The House in the Apple Orchard

     Mr. Cooper, my neighbor, was in his fifties, tall and bony, and almost always wore a neat white shirt with the famous polo horse logo. A bold line creased his brow. He and I seldom talked, but one day he came to my studio apartment in Orlando.
     “Hey, Ron, I ran into Jim Meyer last week, and he said you’re looking for a job.”
     Cooper’s pale gray eyes fixed on my face. Lucy, my beloved cat, stared back at him with her green eyes.
     Jim was also my neighbor, and he’d taught me photography when I was a kid. I talked to him on the phone occasionally but had not seen him for some time.
     “He looked fine, although he said he has chest pain sometimes.”
     Cooper’s eyes narrowed, and Lucy jumped up on me. I grabbed her in my arms.
     “Yeah. We caught up on each other’s life last week. I told him the scenic painting for the theater was about to end. I definitely need work.”
     “Do you mind my smoking?” Cooper took out a silver cigarette case from his chest pocket.
     “Would you smoke on the balcony?” I pointed to the sliding door leading to the tiny balcony. “I’ve inhaled enough fiberglass, asbestos, and toxic fumes. I have to watch out for my lungs. Sorry for the inconvenience.”
     “No, it’s all right.” Cooper put the case back. “How about helping me, then?” 
     He sat down and explained that he owned an old farmhouse in Western North Carolina. It needed some repair work for renting. 
     “We all know you’re good at both carpentry and painting. Even after you finish fixing the house, you’re welcome to stay there until we find a renter. It’s furnished and there are plenty of household appliances—you could live comfortably enough. The house stands in a beautiful apple orchard, and in a month or so the mountains will turn autumn colors. You can enjoy taking photos or doing your art, perhaps.”
     He grinned, looking at my tripod and the half-finished watercolors leaning on the walls.
     Lucy meowed, staring back at him from the corner. I took the job because the pay was good and in cash.
                                                   ~~~
     “How do I get to Apple Valley?” I asked a serviceman at a gas station off US-19. Fresh mountain air floated in through my open window. Late-summer green covered the Blue Ridge and surrounded me under a tranquil sky. I filled my lungs with the clean air and said, “I’m looking for a blue house in an apple orchard.”
     Through grizzled bangs, the serviceman studied my face, my ponytail, and my zircon earring.
     “Where you from, young man?”
     “Orlando. Could you give me directions?”
     I showed him a piece of paper on which Cooper had drawn a map with descriptions of the house.
     “Are you going to that big house?” he said.
     “I guess. The owner said it has fourteen bedrooms.” I noticed a flash of surprise in his eyes, but then his expression turned stony. He pointed at a dirt road by the station.
     “You keep going on and make a right when you see an apple stand. Then go up the hill for half a mile. You’ll see the blue house.”
     “Thanks.” I started the engine.
     “Are you going to stay there?”
     The man glanced at my cat cage and the piles of boxes and bags in my car.
     “Yeah, for a while. I’m going to fix up the house.”
     His brows rose.
     “The owners want to rent it,” I explained. “Why? Is it in a bad shape?”
     The man shrugged and pointed his chin at a restaurant behind the gas stand. The sign said Tony’s Eatery.
     “See my restaurant there?” If you ever need to make a phone call, we have a booth inside. We’re open from seven in the morning to ten at night.”
                                                  ~~~
     Trees rose like high green walls on both sides of the narrow dirt road meandering through the woods. A small stream appeared and disappeared behind the trees, and sunlight fell softly through the canopy. I began to think the shadowy green expanse would never end, like a long tunnel whose exit would never be reached.
     Had I missed the sight of the apple stand?
     I was almost ready to turn around when the view opened ahead. Gentle rolling hills with bushy apple trees stretched to the next range, and I saw a stand with a plywood roof. Baskets heaped with shiny red, green, and yellow apples lined the counter. A sign board hanging from the roof read, “Honor system. Help yourself.” A tin can sat on the counter under the sign.
     I made a turn onto an even narrower dirt road to ascend the hill.
                                                  ~~~
     The mid-nineteenth century wooden house stood halfway up the hill. It was built in a T-shape with the middle section protruding from the front, and two sooty brick chimneys stuck out, one on each main slope of the roof. The porch stretched around the entire first floor, and the second floor reflected sunlight in its row of windows.
     “A shame,” I said to myself, driving slowly up the road. It could have been a gorgeous farmhouse, but the paint was peeling, gutters were bent, and the roof had started to warp. And at the orchard, even though the trees had branches low with fruit, knee-high weeds surrounded them, and many apples lay on the ground, turning brown.
     I parked my wagon in the front yard and stretched my arm to Lucy’s cage in the navigator’s seat. My usually friendly cat hissed, her hair bristling.
     “What’s the matter?”
     Through the windshield, I saw a golden retriever running from the back yard and bouncing up the steps to the porch.
     “Did you see the dog, Lucy?”
     I hopped out of my wagon, leaving Lucy inside. The brook murmured from behind the house, and grassy aromas with a hint of rotten apple touched my nose. When I climbed the chipped porch steps, there was no sign of the dog; instead, I stepped over scattered grocery bags filled with garbage and overflowing with dry bread crusts, apple cores, and fish bones. The trashy smell replaced the grassy one, and flies circled the bags. I took the key from my pants pocket, but just then I noticed two pickups sitting at one side of the house, both heavy duty and covered with fresh dirt. I tried to peer in through a window, but the blinds were pulled tight, blocking any view. I stuffed the key back inside my pocket and knocked on the door.
     When the door swung open, a middle-aged man glared from the threshold. “What do you want?” Stubble covered half his face, and his striped shirt emitted a distinctive smell, sickening to me as always. Through the open door, I glimpsed five or six people, men and women, sitting on the floor in a circle. One puny man puffed smoke toward the ceiling; the others stared at me, their eyes drowsy with pot.
     “I came to fix this house and didn’t expect . . .” I began to explain.
     The stubbled man’s eyes narrowed before I finished my sentence.
     “Get lost. We live here.” 
     He shut the door in my face.

To be continued.