Cutter's Run by William G. Tapply

Smaller hand-printed signs in the windows said “Old-Time New England Apples,” “Homemade Res and Preserves,” “Fresh Cider,” “Pick Your Own Apples,” and “We Open Labor Day.”
    The house sat on a short driveway behind the farmstand. It was a classic three-story New England farmhouse—white clapboard, big porch across the entire front, tall windows, and two brick chimneys poking out of the roof. A weathered old barn stood behind the house, and beyond that were several football fields of orchard. Rows of apple trees heavy with fruit marched up the hillside and disappeared over the top.
    We got out of the car. “Pretty, isn’t it?” said Alex.
    I nodded. “Smell the apples?”
    “Mmm.” She took my hand and gave it a squeeze. “I’m sorry, Brady,” she said.
    “What for?”
    “You know. For never being satisfied. For wanting something, and then getting it and wanting more. It’s always been a character flaw of mine.”
    “It’s the only one I’ve noticed,” I said. “I guess I can live with it, since you seem to be able to put up with all of mine.”
    As we started up the path to the front porch, the door opened and Susannah came out. She was wearing white shorts and a blue-and-white-striped jersey, and her blond hair hung loose around her shoulders. She waved. “Come on in. Daddy’s organizing the booze, eager to take your orders.”
    We went up onto the porch, and Susannah grabbed one of Alex’s hands and one of mine and led us inside. Noah was seated at the kitchen table. Paul was at the sink rinsing some dishes. He was wearing an apron.
    Noah had assembled his collection of liquor bottles on the counter, and he rubbed his hands and grinned. “We been waiting for you,” he said.
    I shook his bony farmer’s hand, and Alex went over, braced herself on his shoulder, and bent to kiss his leathery cheek.
    Paul wiped his hands on a towel and grinned awkwardly, as if he’d been caught shoplifting. I held my hand out to him and he shook it with both of his. He touched the hem of his apron and made a little curtsy. “Guess we know who wears the pants in this family, huh?”
    “Hey,” I said. “You’re a sensitive nineties type of guy.”
    “Unlike some people we might mention,” said Alex.
    “Paul,” said Susannah, “would you mind getting the ice out of the freezer?”
    Paul darted a quick you-know-how-it-is look at me and turned to the refrigerator.
    “So,” said Noah. “What’ll it be?”
    Alex and I asked for gin and tonics. Paul fetched beers for himself and Susannah from the refrigerator. Noah made our drinks, then mixed a pitcher of martinis and poured one for himself. He took a large swallow, then turned to me. “Let me show you around,” he said.
    “Please,” I said.
    He turned to Alex with his eyebrows raised.
    “You gave me your tour last time I was here,” she said with a smile. “I admired your collection of trucks, remember?”
    Noah nodded. He topped off his martini, grabbed my arm, and said, “Well, come on, then.”
    I wondered if Paul was joining us, but he had resumed his place by the kitchen sink. So I followed Noah through the sliding glass door onto the back porch. “This is my pissing platform,” Noah said. “Since Jessie died, I been sleeping in the room off the kitchen. My bladder wakes me up three or four times a night. It’s what happens when you got a worn-out prostate. I like to piss out here under the moon and stars. Reminds me of when I was a boy and too damn scared to go all the way to the outhouse in the dark.”
    Noah was tall and skinny, stoop-shouldered and gaunt and heronlike, and the image of him urinating off his deck made me smile.
    The yard between the deck and the barn was knee-high in milkweed and goldenrod and littered with old farm machinery—one pickup truck on cinder blocks and another sitting on flattened tires, a big flatbed with a cracked windshield, a couple of tractors, and a variety of rusted tillers and harrows and