The Cherry Harvest (5 page)

KATE READ EAGERLY TO THE END
. “And the ashes blew towards us with the salt wind from the sea.” Ashes of Manderley.

After reading those last lines, she reluctantly closed the book and stared at the yellow book jacket—
Rebecca,
Daphne du Maurier. Kate wanted to meet this author, learn the impetus for the story. The biographical note on the inside flap said that du Maurier lived in Cornwall, England. Worlds away.

Kate put down the book, switched off her nightstand lamp, and lay back on her pillow. She decided she liked sad endings best. Why was that? She was eager to discuss it with Professor Fleming.

An owl hooted from the woods:
hoo h'hoo hoooo
. Another echoed in the distance. The beam from the lighthouse swept across the ceiling.

Professor Fleming. Kate closed her eyes and brought it all back—four years ago, when she was thirteen.

From the time Kate was a little girl, Father had taken her to every theater production in the county—community plays, school performances, even puppet shows. Mother and Ben weren't interested, but
Kate loved escaping into the stories. When Father proposed to take Kate to a play at the university in Madison, Mother wasn't pleased. But it was November, the orchard was dormant for the winter, the root cellar was full, and Ben volunteered to do Kate's chores while she was away.

“It'll be just one night,” Father had said.

With overnight bags in hand, Kate and Father boarded the train in a flurry of feathery snow and traveled south through small towns and open countryside, passing snow-covered red barns and carrot-nosed snowmen and children skating on backyard ponds.

Once on their way, Father opened his valise and pulled out a book.
Show Boat
. “The play's based on this novel.” He handed it to Kate. “Written by a Wisconsin girl, Edna Ferber. Grew up in Appleton. We'll be going right through there on the way.”

Greedy for a new story, Kate pushed off her shoes, pulled her legs up under her wool plaid skirt, and opened the book.

The train stopped now and then. Passengers pulled parcels down from overhead racks and hurried off. Others entered with a cold draft, shook snow from their coats and hats, found spaces for their things. Kate barely registered these changes, so engaged was she in the story.

She was about halfway through the novel when Father touched her arm. “I'll be right back.” After the whistle blew a second time, he returned with a bouquet of flowers. He seemed eager, excited. “We're nearly there.”

“Who are those for?”

“Someone I'd like you to meet.”

When they disembarked in Madison, a woman waved from the platform. She had dark hair and big brown eyes and wore a belted raccoon coat and matching hat and very high heels.

Father gave her the flowers and introduced her as Miss Fleming—“Professor Fleming,” he quickly corrected himself. “She wasn't a professor when we met, how many years ago?” He didn't wait for her
response. “And now her stories are published in
Atlantic Monthly, Harper's
. . .”

“Oh, Thomas.” She hugged his arm. “That's enough.”

Miss Fleming—Father was soon calling her Deenie—drove them to the university. Bundled in winter coats and hats and gloves, they walked along shoveled sidewalks to a grand stone building. “The Memorial Union,” Miss Fleming told them.

“It's like a palace,” Kate said.

The union stood on the shore of the frozen lake. A single skater twirled and danced on the ice, casting a long shadow in the low orange sun. Two boys on the beach pushed off in an iceboat, and once the sail was up, the little skiff tacked back and forth, then raced out across the lake faster than any boat Kate had ever seen.

Inside, Miss Fleming led them to a noisy dining hall, Der Rathskeller, permeated with the scent of wet wool and beer. When Father helped Miss Fleming out of her coat, she looked stunning in a slim green wool flannel skirt and jacket. The three of them sat in front of a fireplace painted with German murals and ordered bratwurst and beer, a cherry soda for Kate.

Students came and went—some lingered in serious conversation, others laughed in groups or flirted in corners. The girls looked sharp in neat wool skirts, knit sweaters, and leather saddle shoes. Boys wore V-neck sweaters over shirts and ties. Kate took note of the clothes, the way the coeds wore their hair, the flirting, the jostling.

Kate was wearing her best cardigan sweater and white cotton blouse. “The fire feels good,” she said, rubbing her arms.

Father smiled and launched into his poet voice: “‘Some say the world will end in fire, / Some say in ice.'”

“I'll take fire,” Miss Fleming said, glancing toward Father with a grin.

“My favorite Frost poem is ‘The Road Not Taken,'” Kate said. “‘Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, / And sorry I could not travel both . . .'”

Once she'd finished, Father said. “If only we could travel both.” He looked at Miss Fleming.

She cleared her throat, and then, after a pause, turned to Kate. “Your father tells me you like to write stories.”

When did he tell her that?

“Speaking of favorites,” Father said, “my favorite Kate story is ‘The Deer and the Wolf.'” Then to Kate, he said, “May I tell it?”

Kate blushed. But when Miss Fleming looked her way, expectant, she nodded.

Father put down his beer and began. “A female deer finds a wolf cub abandoned in the woods and takes it in to replace her fawn, which had been shot by a careless boy.” He paused to sip his beer. “Once the wolf is weaned, he goes off on his own. Then, one day the wolf is running with a pack, running down the very deer that raised him. Kate has a way of showing how conflicted the wolf is as he bites into his mother doe.”

Miss Fleming touched a paper napkin to her lips. “That's quite a story, Kate. Do you recall where the idea came from?”

Yes, she recalled it clearly. “I was walking through the woods and saw a doe and her fawn and wondered what might happen if the fawn were to die and the doe had milk coming for her baby. And the story came all at once.”

“Would you be willing to share some of your writing with me?”

Kate thought of the notebooks filled with poems and stories and random thoughts, simple reflections on everyday things. “Not much happens in my stories.”

“It's not what happens but how your characters react,” Miss Fleming said. “Want to give me an example where not much happens?”

Kate put down her bratwurst and wiped her hands on her napkin. “I was milking one of the goats, and she nearly kicked over the pail of milk. I started a story about what would happen if she did. But it's silly—”

“Tell me.”

“Well, I'd need to make the milk really important, right? Maybe they need it to survive.” She paused. “Oh, this sounds childish!”

“Not at all.” Miss Fleming patted her hand. “Go on.”

Kate took a big breath. “The protagonist doesn't want to disappoint her mother, so instead of telling the truth, she sneaks into a neighbor's barn and milks their goat. I don't know what happens next. I haven't figured that out.”

“It could go in so many directions,” Miss Fleming said. “That's the best kind of story. Once you decide how to end it, I'd love to read it.”

“When I finish it, I'll send it to you.” Kate paused. “But I'd never show it to Mother.”

Father coughed as if choking, then sipped his beer.

“Writers don't have parents,” Miss Fleming said, giving Kate a wink.

Kate blushed with Father right there.

“Your dad's on your side. He would have made a fine English professor.”

Father smiled. “Well, I don't know about that—”

“Your father and I once talked about opening a bookstore together.”

“What about the orchard?” Kate blurted.

Father frowned and looked away.

THE THEATER LOBBY WAS ABUZZ
with students calling to each other, talking, laughing. A group of boys and girls came up to Miss Fleming, and when the professor introduced Kate as a friend, the students seemed eager to know her. “When will you be coming here?” “What do you want to major in?”

Before Kate could answer, a bell sounded and everyone headed toward the auditorium.

They had front-row seats, and as the curtain rose and the orchestra swelled with “Ol' Man River,” Kate felt herself right up there on the levee in Natchez, Mississippi, boarding the riverboat.

When the curtain fell for intermission, Kate followed Father and Miss Fleming to the lobby café, where they ordered drinks.

Kate took a sip of hot chocolate and asked them how they met.

“It was freshman year,” Miss Fleming said. “Homecoming dance.” She picked up her beer mug.

Father laughed and clinked his mug against hers. “So long ago.”

Kate tried to imagine Father at a student dance.

“I was studying agronomy, but Deenie persuaded me to take a literature class.”

“And do you regret it?” Miss Fleming challenged in a teasing voice.

“I wouldn't have signed up for more if I did.” He touched her hand. “You know how I enjoy reading. Tell her, Kate.”

“Father loves his books. But Mother thinks it's a silly waste of time.”

Father frowned at that last part. “Well, things change.”

“Indeed,” said Miss Fleming, a pensive look.

After a pause, Father took a sip of beer and grinned. “Remember the time the sailboat dumped us into the middle of Lake Mendota?”

“The picnic!” She turned to Kate. “I made your father a batch of brownies with a bit of brandy, my own special touch. The fish who found my sweet treats must have had a fine afternoon.”

“Your sweet treats.” Father winked her way.

“But hey, TomTom.” She gave a light punch to his shoulder. “You were strong enough to right that big boat.”

TomTom?
Kate's eyes widened.

“It was a small boat, Deenie. Your memories are larger than my capabilities.”

Kate put down her chocolate. “I had no idea how fun college could be.”

“Tell me, Kate,” Miss Fleming said. “Are you interested in coming here to the U?”

“Oh yes! But . . .” She looked at Father.
Was it possible?

He nodded. And with that nod, the window to Kate's little world blew wide open.

After the play, they walked to the freshman girls' dormitory where Miss Fleming had arranged for Kate to stay the night. Kate introduced herself with her full proper name, Katrina Linn Christiansen, because if she was to be an author, that was how she wanted to be known.

The girls stayed up well past midnight, discussing the play and answering Kate's questions about college life.

That was where she wanted to be right now. She wanted to live in that dormitory with those girls forever.

CHARLOTTE LOOKED UP
at the sound of an approaching vehicle and peered out the back door. Finally! An Army truck, green with a big white star on the door and a canvas-covered bed, rumbled down Orchard Lane. She wiped her hands on her apron and went out to the porch.

Thomas was directing the truck off to the far side of the property, toward the migrant workers' camp, a collection of whitewashed wooden buildings that included a bunkhouse, cookhouse, outhouse, and dining hall. The prisoners would stay through the fall, working first here in the cherry orchard, then in Gus's apple orchard over on Plum Bottom Road. That was the agreement. The Army had erected a snow fence around the camp, a meager defense, but they also sent guards who spoke German. They had culled the dangerous ones—the SS were identified by tattoos of their blood type etched on the underside of their left arms, Charlotte was told. The men sent here had been approved and were glad to have the work.

The migrant camp was not visible from the house, but Charlotte
was curious to see the prisoners. She waited on the porch until Thomas, flanked by two Army guards with holstered pistols, led about a dozen men into the orchard. Thomas was speaking to one of the guards. Charlotte couldn't hear their conversation, but intermittently the guard would shout out orders in what must have been German. The prisoners stood at attention in brown and tan outfits, a large “PW” imprinted on the backs of their shirts. Even from this distance, Charlotte could see that most were mere boys, like Ben.

When Thomas turned to take the PWs to the barn, Charlotte ducked inside. Peeking through the kitchen window, she watched as one of the prisoners caught up to Thomas and walked alongside him. The two appeared to be in conversation. Thomas didn't speak German, so this man must know English. She watched until the group emerged from the barn, carrying pole pruners and loppers, saws, hatchets, rakes, and ladders.

Finally, we will have our harvest
.

CHARLOTTE FINGERED THE SOIL
in her garden. The rain had let up for nearly a week, and the beds were dry enough for planting. It was a sweet little quarter-acre of rich loamy earth surrounded by chicken wire to keep out deer and rabbits. She noticed a few places where the fence needed mending. She had always counted on Ben to help her. She glanced toward the barn as if expecting to see her handsome son heading her way with his toolbox, whistling, happy to fix whatever wanted fixing.

There'd be time for fence mending later. She had to get the seeds into the ground while the weather held. She went to the barn to fetch the tools.

Back in the garden, Charlotte picked up the heavy cultivating fork, put a foot on the crossbar, and pushed the chisel-like steel tines
into the ground. She worked up one row and down another, preparing the earth for planting. It was hard, physical labor, turning the soil, but she loved the smell of earth, the scent of abundance.

It was late in the day when a bicycle bell jangled Charlotte's attention away from her work. Kate was riding down Orchard Lane on her way home from school, long blond hair blowing in the breeze, white cotton blouse pressed against her young breasts, skirt flapping up, revealing shapely legs.

Just then, one of the prisoners dropped his rake and charged toward Kate. Charlotte threw down the pitchfork and ran, shouting, but the others were too far away to hear. From this distance, she couldn't make out the prisoner's face, but he was squat and solid, barrel-chested, with a short blond crew cut.

Thomas was running as well. He rushed the man, tripped him, and the prisoner hit the ground face-first. Kate's bicycle wobbled and toppled, spilling Kate with her books and papers onto the gravel. One of the guards stood over the prisoner, pistol pointed at the cowering man. When the PW scrambled to his feet, the guard pushed him off in the direction of the migrant camp.

This was what the county board had feared, what Charlotte herself had feared. And the season was only beginning.

Thomas helped Kate to her feet and picked up her things. He put an arm around her shoulders and walked her down the lane to the yard. Kate was not one to cry, but her face was puffed with tears, her blouse was ripped, and she had bloody bruises on her bare knees.

Thomas nodded to Charlotte, then returned to the orchard.

“Oh, Kate!” Charlotte wanted to hug her close, but that wasn't her way.

“I can't believe you let those killers into our yard!” Kate choked out the words. “That Nazi wanted to kill me! Don't you care? Aren't you afraid?”

“Yes, I am afraid. But we're not going to let them know that.” They walked to the barn with Kate's bicycle. “They'll be gone in a few months.” Charlotte tried to sound cheerful. “Just steer clear of them.”

“And they better steer clear of me.” Kate's voice trembled.

THE ONLY ACCESS TO THE ROOT CELLAR
was from the back of the house, through double wooden doors that angled up against the foundation. When Charlotte went out, a breeze lifted the hem of her housedress. It was dusk now, and the setting sun had pulled the warmth down with it. She rubbed her arms briskly to warm herself.

As she bent over to grab the metal ring on one of the cellar doors, she sensed eyes upon her. She looked up to see the German prisoner, the one who had spoken with Thomas, loitering at the edge of the orchard. Was he watching her? He turned away and rolled a wheelbarrow of pruned branches to the woodshed.

Charlotte shivered as she stepped down into the cool stone cavern beneath the kitchen. She struck a match and lit the kerosene lantern she kept on the shelf. Opening the grain bin, she silently celebrated her find—a handful of wild rice had fallen into a corner. She brushed it into her palm and went back up. The prisoner was gone.

AT THE SUPPER TABLE
, Thomas was filled with enthusiasm about the progress in the orchard. “These fellows are good workers. We should be done with the pruning in a week.” He paused. “But there might be some bad ones out there,” he said to Kate, “so you keep clear of them, all right? Especially that one who knocked you down . . . Fritz Vehlmer's his name.”

“He has crazy eyes,” Kate said. “And that scar on his cheek. I don't want to see any of them ever again. And I don't want them looking at me either.”

“Glad to hear it,” Thomas said.

“You need to send that one away,” Charlotte said.

“I told the Army guards to send him back to the prison and bring me a new man, but they said the Army wouldn't replace him. They assured me that Vehlmer was only interested in Kate's bicycle. He's a mechanic, and he heard a rattle as she rode by.” Thomas paused. “They say this fellow's good at fixing things. I'm going to have him take a look at the tractor. And your bicycle, Kate.”

“I don't want anyone touching my bicycle!”

“Fine. Fine.” Thomas patted Kate's hand.

Kate took a drink of water.

When Thomas put a forkful of fish into his mouth, he said, “This is heaven, Char. Lord knows how you do it. Lemon for the fish. Green vegetables.” He stabbed at his salad.

Charlotte had put most of the food into the icebox. Orange slices would be a surprise after dinner. Grapefruit for breakfast. And coffee with cream and sugar.

“Kate, your mother's a culinary magician.”

Kate nodded. “It's really good.”

After a pause, Thomas said to Charlotte. “You were up late last night.”

“I was knitting . . . something for Ben.” Her eyes clouded with the thought of the vest she had traded this morning. No, she wouldn't think of that now. “Would you like more spinach?”

“Ah.” Thomas accepted the bowl from her.

“I was surprised to see you talking to one of the prisoners,” she said. “Do they speak English?”

“Just the one, Karl Becker.”

Charlotte debated about telling Thomas that Becker had watched her going into the root cellar, but Thomas continued. “He's a math teacher. Smart, well read it appears. Went to Oxford.” He paused, then quoted:

Ye sacred nurseries of blooming youth!

In whose collegiate shelter England's flowers

Expand, enjoying through their vernal hours

The air of liberty, the light of truth—

Kate waved a hand, stopping him. “I don't know that one.”

“Wordsworth. A bit obscure, I'll admit. He wrote it while at Oxford,” Thomas said with a wink. “Say, how's Hawthorne coming?”

“
The Scarlet Letter?
I've just about finished it.”

Thomas smiled. “Original sin exposed.” He took a sip of water and picked up his empty pipe. “So what do you think of Hester Prynne's decision?”

“It's not fair that Hester's the one who's condemned, but it's her own fault for not telling the truth about her baby's father.”

“She's filled with guilt.” Thomas sucked on his pipe. “She tempted the minister. As Eve tempted Adam in the garden.”

“Kate?” Charlotte stood to clear the table.

The girl continued the conversation with her father as she rinsed the dishes. “Hester takes all the blame while the minister says nothing. He's the one who should feel guilty. He should wear a scarlet letter too.”

“But she's the stronger character, don't you think? She makes the choice, she's the one who lives, while he disintegrates—”

“That was Chillingworth's doing, that's what I think.”

Enough of this silly talk
. Charlotte put her hands on her hips. “Let that be a lesson.”

Kate looked up from the sink. “About what?”

“Keep your legs together.”

“Mother!” Kate's cheeks went red.

Thomas coughed and looked away.

Charlotte smiled to herself. If they had to talk about made-up
stories, they could at least find a practical message in there. She opened the icebox and chose one of the oranges to slice.

AFTER SUPPER, CHARLOTTE WENT
to the parlor and switched on the Philco. She sat on the couch, opened her sewing basket, and pulled out a sock that needed darning. Thomas sat in the green brocade wingback chair, sucking on his empty pipe, a book open in front of him. Frank Sinatra was singing, “All or nothin' at all,” when the music abruptly stopped: “We interrupt this broadcast for a special bulletin. Allies have taken Monte Cassino. Repeat. Allied troops have driven the Germans from Monte Cassino.”

Charlotte dropped the sock and stared at the radio. Thomas put down his book.

The announcer went on: “In the early morning hours today, May 18, 1944, a patrol of the Polish 12th Regiment serving in the US Fifth Army under the command of Major General Mark W. Clark raised a flag over the ruins of Monte Cassino Abbey. The only remnants of the defenders were a group of thirty Germans, all wounded. The road to Rome is open. And now we return to the previous broadcast.”

Sinatra's voice came back.

“Oh, Thomas! They've done it. Ben's finally out of those terrible mountains.”

Thomas smiled. “I'm sure we'll read all about it in the paper tomorrow.”

Bingo mewed and jumped on the couch. Charlotte scooped him into her lap and pushed her fingers through his soft gray fur. “Thomas, what is the first thing you want when we have money again?”

“The tractor needs new tires.”

“Damn tractor. Horses are more reliable.”

“You want to manage the orchard?”

“What else?”

Thomas studied his pipe. “I'll get myself a good stash of tobacco.” He paused. “What about you, Char?”

The cat was asleep now, but Charlotte's fingers didn't stop massaging his neck. “I need a rooster. And enough layer hens to replenish the flock. And two more goats. And cows. Dairy cows. I'll start with two.” Charlotte's mind wandered to her past. Fresh sweet milk, as much as she wanted. Yes, after the war, when Ben came home, Charlotte would go to the county fair and choose two prize calves.

“Cows, they take a lot of work, Char.”

“You forget I grew up on a dairy farm.”

“I haven't forgotten.” He gave her a wink. “My sweet rosy milkmaid.”

Charlotte cozied into the couch. “Just think, if we had had a cow these past few years we'd be doing so well, selling milk and butter and cream and cheese. And buttermilk. I don't recall when I last had buttermilk. If we had a cow, we could feed the whey to the goats and chickens. Hire a bull every spring to get a calf to slaughter at a year. Self-sufficient.”

“You got it all worked out, my pretty cowgirl. A rooster. A stud bull. I see where that mind of yours is going.”

She laughed. “You're always searching for hidden meanings.”

“Isn't that what women are about? Hidden meanings?”

“I'll make vanilla bean ice cream. Oh, I can almost taste it! With cherry sauce.”

“Cherry sauce. Hmm.” Thomas stood and held out his hand for her to follow.