes and cedar trees, the roofs of the outbuildings collapsed in on themselves. She reconsidered and put roofs back on the barn and the chicken house. She knew that Mr. Tall kept at least a few animals because some mornings, when the wind blew just right, she could hear his rooster crowing and his cow lowing to be milked, and he had to keep them somewhere. She had never heard a dog bark, though.
Mr. Tall supposedly lived in a big house, a fine house, but Plutina imagined the yard full of trash, where Mr. Tall just opened the door and pitched it out. The windows were covered over with the boxwoods that his wife had planted and he hadnât cut back since she died. Poison oak grew up the outside walls and turned bloody red in the fall. Inside, the house was lamp-lighting dark. It
A long time before, Mr. Tallâs young wife and baby daughter had drowned in the gorge. The three of them were on the way to Asheville on the train. A tree had fallen across the track, and while Tolliver and the rest of the men tried to move the tree, the women and children got out to walk around. Mrs. Tolliver walked with the baby toward the river. The baby fell in and Mrs. Tolliver went in after her. The rapids washed both of them up under a rock, where they drowned. Mr. Tall was never quite right again. He came to town less and less and eventually stopped coming entirely. Now everybody said he would shoot you if you set foot on his place. Of course, people also said that he had reasons other than not being right for wanting to be left alone. He had an apple orchard that his ancestors had planted when they came to the valley. People said he used the apples to make brandy. Twice a year Third Scott, who ran a mercantile in Argyle, hauled a load of supplies out to Tolliverâs and supposedly hauled a load of apple brandy back to town. (Plutina had seen Scottâs wagon go by and knew at least the hauling supplies part of the story to be true. The brandy part people only whispered about.) Nobody else ever saw Mr. Tall. All Third Scott would say about him was, if I was you I wouldnât go up in there.
One afternoon Plutina was sitting on the front step staring down the road when, for no reason she could think of, she turned and stared up the road instead. She said, out loud, âWhy, Mr. Tall,â as if he had walked up behind her on the street to say hello. She couldnât see his place, of course, because a shank of App Mountain ran into the valley between their two farms like a buttress, but she imagined him coming around the foot of the ridge. He was walking. He was riding a horse. He was carrying a gun. He wasnât carrying a gun. He smelled awful because he never bathed. He smelled good because Scott brought him soap and bay rum and he was the kind of hermit who was overly particular and washed himself every day. She imagined what she would do when she saw him. She would run in the house and bolt the door. She would fly up the mountain and hide in the woods. He would chase her. He would go on by. She would say howdy when he drew abreast of the house. He would howdy back, or he would stare straight ahead and pretend he didnât hear her. They would talk about how the garden could use some rain and how the watermelons were getting ripe, or they wouldnât. She began to tap the step with her foot. Mr. Tall was more fun to think about than the neighbor girl she knew would never come. It was almost like having a new friend. (She was getting a little tired of the neighbor girl, anyway; all she ever wanted to talk about was herself.) Soon Plutinaâs attention settled on the wooded, tapering ridge that blocked her view to the end of the valley. She figured that if she climbed it and looked over the top she might be able to see through to Mr. Tallâs farm. She bet the place was overgrown and falling in, the fields waist-deep in briars and hardwood bushes and cedar trees, the roofs of the outbuildings collapsed in on themselves. She reconsidered and put roofs back on the barn and the chicken house. She knew that Mr. Tall kept at least a few animals because some mornings, when the wind blew just right, she could hear his rooster crowing and his cow lowing to be milked, and he had to keep them somewhere. She had never heard a dog bark, though.
Mr. Tall supposedly lived in a big house, a fine house, but Plutina imagined the yard full of trash, where Mr. Tall just opened the door and pitched it out. The windows were covered over with the boxwoods that his wife had planted and he hadnât cut back since she died. Poison oak grew up the outside walls and turned bloody red in the fall. Inside, the house was lamp-lighting dark. It
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