The Orchard’s Memory

Alexandra Isacson

Britt pulled off the road and parked in a dirt lot. She eyed the structure of a small abandoned house across the road.  It looked like a torn magazine page collaged against a watercolor of the steel wool clouds in the Arizona sky.  She twisted her long mocha hair up.  She opened the car door and smelled the sweet promise of rain, mingled with hay.  It seldom rained in the valley, and they had less than an hour before the sun set.  She pulled on a soft velvet black jacket, covering her halter-top.  Her pants tucked into black leather boots.
…..Violet slid out of the car in her pink lace-edged self and stepped into her heels.  Her crystal beads sparked between her breasts, and she slipped liquid in a vintage silk kimono, which the wind whipped and blurred like a muted Japanese dream.  She tied a silk ribbon around her waist.  The breeze fluffed her blonde grown out boy-cut hair.
…..Britt opened her oyster gray trunk.  A skin frame drum and cactus rain stick shared space with their suitcases and some packages.  She wished she had left the instruments at home.  She had invoked thunder the last time she had drummed the painted red ochre skin.  She needed to mail several packages of boho dresses to clients in New York, Portland, and Australia, still in the trunk.  They sold in the twenty-dollar range, while her Holly’s Harps could go for at least 10 times as much.  One third of her vintage sales were international, most from Australia.
…..Britt slipped a black leather bag over her shoulder and grabbed the handle of a large suitcase, filled with her Holly’s Harps.  She took a deep breath as she thought about a pearlescent gown.  She could sell the gown for at least twice as much as the other Harps.  She needed to pay off her charge card after traveling over the summer, the interest rates were killing her.  Her day job at the portrait studio had been slow.  Violet pulled a mid-size accessories’ suitcase, as they rushed across the deserted road.
…..A For Sale sign staked the front of the property and abandoned house, and the orchard loomed in back.  Insulation hung out of the frame, and the dusty broken windows glinted.  Britt pulled out her 1970’s Pentax camera from her black bag. She focused, adjusted the speed and aperture, and snapped. Ancient cottonwood and Chinese elm trees shimmered green leaves, shading weeds and dead grass.  Ecstatic sunflowers drooped over a fence that wired around the property.
…..A Queen Creek farmer wearing a cowboy hat drove past in a Ford truck slowed and waved. They watched as he parked a couple of houses down the road.  Even though she had not seen any No Trespassing signs here, she was always afraid someone would kick them off a property she had found in the midst of a shoot.
…..They walked around the back and into the orchard.  Britt took in the wild beauty of the sculpted garden.  Some spiraling trees were dead and broken and some gnarled trees clutched lemons.  Pomegranate trees twisted from the earth, some sparked with dark pomegranates, and other pomegranates blushed the dusty earth with flesh and seed.  She wondered how anyone could abandon an orchard.  Lightning zigzagged through the sky and backlit the trees.  Light thunder clapped.
…..Britt prayed the rain would hold off.  She just wanted some beautiful shots to post.  A vision of herself wearing the gown flashed through her mind.  When she had first worn the gown, it conjured memories of eternal Greek sculptures, and she felt dizzy with adrenaline.
…..“This will be more beautiful than the hayfields,” Britt sighed.
…..“This place feels charmed,” Violet said, crossing her arms, hugging her shoulders.
…..Violet pulled out a worn queen sheet, clothes- pins, and a small carpet from the accessories’ suitcase and set them aside.  Britt opened the larger suitcase; her rose nails caught a gleam of light.  Holly’s Harps, silk chiffon scarves, and fringed shawls flowed together inside the suitcase.  Eclectic labels with embroidered harps and angels and lace branded the gowns from the 60s and 70s.  The pearlescent gown radiated, and she did not want it watermarked.
…..“Let’s start with this one,” Britt said, holding up a black jersey gown.
…..“Love this,” Violet said, caressing the fabric.
…..They snapped the sheet over the branches of a large fruit bearing pomegranate tree and laid the carpet on the earthen floor.  Behind the curtain, Violet slipped off her robe. While Britt helped Violet, she desired to wear the pearlescent one.  Violet stepped out and rummaged in the accessories case, found a circlet, and haloed herself in gold.
…..“Look,” Britt said, holding up a vintage hand mirror, handing her some lipstick.
…..Violet held the mirror and twisted open a flashy gold tube of lipstick.
…..“Let me get some sexy shots.”
…..“These will be so great for my portfolio,” Violet said, licking her lips.
…..Violet stepped back by a lemon tree; the breeze rippled through her clothes and hair.
…..“I picked these Harpies up at an estate sale in Scottsdale,” Britt said.  “I saw the pearlescent one first.”
…..“Cool.”
…..“The woman’s mansion was pillared with Doric columns, and she had the most exquisite antiques,” Britt said.  “Crystal and Depression glass.”
…..Violet knotted her crystal beads.  In the textured breath of the trees, Britt walked around Violet, snapping photos with sunlight infusing her from different views.  Britt intermittently knelt and rose; and the soles of her leather boots gripped the earth.  Infused by a gold nimbus of light, Violet crossed her arms in front of herself, and she floated.  Britt thought about primal Black Madonna paintings and statues.  Lightning streaked the dark sky and thunder rolled.  She brushed a strand of her mocha hair out of her face and took a deep breath.  She wanted just a little more time.  A horse’s wild whinny shocked through the air.  Britt shivered as she watched the shuddering leaves and fruit on the trees.
…..Violet giggled, fluffed her blonde hair, and looked at the sky.
…..Violet was one of her favorite models because she embodied emotion.  Britt finished off a roll, stuck it in her black pants’ pocket, and reloaded.  Lightning flashed again, and a cool moist wind brushed through them.
…..“Beautiful, Violet.” Britt sighed. “Damn, we’re going to have to quit.”
…..After Violet changed, Britt knelt over the suitcase and picked up the pearlescent gown and a long black silk scarf.  It was not raining yet.  She glanced at the bluing into gray cloudy sky, and held the gown close to her, not wanting to let it go.
…..“Violet, could you take some pictures of me in this gown?”
…..“You sure?”
…..Beneath the pomegranate tree, she stood on the carpet, and unzipped her soft leather boots. Pomegranates bursting with seeds still clung to the vine.  Behind the flapping curtain, she slipped out of her clothes and shivered into her silk self. She pulled on her pearlescent skirt and slipped her hands and arms into the sleeves reaching three-quarters down.  She smelled the faint scent of sweet wine released in the memory of the garment. Her blouse was open in the back, and the ties fluttered down her skirt. She crossed the ties in back and knotted in the front. The bias cut gown was an ethereal second skin.  The world was a glassy jewel all around her.  She remembered walking beneath the skylights at the Met in rooms with Greek and Roman goddess’ sculptures the previous summer.
…..“Pick some heels,” Violet said. “I love that wrap top.”
…..“You can wear it different ways,” Britt said, looking through the accessories’ suitcase.  She slipped into some snakeskin sandals.
…..“Sexy,” Violet said.  “You should take your hair down.”
…..Violet snapped photos as Britt unclipped her long dark hair and shook it out as the fingers of the wind combed through it.  She held the trembling black watercolor scarf.  Violet took more shots.  Britt veiled the scarf in front of her face, and it wavered on the wind.  As the scarf snaked through her hands, she tranced in the arms of the orchard.  With the light stroke of her hand, she released the scarf and watched as it disappeared into air.  She felt raindrops watermark her skin and gown.  She needed to get out of the rain.  She just wanted one more shot.
…..She heard a light patter in the trees. Drops splashed her gown and the skin of the trees.  Iridescent drops beaded dry limbs.  She tasted the rain on her tongue, and the rain slid down her body and the body of the orchard.  The sky streaked fuchsia and blue.  She plucked a jeweled pomegranate, and she was aware of Violet and the camera.  She offered the warm glow of the jewel.  Soft raindrops sifted the air as the sun etched a fine line of fire behind the dark clouds all around her.  Light shuddered through her, and she was wet luminosity.  She untied her blouse, the wind blew it off her shoulders, and the ties flew behind her back like sticky wings. She felt beautifully ruined by the rain.    Lines of exquisite rain kissed her bare back and the spine of the trees.  Her dark hair fell around her wet, and she stretched her body and limbs, sculpting herself into the orchard’s memory.
–

→VOLUME 12