I drove past the abandoned apple press before realizing it, backed up, and pulled to the side of the road. From that distance it looked like scrap: corrugated steel sides ulcered with rust and caving inward, mere fringes of tarpaper roof remaining, exposing age-blackened rafters, neck-high weeds scrambling for the light. Surrounding the building was sunken land littered with spare parts, dead-wood, and weeds that had reached the sun, been baked to summer straw.

Turn right and keep going. I saw no road, no entry, remembered Wendy’s distrust and wondered if she’d led me wrong.

I kept the engine running and got out. Four o’clock, but sun was still pouring it on and within moments I was sweating. The road was silent. My nose picked up a skunk scent. I shaded my eyes with my hand, looked around, and finally saw a bald spot in the weeds- the barest outline of a pathway running alongside the press. A shiny depression in the straw where rubber tires had finally vanquished the tangle.

I thought of walking, didn’t know how far in I had to go. Returning to the car, I backed up until I found a dip in the shoulder and nosed down into the sunken field.

The Seville didn’t take well to rural travel; it skidded and slid on the slick straw. Finally I got some traction and was able to negotiate my way onto the path. I nudged the car forward, past the press, into an ocean of weeds. The depression turned into a dirt path and I picked up speed, crossed a broad field. At the far end was a copse of weeping willows. Between the lacy leaves of the trees, hints of metal- more corrugated buildings.

Shirlee and Jasper Ransom didn’t seem like hospitable sorts.

Wendy had thought it unlikely they’d ever been parents, had stopped herself before explaining why.

Not wanting to be “uncharitable.”

Or had she been afraid?

Perhaps Sharon had escaped them- escaped this place- for good reason, constructing fantasies of a pure and perfect childhood in order to block out a reality too terrible to confront.

I wondered what I was getting myself into. Let a Jasper/Shirlee fantasy of my own float by: mammoth rural mutants, toothless and walleyed in filthy overalls, surrounded by a pack of slavering, fanged mutts, and greeting my arrival with buckshot.

I stopped, listened for dogs. Silence. Telling myself to keep the old imagination in check, I gave the Seville gas.

When I reached the willows, there was no place for the car to enter. I turned off the ignition, stepped out, walked under the drooping boughs and through the copse. Heard the trickle of water. A voice humming tunelessly. Then came to the habitat of Jasper and Shirlee Ransom.

Two shacks on a small plot of dirt. A pair of tiny, primitive buildings sided with irregularly cut wood and roofed with tin. In place of windows, sheets of wax paper. Between the shacks was a wooden outhouse, complete with a crescent hole in the door. A rope clothesline was strung between the outhouse and one of the shacks. Faded garments were pinned to the hemp. Beyond the outhouse was a water tank on metal braces; next to it, a small electric generator.

Half the property was planted with apple trees- a dozen or so infant seedlings, staked and tagged. A woman stood watering them with a garden hose connected to the water tank. Water dribbled out from between her fingers, making it appear as if she were leaking, feeding the trees with her own body fluid. The water spattered on the ground, settled in muddy swirls, turned to dirt soup.

She hadn’t heard me. Sixties, squat and very short- four foot eight or nine- gray hair cut in a pageboy, and flat; doughy features. She squinted, mouth open, accentuating an underslung jaw. A thatch of whiskers sprouted from her chin. She wore a one-piece smock of blue print material that resembled bed sheeting. The bottom hem was uneven. Her legs were pale and thick, pudding-soft and unshaven. She grasped the hose with both hands as if it were a live snake and concentrated on the water dribble.

I said, “Hello.”

She turned, squinted several times, raising the hose in the process. The water squirted against the trunk of one of the saplings.

A smile. Guileless.

She waved her hand, tentatively, like a child meeting a stranger.

“Hello,” I repeated.

“Hullo.” Her enunciation was poor.

I came closer. “Mrs. Ransom?”

That perplexed her.

“Shirlee?”

Several rapid nods. “Tha’s me. Shirlee.” In her excitement, she dropped the hose and it began to twirl and spit. She tried to grab it, couldn’t, caught a jet of water full in the face, cried out, and threw up her hands. I retrieved the muddy rubber coil, bent it and washed it off, and gave it back to her.

“Thanku.” She rubbed her face on the shoulder of her smock, trying to dry it. I took out a clean handkerchief and dabbed at her face.

“Thanku. Sir.”

“Shirlee, my name is Alex. I’m a friend of Sharon’s.”

I steeled myself for an outpouring of grief, got another smile. Brighter. “Pretty Sharon.”

My heart ached. I forced the words out, nearly choked on the present tense. “Yes, she is pretty.”

“My Sharon… letter… want to see it?”

“Yes, I do.”

She looked down at the hose, appeared lost in thought. “Wait.” Slowly, deliberately, she backed away from the saplings and made her way to the water tank. It took a long time for her to turn off the spigot, even longer to coil the tubing neatly on the ground. When she was through, she looked at me with pride.

“Great,” I said. “Nice trees.”

“Pretty. Apple. Mizz Leiderk gave them me and Jasper. Baby tree.”

“Did you plant them, yourselves?”

Giggle. “No. Gabe-eel.”

“Gabriel?”

Nod. “We take real good care.”

“I’m sure you do, Shirlee.”

“Yes.”

“Can I see that letter from Sharon?”

“Yes.”

I followed her flatfooted shuffle into one of the shacks. The walls were unpainted drywall streaked with waterstains; the floor, plywood; the ceiling, bare beams. A particle-board partition had been used to bisect the space. One half was a utility area- small refrigerator, electric hot plate, ancient washer with rollers. Boxes of soap powder and insecticide sat next to the fridge.

On the other side was a low-ceilinged room, floored with a sheet of orange indoor-outdoor carpeting. A white-painted cast-iron bed draped with an army-surplus blanket nearly filled the space. The blanket was tucked tight, with military corners. Against one wall was an electric heater. The sun streamed in, golden and gentle, through wax-paper windows. A broom was propped in one corner. It had seen good use: The place was spotless.

The only other furniture was a small raw pine dresser. A box of crayons sat on top, along with several pencils worn down to nubs and pads of pulp paper neatly stacked and weighed down with a rock. The top sheet was a drawing. Apples. Primitive. Childish.

“Did you draw this, Shirlee?”

“Jasp. He a good drawer.”

“Yes, he is. Where is he now?”

She left the cabin, pointed toward the outhouse. “Making.”

“I see.”

“Draw real good.”

I nodded agreement. “The letter, Shirlee?”

“Oh.” She smiled wider, cuffed the side of her head with one fist. “I forget.”

We returned to the bedroom. She opened one of the dresser drawers. Inside were precisely ordered piles of garments- more of the same bleached-out stuff I’d seen on the clothesline. She slid one hand under the clothes, retrieved an envelope, and handed it to me.

Smudged with fingerprints, handled to tissue-fineness. The postmark, Long Island, New York, 1971. The address written in large block letters:

MR. AND MRS. JASPER RANSOM

RURAL ROUTE 4

WILLOW GLEN, CALIFORNIA

Inside was a single sheet of white stationery. The letterhead said: