considered meaningful. To that boy, Moira worried, Carol was merely a conquest. And yet she was wholly taken with him; she thought, for the first time, she was truly in love.
The pair passed by, laughing. Emily seemed so caught up in the romance of it she didn’t even acknowledge Moira. They moved on out past the farmhouse. Opal was standing on the porch with her guitar, pretending she didn’t see the couple. She had changed her clothes, she was wearing something hot pink, her hair was freshly washed. She was pretty, as her mother had been pretty before she had Opal and gained all that weight, those facial jowls.
When Emily had moved out into the road, on her way home, Opal called out to Adam and he halted, went to the corner of the porch. Was Emily out of earshot? Moira thought she saw the girl’s back slump slightly forward. Emily had been disappointed once before in love, Ruth had told Moira, her boyfriend taking up with some city girl. Emily had never wholly forgiven him, and now he was away at school.
Moira wanted to run and hug her.
But here was Stan, calling to her from the barn doorway. “Where’ve you been, Moira?”
“I told you. Getting the goat. It’s outside the bunkhouse, Bartholomew’s tied it up.”
“Let’s take a walk. I need to talk. Christ, you don’t know what’s happened?”
Now she was alarmed; she felt the hairs prickle on the back of her neck. She ran to him, took his arm. He was rushing her down the path, away from the bunkhouse. She stumbled on a Fallon apple. “What, what?” she said.
Stan’s face was contorted. He looked as though someone had given him a blow on the head.
Finally he stopped, grabbed her hands. “It’s Samuels,” he said. “He shot himself. Last night. After the hearing. He went home and shot himself. He’s in a coma now.” His voice rose with each sentence. “And that bitch did it. It was her fault. It was—it was murder, Moira. Attempted murder.”
“Wait a minute. She didn’t shoot him....”
“She might as well have. She was his tormenter. He was sensitive as hell. Everyone says so. He couldn’t take the hammering she gave him. Oh Christ, Christ, that poor fellow. ...”
He pushed his damp face into her shoulder. Her left shoulder was soaked, and not just from the rain.
Chapter Thirteen
Ruth was swabbing down the barn floor when Emily ran in, breathless, her face streaked with grime and tears. The floor was Emily’s job, but now that the girl was picking apples, Ruth was doing it. Emily flung herself at her mother; the mop in Ruth’s hands went flying. “Emily! What—what is it?”
Emily sank down on a sawhorse. She was openly sobbing now. Ruth knelt beside her. And heard the news about Aaron Samuels.
“My friend Cissy Harper told me, I met her on the way back from the orchard. It was all because of Harry Rowen’s mother. She’s a fundie. She complained after that school board woman tried to—to persecute him.” She blew her nose loudly into a tissue. “He was so wonderful—is! He’s such a great guy. We all love him. He understands us. He liked that short story I wrote, the one about being a farmer’s kid…” She broke down again. Her hands were trembling where they gripped the rough sides of the sawhorse.
Ruth squeezed in beside her daughter, put her arms around the girl. “I’m sorry, so sorry,” she said. She’d only met Mr. Samuels once, at a school open house, and liked him. He’d been divorced a year or two ago, she’d heard; his wife had left for the city, taking along their young son. There might have been more to the shooting than just that school business. But Emily wouldn’t see that. She’d see it as persecution. Everyone was persecuting everyone else in Emily’s world. The US government persecuting the farmers. The Republicans persecuting the Democrats. Someone persecuting the orchard next door. Emily was upset about that, too; she’d talked incessantly about the latest incident, the
The pair passed by, laughing. Emily seemed so caught up in the romance of it she didn’t even acknowledge Moira. They moved on out past the farmhouse. Opal was standing on the porch with her guitar, pretending she didn’t see the couple. She had changed her clothes, she was wearing something hot pink, her hair was freshly washed. She was pretty, as her mother had been pretty before she had Opal and gained all that weight, those facial jowls.
When Emily had moved out into the road, on her way home, Opal called out to Adam and he halted, went to the corner of the porch. Was Emily out of earshot? Moira thought she saw the girl’s back slump slightly forward. Emily had been disappointed once before in love, Ruth had told Moira, her boyfriend taking up with some city girl. Emily had never wholly forgiven him, and now he was away at school.
Moira wanted to run and hug her.
But here was Stan, calling to her from the barn doorway. “Where’ve you been, Moira?”
“I told you. Getting the goat. It’s outside the bunkhouse, Bartholomew’s tied it up.”
“Let’s take a walk. I need to talk. Christ, you don’t know what’s happened?”
Now she was alarmed; she felt the hairs prickle on the back of her neck. She ran to him, took his arm. He was rushing her down the path, away from the bunkhouse. She stumbled on a Fallon apple. “What, what?” she said.
Stan’s face was contorted. He looked as though someone had given him a blow on the head.
Finally he stopped, grabbed her hands. “It’s Samuels,” he said. “He shot himself. Last night. After the hearing. He went home and shot himself. He’s in a coma now.” His voice rose with each sentence. “And that bitch did it. It was her fault. It was—it was murder, Moira. Attempted murder.”
“Wait a minute. She didn’t shoot him....”
“She might as well have. She was his tormenter. He was sensitive as hell. Everyone says so. He couldn’t take the hammering she gave him. Oh Christ, Christ, that poor fellow. ...”
He pushed his damp face into her shoulder. Her left shoulder was soaked, and not just from the rain.
Chapter Thirteen
Ruth was swabbing down the barn floor when Emily ran in, breathless, her face streaked with grime and tears. The floor was Emily’s job, but now that the girl was picking apples, Ruth was doing it. Emily flung herself at her mother; the mop in Ruth’s hands went flying. “Emily! What—what is it?”
Emily sank down on a sawhorse. She was openly sobbing now. Ruth knelt beside her. And heard the news about Aaron Samuels.
“My friend Cissy Harper told me, I met her on the way back from the orchard. It was all because of Harry Rowen’s mother. She’s a fundie. She complained after that school board woman tried to—to persecute him.” She blew her nose loudly into a tissue. “He was so wonderful—is! He’s such a great guy. We all love him. He understands us. He liked that short story I wrote, the one about being a farmer’s kid…” She broke down again. Her hands were trembling where they gripped the rough sides of the sawhorse.
Ruth squeezed in beside her daughter, put her arms around the girl. “I’m sorry, so sorry,” she said. She’d only met Mr. Samuels once, at a school open house, and liked him. He’d been divorced a year or two ago, she’d heard; his wife had left for the city, taking along their young son. There might have been more to the shooting than just that school business. But Emily wouldn’t see that. She’d see it as persecution. Everyone was persecuting everyone else in Emily’s world. The US government persecuting the farmers. The Republicans persecuting the Democrats. Someone persecuting the orchard next door. Emily was upset about that, too; she’d talked incessantly about the latest incident, the
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