His face was as pitted as the moon. He was tall, broad- shouldered,
and thick without being stocky, though one could see how he
would pass into stockiness; he had already taken on the barrel- chested
sturdiness of an old man. His ears were elephantine, a feature most com-
mented on when he was younger, when the ears stuck out from his head;
but now they had darkened like the rest of his sun- exposed flesh and lay
against his skull more than at any other time in his life, and were tough,
the flesh granular like the rind of some fruit. He was clean- shaven, large-
pored; his skin was oily. In some lights his flesh was gray; others, tallow;
others, red. His lips were the same color as his face, had given way to
the overall visage, had begun to disappear. His nose was large, bulbous.
His eyes were cornflower blue. His eyelashes nothing to speak of now,
but when he was young they were thick- black, and his cheeks bloomed,
and his lips were as pure and sculpted as a cherub's. These things to-
gether made the women compulsively kiss him, lean down on their way
to do other chores, collapse him to their breasts. All his mother's sisters
he could no longer remember, from Arkansas, who were but shadows of
shadows now in his consciousness. Oh my lovely, they would say. Oh my
sweet lamb.
His arms were sun- darkened and flecked with old scars. He combed
his hair over his head, a dark, sparse wing kept in place with pine- scented
pomade.
He regarded the world— objects right in front of his face— as if from a
great distance. For when he moved on the earth he also moved in other
realms. In certain seasons, in certain shades, memories alighted on him
like sharp- taloned birds: a head turning in the foliage, lantern light flar-
ing in a room. And there were other constant preoccupations he likewise

4 amanda coplin
half acknowledged, in which his attention was nevertheless steeped at all
times: present and past projects in the orchard; desires he had had as a
young man, worries, fears, of which he remembered only the husks; trees
he had hoped to plant; experiments with grafting and irrigation; jam reci-
pes; cellar temperatures; chemical combinations for poisoning or at least
discouraging a range of pests— deer and rabbits and rodents and grubs,
a universe of insects; how to draw bees. Important was the weather, and
patterns of certain years, the likelihood of repetition meteorologically
speaking, what that would mean for the landscape; the wisdom of the
almanacs, the words of other men, other orchardists, the unimportant
but mostly the important words. He thought of where he would go hunt-
ing next fall. Considered constantly the state of his land, his property, his
buildings, his animal. And mostly he thought of the weather that week,
the temperature, and existence of, or potential for, rainfall; recent ca-
lamities and how he was responding to them; the position of the season;
his position in the rigid scaffolding of chores— what he would have to do
that day, that afternoon and evening, how he would prepare for the next
morning's work; when were the men coming, and would he be ready for
them? But he would be ready for them, he always was, he was nothing
if not prepared. He considered those times in life when he had uttered
words to a person— Caroline Middey or Clee, or his mother, or a stranger
who had long forgotten him— he wished he had never uttered, or had ut-
tered differently, or he thought of the times he remained silent when he
should have spoken as little as a single word. He tried to recollect every
word he had ever spoken to his sister, tried to detect his own meanness
or thoughtlessness, his own insensitivity to certain inflections she might
have employed. How long ago it was now. At times he fretted about for-
getting her, though in fact— he did not like to admit this— he had already
forgotten much.
Now, at his back, the shrouded bushels of apples and apricots rustled
in the wagon bed, the wagon creaking forward beneath the weight; the
old, old familiar rhythm in accordance with these leagues of thought.
Dazzled and suspended by the sun. The mountains— cold— at his back. It
was June; the road was already dusty. His frame slightly hunkered down,
the floppy calfskin hat shielding his brow, under which was a scowl

the orchardi st 5
holding no animosity. The large hands, swollen knuckles, loosely hold-
ing the reins.
From the wheatfields he entered the town, and drew down the
main street. Quiet. It was Sunday. The nearer church, he thought—
the Methodist was on the other side of town— had yet to release its
congregation. He hitched up outside the feed and supply store, watered
the mule. While he was setting up the fruit stand— tugging forward each
burlap- covered bushel in the back of the wagon and unveiling them and
unloading them— a woman rounded the corner and gained the platform,
approached him. Half her face was mottled and pink, as if burned, her
mouth an angry pucker. She held defensively to her breast a burlap
sack and bent and inspected the uptilted bushel of Arkansas Blacks. She
reached for an apple but did not touch it; glanced dubiously at a bushel of
paler apples he presently uncovered. What're those?
He glanced down. Greenings. Rhode Island Greenings.
When he spoke, his voice was low and sounded unused; he cleared
his throat. The woman waited, considered the apples. All right. I'll take
a few of those. From the folds of her skirt she brought out a dull green
change purse. How much?
He told her. She pinched out the correct change and handed it to him.
As he filled the sack with fruit, the woman turned and gazed behind
her.