Picked to Die (An Orchard Mystery) (8 page)

“Good afternoon, Dorcas, Isabel. You’re looking well.”

The goats looked up at her in unison, then returned to pulling grass. Meg leaned on a fence post and studied them. She’d ended up with them because their previous owner had threatened to sell them to a Greek restaurant to be turned into kebabs. Meg had quailed at that idea, and since she had the room to accommodate them, she’d brought them home. She hadn’t really given any thought to the long-term solution, and yet, here they were still. They were quiet and reasonably friendly, but they were an obligation, and they did eat. But on the other hand, they’d provided aid and comfort to her during one unpleasant episode in midwinter, so Meg thought she had something of a moral obligation to keep them. She thought from time to time about using them to provide goat’s milk for cheese, but that would require some additional work—not to mention the participation of a male goat—so she hadn’t decided anything.

But she found she had succeeded in cheering herself up.

When Meg came in the back door, Bree was already in the kitchen, and loaded plastic bags were scattered over the table and the countertops.

“’Bout time you showed up! I think I got everything, but I still want to marinate this chicken. You get to work on the salad, okay?”

“Whatever you say, ma’am.” Meg rummaged through bags and found several kinds of lettuce, some herbs, and colorful peppers. “Let me find my biggest bowl.”

When she returned from her hunt with the bowl, she said, “Uh, Bree, I’m going to need your help with this dinner tonight.”

“What’re you talking about? What do you think I’m doing here?”

“It’s not that. It’s that . . . I’m just not quite sure how to talk to these guys.”

“What’s the problem?” Bree didn’t look at Meg because she was busy whisking a marinade in a bowl.

Meg went to the sink and started rinsing lettuce. “Well, you know, I’ve been working with these guys since last year’s harvest, and you’ve worked with them even longer. But I feel like I’ve kind of cheated: I knew that there was a system in place and that you understood it, so I just figured I’d let you carry on. Not that I’m complaining, because you’ve done a great job. But I write the weekly checks, and I feel that I should know more about what’s going on. I know you’ve told me in the past that there’s a long tradition of Jamaican workers picking apples around here, but what are the details? What are the rules for working around here?”

Bree gave her a sidelong glance. “So you’re just now asking? Okay, I cut you some slack because you really were clueless last year, but you do need to know, because you’re legally responsible for these guys, and the government is watching.”

“Exactly. Is there a problem?” Meg asked, shaking water off the lettuce leaves.

“No, but you do have to keep on top of things so that there won’t
be
any. Here’s the short version: our workers—all six of ’em—are here under what is known as an H-2A visa, which is specifically for temporary foreign workers for seasonal agricultural work. You as the employer apply for it every year, before the season starts, and the visa is only good for one year minus one day—they can’t become permanent. You’ve got to prove that there aren’t enough other workers in the area to do the work, which isn’t hard to do. You’ve got to pay them at least minimum wage. In theory, you’ve got to make sure they have a safe place to live, food, and transportation to and from work.”

“Yikes! I had no idea. You’ve been handling all this?”

“I have, but you’ve signed the papers I stuck in front of your face. I guess you didn’t read ’em too close, huh? Anyway, the guys more or less take care of their own housing and meals, and a couple have clunker cars to get around, although if they insisted, you’d probably be required to house and feed them. There are something like seventy thousand of this kind of visa issued each year, but Massachusetts isn’t even in the top ten. Apple picking makes up only about four percent of the total, nationally.”

“And you know all this why?” Meg asked, as she started slicing strips of red and yellow peppers.

“Hey, I’ve got a degree in agriculture, remember? This is part of the degree package. And I should warn you—Congress keeps trying to pass a new farm bill that could change a lot of these regulations.”

“But you’re on top of it?”

“Of course I am. What else you want to know?” Bree was sloshing chicken parts in a bowl with the marinade.

“What about health insurance? That’s got to be a sore subject.”

“They’re covered by workers’ comp. If they’re injured—say they fall off a ladder, like I did that one time—and it’s work-related, that covers medical care and even some wage reimbursement. And there are migrant health clinics around, and for Jamaicans, there’s sometimes health insurance from the Jamaican government. Next question?”

“Now I feel guilty that I didn’t know all this before. I’m overwhelmed—but listen, on a less formal level, is there anything I should avoid asking about, or anything we need to talk about?”

“Depends on what you want to know.”

“At the very least I want to know who’s who, to be able to put names and faces together. Are they happy working here? I know you’ve told me that there are other farms that pay more, but you know as well as I do that we just can’t afford to go up on their salaries.”

“Look, the pay is fair, and it helps that you’re out there, too, working alongside them. If you’re thinking you’ll suddenly be all buddy-buddy with them, though, don’t get your hopes up. There’s an active Jamaican community around here. The workers all know each other, since they’ve been coming back to this area year after year, and when they have free time, they hang out together. Don’t patronize them.”

Meg stopped what she was doing and turned to Bree. “Is that what you think I’m doing? Playing lady of the manor to the humble servants?”

Bree shrugged. “It’s happened. I’m not saying you’re doing that, but don’t expect the guys to be all warm and fuzzy. They respect you, and they’re willing to work hard—not just for you, but because they’re proud of what they do and want to do it well. I think this was a good idea, but don’t expect it to be a regular thing.”

“Fair enough. Maybe one more, when the harvest is over?”

“Maybe. You about done with that lettuce? Because the corn still needs shucking. They’ll be here in half an hour, and I’d better go fire up the grill. They wanted to go home and shower before eating with us, and they’ll be back here at seven.”

“Go build the fire, then. I’ll take care of the corn.” Meg looked in the fridge and was relieved to find that Bree had bought a ready-made cake—and a couple of six-packs of beer, as well as a couple of gallons of iced tea. Paper plates, napkins, plastic forks—check. Why was she so nervous?

As promised, Raynard’s truck pulled into the driveway just past seven, and a couple of the men tumbled out of the back, all wearing short-sleeved button-down shirts, their hair still damp from showering. They’d dressed up for her? What she wanted more than anything was for them all to feel comfortable with each other. They did do good work, and she was grateful. Without them she couldn’t hope to survive.

Bree came around the building to greet everyone, and a second car pulled up behind Raynard’s truck. That accounted for all five of the men—and they’d all come, which pleased Meg, though she hoped they hadn’t assumed it was required. She took one last look around the kitchen: the chicken and salad were already out on the picnic table in the back; the water for the corn was boiling and it would take only a couple of minutes to cook the ears; a Styrofoam cooler filled with ice held the beer. She tucked in her shirt and went out to greet her guests.

As befit his status as unofficial foreman, Raynard Lawrence was the first person to greet her. “Thank you so much for inviting us, Meg.”

“I’m glad you could all make it. I hope you didn’t think it was a job requirement.” Meg’s small joke didn’t produce any smiles. “Look, I’m not going to make any speeches. I just wanted to get together because last year was so crazy I never had a chance to really talk to any of you, we were so busy getting the apples picked, and since we had a little free time now, I thought this would be a good opportunity to get to know each other better.” Even to Meg’s own ears she thought she sounded like an insincere social worker, all sweetness and light. Maybe this was a bad idea after all.

Bree took pity on her. “Hey, guys, don’t mind Meg—she’s just nervous, so I’ll help her out with the formal introductions. Raynard you know, Meg, but from left to right you’ve got Romano Higgins, Tiyone Palmer, Delroy Campbell, Andre Morgan, and Darren Thompson. You can probably figure out the nicknames for yourself.”

“Thank you, Bree. Guys, I feel like such an idiot, doing this after a year. We should have done it last year.” Meg added quickly, “I’m sorry I couldn’t increase your pay this year, because I know how hard you all work. If we do well this year, maybe next year will be better. If you’re willing to come back?” No comments. She swallowed a sigh. “But tonight isn’t about work. There’s beer in the cooler. Bree, why don’t you start cooking the chicken? Oh, and there are chips in the kitchen—let me go get them.”

Meg fled. She was an uneasy hostess under the best of circumstances, which this wasn’t. And she sounded like such a prissy idiot! Inside she checked to be sure that the corn water was still simmering, then grabbed up a couple of bags of chips and went back outside.

Bree was poking at chicken pieces on the grill, and they smelled wonderful. Meg spied a few open beer bottles—and better yet, a few smiles—which was encouraging. She helped herself to a bottle of beer and sat down next to . . . Tiyone, was it? He was one of the younger pickers. “So, Tiyone, have you been working around here for long?”

After that, the conversations around the table warmed up gradually, and by the time the chicken was cooked and Meg carried a platter of steaming ears of corn from the kitchen, everybody had finally relaxed. Meg had learned that Delroy had two small daughters who lived with their mother near Kingston, and that Darren had been working at this orchard for fifteen years now.

“Do you guys go home to Jamaica when the apple harvest is over, or do you move on to other areas?” Meg asked.

“It depends on where the work is, and whether we have small children at home. The money we make is important, but it is hard to be away from our families for too long,” Delroy volunteered.

“I can imagine,” Meg said. “But you guys are really good at what you do. I mean, you pick the apples without damaging them or the branches, you handle them carefully, and at the same time, you’re so fast. I feel like such a slowpoke when I work with you. I swear, you each finish three trees to my one.”

“True,” Raynard said, smiling. “But it’s good to know you understand what we do. And why it matters. What we do
not
understand is why in this country, when there are so many people looking for jobs, including young, healthy people, none of them are willing to get their hands dirty with jobs such as these.” There were murmurs of assent from some of the others.

Meg had asked herself the same question. “I wish I had an answer. You know, until about a century ago, most people in this country lived on and worked their own farms. It was good, honest work. Then industry came along and sucked everybody into the cities, and the farms got bigger and used more machines instead of people. And now look—the cities are falling apart from the inside out. And still, people don’t want to work at jobs in fast-food restaurants or convenience stores, much less on farms. I agree with you—it just seems wrong.”

“But,” Delroy interrupted, “you went to college and you had a good job in the city. What is it you’re doing here? Is this just to fill time until something better comes around or the economy changes yet again?”

Meg wondered if his real question was whether she planned to bail on the orchard when and if she found another job in the city. “That’s what I grew up thinking I was supposed to do. I don’t personally know anyone who said, ‘I want to be a farmer.’ I know more people are turning to that now, like in Vermont, or are starting up artisanal cheese-making or organic farms, but it’s still a minority. Maybe it will change. It probably should. Too many kids now don’t know how to do anything that doesn’t involve a keyboard or a touch pad. They have no idea where their food comes from. As for me, I can point to about ten generations of my ancestors who worked right here on this farm. They raised their families here. They were part of the town. Sure, it was hard and uncertain—we all know how fast the weather can change around here—but they weren’t looking for the easy way out, and they weren’t afraid of work. I can’t promise I’ll be doing this forever, but I’m happy to be doing this now.”

The men around the table smiled, and raised their bottles to her. Meg could feel herself blushing. “Hey, I didn’t plan to make a speech. Everybody ready for cake?”

Once the cake had been doled out, the gathering broke up pretty quickly. After all, they all had to be up early for work in the orchard the next morning. Meg felt cautiously pleased by the results of her dinner. She knew a little bit more about each of the men, and she hoped they felt a little more comfortable with her. One step at a time, anyway.

“You going up? Or is Seth coming over?” Bree asked, one foot on the stairs leading to her room.

“He said he’d be here eventually. You go ahead. And thanks, Bree. I think the evening went well.”

“Yeah, the guys seemed to like it. The beer helped. I know it’s hard to get to know people, especially under these conditions. Heck, they don’t know me much better than they know you. I might have the right skin color and history, but I still have to keep fighting the image that I’m a snotty kid who went to an American college and now bosses them around.”

“Well, hang in there. Good night.”

Meg dropped into a chair at the kitchen table and watched Bree climb the stairs. She should go upstairs, too, but right now all she wanted to do was sit. Funny how even in a town as small as Granford there were two separate and distinct layers: the local townspeople and the itinerant pickers who worked for them. The townspeople were not notable for their ethnic diversity, but that wasn’t unusual in the more rural areas of Massachusetts. But how did the pickers manage to stay so invisible? She never saw them shopping at the market or buying pizza or filling up a gas tank. She never saw them anywhere at all, other than at work, for that matter. Was that by choice? And if so, whose?