DONNA HELENE WOLFE |
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When he walked into the barn, the sharp smell of new cider brought her absence home to him with sudden poignancy. He stood irresolute. The apple press was still and all the pulp carted off to the greedy pigs in the yard; but the smell lingered, rose up over the rafters, merged with the clean scent of hay in the loft to produce the quintessential fragrance of autumn. Everywhere he looked there was the neatness and order attesting to a life of quiet hard work, the steady industry his people had practiced in Lancaster County for over two hundred years . . . But an untidy heap of apples lay in a dark corner. He picked one up at random. It was badly bruised around the stem end, full of opaque patches that absorbed the light. He shook the apple to test its soundness, as if he could hear the burrowing of a worm at its core. He had told her these weren't good enough for cider, but she refused to discard them. She always hoped to persuade him to brew the surplus into spirits. She had never understood his commitment to the land, to their way of life within the community. Happiness was for the hereafter; contentment would have to do in this life. He thought she had been content. Then the travelling man had come with his stories of Philadelphia and Richmond and Washington. He brought hair tonic for the elders and jacob's ladders for the children, needles and copper pots for the women . . . and a music box. She whistled the tune, some Russian song full of sweet longing, while she brought him the big tubs of apples freshly picked. He no longer worried about her climbing the ladder up into the trees. Five years and still no children: a fall would not jeopardize a constitution already suspect. Still, he had loved her, in his quiet way. His was a plain God, strict and hard. She never accepted the austerity. So this year, when all the cider was nearly pressed, she followed the travelling man to Philadelphia and Richmond and Washington, whistling the music box tune. He filled the press full of the bruised apples and bore down on the crank as hard as he could. It seemed fitting that he should press the seconds for vinegar, instead of the wished-for applejack. The smell of autumn rose up like the smoke from Abraham's burnt offering. Through blurred eyes he mused on the nature of sacrifice and the price of faith. He filled the press again and hoped that God at least, was pleased. |
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