September Song by William Humphrey Page A

foreclose—and this has never had one since the dawn of Creation—you won’t be selling apples on streetcorners. You’ll be supplying them.”
    â€œPlanting trees. At your age.”
    â€œWe orchardmen take the long view. Eh, Pete? Father to son. Or son-in-law, as the case may be. As long as this remains an orchard it’s going to be treated as one. That means replacing trees. Maybe one of my grandchildren will want to farm it.”
    â€œYou haven’t got any grandchildren. And if you were to have one tomorrow it would come of working age about the time these trees you’re planting bear their first fruit. You expect to live to see that?”
    â€œI expect to be feeding people long after I’m dead. When you think, Pete, of the work that goes into an orchard! The work and the faith. Your grandfather planted that tree, your father that one. They did it for their children, we do it for ours. Can you just imagine the heartbreak of seeing them all torn up by the roots?”
    â€œI don’t have to imagine it. I have seen it done.”
    â€œI’m sorry I mentioned it, son. That was thoughtless of me.”
    An offer was made by a developer which the agent advised him to accept. He did. He accepted it with no intention of living up to the agreement but in order to impress Janet with his determination, with the worth of her patrimony and her duty to preserve it. For the announcement of his acceptance the agent was invited to supper. He felt not one twinge of conscience over using and misleading the fellow. He did not like him, nor any of his breed. Merchants of misery, of broken homes, deaths, ruination, old age, spoliation. Besides, he had practically boarded him.
    â€œLooks like I’ve got no choice but to take it,” he sighed.
    Never was so much money accepted so ungratefully. It was an awesome sum. It made him realize as never before what he would be sacrificing. The amount shocked him, shamed him, made him feel a bigger culprit, contemptible in the eyes of all the living and of all his ancestors now turning over in their graves out behind the house. He listened with one ear to the offer while listening with the other one for Janet’s voice relenting at the eleventh hour.
    She was calling his bluff, forcing him to show every card in his hand. He had now played all but the last one: the closing. Meanwhile, nothing had been signed, all was still pending. Backing out of the deal even after a binder had been put down was a common occurrence. He would gladly refund a buyer’s binder.
    He could no longer rely upon that telepathy he had believed to exist between him and her. She was younger than he realized, childish, less sensitive, less dutiful. Truth was, her mother and her sisters had spoiled her. People used to do the things expected of them out of a sense of obligation, but today’s youth—irresponsible, selfish. It was time for a showdown. He would be tactful, fatherly—all that; but he would be firm, and he would have his way.
    â€œListen here, Janet,” he said. “It’s time you and I had a talk.”
    She agreed, for she had something to say to him.
    â€œ You’ve got something to say to me? What is it?”
    â€œI’m engaged. Engaged to be married. You’ve got all your daughters off your hands now. Well, aren’t you going to congratulate me?”
    â€œWho is he?” he demanded.
    â€œRod.”
    â€œRod? Rod who?”
    â€œWhy, Rodney Evans, of course. What other Rod do we know?”
    He did not know any Rodney Evans. Who the hell was Rodney Evans? There could be no Rodney Evans, for none figured in his plans. Then he knew who Rodney Evans was. He had been a part of his plans but this was not the part he was cast for. Rodney Evans was not a person, he was the real estate agent—him with hair like a meringue—meant to scare her with. Rodney Evans was the serpent he himself had invited into his