Something Real

by J. J. Murray

  "Gotta pick up somethin'," Nanna says as we bottom out here and there till we're stopped in front of a one-story wooden shack, smoke billowing out of a stone chimney. I help Nanna collect several large boxes containing Mason jars full of preserves, jams, and jellies from some stone steps, load them carefully into the bed of the truck, and we're off again. I don't ask no questions because it seems to be part of her routine.

  Out the cart path, back on the road, up the rest of that long hill-and I see Pine Lake shimmering in the distance. As close as Calhoun is to Pine Lake, I have never been there, and it's breathtaking. You emerge through a cloud of fog at the top of the hill, and there's a sparkling lake way down below you. Almost makes me feel weightless. Almost. "Lord, that's pretty," I say.

  "You wouldn't say that if that was once your farm," Nanna says.

  Damn it, why can't I keep my mouth shut? Yes, Nanna is speaking to me, but it sounds like she wants to argue. Do I want to argue back? Hmm. I'll ask questions instead. "It hasn't always been there?"

  "Nope. About sixty years ago, the government bought up and flooded the land to make that lake."

  "Looks like it belongs there"

  Nanna scowls. "Good land gone so rich folks would have someplace to play, make noise, and throw shit in the water. Not every farmer sold out, though. Old Bill Winters stayed on his land up till the last second, and ain't no one ever seen him since."

  "No shit?"

  "No shit. Hear tell that folks out fishing can see lights moving up under the water. That's just old Bill tendin' to his cows"

  There's a ghost in Pine Lake?

  She cackles a bit. "And the fishermen have been catching rooster weathervanes and tractor tires for years"

  "What?"

  "That's right. Got at least four towns up under that lake with roads and stop signs and everything."

  I am never swimming in Pine Lake.

  We ride down the center of the town of Pine on Pine Street (what else?) till we get to the farmer's market. It's already crowded with pickup trucks, and folks mill around thirty or forty stalls. Nanna parks behind an empty stall, and after she lays out an old quilt on a long folding table, we unload the truck. We set out bags and baskets of green and red apples and Teddy-bear-shaped containers of honey on the quilt, but the boxes we collected from that shack go under the table.

  "Why we don't put them up top?" I ask.

  "Shh," Nanna says.

  Shh, yourself! Apples and honey. That's it? I look at the other stalls and see price lists, free samples signs, bushel baskets of corn, pumpkins, squash, jams, jellies-and we got apples and honey, no lists, no signs, no variety. We ain't gonna sell shit.

  Nanna pulls a stool out of the truck and sits at one end of the table. "Don't have a stool for you cuz I didn't expect any company."

  "That's okay. I'm used to being on my feet"

  She stares at me. "You weren't on your feet the other night."

  I blush a little. "No, ma'am, but neither was your son."

  She nods. "Why I'm mad at the both of you"

  I smile. "But mainly at me, right?"

  "No. It's about even. Far as I can tell, you don't have a mind, and that boy's done lost his."

  Ouch. "Least we're compatible," I say, and I look away.

  I hear her cackle. "You two, compatible? Hmm. Gonna have to think a spell on that one. You get tired of standin', you can sit in the truck"

  Which I may end up doing. Ain't nothin' happenin' at Nanna's stall. She ain't talkin', and neither am I. A few customers come by, browsing, fingering the apples, holding the honey up to the light. A wrinkled prune of a woman wearing a shawl holds up an apple and asks Nanna, "These fresh?"

  Nanna nods.

  "Can I have a sample?"

  "No," Nanna says. Wrinkled Prune Woman sets the apple down and continues on.

  Nothing more happens for the next two hours. And Nanna's been doin' this for forty years? She don't know shit about sellin' stuff. Dag, we should be puttin' out these preserves. I walked around and looked at what other folks had to sell, and none of their preserves looked half as good.

  Around ten, swarms of white women stream in wearing clothing too fashionable for a farmer's market, gold bracelets dangling from thin wrists, expensive long coats probably bought in New York. They browse the stalls, chat with whoever latches on to them, gossip in clumps, squeeze and smell everything their hands touch, and munch on samples-but not at Nanna's stall, and Nanna ain't doing a damn thing about it.

  "Maybe if you gave out free samples," I suggest, but Nanna only shakes her head.

  "I know what I'm doin', Ruth," she says.

  "Sorry."

  Half an hour later, Nanna's eyes brighten as a huge white woman, who has to be six feet tall and six feet wide, moves down the center of the market. She carries a handbag, if you can call it that, the size of a potato sack. Yep, it's a burlap bag. Heads turn, bodies scatter, and the hum of conversation stops. Lord, that woman is twins who didn't separate at birth. She gotta weigh at least four hundred, maybe five hundred pounds. Dag, if I stood next to her, I'd look like one of them anorexic models in the magazines.

  "Who is she?" I ask instead of what I really want to ask: "Who are they?"

  "That's Sue," Nanna says. "Sue is a dear old friend of mine."

  Sue stops in front of Nanna's stall, sweat streaming down her face, her odor strong, her breath coming in huge heaves. "Meg," she says. Nanna is Meg, short for Megan? That's such a ... nice name for a witch. Bet she got called "Nutmeg" as a child.

  "Sue," Meg says. I'll never think of her as Nanna again. "What you need?"

  "Four."

  "Strawb or rasp?"

  Sue leans a flabby hand on the table, and I catch a strong whiff of ... a fireplace? Geez, I hope it ain't her flesh siz- zlin'. "Two of each"

  Meg pulls four Mason jars out of a box and slams them on the table. "Two of each"

  Sue hands Meg a one-dollar bill and drops the jars into her burlap sack. "See you soon," she says, and she moves away, her surplus flesh rippling through the rippling crowd.

  "See you," Meg says, folding the dollar and slipping it into her shirt pocket.

  One dollar for four jars of preserves? A quarter a pop? What, Meg feels sorry for super-heifer Sue? What the hell is going on?

  "Get ready, Miss Penny," Meg says out of the corner of her mouth.

  "For what?"

  "Money."

  I look up and see a swarm of folks heading toward our stall, hands jammed into purses and handbags, some with five- and ten-dollar bills waving in the air in front of them. In seconds, I am handing jar after jar of jelly, jam, and preserves at five bucks a pop to some of the greediest, grabbiest white women I have ever seen. It's like I'm at one of those early-morning sales after Thanksgiving with all the snatching and grabbing going on. In less than twenty minutes of furious selling, every jar is gone. The apples disappear as well, and after the crowd fades away, we're down to one little Teddy bear of honey.

  "That was amazing!" I say, fanning the money in my hand.

  "We did okay," Meg says, and she begins tossing the empty boxes and bags into the truck.

  "Okay? Girl, you made at least five hundred dollars in less than half an hour!"

  "About average," Meg says. "Didn't sell it all, though"

  I dig in my pocket for some money and only come up with a crumpled dollar bill. "I'm a little short."

  Meg shrugs and takes my dollar. "It's enough. Come on. Let's get back"

  The truck seems faster on the ride out of Pine, and once again, Meg turns off the long hill onto that cart path, stopping at that little shack. "Only be a see," she says. I watch her go to the door and knock.

  Super-heifer Sue opens the door.

  Holy shit! Meg just pulled herself a little flim-flam! That scheming, wicked ... smart old lady!

  Meg splits the roll of money with Sue and gets the four jars Sue "bought" in the process. When Meg gets back in the truck, I can't contain myself. "You gonn
a explain what just happened?"

  "You're pretty smart. You explain it to me "

  "The preserves are obviously Sue's."

  "Yup

  "Sue, um, has trouble getting out and about because of her, um-"

  "Sue is fat," Meg snaps. "Been fat all her life, gonna die fat"

  But Sue is in a whole new category of fat. Sue is supersize fat. She could have a country named after her, and I bet she'll have to be buried in two plots. "You picked up her preserves and jams and held them back because you knew they'd sell like hotcakes"

  "Yup. Best stuff on earth"

  "But . . . In order to sell your apples and honey, you needed a stampede. You had to get folks to think that if the preserves are good, the apples must be good, too"

  "That's how it works"

  "So Sue shows up, which is rare or somethin'."

  "She don't get out much. Maybe once a month"

  I didn't see a truck at Sue's shack, so that means Sue walked all that way? Dag, girl probably lost fifty pounds! That was her flesh I smelled burning! But if she walked there, how'd she get back so quick? "How did Sue get to the market?"

  Meg smiles. "Horse"

  "A horse?" As in just one?

  "Big one. Clydesdale."

  Whoa! That poor horse! But I can't even imagine Sue being able to get up on a horse without help. She must have to step off the roof onto the horse ... but how does she get up to her roof? I don't pry any further into that. "And when folks see Sue, they know she came for a real good reason because she's so, um

  "Fat."

  I just cannot say that word. "And then Sue buys her own preserves"

  "Which I get as payment at the end of the day for my trouble."

  It's a perfect setup. "And the rush begins."

  IIYup ;,

  "And no one's figured it out yet?"

  "Nope. Rich city folks are stupid, comin' way out here to get shit they could get at the farmer's market in Calhoun."

  I am not offended because I ain't rich. "I figured it out."

  "Cuz I let you in on it, and cuz you got some redneck in ' you.

  "I do not!"

  "You had my Dewey, didn't you?"

  Oh, yeah. I had me a big ol'redneck inside of me. Is this Meg being nice to me? "Well, it's all pretty slick, Meg"

  Meg shrugs. "It's a livin'."

  "You don't mind if I call you Meg, do you?"

  "Not at all. What you want me to call you?"

  Your daughter? "Ruth, I guess"

  We ride by the farmhouse where I don't see Dewey or the children, and Meg parks the truck in the barn. I open my door, but Meg touches my arm. "We should talk, Ruth"

  I close the door. This moment, in an ancient pickup in an antique barn with a wrinkled woman who I still cannot figure out this one conversation could be the most important in my life.

  "I was ... a little harsh to you the other day," Meg says.

  "And today."

  "Yup. Today, too. Sorry about that. I always been protective of Dewey, and not just cuz he's my only child. He's been my only family since Mitchell passed goin' on twelve years ago. Mitchell was my husband"

  "I'm so sorry for your loss," I say, and for once, I really, truly mean it.

  "Thank you. He was quite a man" She smiles. "And Dewey is just like him, just like him."

  "Mr. Baxter was a big man, too?"

  Meg shakes her head vigorously. "Nope. Mitchell was my size. Don't know how we made Dewey so big; I mean, when Dewey was born, he barely weighed six pounds. Squirted on out of me before I even knew he was out. He was so scrawny for most of his life till he hit twelve, thirteen ... and then he ate us out of house and home and barn and field. We had to milk the cow two, three times a day to keep up with that boy."

  "Y'all have a cow?"

  "Not anymore. Sold her ages ago cuz I couldn't keep up with her no more. Nothin' worse than an unmilked cow's moaning, let me tell you."

  Oh, how I know the feeling.

  "You know I been testin' you, right?"

  I nod. "I had a feeling."

  "Tested Tiffany Jones, too, and for the most part, that child passed with flying colors. She shot the shit back at me faster than I could shovel it at her most times. The girl had a very quick tongue. Cussed more than she should have, but I respect that. You're pretty good at it, too"

  "Thank you"

  "Not as good as me, now, but you do all right."

  "You'll just have to teach me"

  She nods. "You're never too old to learn, right?"

  "Right." I take a deep breath and sigh. "So you didn't really hate Tiffany, did you?"

  She sighs. "No. I liked Tiffany."

  "You called her a whore"

  "She weren't no whore. She was good company, had the prettiest smile, was almost as good a cook as me. Almost, I said. She was kind of like the daughter I never had" She sighs. "But when that crack got a hold of her and she started forgettin' she was Tee's mama ... I couldn't stand by and watch. Had to do something about it. Broke my heart, it did."

  "Dewey said Tee has spent a lot of time with you"

  She nods. "Yup. And that's probably why Tiffany started hating me. She'd go on one of her sprees, I'd collect Tee ... and a few days later, Tiffany would be on the phone hol- lerin', `Where my baby at, bitch?' I can't tell you how many times I asked that child to get help, but she didn't think she had a problem. `I can handle my own damn business,' she would say. If only I had dragged her butt someplace, she might still be alive today."

  "You can't blame yourself for what she did to herself, Meg. God helps those who help themselves, right?"

  "He's supposed to. But Tiffany didn't want nobody's help." She rolls her eyes. "And I didn't think I needed nobody's help either till you started comin' around. One day I'm Nanna, and the next day you turn me into just another old woman. You replaced me in the space of a few days. I wasn't prepared for that"

  "I don't want to replace you, Meg"

  She smiled. "It's what you're supposed to do, Ruth. You're supposed to take my place. You're supposed to steal my boy and my grandchildren away from me"

  What do you say to that? I keep quiet.

  "Dewey seems happy enough, and the kids like you." She sighs. "Bet they even love you. Not as much as they love me, now."

  "No, ma'am."

  "And you is one persistent somethin'." She pats my hand. "I like that in a person, too"

  "Thank you."

  "You know my Dewey's intentions?"

  I think he's planning on asking me to marry him."

  She chews on her cheeks again. Guess it's how she keeps from saying the wrong thing. Maybe I ought to try it.

  "About time that boy settled down" She looks at me, and a tiny smile breaks through the crease in her lips. "And he ain't chosen too awful badly this time."

  I roll my neck a little. "What you mean `too awful badly'?"

  Meg laughs. "Girl, you the ex-wife of a preacher who is still crazy enough to keep his name and play the organ at his church. You have to be touched in the head."

  "I ain't crazy."

  She winks. "Sure you are. You're about as crazy as me. I like crazy in a person. Keeps life lively."

  "Thank you" I'm starting to mist up. She calls me "crazy," and I get emotional? Maybe I am crazy. I have to look away.

  "You know how to flat-foot?"

  River dance? "No" Though my feet are flat.

  "I'll teach you. Nothin' to it. Just got to keep up with the music. How are you with canning?"

  I smile. "I know a thing or two about Mason jars"

  "Just a thing or two? You got a lot to learn about Mason jars, then" She opens her door. "Let's go eat us some lunch."

  I get out and block the path. "Thank you, Meg"

  "You ain't gonna hug on me, are you?"

  "I'd like to"

  "You don't have to"

  I step closer. "I want to" Cuz you need it, Meg.

  She rolls her eyes. "Y'all is some huggin' people." She fr
owns. "Well, get it over with. Dewey and the kids are probably hungry."

  I pull Meg to me and squeeze gently, kissing her softly on the cheek. "Thank you"

  She looks away. "For what?"

  "For giving me a chance"

  She turns and stares at me. "That ain't what you're thanking me for."

  "No, really, I am"

  "No you ain't. You thankin' me for not breakin' when you just tried to squeeze the life outta me"

  "I didn't hug you too hard"

  "Yeah, you did. I'm an old woman. Save your hugs for Dewey and my babies, okay?"

  I smile. "Okay."

  We eat the best peanut butter and jelly sandwiches I have ever eaten at a huge oak table in Meg's kitchen. I even eat two: one thick with strawberry jam, the other oozing with raspberry jam. Tee and Dee suck down their milk and inhale two sandwiches each before zipping off.

  "I thought farm life was supposed to be slower," I say.

  "It is," Meg says. "It's just a little more of an intense slow than the city."

  Dewey smiles. "How was Pine, Mama?"

  "Sold out," she says.

  "Good. How's Sue doin'?"

  "Fine, fine" Meg removes our plates. "Y'all want to make yourselves useful, you can walk the fence"

  Dewey groans. "Today?"

  "Ain't gettin' fixed on its own," Meg says. " 'Sides, y'all look like you could use some exercise."

  "A walk sounds fine to me," I say.

  "It ain't much of a walk," Dewey says.

  He ain't wrong about that. Walking the fence involves loading up the truck with fence posts, planks, and nails, and driving around the fence line to repair every dangling board, every leaning post, every missing section. And even though I'm wearing heavy leather gloves, I still get blisters from pounding so many nails.

  "When's this damn fence end?" I ask.

  "It doesn't," Dewey says, positioning another piece of board and hammering it into a post. "Guess everything went okay at the market with Mama, huh?"

  "Went much better than I expected"

  "Good" He massages my shoulders, and I nearly pass out. "You know that you're the first girl I've ever had out to the farm?"

  "First girl? You are massaging a woman, and if you stop, I will hammer a nail into your head"

  "Why don't we, um, get more comfortable?"

  "For what?"