shrug. He didn’t need anything more now on his plate. She was worried sick about him, to tell the truth. He was obsessed with all that had happened: the spraying—though it could have been an error; the maggots and worms—though she argued they might have come from another orchard; the felled trees—well, where was the explanation for those? A disgruntled picker? Surely not the Jamaicans, whose livelihood depended on the work. If not—then who? Rufus Barrow, who obviously wanted the orchard for himself? The local pickers, those cheerful young people? she couldn’t imagine it. The Three Partners, who wanted the orchard sold? That Messengers minister, who resented Stan’s interference with Cassandra—and the woman dead and Stan accused of running her down? Not true! Not her Stan!
Though he had changed over the last three years, she had to admit that. He was like her bootlace, fraying more and more until just this morning, it broke. It could have been Stan who ran down the woman, she had to face the possibility. Her body trembled with the thought. But no, surely not deliberately. The Stan she’d married twenty-six years ago would never kill, not in his right mind. Not that Stan. But this new Stan?
Think positive, she told herself. He didn’t do it. He didn’t kill that woman. No.
“Well, Opal,” she said—the girl was on the porch, tuning up her guitar; it was like a fingernail running over a blackboard— “looks like the goat is just plain gone. We’ll have to get another. You want to come with me?”
Opal looked at her blankly. “Goat?” And went on tuning. Zing zing zong zung...
“You didn’t hear all the whooping and hollering? Someone cut the rope and the goat’s gone. They searched all over last night but couldn’t find it. So we’ll have to get another. You want to come with me?”
The girl’s frown gave her the answer. She sighed, pulled on a jacket; she’d go alone. But before she could reach the door, the phone rang. It was old Glenna Flint from the Flint farm on the road behind the orchard. A goat on a raveled piece of rope had blundered into Glenna’s pasture and got caught on a fence. “We’ve got enough trouble with a greyhound dog and a pain-in-the-ass rented cow,” Glenna said. “We don’t need a goddamn goat! I been calling around. I want somebody to come and pick it up. Now.”
Moira whooped. They’d come at once, she promised. “Don’t let it get loose! It belongs to our Jamaicans. We’ll send over a bowl of goat soup for your trouble.”
“Don’t trouble yourself,” said Glenna, who was known for her outspokenness, and hung up.
“We’ve found the goat,” Moira told Stan, who was coming through the door, with a Cortland apple in each hand.
“This,” he said, holding them out, “is what that worm does.” She saw where the flesh was undermined, bruised and brown.
“How awful. But we were warned when we bought the place. You have to worry about weather and worms and maggots and—”
“People,” he said. “People who have an axe to grind. And grind it on us. That goat didn’t break away, the rope was strong. Zayon told me that; I believe him. Someone deliberately cut that rope. It’s one more link in a chain of malice.”
He sank down in a chair, dropped the apples—he was dropping things a lot lately, she’d noticed—and Moira picked them up, sat on the chair arm beside him. He didn’t look at all well: His skin was as bruised-looking as the apple where the worm had burrowed. The worm that was burrowing into their lives, eating away at their hearts, their marriage.
She stroked his hair. “Stan, Stan, sweetheart,” she said. “We’ll fight it. Ruth and her friend Colm Hanna are helping—Colm works part-time for the police—”
“No police!” he said. “No reporters!”
“No, no. It’ll be like having a private detective. They’ll keep our troubles as quiet as they can. Things will come right, you’ll see.” He closed his eyes
Though he had changed over the last three years, she had to admit that. He was like her bootlace, fraying more and more until just this morning, it broke. It could have been Stan who ran down the woman, she had to face the possibility. Her body trembled with the thought. But no, surely not deliberately. The Stan she’d married twenty-six years ago would never kill, not in his right mind. Not that Stan. But this new Stan?
Think positive, she told herself. He didn’t do it. He didn’t kill that woman. No.
“Well, Opal,” she said—the girl was on the porch, tuning up her guitar; it was like a fingernail running over a blackboard— “looks like the goat is just plain gone. We’ll have to get another. You want to come with me?”
Opal looked at her blankly. “Goat?” And went on tuning. Zing zing zong zung...
“You didn’t hear all the whooping and hollering? Someone cut the rope and the goat’s gone. They searched all over last night but couldn’t find it. So we’ll have to get another. You want to come with me?”
The girl’s frown gave her the answer. She sighed, pulled on a jacket; she’d go alone. But before she could reach the door, the phone rang. It was old Glenna Flint from the Flint farm on the road behind the orchard. A goat on a raveled piece of rope had blundered into Glenna’s pasture and got caught on a fence. “We’ve got enough trouble with a greyhound dog and a pain-in-the-ass rented cow,” Glenna said. “We don’t need a goddamn goat! I been calling around. I want somebody to come and pick it up. Now.”
Moira whooped. They’d come at once, she promised. “Don’t let it get loose! It belongs to our Jamaicans. We’ll send over a bowl of goat soup for your trouble.”
“Don’t trouble yourself,” said Glenna, who was known for her outspokenness, and hung up.
“We’ve found the goat,” Moira told Stan, who was coming through the door, with a Cortland apple in each hand.
“This,” he said, holding them out, “is what that worm does.” She saw where the flesh was undermined, bruised and brown.
“How awful. But we were warned when we bought the place. You have to worry about weather and worms and maggots and—”
“People,” he said. “People who have an axe to grind. And grind it on us. That goat didn’t break away, the rope was strong. Zayon told me that; I believe him. Someone deliberately cut that rope. It’s one more link in a chain of malice.”
He sank down in a chair, dropped the apples—he was dropping things a lot lately, she’d noticed—and Moira picked them up, sat on the chair arm beside him. He didn’t look at all well: His skin was as bruised-looking as the apple where the worm had burrowed. The worm that was burrowing into their lives, eating away at their hearts, their marriage.
She stroked his hair. “Stan, Stan, sweetheart,” she said. “We’ll fight it. Ruth and her friend Colm Hanna are helping—Colm works part-time for the police—”
“No police!” he said. “No reporters!”
“No, no. It’ll be like having a private detective. They’ll keep our troubles as quiet as they can. Things will come right, you’ll see.” He closed his eyes
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