《The Peach Tree in the Valley》


 Chapter One

    Life isn¡¯t something you can take back. There isn¡¯t any way to place the soul back into a being. Once the light leaves, it¡¯s gone forever. Death is as permanent and unchanging as the cycle of the moon. Even in nature, everything has its cycle; it¡¯s purpose. Somewhere, a peach gets caught by a gust of wind, separating it from its mother tree and smacking it hard into the Earth. The peach is suddenly pushed away from the safe wiry branch and into immediate danger, just by being as it was. Even though it isn¡¯t a punishment from some unforeseen hand, it feels like it. But once the fruit is consumed, devoured by some gangly animal with no insight into its own actions, its seed will finally be able to find the Earth again. The new tree will be big and beautiful and will remain much longer than its harvested brothers and sisters. It¡¯ll endure longer than the racoon that dropped it the valley. It¡¯ll have visitors from time to time that will take solace in its shady branches, but as with all things their hair will grow coarse and grey, and they¡¯ll never return again. It will see its own peaches fall and be powerless, a bystander in its own existence, but it will know nothing but peace. After all, it is only a peach tree.


    At the end of the tree¡¯s life, a girl began to visit. She was lean and strong, not unaccustomed to the farmland surrounding her. Her hands were callused and stained orange from tobacco. Despite these characteristics, which supported a more boyish girl, her hair was a lovely straw color¡­and her cheeks were always freckled and pink.


    This girl had a penchant for lighting a match on her teeth to light her pipe. She plucked the grass with her knuckles, a nervous habit that could lay waste to any field if she let it. Eeen the clothes she wore were thin and breathable, too comfortable for someone her age to wear in public. All of these things said out to someone, almost purposely, ¡°I am perhaps too comfortable.¡±


    The tree didn¡¯t know it, but her name was Jean. She had lived on this land her whole life, and fully expected to die and be buried on it. Her family, the Mooney¡¯s, were Irish. They migrated and somehow managed to find themselves married into the French autocracy. The very same autocracy that ran the biggest indigo and cotton plantation in the county. That wealth wouldn¡¯t last forever though, and by the time Jean was very young, she began to understand what horrors had actually occurred on the family farm. She knew that the cabins settled amongst the redwood trees had housed; slaves. She knew her grandfather used to work the people that lived there till their bones were raw, and only allowed them to leave after a whole war. Even then, most stayed because they truly had nowhere else to go. They were robbed of their real home too long ago for them to be able to return.


    Once her father inherited everything, he gave the slaves wages.It¡¯s what¡¯s right, he would say, pulling the money straight from the vault and putting it in their hands. Eventually, they sold the candelabras, the chandelier, and all of the fine china and crystal. No matter how much money they lost, he insisted that they would not be sharecroppers. They¡¯d lost the war for a reason. God meant for it to be this way. Still, things were changing. The amount crops they were able to harvest each year grew smaller and smaller, and it was mostly only family left doing the work. This was the reason Jean was just a bit rough, just a little bit around the edges, and it was that she had been in the fields almost her entire life. They did this because Father insisted they must. It was their family¡¯s comeuppance, in a way.


    She was never alone though. Her parents were able to have five other children besides her, and all of them helped. There was the oldest, Howie, as well as the older girl, Mary. Then, Neve, Jean¡¯s younger sister, and Baby. They were all so much alike it made their differences more obvious.


    There were others too; the occasional friend of her father, and sometimes even the occasional neighbor boy. They all wanted to marry Mary; you see. The years of work and sun didn¡¯t roughen her in the slightest. In fact, it almost softened her out, gave her a sense of humanity. Something approachable, otherwise she would be too pretty to talk to. They¡¯d sweat far too much. Jean, although old enough, wasn¡¯t seen this way. She wasn¡¯t forgotten per say, she just was a bit more of her father than her mother. They had the same black beady eyes.


    Mother was another sort of person entirely. She married her father young, almost too young, but she lovedhim. Father always said he was a lowly person of the earth and she was something more native to the sky. An angel. Her hands were almost always soft, and she was always lovely to everyone she knew. Yet, she always seemed a little gone. There wasn¡¯t much light in her eyes. Everyone knew this wasn¡¯t the life she expected of herself. Even Jean.


    It scared her a lot, the secret unhappiness. She thought of it often.


    ¡°Psstt.¡±


    Jean woke with a start, jumping with a bolt of adrenaline. She wasn¡¯t supposed to fall asleep. Not today.


    ¡°Shit¡­¡± She said, rubbing her eyes.


    It was Howie, her eldest brother. Looking stern.


    ¡°You know smoking too much tobacco will make you sound like a man, right?¡± He said, his ginger hair flopping in front of his eyes. ¡°And those fingers¡­sheesh Jean.¡±


    She hid her hands behind her back. Couldn¡¯t do anything for the smell.


    ¡°Don¡¯t tell Ma.¡±


    ¡°Too late for that.¡± He huffed, sticking his thumbs in his pants. ¡°She said, and I quote ¡®Go get Jeanie from her smokey knook!¡¯¡± He breathed out in a breathy voice, almost imitating his mother. He eyed the pipe in the grass narrowly. ¡°Where¡¯d you get that thing?¡± A smile was on his lips, thin and sly. One more second and he could snatch it from her, she could sense it. He smoked too, because of course he did. He was a man of almost 20 now and wanted everyone to know it. The wooly ginger beard was helping too. Jean always thought it looked unbearably uncomfortable.


    ¡°Reese made it for me. No big deal.¡± She said, bursting up and taking her pipe with her.The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.


    ¡°Reese, huh.¡± He rubbed his chin, still smiling. ¡°You know he¡¯s sweet on you, don¡¯t ya?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    Reese wasn¡¯t impressive. He was a friend for a long time, but she had once seen him eat a cow pie.


    ¡°Church starts in an hour. I¡¯m sure you can wear something better than that.¡± He said, pointing to the old green trousers she had cut to her calf. They were her father¡¯s from when he was younger. Maybe nice once, but they were work clothes now.


    As they walked back to the house at a brisk pace, Jean knew exactly what was waiting for her. Every Sunday, Ma hung out the old indigo dresses. They were a beautiful dark blue, dyed from their own plants, but they were hot. You couldn¡¯t wear it for a second without immediately feeling giant beads of sweat falling down your neck. Unfortunately, they were the best thing they had at the moment for Church. Even Pa and Howie wore the indigo. They looked a bit foolish, but no one ever said a thing. At least not to their faces.


    The Mooney¡¯s had always been stout Catholics, even before they arrived in South Carolina. Even now, they always, always arrived on time, right at 7 o¡¯clock. That¡¯s why, when Pa didn¡¯t make it to the car on time, they left anyways. Sometimes he¡¯d get so caught up in the nature surrounding him, it would only take longer to go search him out. He¡¯d usually show up on the tractor just in time. That was also very amusing to the townsfolk. He looked like a big blue burly man on a rusty monster.


    The thing that all the townspeople understood was that they were all remnants of a distant time. It was a joke almost. Everyone else has moved on.


    There was something about Mass that was terrifying to Jean. All the Latin, the chanting, the blood. Communion almost made her feel sick. Even though it was merely a scrap of bread, and it didn¡¯t taste like blood and flesh, it made bile rise in the back of her throat.


    She laced her fingers into the bottom of her hair and pulled it upwards for a moment of relief.It felt thick and dewy. Still, no Father. She was sure he would be there any minute, he had never ever been this late.


    It had been almost five minutes into the middle of the service when the doors swung open. Somehow, there was a breeze. The opened wood doors did not reveal her big blue father. Instead, it revealed the strangest looking family she had ever seen. A man, woman, and child, all dressed in their version of Sunday best. They stuck out like a bruise.


    The woman looked very pointy, her collar perfectly flat and white. No sweat on her brow, her mouth hardened into a crisp red line. The child, assumedly her son, had big round eyes. They were swollen and puffy as if he had been crying for hours beforehand, but even then, walked like a full-grown man. He didn¡¯t look right. The husband was another thing entirely. If his wife was put together, he was pristine. He seemed to have no pores, or creases. He looked brand new, and very wealthy. He wore no jewelry, but Jean could just tell. The oddest thing about him though, were his eyes. They were cold.


    Everyone turned back around almost immediately. No one whispered during Mass, that wasn¡¯t until after, but Father still hadn¡¯t shown. Ma was beginning to worry, and her leg began tapping incessantly on the wood floor, making a rhythm throughout the hymnals. There was nothing they could do but wait until he showed. It wasn¡®t long until an hour had passed, and people were allowed to leave. As they made their way to the exit, a family stopped them. Thefamily.


    ¡°Flo!¡± The man shouted, pushing his way through a group of church ladies. ¡°Remember me?¡±


    Ma put on her face in an instant. She dropped her nervousness like a hot rock. Maybe it was because he was farther away before, but she suddenly knew him. ¡°Monty?¡±


    ¡°Where¡¯s Patrick?¡± He shuffled up to her, his wife and child following closely behind in silence. They stared at the ground. ¡°Don¡¯t tell me he missed the service?¡±


    ¡°You know, he probably just fell asleep in the field somewhere. We¡¯re getting older after all.¡± She chuckled, her laugh thin. Ma motioned gently to Howie to get in the car and take off home. Find your Pa. Now.He took off instantly.


    ¡°That¡¯s a shame. I stopped in to visit, just for a while.¡± He smirked. ¡°There¡¯s a lot of stuff that y¡¯all need to hear about.¡± He hushed his voice for a second. ¡°It¡¯s from the city.¡±


    Ma nodded her head. Jean had no idea what that meant.


    ¡°Besides!¡± He bellowed, placing his hand on the small of his wife¡¯s back. He was shorter than her, Jean realized. ¡°You haven¡¯t been able to meet my wife have you? It¡¯s been so many years. This,¡± He said, drawing out his words for dramatic effect. ¡°This is my wife, Ola.¡±


    Ola stuck out her hand to shake. It was in a red glove. ¡°How charming. My husband introduces me but doesn¡¯t manage to introduce my son.¡± She said in a huff. She pushed her purse into her armpit and bent down, whipping her child out in front. ¡°This is Abele. Say hello, my baby.¡±


    The boy stared up with his big red eyes. ¡°Hello new people. How fun.¡± He said in a monotone.


    ¡°This boy is nuts.¡± Neve whispered to herself. Mary shushed her. Jean suppressed a chuckle. She was almost definitely right, but she wasn¡¯t supposed to say that. Not yet.


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry, but I don¡¯t believe we met.¡± Mary burst into the conversation, covering Neve¡¯s tracks.


    ¡°Oh yes we have, Mary.¡± Mr. Monty frowned. ¡°Sure, you were but a baby then, but how can I forget your pretty face?¡± He stepped forward, past Ma, and lifted Mary¡¯s chin. Ma didn¡¯t even flinch. Neither did Ola. Perhaps this was normal with this man. ¡°You are still a delight.¡±


    Mary turned pink. How rare. She managed to choke out a thank you, nudging him off her face. He stepped back, eyeing Baby --- and Neve. His eyes fell on Jean.


    ¡°I don¡¯t think I¡¯ve ever met you before though.¡± He said. ¡°Flo, she looks just like Pat. Look at her fingers.¡±


    ¡°I know, we have been trying to get her to stop.¡± Mom sighed, rubbing her palm into her forehead. ¡°She¡¯s just like him, in that way.¡±


    Jean hated when adults talked as if she wasn¡¯t there.


    He turned from Ma then, and smiled, looking her directly in the eyes. ¡°Good. She¡¯s a free spirit.¡± He smelled of mint.


    On the walk home, they walked together, chatting idly about the weather and whatever else seemed important. It was strange, but they could almost seem to make out a car traveling towards them. They could only assume it was Pa and Howie.


    Sure enough, it was the Mooney car. Howie was speeding, a giant trail of orange dust following behind him. It wasn¡¯t until the car got really close and came to a halt that Jean noticed that he was sobbing, his cheeks stained bright red, as well as his indigo shirt. His hands wouldn¡¯t stop shaking. He opened his mouth, his hands shaking even more.


    ¡°I can¡¯t drive. Ma, I can¡¯t drive.¡± He fell out of the car, stumbling and nearly tripping over himself. His pants were covered in red too. Jean felt the bile at the back of her throat. Mr. Monty looked grey.


    Ma shrieked, running to her oldest son, holding him in her arms. ¡°What on Earth has happened?¡±


    ¡°I¡ª¡± He started. He couldn¡¯t form the words, tears falling from his eyes. He was clenching Ma like a baby. Neve started to cry.


    ¡°He¡¯s dead¡­Pa¡¯s dead.¡±

 Chapter 2

    Howard had returned home to the farm to find Pa missing. He couldn''t find him anywhere. He wasn''t out in the fields, not near the river, and certainly not the house. Anywhere he had ever been was completely deserted; not even an echo of his sweat remained. Howie only checked the empty cabins as a last resort. He hated the things.


    Inside, he found Pa with the shotgun, collapsed in the corner. Only, his face wasn''t shattered into a million pieces. No gore covering the wall. Instead, his giant frame was sitting in the corner by the old fireplace, his throat slit. When Jean later saw him, his face was a pale white, and his work shirt was stained a deep dark crimson. Howie didn''t tell his sisters the other things he observed. His blood pooled in the corner, leaving a dark smudge in the room, which trailed out of the house when he picked him up. He had just  started to smell. The worst part was; the shotgun was broken. He desperately slashed his own throat with his bowie knife.


    Suicide was a crime in the Catholic Church. Pa knew that. What had he done? What was so unforgiving that he would damn himself?


    They couldn''t grieve for him in public. No one was to know. Mother brought the whole family together that night, sat them in the den and uttered the most unforgivable part of it all. What he had done, no matter how heartbreaking it was, was shameful. If anyone asked, he was sick. Deathly sick. Eventually in time, they would be allowed to say he passed after his bout of illness. They could only ever say this after she allowed them to. Never before. No slips.


    After that conversation, they sat in silence in their rooms for hours. No one spoke, no one went to another room. Eventually, and almost simultaneously, they all burst into tears. They cried until they couldn''t no more, their mouths dry from exhaustion, and finally fell asleep.


    When they awoke the next morning, Jean almost forgotten it had happened. She rose with the sun as usual, got dressed in her usual sheath shirt and pants, and then went outside to work. Her brother was out there too, silently sharpening tools. He was staring out into the distance as if she wasn''t there. His face was shaved.


    She went ahead into the Indigo fields, using her knife to separate twigs into her basket. She always had a rhythm to get through these things An inner conversation to entertain herself, about anything from the leaves themselves to whatever food she wanted for dinner that night. Today, her head was empty. Jean had no thoughts. She couldn''t stop staring into her hands. The movement of the knife slicing into the bush, over and over again, mesmerized her. The knife was shiny, fresh.


    Her father had given it to her on her tenth birthday.


    Jean stopped cutting branches and screamed. She couldn''t stop screaming. Her  knife was flung into the ground, scattered somewhere under the indigo''s bushes. Her father was dead. He was gone. He cut himself. Jean couldn''t get away from it.


    Howie had heard her scream, but he couldn''t get up from his post. He couldn''t stop working. Mary heard it second, and came running out from the house. She was barely out of bed, her hair was still not even brushed, but she ran all the way to her sister. Her long strides took her to the indigo and from there she burst into tears at the sight. Jean was huddled against the dirt facedown, weeping.


    "Jean." Mary said, bending onto the ground, slowly. "Please, don''t do this." Her lip was trembling. "You can''t let Mama see you like this. Not right now."


    The younger girl whipped her head like a snake. "How dare you..." She said, the words shuddering out her mouth with venom.


    Mary sighed, her tears falling back into her eyes. "Please." She bent down to wipe Jean''s face. Jean wanted to bite her wrist. "Mother can''t handle it. She has things to do right now, she can''t be sad. We can''t be sad." She shuddered. "We will lose ourselves."


    "What are we supposed to do? This doesn''t make sense, Mary!" Jean crawled up onto her knees, reaching for her hidden knife. Finding its hilt, she whipped it out on her sister. Mary gave her a look of distain. "Father took his knife and slit his fucking throat, Mary." She said, deadpan. Her tears were suddenly gone, replaced with heated disgust. "Mary...we need him. He knew that," Jean paused. She reached her conclusion and realized something."Why would he have done unless he just didn''t care about us?"Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.


    Her sister stood up quietly. There was dirt caked into her knees. "I don''t know. We don''t know."


    Jean told her sister to leave her alone, and she did. Jean didn''t cry anymore, and went back her indigo. It almost felt better. She worked there all day, boring into the work. She didn''t stop for lunch, or a smoke, like she usually did. She stayed in the fields, mowing down plant by plant without much effort at all. Eventually he sun began to burn her shoulders. They blistered. Still, she didn''t stop until nightfall, and even then she went immediately back to bed.


    No one spoke to her, and she almost preferred it.


    Unfortunately, Mr. Monty and his family showed in the morning the next day, uninvited. Neve saw them pull up their road from the window. They had a green Roadster, she said. It was beautiful. Ola exited the car first, adjusted her long-waisted blue dress and stockings, and then led out her son. His hair was parted completely straight down the middle and gelled down so flat to his head that he looked almost bald. Mr. Monty came out last. He was wearing sunglasses and a grey suit. A matching handkerchief and tie, a silver watch. Neve remembered it all, and exclaimed it loudly just as they entered the house. No one was even closed to prepared for company, and they still walked right in. Some might consider this rude.


    "Oh Flora!"  Ola shouted up the stairs, eyeing the floor and carpet.


    "Florence." Monty added, piping over his wife''s mistake. He looked exasperated.


    "Oh yes, oops." She fixed her mistake, shouting into the home once more.


    Mother had been up in her room. She had not come downstairs that day, and wasn''t dressed and manicured as usual. She had realized her strawberry blonde hair was beginning to grey the night prior. She didn''t respond. Noticing the car parked in the front, Jean ran from the fields. By the time she had made it, her face was drenched in sweat. You could see her chest through her shirt.


    "Hello! Mr. Monty, nice to see you sir." She said, still panting from the run. "My mother''s a bit preoccupied right now."


    A vague excuse, sure, but it could work.


    "That''s fine. Leave Flo to her own devices for a while, I''d say." He grinned, his mustache curling up at the ends. Ola rolled her eyes.  "That father of yours, where''s he?"


    Jean had obviously paled because Mr. Monty did too. Jean knew he had seen Howie covered completely in their father''s blood. What could she possibly say? The girl was incredibly lucky she wasn''t alone with them for a second longer.


    "Hey y''all." Mary wandering in, hazily. "Daddy''s actually out of town for the moment. He said something had happened with one of the men that distribute the indigo. I''m afraid he won''t be home for a while."


    Different excuse than what Mama said, but it would have to do. Still, it felt wrong to make a lie so obvious. Once Mary finished her lie, the man dropped his smile.


    "I see." He said, very serious. Jean watched his eyes for a moment. It was obvious he had come to his own conclusion about what had happened. She just didn''t know if he was correct or not. He looked pensive, but maybe he was just sad. "Well, I was just looking forward to seeing an old friend."


    There was a shouting from the top of the stairs. Mother. Finally. "Monty!" She said, closing her robe over her nightgown. Her hair was frizzy. Jean had never seen her this undone, especially in company. "What are you doing here so early in the morning?"


    "Oh my darling Flo...surely you''ve noticed that it''s around 2 o''clock?"


    Ma chucked, throwing her head back. "I am merely joking, you buffoon." She said, walking herself down the stairs to meet them. Jean cringed at the insincerity of it all.


    Ola intercut her husband, suddenly bored of not being spoken to. "You know, Flo. When Monty said that you lived in a plantation and grew indigo, I really expected something ruinous." She said, taking Jean''s mother''s hands into her own. They looked like two completely different species of women. Ola was thin and long, like a dagger. Mother looked soft. "This isn''t as terrible as I expected!" She laughed.


    Mother laughed too. It was fake, again. It was cut short by Monty asking for confirmation Mary''s excuse. Her eyes flashed with red, but only for a moment. "Yes! He actually said he wouldn''t be back for a month at the least." Quick improvisation for someone so unprepared. This was she was good at, lying.


    "Well then," Monty scoffed. "Looks like my family and I will just stay the month! I''ve been meaning to visit for, what?" He thought for a moment. "16 years now!"


    "I don''t think that''s for the best!" Mary interjected. "Surely, you''re more used to a more extravagant lifestyle."


    Mr. Monty stretched his mouth out into a thin, unkind, smile. "You''d be surprised, Mary."


    Ola was about to cut in again, when Mother agreed. Ola hushed herself. Jean swore that she was going to argue with her husband on staying. She looked way too panicked. No woman that dressed the way she did would ever want to live here for a night at most. Jean had seen it before, the type of people that didn''t know the land. They hadn''t memorized the stars or the names of flowers. They always were strange people. Her son wasn''t even involved in the conversation before him, and she could tell he was that way too. Monty, however, she just couldn''t tell.


    "You may live in the cabins, if that''s what you really want. Just let Howie clean them up for you first. That is my only condition."


    "Perfect." Monty smiled, and with that, Jean knew instantly that everything was only going to get worse.