An Orchard and Three Bad Apples

By Thomas Conrad

When America shuts down in 2020 to deal with the oncoming pandemic, twenty-year-old college student Mike Wilson travels to Michigan to give support to the hospitalized father who abandoned him as a child. The job he takes pruning an orchard on a struggling farm is soon complicated by the resident collie's discovery of a skeletal human foot buried among the trees. Mike falls in love with a beautiful jogger, and together they face the creepiness of the farm while everyone is pursued by the infectious disease.

The contents of Uncle Tom's Cabinet represent the culmination of a dying airline pilot's life and affect the future of his nephew, Dan. Tom, the uncle who ruins Thanksgiving dinners with obnoxious behavior, resents his confinement in the Better Days Ahead nursing home. He solicits help from his gangster neighbor in an attempt to dissolve Dan's lousy marriage, and crime and subterfuge energize his final days.

An old missionary nun is known to leave the Nazareth Home for the Sisters of St. Joseph to wander the streets of the city's Eastside on her painfully swollen elephantine legs. Locally known as the Elephant Lady, she is found dead by the side of the road by a paperboy. A mystery unfolds when the parish priest she knew as an anthropology student in a Costa Rican village gets a clue from the boy that she may have been murdered. Contents from the old woman's safe-deposit box unleashes a primal challenge to the priest's faith.

Three months after college graduation in 1968, Ben gets a call from the mother of an old friend and is asked to write the obituary for her son who has been murdered. Ben has been drafted and is days away from induction, but as a part-time copy editor for the Gazette, he agrees to the task. A vivacious young woman gets him through the yellow tape around the crime scene, and he is soon involved in the story. He falls in love with the girl, and his last few days of freedom become the most exciting of his life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Fulton Books, Inc.
• Release date: Jul 28, 2023
• ISBN: 9798885057684

Book preview

Table of Contents

Title

Copyright

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

24

25

26

27

28

29

30

31

32

33

34

Uncle Tom's Cabinet

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

The Elephant Lady

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

The Obituary

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

About the Author

cover.jpg

An Orchard and Three Bad Apples

Thomas Conrad

Copyright © 2023 Thomas Conrad

All rights reserved

First Edition

Fulton Books

Meadville, PA

Published by Fulton Books 2023

ISBN 979-8-88505-767-7 (paperback)

ISBN 979-8-88505-768-4 (digital)

Printed in the United States of America

The Orchard

1

The alarm went off at 6:00 a.m., and I was introduced to March 3, 2020, by Steve Inskeep of NPR's Morning Edition. Whenever possible, I let these guys provide me with news from across the country and around the world, whatever they thought was most important. I knew they'd been up for hours, checking headlines and doing the necessary follow-up to separate fact from fiction. In this world of cancellation culture, fake news, and lying politicians, you had to trust somebody.

I reached over and struck the clock radio one, two, three times, hoping to hit the Snooze button. Finally silencing Steve's soothing voice and rolling over with a groan, I searched for my sleeping brain's last sequence. I squeezed my eyes closed in a useless gesture to bring back the dream state, only to watch it disappear as these visions always did. My dreams followed a pattern. But saying that implied some constancy, or regularity, or order, and there was none of that. In this morning's dream, a pretty girl sat down next to me on the bus, then turned to me and smiled—nothing familiar in that. Pretty girls never smiled at me. Then the goddamned buzzer went off. After putting the alarm on hold, I raced back to the dream and the bus and the girl, but the scene was fading fast.

Wait! Wait! I called as she reached out to me.

Then she was gone.

She heard me, I said aloud, keeping my eyes closed for one last look. Damn, that was close. I almost got laid. I swung my feet out of bed and felt the shock of the too-cold floor. "I've got to get a rug one of these days, I said, slipping into flip-flops. Yeah, like I can afford a rug."

On the way to the bathroom, I stopped for a look at the thermostat: fifty-five. Feeling reckless, I pushed the tiny lever up to sixty. Officially, the electricity was still on, but officially, the landlady didn't know I was here; and I didn't want to tip her off with a spike in the meter reading.

I'll skip the shower this morning, I thought. It's not like I've done anything to work up a sweat in the last two days. I turned on the hot water but held off on putting the plug in the sink, knowing it would take five minutes to arrive. While I waited, I went to the kitchen to get a coffee cup, added a teaspoon of instant coffee, and brought it back to the bathroom for hot water.

I grimaced at the vile taste and the lukewarm temperatures of both the coffee and tap water as I went through the motions of a bath in a sink. Since access to the hot-water heater had been cut off by the landlord because of my dad's past due rent, I discovered I could steal hot water from the system as it traveled through the pipes to the building's more affluent renters. It required patience and timing, but during these days of pandemic, one had to be resourceful. Though I preferred an 8:00 a.m. wake-up, there were more hot-water users at 6:00 a.m., so I rearranged my schedule to join them.

I washed my hair and shaved before the hot water was gone and probably could have gotten a warmer rinse if I'd waited, but I was on a job hunt this morning and needed to mosey. I opened a couple of two packs of saltine crackers that I'd pocketed from the soup kitchen yesterday and washed them down with the last of the coffee. I tended to get hypoglycemic if I didn't eat before noon, and I hoped this would get me through the early part of the day.

I exited the building through the back door rather than walk past Mrs. Bixby's apartment. Dad had had a fling with her that didn't end well in her opinion, and she was still pissed. As the building's owner, she would have kicked him out; with the city's no-eviction policy because of the pandemic, I doubted the hot-water shutoff was legal. Since Dad was in the hospital with the virus and me dead broke, seeking legal advice was not realistic.

2

I pulled my mask up over my nose before I stepped onto the bus and made my way to a vacant seat. Last week while the city was on lockdown, this would not have been possible; but with a partial opening, proper spacing, and no bus fare, paupers like me were on the loose. This morning, I was on my way to Home Depot, hoping to get work. Yesterday's unsuccessful effort was due to the rainy weather according to Victor, who I was to meet here today. During our only conversation, he'd assured me he was no racist, but he preferred me to my Spanish-speaking compadres because I spoke English.

No hay problema, I said with a smirk.

He looked at me in a sideways glance then pressed the metal band of his mask tight across the bridge of his nose.

I flashed the peace sign to my amigos as we left the parking lot, then asked Victor through my mask, What will I be doing today?

Pruning and planting fruit trees.

Aha, I replied, I have a little experience at that. What will I be getting paid?

I was thinking $10 an hour for starters. There's more to do if it goes well.

Well, Victor, I said, I'm worth more than $10 an hour. But I'll tell you what. You agree to pay me $13 per hour, plus lunch, and I'll speak English and work for you. If you don't think I was worth it at the end of the day, you can pay me the $10 per. I'll keep the lunch. Your call.

This caught Victor off guard. He looked at me, wishing he spoke better Spanish but knowing he was the moneyman.

All right, you got a deal.

We arrived at Vic's after a half-hour drive about fifteen miles from town. Nothing had been said about a ride back as a part of our arrangement, but I assumed that was understood. I didn't know this guy very well.

Victor lived in an old farmhouse east of Silver Street, south of Vicksburg. It had been fifty years since small farms like this could support themselves, but the remnants of that effort were still evident. We parked in front of a large barn surrounded by several outbuildings, all showing their age. Weathered vehicles and ancient cultivation and harvest implements were scattered everywhere. Acres of weed-free corn, soybeans, and potatoes were visible in the distance, representing the high-tech agriculture that had put farms like this out of business.

Nice place, Victor. How long have you lived here?

All my life, he said. How about you?

I'm visiting, I said. My dad's got the virus. He's in the hospital. I'm here to help.

Hmm. How's he doin'?

Not great, I said. I haven't talked to him yet. I'm sure he's being an asshole. I got a call from my sister. I bent down to pet an old collie. I haven't seen him in years. We're not close. What's the dog's name?

Lassie.

Ha, of course it is. I laughed.

She's a he.

You've got a sense of humor. I like it.

What do you do? Victor asked.

I'm a student, I said. School's closed, so I took the bus here from Florida. Not a great idea these days, but I'm broke.

Victor nodded and led me to the barn, where he climbed onto and started an old Massey Ferguson tractor hitched to a trailer full of digging and pruning tools. He backed into the daylight, and I ran ahead to open a gate so he could drive to the rear of the great old building. There wasn't an obvious reason for the gate to be closed, though the aroma of a manure-and-mud soup was strong. Glad to be wearing my dad's rubber-bottomed Bean Boots, I walked ahead to a stock tank with about a dozen bare-root fruit trees soaking in it and waited for the tractor to arrive.

Load those up, would ya?

I knew you were going to say that, I said, smiling. You got cows around here somewhere?

Not anymore, Victor said over the steady chug of the diesel engine. My mom raised half a dozen heifers all winter for a dairy down the road. There was a sick one in the bathtub in the house last month.

No shit, I said, climbing onto the tractor behind him. I like the effort.

We rode through a pasture to the back of the house and a well-established orchard surrounded by an old jack fence. I jumped off to open another gate, and Victor entered to stop at the first in a row of small colored, wire-stemmed flags.

I always thought those things were for birthday cakes, I said.

Yours maybe. Mine would be a pretty big cake, Victor smiled. What's your name?

Mike Wilson.

Okay, Mike, these tree tags are color coded to the flags as you can see. Let's lay 'em out, and you can dig some holes while I make a couple phone calls and get manure.

How deep?

Twenty inches around and deep, he said. Here's a yardstick, and there are gloves in that bucket.

Got it.

The sod was thick here with an undisturbed grass root system that blocked the spade under my foot like it was wood. I went back to the trailer to look for a pick and returned with an axe-like tool with perpendicular blades. When Victor returned with the manure, I'd cut through the thick surface covering and was well into hole number 6.

What is this thing? I asked, kicking the tool with my toe.

It's a Pulaski—perfect for digging through roots, he said.

Yeah, I said, sweat dripping off my nose. I figured that out. Should we plant now, or do you want me to finish digging holes?

Lassie followed us, keeping to the high ground, and immediately went to hole number 5 as if to inspect my work.

Mike, come give me a hand, Victor called. It takes two to do this right.

Victor mixed the manure and dirt in a five-gallon bucket, and I packed it in around the spread-out roots while he held the tree true. It was a slow process, but when we looked back at the first four in our row, we knew his family of old would be proud. But it was there that the day's work ended. Lying next to hole number 5, the one I'd just finished digging was Lassie, licking the remains of a skeletal human foot.

Holy fuck! I said as Victor pulled the dog away from his prize. He picked it up with his gloved hand, took it to the trailer, and laid it in the sunlight. I stood over the hole, then knelt to dig a little more at its bottom before joining Victor to stare at the foot.

Pretty weird, Vic, I said. You got any idea what's goin' on here?

Not really, he said. I'll talk to my mom.

We gotta call the cops.

No, we can't. Mom will know what's goin' on.

I stepped back to take a long look at my employer and wondered what I'd gotten myself into. He appeared to be truly surprised by what Lassie had dug up, and from the troubled look on his face, I knew he was considering possibilities. I didn't doubt that his mom would know what happened here. She was probably old enough to know about this foot, its owner, and who buried it. Victor might know these things too, but he damn sure didn't know the foot would show up where he wanted to plant a tree—especially in front of a witness.

Okay, Vic, what do you want to do here? I'm guessing we're done planting trees.

I've got to talk to Mom.

Yeah, you said that, I said, stepping in front of him so that he had to look at me. No matter how this happened, it can't be legal. You can't just bury someone in your orchard. And if we don't report it, we've got to be committing a crime of some kind.

It can wait until tomorrow, he said. He climbed onto the tractor and fired it up. I'm gonna park this thing, then I'll take you home.

I was dumbfounded. I followed him back to the barn and closed the gates on the way. He walked to his pickup and waved me over. I stood next to the driver's-side window and waited for him to open it.

I'll need your name, address, and cell phone number before I get in.

He reached above the visor and brought down a small spiral notebook and a pen and began to write. Then he pulled his wallet from his back pocket and pulled out two fifties and handed them to me with the paper.

Here's wages for today and tomorrow, he said. I'll pick you up at Home Depot again.

Let me see your driver's license, I said with my hand outstretched.

You don't trust me, he said, showing me his wallet.

Are you kidding? I asked. I don't know you, and this is becoming the weirdest day of my life.

We rode back to the city in silence. I let Victor drive to within a couple blocks of Dad's apartment and had him drop me off at a bus stop, not wanting him to know where I lived.

I stopped at a corner store to exchange some of my new wealth for food. Having been cheated out of the lunch that had been part of my verbal contract, I was hungry. I bought a pound of ground beef, a can of black beans, a couple bagels, and a small tub of cream cheese so I could live another day. Back at Dad's apartment, I put the groceries in the fridge, then doubled back to Mrs. Bixby's and knocked on the door. After a minute, she opened, and I stepped back to give her proper space.

Mrs. Bixby, what will it take to get you to turn on my dad's hot water?

Is he back?

No, ma'am, but he sends his regards.

I'll bet.

Ma'am?

There's a $30 reconnection fee.

Who gets that?

Me.

I reached into my pocket, pulled out a ten, and held it in front of her. These are tough times, Mrs. Bixby. This is the best I can do.

Quick as swatting a mosquito, she snatched it from my hand. Just a minute, she said, then stepped back and shut the door. A minute later, she returned and pushed a broom and dustpan into my hands. Sweep the stairs and hallways every day, and I'll keep it on—all three floors.

You're a peach, Mrs. Bixby. I'm going to talk to Dad about taking you back. I don't care what you did.

Fuck you!

My dad had never really been a part of my life, so staying in his apartment was an introduction of sorts. His caseworker at the hospital had contacted my sister, who refused to acknowledge him but told the woman to call me and gave her my number. The only reason Dad had known how to contact Natasha was because she lived in her mother's house with an address and phone number he remembered. The social worker's name was Marci, and she told me to come to her office at the hospital when I got to town.

Mrs. Bixby's punishment for my dad became my burden when I arrived, along with a pile of unpaid bills he'd accumulated, including utilities. When I returned from my meeting with her, I walked directly to the thermostat and cranked it up to seventy. I was willing to do what I could for him until he recovered or died, but I was not willing to freeze while waiting. It was amazing what a little cash in my pocket was doing for my confidence.

I made something to eat, then went about cleaning the place up. Dad was lazy and a slob, tendencies which I inherited and battled myself. While I labored, I considered the other mess in my life—Victor's. I wondered how much I wanted to be involved. An anonymous call to the cops might suffice and keep me from stepping in a pile of shit. But maybe there's a way I can get some of the blame shifted in Mrs. Bixby's direction. I smiled.

Still drawing on the energy of a full stomach, I took the broom and dustpan to stalk and gather dust bunnies from the hallways. The only muddy tracks I found led from the front door to Dad's apartment and were attributable to me. The background odor of cow shit left no doubt. Apparently, I was getting to this mess before Mrs. Bixby noticed, or she surely would have said something. The stairs and the second and third floors weren't too bad. When I was done, it was obvious the whole place could stand a good mopping—something I wouldn't be mentioning.

After a hot shower, I donned the last of my clean clothes and went for a walk into the city. Except for a few stray dogs and walkers, it was pleasantly deserted. Music from the open door of a bar drew me across the street for a look inside. Half a dozen drinkers were bellied up to the bar, and collectively, they turned to me as if watching a tennis match.

Comeere and buy me a drink, doll, a grizzled damsel from another generation called to me.

Better not, I responded. I might have the virus.

Fuck that. She guffawed. I ain't worried. It's a hoax! And I'm wearing a mask. She was not wearing a mask but touched her face several times. I'm only twenty-one, you know.

This brought a roar of laughter from her friends.

Yeah, she used to be a cheerleader, one of them called out.

The woman got off her stool, stepped over to the guy, and poured half a beer on his head. I was a cheerleader, asshole, she said and started to cry. Look at how skinny I still am.

It was immediately quiet in the room. The woman walked to a table and sat down with her head in her hands. I pinched my mask tight to my nose and stepped inside. Reaching into my pocket, I pulled out a $10 bill and set it on the tabletop in front of her.

This is my fault. I started it, I said. The next one's on me.

She looked up and reached out to grab my coat sleeve before I could pull it away. You're still beautiful, I said, believing it was once true. You'll be fine, I added, not at all certain about that.

3

I left for the bus early the next morning. Hitting the breakfast trailer at Home Depot, I ordered their version of an Egg McMuffin with coffee and a blueberry Danish. And goddamn, it was all good!

Victor pulled into the parking lot fifty yards from where I was standing, possibly to avoid a conversation with the laborers that might give away his troubled thoughts. I walked over to the truck bed to give Lassie a pat on the head, then stepped back to avoid smelling his breath.

Can't trust what you been eating, dude, I said loud enough for Victor to hear.

I opened the door and climbed in, deftly managing two cups of coffee and handed one to Victor. Good morning, I said.

Good morning, he replied. Thanks.

Yer welcome, I answered with a slurp. What're we doing today?

Planting trees.

Perfect, I said, staring at him. Who's gonna be diggin' the holes? Lassie?

You are, he said.

I looked away from him to gaze out the window at the beautiful morning. Oncoming traffic into the city was noticeably light for this time of day as the newly unemployed and those fortunate enough to be working from home stayed there. I brought the coffee cup to my lips and noticed my hand was shaking—the caffeine/sugar buzz active in my system.

Sorry, I said, I'm sure this is difficult for you.

You have no idea, he said, looking away.

Victor parked in front of the barn just as he had the day before, and it looked like we were headed for a repeat performance. He climbed onto the tractor, and I said, I'll get the gate.

We'll plant by the pond first today. It's on the other side of the barn, he said. Climb aboard.

The pond was about a hundred yards south of the barn, accessed by a trail through the woods to a clearing where God dug a hole and filled it with water. It was an idyllic spot—the kind of place where you might sneak away with your lover for a frolic in the grass, or your family for a Sunday afternoon meal al fresco, or by yourself after a day of hard work for a swim. The pond was maybe two acres big with lily pads and cattails lining three quarters of its shoreline. In front of us was a grassy approach to the water for balance. Victor parked next to a picnic table next to a stone firepit with grates for cooking.

Goddamn, ole man, I said. This is beautiful.

Yeah, it is, Victor smiled, climbing down from the tractor. It's our family's special secret.

We walked to the near bank, and he continued to speak with pride, "My grandpa dredged a swimming hole right here in front of us and hauled sand out on the ice every winter for years so there'd be a nice bottom to it. He stocked the pond with blue