Tante Ida’s “pink pies.” Panoramic with longing this great big memory is because he was allowed by his mother Marian to visit Tante Ida and other of his father’s people only ONCE.
He supposes this Aroostook apple will thrive here in Oxford County, but if he invites a couple of these trees into the Settlement orchards, to thrust the solidity of the pink-flesh apple itself into the present, to give it life again in the now, would it not transform the fruit to unremarkability? Death to the spell of memory, deeper in the grave Tante Ida! Her eyes, as black and starry as his papa Guillaume’s, would finally close.
So lifting from the page to the next, his eyes behind the reading glasses readjust. Eyes pale green in a stewed cabbage way, and dark lashes. Not eyes of bird-of-prey-yellowy-pale nor wolf pale. Just a mixed ancestry pale, where there was maybe some jumping of the fence, those silent hearts and peckers that never speak in the records of town halls or in letters in a trunk . . . this dissonance of history’s beds and tall-grass fucking have filled the warm ponds of his eyes with a green of forbearance. And a Tourette’s-like flinch.
He spreads his hand upon the English morello cherry, a huge hand because he is a giant guy as seen by the average. Six-foot-five he is said to be. Seems he is feeling the heartbeat of the page, the heat of this tree where cherries will be hurled into Bonnie Loo’s pies, Bonnie Loo the star cook of the Settlement, Bonnie Loo of the present moment, not twinkling with the magic of death and boyhood memory, Bonnie Loo who can cut you down with her orange-brown eyes and the long considering way she lets out lungs full of cigarette smoke. He sees her clearly the last time she looked at him, three hours ago. His neck muscles tighten, a certain kind of fear.
There are headlights on the wall. He leaves the catalog open flat in the weary light and pushes back the wheeled office chair, pockets the reading glasses, stretches.
Going out onto the old piazza he sees that it is a van and no one is getting out yet. Engine running. Headlights still blazing upon the ell of the house, blazing at him.
As he steps outside he buttons the top button of his shirt and trudges straight into the light, digging into the graying chin of his short dark beard.
Van door opens. “Gordie . . . hey . . . I’m sorry.”
The voice sounds familiar in a way that makes his head break apart and swarm, searching for which decade it hurtles at him from. Not as far back as Tante Ida’s pink pies.
The van is patchy-looking and has a sorry-sounding skip to the engine. The guy still has a ponytail, though he’s looking a bit thin on top. Long skinny jaw. Professional-class teeth. No beard. A laugh like hiccups, like Goofy, the big cartoon dog.
Jack Holmes. Gordon embraces him. Jack laughs. “We got lost and rode all over hell or I’d have been here earlier. Then for a second, I thought no one was here. I thought maybe you sold this place and moved up back with the others. With your . . . uh . . . harem.” He laughs.
Jack Holmes, yes. One of those guys who started out in law school, headed for “success,” then descended into social work and educational newsletter stuff, sporadically funded statehouse lobbying for ridiculous things like support for prisoners’ rights, which don’t exist, and the rights of all races of ex-cons, minimum wagers of all races, welfare recipients of all races, animals, trees, clean water, and breathable air. So Jack Holmes pitched “success” overboard. And yes, the descent has continued, Gordon suspects, eyeing the mottled van.
Gordon stands now with his hands in his pockets, smiling funnyish. “Well, it’s good to see you. You’re looking good for an old warrior on the losing side. Howzit goin’? I mean personally.”
“Gordie, I don’t have a personal life,” Jack says with his little hiccupy laugh. Then he grinds his fists into his sides. “Cold. Feels like a frost. Shit, you’d think this was the Alps. The difference in the weather here is mighty noticeable.”
“Come in then.”
The guy turns back to the van, kind of hops over to the door, which is still hanging open, wiggles a finger for Gordon to come. Then stops, turns with his back to the van, and says, “We need to talk. I want you to meet these people. You can’t get the picture unless you . . . see the picture, okay? These are neighbors of mine. You remember Aaron Rosenthal?”
“Yep.”
“Well, I heard somethin’ . . . from the grapevine . . . that you . . . well, tell me if it’s not true . . . but I heard you took in a kid . . . an orphan of the drug war. The newsworthy dangerous-as-the-day-is-long Lisa Meserve, her little girl?”
Gordon stares into his eyes, says nothing, but wiggles both eyebrows.
“Okay, I thought so. Well, Aaron, he—it’s bad news. You probably heard he went to federal prison.”
Gordon lowers his eyes.
“In fact, Aaron doesn’t exist anymore. He, ah, killed himself in prison . . . down in Georgia. He uh . . . beat himself to death.” He laughs his burbly laugh.
Gordon looks back into Jack’s face. He says without expression, “Pretty funny.” Then the Tourette’s flinch.
“Real funny. And neat. I mean, it would take a certain gift, wouldn’t you say?”
Gordon nods.
Jack hugs himself now, gets a shiver. “Jesus, it feels like snow.” He looks up. “Well, anyway, Aaron had that place over in Norridgewock . . . nice chunk of land . . . it was actually his great-aunt’s . . . she left it to him . . . but just this little bungalow . . . I mean a big dog couldn’t turn around in it, but, man, there was land. Seventy acres. Pretty spot. You know, something somebody would want to grab from a person too poor to finance a team of lawyers. Well, Aaron’s wife dies, Michele. You didn’t know her. She was after the days. She died of breast cancer, age of thirtysomething. And guess what. There’s two kids . . .”
Gordon’s eyes leave Jack’s face and slide over to the van. Then back to Jack’s eyes.
“. . . then he marries Sarah,† who adopts his kids legal smeagle. You know Aaron, attuned to details. He might have had too many interests but you can’t deny his clearheaded perfectionism. I mean, he was a complex man. And life goes on. Sarah started a little kennel. Raised Dobies. And, well, you know Aaron had a . . . green thumb . . . just enjoyed organic farming and . . . and . . . marijuana retailing. You know Aaron . . . wouldn’t hurt a soul . . . no stealing, no drunk driving, a million friends, a million customers . . . and one enemy . . . that’s all it takes is one enemy . . . a spy or somebody mad at you and their finger dialing the drug war hotline . . . one call. In this case, it was a spy.” He lowers his voice. Jerks his thumb toward the darkness beyond the open van door. “These guys have seen action, Gordie.” Shakes his head. No laugh this time. “They broke her arm. Blinded and loosened one eye.” Points at the van. “Had the kids in foster homes . . . two different ones, for two years.” Jack jerks his thumb toward the van again.
“And the narcs grabbed their house and land,” says Gordon, folding his arms across his chest.
Jack snorts. “You psychic?” He snorts again. “Yeah, the usual. A great tradition. Like the cavalry and the surveyors behind them riding in to save the day . . . from those goddamn hostiles . . . yep, very American tradition. Oily as clockworks.” He opens his palm on the van roof. “Come look here and see what’s been made homeless, roaming from one relative’s place to another. No one wants them. Though of course the DHS would steal the kids again if she hadn’t lost their hounds in the dust. It’s one
