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The Fruit Belt

The orchard ladder wobbled on its skinny tripod legs as Mairin O’Hara reached for an apple, deftly plucking it from a branch.

With a practiced movement, she slipped it into the long canvas harvest bag slung across her body from shoulder to hip. She

felt self-conscious about her faded denim overalls and soft plaid shirt, even though most of the pickers were in work clothes,

too. But the others probably weren’t wearing hand-me-downs from their big brother. Liam’s loose, threadbare shirt was as homely

as an old dish rag.

If Mairin complained, her mother would simply respond with her favorite question: “You think we’re made of money?” And then

Mam’s mouth would form its usual sour pucker.

Well, no, Mairin thought. No, we’re not made of money. She didn’t know anyone who was made of money. That was the reason she

and Liam were working in the orchard instead of spending the last of the summer at Crystal Beach on the lake, or going to

open-air concerts in Delaware Park. That was what people in the Fruit Belt did.

As one of the smallest on the crew, Mairin was adept at scampering up to the high, slender branches of a tree’s crown.

She’d only fallen a couple of times, and on each occasion, she got up, ignored the bruises, and kept working.

She knew she’d catch holy hell from Mam if she got hurt bad enough to need help.

According to Mam, the doctor was expensive.

Not this view, though, Mairin thought, feeling a breeze lift the curls that had escaped from her braid. The lofty perch gave

her a bird’s-eye view from the shimmering waters of Lake Erie to the patchwork quilt of Buffalo’s neighborhoods, made up of

clapboard row houses, fading mansions exhausted by time, waterfront smokestacks and church steeples lancing the sky. Way off

to the east, the green farmland rolled on forever. The sky today was that perfect late-summer blue, hung with fluffy clouds

off the lake, reminding Mairin of that song about looking at clouds from both sides. She loved the song so much she’d practically

worn it out on her record player. A moment later, she found herself singing it under her breath.

From the corner of her eye, Mairin saw Kevin Doyle moving his ladder closer to hers. She pretended not to notice, even though

she was sure her suddenly burning cheeks would be a dead giveaway. It was the eternal curse of being a redhead, Mam used to

say. You wear your feelings like the freckles on your face.

“Hey,” said Kevin, his shock of nut-brown hair glinting in the late afternoon sunlight. He had the coolest hair, long enough

to brush his shoulders, the bangs angled across his forehead like David Cassidy’s. At school, the nuns tended to scold the

boys about their long hair, the girls about their short hemlines, and everyone about the music they listened to.

“Hey.” She tipped her head in greeting while snapping off another apple. She tried to think of something else to say. It wasn’t

like Mairin to be at a loss for words, because she was always getting in trouble at school for talking too much. A thrill

of nervousness caused her to speed up her picking. Two apples in each hand. Here at Eisman’s orchard, speed and efficiency

were prized, and you got paid by how much you picked.

Kevin had a transistor radio clipped to his belt.

It wasn’t very loud, but WKBW came in crystal clear, and the station played all the best songs.

When she heard the soft, rhythmic sound of her current favorite, Mairin couldn’t suppress a grin.

The voices of Simon and Garfunkel melded together with ethereal, breathy perfection.

“Mrs. Robinson” flowed from the radio, and the melody filled Mairin with a poignant yearning.

She couldn’t resist moving with the rhythm as she sang along and descended her ladder.

She knew every single word by heart, even though she barely understood the meaning of the lyrics, like what was Mrs. Robinson

hiding from the kids, and why did she need to learn to help herself? And why was Joe DiMaggio called Joltin’ Joe?

The nuns at school said this kind of music was forbidden, even though the song mentioned Jesus and heaven. Girls your age shouldn’t be listening to male voices , Sister Carlotta often said. And how are you going to explain that in confession?

“Coo, coo cachoo,” Mairin sang along with the radio, hitting every note and catching Kevin’s eye.

“You have a good voice,” he said, dropping to the ground and tossing his bangs out of his eyes.

“Thanks,” she said, feeling the fresh burn of a blush as she climbed down to the ground. She emptied her bag into a waiting

bushel. “I love that song.”

“Yeah. So...” Now he was blushing as he shifted from foot to foot.

“So...” she prompted, tilting her head to one side.

He dug the toe of his sneaker into the dirt. “So that movie— The Graduate —is playing at the Landmark,” he said. “Want to go see it?”

Mairin jolted to attention. What? Go see The Graduate ? With him? With Kevin Doyle? Was he asking her out? On a date?

She cast her eyes to and fro, scanning the busy pickers up and down the rows of trees. Holy moly, where was Fiona when Mairin

needed her? Mairin’s best friend would know what to make of this development. Fiona’d had a boyfriend all summer long—Casey

Costello, who was going to be a senior this year.

She had confessed to Mairin in excited whispers that she and Casey did stuff .

What sort of stuff, Mairin could only guess at through a gauzy cloud of romanticism gleaned from Fifteen by Beverly Cleary.

According to that book, dating was all about convertibles, soda shops, sweaters, and boys. According to

Fiona, there was a lot more to dating than that.

Mairin tucked her nervous hands into her pockets, wishing that she wasn’t dressed like a backwoods hick. Kevin didn’t seem to mind, though, as he eyed her with a look that seemed a little bit bashful, a little bit eager. She tried to sound casual when she said, “I... um, yes, that sounds fun.”

“It’s playing through the weekend,” he said.

She nodded, her heart beating fast. “I... I might, uh, might have to check with my mom. She’s strict that way, Mam is.”

“Okay,” he said, hooking his thumbs into his belt loops. “You can let me know tomorrow, yeah?”

“Okay,” she said. “Should I... um, want me to call you?” She’d never called a boy out of the blue. What if Mrs. Doyle answered?

Or one of his brothers?

“Yeah. Cool,” he said.

“Cool,” she echoed, blushing again.

“See you, then.” He picked up a full bushel and headed for the wagon, where the foreman logged each worker’s harvest.

“See you.” Mairin watched him go. Did he have a spring in his step? Did he think they were going on a date? Did she think that?

Mairin had her doubts about being able to go, on account of Mam. Her mother was Irish through and through, having come from

Killarney via Limerick when she was only eighteen. Mam still had the brogue, not to mention the old country ways. Mairin already

knew what Mam’s answer would be: “Go to the movies with a boy? Ah, sure you can, about ten minutes after hell freezes over,

that’s when you’ll be allowed to go to a filthy dirty movie. With a boy .”

Mairin didn’t think the movie was filthy at all, but the picture in the advertisement in the paper showed a lady’s bare leg,

and that was all Mam needed to know.

Mairin was sweaty from the humidity off the lake, and probably from nerves over her encounter with Kevin.

Afternoon sunlight bathed the orchard in a golden glow upon the fruit-laden trees, alive with the crew of busy pickers.

There weren’t many orchards left in the Fruit Belt.

Folks who had been around for a while said the area used to be a bustling farm community with street names like Mulberry, Lemon, Orange, Peach, Grape, and Cherry.

But ever since the expressway had slashed the dis trict in half, things had begun to deteriorate.

Old Mr. Eisman’s orchard was still producing, though, and he paid a decent sum per bin.

Mairin spotted Fiona at the edge of the main grove, sitting on the ground by a hedge of milkweed that was alive with hovering

bees. Fiona was leaning her forehead on her drawn-up knees and rocking slightly back and forth.

“What’s up, buttercup?” asked Mairin, dropping down onto the dry grass next to her. She swatted at a bee. The bees didn’t

worry her, because honeybees were always too busy gathering nectar from the milkweed to bother stinging people.

Fiona lifted her head, and immediately, Mairin could tell something was wrong. Fiona’s face was paper white, and there were

beads of sweat on her upper lip. “Oh, hi, Mairin,” she said in a small voice.

Mairin frowned and studied Fiona’s face. With her jet-black hair and pale skin, she looked like Snow White come to life, only

instead of singing to the wishing well, she looked miserable. “What’s the matter?” Mairin asked. “Don’t you feel well?”

Fiona shuddered and nodded her head. “Don’t get too close. I’m coming down with something. I puked in the bushes over there.”

She gestured vaguely. “Twice.”

“My gosh, you need to go home.” Mairin jumped up and held out her hand.

Fiona waved it away. “Can’t, Mair. You know my mom. She’ll kill me if I come home without my wages again. I need to pull myself

together and pick another couple of bushels at least.”

“Your mom’ll understand,” Mairin said.

“No, I mean, she might, but I need the money,” Fiona said, a thin reed of desperation in her voice. She braced her hands behind her and levered herself up,

staggering a little. She looked chastened, a bit disoriented as she dusted off her dungarees.

“Hey, you can’t work like this,” Mairin said. “Let me call your mom for a ride home.”

“No,” Fiona objected again. “I have to get some picking done.”