took out handfuls of the squirming things and laid them on the branches of three trees, just above where the apples were clustered. The worms would spin a light web, rolling several leaves together, enclosing the clusters of fruit.
He took up a glass jar and unscrewed the top, waiting a moment before opening it all the way. Inside were a hundred apple maggots, a native pest. Smaller than houseflies, they had black bands on their clear wings, a white spot on the back of the thorax, a black abdomen with light-colored crossbands. The design was quite beautiful, be had to say so. He had been breeding the maggots for a whole year now, in preparation for this night. The females would deposit their eggs singly under the apple skin, and then the larvae would burrow in and feed on the flesh. Soon the brown decayed areas would show, and bacteria would cause the fruits to rot internally. They were mostly Cortlands in this block, the apple most susceptible to maggots.
Of course, it was already the second week of September and the apples were ripe and ready for picking. But the flies on the few trees they would strike would cause damage, the apples would be unsuitable for eating. Besides, this part of the orchard had been sprayed with malathion throughout June, July, and August; no one would expect the maggots to appear in September. This was all the more pleasurable to contemplate. He imagined the confusion, the anger, the hysteria. What next? Earthrowl would say.
What next? Well, he had bigger things in mind for what next. The leaf rollers, the maggots, were only a beginning.
He opened the lid all the way and the flies rushed out. He didn’t have to lay them on the branches. They would know exactly where to go.
Chapter Twelve
Moira took Opal with her to pick up the goat for the Jamaicans. She thought the girl might enjoy the outing, have a chance to see the area. Everywhere in Vermont, it seemed, there was a view. In Branbury it was the mountains—the blue curve of Adirondacks to the west; the rolling Greens to the east. And below, the pastures alive with cows and horses, their necks bent to feed on the succulent grasses; and then the open cornfields where the September corn was as tall as—what—an elephant’s eye? She smiled, remembering the musical Oklahoma!, hummed a few bars. The local high school had put it on, Carol had played a small part; she’d looked so fresh and homespun in her jeans and pale pink shirt that it had made Moira’s eyes water.
And here she was, at it again. Moira wiped her eyes with a denim sleeve, willed herself to stop thinking about the past.
Beside her, Opal sat, looking sullen. She hadn’t wanted to come, of course; she was reading a book, a paperback romance. The cover depicted a hairy hand pulling back a diaphanous shower curtain. And of course one could see the woman’s perfect white body shining through.
“So what do you think of Vermont?” she asked Opal, and heard the girl give a small groan. “Dullsville,” the girl said. “This book, too. It doesn’t live up to its cover. Page sixty-two and they haven’t gone to bed yet.”
“Branbury’s a small town,” Moira admitted. “But there’s plenty to do if you look for it. Take Emily Willmarth, now: She belongs to 4-H, a couple of clubs in school, she plays softball—there’s a town team of girls at the rec park.”
“Softball. God,” said Opal, and sighed again.
Moira gave up. For the time being, anyway. They were already in Panton, at Atwood’s goat farm. Opal was staring out the window, her face a pale mask. “Hello there,” Moira called.
Old Mr. Atwood emerged from the barn, a short cheerful man with hairy sunburned hands and a fringe of white hair on his pinkish skull. “Got her here for ya,” he said. “You just drive round now t’back of the barn.”
Opal didn’t want to get out, so Moira helped Mr. Atwood entice the goat over to the pickup. It was a small, white-faced, black-nosed goat; she
He took up a glass jar and unscrewed the top, waiting a moment before opening it all the way. Inside were a hundred apple maggots, a native pest. Smaller than houseflies, they had black bands on their clear wings, a white spot on the back of the thorax, a black abdomen with light-colored crossbands. The design was quite beautiful, be had to say so. He had been breeding the maggots for a whole year now, in preparation for this night. The females would deposit their eggs singly under the apple skin, and then the larvae would burrow in and feed on the flesh. Soon the brown decayed areas would show, and bacteria would cause the fruits to rot internally. They were mostly Cortlands in this block, the apple most susceptible to maggots.
Of course, it was already the second week of September and the apples were ripe and ready for picking. But the flies on the few trees they would strike would cause damage, the apples would be unsuitable for eating. Besides, this part of the orchard had been sprayed with malathion throughout June, July, and August; no one would expect the maggots to appear in September. This was all the more pleasurable to contemplate. He imagined the confusion, the anger, the hysteria. What next? Earthrowl would say.
What next? Well, he had bigger things in mind for what next. The leaf rollers, the maggots, were only a beginning.
He opened the lid all the way and the flies rushed out. He didn’t have to lay them on the branches. They would know exactly where to go.
Chapter Twelve
Moira took Opal with her to pick up the goat for the Jamaicans. She thought the girl might enjoy the outing, have a chance to see the area. Everywhere in Vermont, it seemed, there was a view. In Branbury it was the mountains—the blue curve of Adirondacks to the west; the rolling Greens to the east. And below, the pastures alive with cows and horses, their necks bent to feed on the succulent grasses; and then the open cornfields where the September corn was as tall as—what—an elephant’s eye? She smiled, remembering the musical Oklahoma!, hummed a few bars. The local high school had put it on, Carol had played a small part; she’d looked so fresh and homespun in her jeans and pale pink shirt that it had made Moira’s eyes water.
And here she was, at it again. Moira wiped her eyes with a denim sleeve, willed herself to stop thinking about the past.
Beside her, Opal sat, looking sullen. She hadn’t wanted to come, of course; she was reading a book, a paperback romance. The cover depicted a hairy hand pulling back a diaphanous shower curtain. And of course one could see the woman’s perfect white body shining through.
“So what do you think of Vermont?” she asked Opal, and heard the girl give a small groan. “Dullsville,” the girl said. “This book, too. It doesn’t live up to its cover. Page sixty-two and they haven’t gone to bed yet.”
“Branbury’s a small town,” Moira admitted. “But there’s plenty to do if you look for it. Take Emily Willmarth, now: She belongs to 4-H, a couple of clubs in school, she plays softball—there’s a town team of girls at the rec park.”
“Softball. God,” said Opal, and sighed again.
Moira gave up. For the time being, anyway. They were already in Panton, at Atwood’s goat farm. Opal was staring out the window, her face a pale mask. “Hello there,” Moira called.
Old Mr. Atwood emerged from the barn, a short cheerful man with hairy sunburned hands and a fringe of white hair on his pinkish skull. “Got her here for ya,” he said. “You just drive round now t’back of the barn.”
Opal didn’t want to get out, so Moira helped Mr. Atwood entice the goat over to the pickup. It was a small, white-faced, black-nosed goat; she
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