by Brad Smith
‘Not if he turns out to be the father.’
‘First of all, he would never willingly submit a sample. We would have to pursue him, get a ruling, put the woman in the spotlight, which we’ve already agreed is not a good idea. It’s very unlikely. The people who run this department would never allow it.’
Kate glanced at the hateful face in the photograph. ‘And it doesn’t matter if this little shit is The Mayor’s son?’
‘No,’ Grant said unhappily. ‘At this point it doesn’t matter if that little shit is The Mayor’s son.’
SEVENTEEN
Fall was the busiest time at the farmers’ market in Rose City. And October was River Valley Farm’s most lucrative month of the year. Like December for most retail concerns, October could make or break a produce farmer.
The second week into the month Frances and Perry loaded the root vegetables on to the truck Friday night and then the tomatoes and peppers and corn at four the next morning. Last to go on the truck was a skid with six dozen gallons of fresh cider. Frances had bought a new apple press that year and she no longer used metabisulphite in the juice. The result was a cider which, although one hundred per cent pure, would start to ferment if not kept refrigerated. So it was last to be taken from the coolers and loaded. Frances attached stickers with a picture of an inebriated Barney Fife to the jugs advising consumers either to drink the cider within a few days or to risk the consequences.
She and Perry were on the road before the sun showed above the treetops across the river. Frances had pricing placards to make up on the way so she had Perry drive. The truck balked and sputtered as they left the farm but it had settled down by the time they reached the highway.
‘Motor’s just cold,’ Perry said.
Frances had little faith in Perry’s understanding of things mechanical but in truth it was a cold morning. She’d kept a watch on the thermometer, going to bed and getting up. There had been no frost but it had been close, the warming effect from the river probably keeping the temperature above the line. As they drove toward the city, and away from the water, Frances saw frost in abundance on rooftops and parked vehicles. She decided to hire some pickers to harvest the remainder of the tomato crop before it was lost. She had sixty to seventy hampers of Romas yet to pick. What she didn’t sell at market she would use to make River Valley Farm Organic Salsa.
It was just daylight when they reached the city. Perry took the access on to Brunswick Avenue and when he stopped at the first set of lights the truck engine began to cough again, then to rattle and vibrate. The light turned green and they started forward, lurching along. Perry kept pumping the gas pedal but it wasn’t helping.
‘Shit,’ Frances said. They were a half dozen blocks from the market. ‘Keep it going if you can.’
‘The motor’s just cold,’ Perry said.
‘The motor’s not cold,’ she told him. ‘We’ve been driving for half an hour.’
They continued to lurch along, the engine occasionally roaring to life and then faltering again. Twice it stalled completely and each time Perry, pumping the gas pedal furiously, got it running again. They were lucky to hit three green lights in a row. Frances dug her cell phone out of her purse.
‘If we can make it to the ramp, we can coast down to the market,’ she said.
‘Who you calling?’ Perry asked.
‘Carl. We might be able to roll down the ramp but we sure as hell aren’t gonna roll back up.’
‘We don’t need Carl. I can fix it.’
‘You’re a good man with a hoe, Perry, but you couldn’t fix a sandwich.’ She punched the number in and Carl answered on the first ring. ‘Shit,’ she said, ‘I just realized it’s seven in the morning.’
‘I’m up,’ Carl said.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Counting flowers on the wall.’
Frances explained her predicament and he said he’d drive in and take a look. As she shut the phone off, the truck finally quit for good. Perry put it in neutral and they coasted to the ramp and managed to roll down the incline to the market. At the bottom the ramp curved to the right and Perry struggled with the steering, which was no longer powered. They made the turn, though, and entered the market area. Perry abruptly hit the brakes.
There were two Parnelli Farms trucks there. One of them was parked in the space reserved for River Valley Farm.
‘What the hell is this?’ Frances said as she climbed down from the truck.
The man Arnie was already set up in his regular spot. Two other men – a different pair than before – were in the process of setting up in the second stall. Frances’s stall. One was a big man, six foot four or so and heavy, with thick arms and the huge sloping shoulders of a gorilla. He had the numeral 13 tattooed on to the side of his shaved skull. The other was young, maybe early twenties – skinny, with a pockmarked face, wearing baggy-assed jeans and a sleeveless t-shirt and a dirty ball cap. They were hauling vegetables in hampers out of the big stake truck parked in behind.
Frances moved past them and headed for Arnie. Her blood was up and she told herself to keep calm. As she walked past, the big man smirked at her before glancing at his skinny partner. Apparently they were in on the joke.
‘All right,’ Frances said. ‘What’s going on?’
‘It’s market day,’ Arnie said. ‘What do you need, lady?’
‘I need you to get the hell out of my stall,’ Frances said.
‘These are my stalls. I paid for them. Check with the office.’
‘You’re full of shit. This has been my spot for four years.’
‘Don’t tell me I’m full of shit, lady. These are my stalls. I booked them and I’m using them. Check with the office.’
‘This is bullshit.’
‘I’ll be outa here early afternoon, you wanna wait,’ Arnie said.
‘You’ll be out of here a lot quicker than that,’ Frances told him.
The office door was locked. She waited twenty minutes until a young woman Frances had never seen before arrived and opened up. She introduced herself as Debbie and, after checking a ledger, she told Frances that Parnelli Farms had indeed booked her spot.
‘I have the stall for the season,’ Frances said. ‘How can they book it?’
‘I don’t know. It says here they did.’ The woman named Debbie offered over the ledger for Frances to see.
Frances didn’t look at the book. ‘Where’s Gwen?’
‘Home. She’s probably sleeping.’
‘I bet she wakes up when she hears her phone ringing.’
It took Debbie a moment to realize that she would be the one causing Gwen’s phone to ring. While she dialed the number Frances turned and looked out the plate-glass window at the market. A few customers were already there, scouting the stalls. The early birds tended to look the same. Young married couples, the men in Gap khakis and sweaters, the women in long wool skirts and jackets in deference to the cool of the morning. Sometimes they brought their dogs, Airedales and Bouviers and American Standard Poodles. They wandered about with serious looks on their faces, examining pears and zucchinis like diamond merchants appraising stones. They were the ideal demographic for River Valley Farm. They liked local produce, chemical free, whether it was organic or not. This particular couple would not be buying from Frances today, though. Not with her product still on the truck.
At the end of the lot, Parnelli Farms continued to do business. The gorilla had disappeared; Arnie and the kid were working the tables. Perry had the hood of the stalled truck open now and he was standing there, looking at the engine. He might as well have been looking at the plans for the space shuttle.
When Frances turned Debbie was talking on the phone, while making a point of not looking at Frances. ‘All right,’ she said into the receiver. ‘No, I can find it.’
She hung up and went into a drawer and found another notebook. ‘Someone called yesterday and cancelled your stall. Um … it wasn’t you?’
‘It wasn’t me. I didn�
��t call yesterday and cancel my spot and then show up this morning with two tons of produce on my truck. I didn’t do that.’
‘You don’t have to be sarcastic.’
‘I feel like I have to be something,’ Frances said.
Debbie found the page in the book. This time Frances stepped forward to have a look. In a margin was scrawled in freehand: River Valley cancel Saturday 10th.
‘Somebody cancelled it,’ Debbie said.
‘Gee, I wonder who,’ Frances said. ‘All right … I’m going to deal with this later. Right now I need a stall.’
Debbie grimaced like she had a pain somewhere. ‘We don’t have anything. I mean, everything is booked. This is harvest season.’
‘I’m aware of that,’ Frances said.
By the time she walked back across the market, Arnie was in the process of selling a quart basket of sweet red peppers to a couple wearing matching cable knit sweaters. Frances waited until the transaction was done, reasoning that couples who wore matching sweaters deserved to be fooled into thinking that imported California peppers were grown locally. Arnie took their money and went back to arranging tomatoes in baskets, ignoring Frances.
‘I don’t know who you’re working for and for the time being I don’t care,’ she said to Arnie. She indicated the skinny kid. ‘But you need to tell Leroy there to move that truck and then you need to get that produce out of my stall. Now.’
‘We booked these stalls,’ Arnie said. ‘Maybe you shoulda booked one yourself. You know, before you hauled your stuff down here.’
‘I’m not going to play this game where you pretend you don’t know what’s going on here,’ Frances said. ‘I will report this shit to the market board later … but right now I need to set up. So move the fucking truck.’
‘Go sell your shit on the street,’ the man said, and he turned away.
Frances looked at his broad back for a moment, her pulse pounding. Before she allowed herself to do anything foolish she walked over to the GMC, where Perry was still behind the wheel, watching the proceedings with an indignant look on his face. Frances stood by the running board a moment as Parnelli Farms went about their business. Her business.
Across the walkway from the market stalls was a triangular corner that was off limits to the vendors. Marked by yellow diagonal lines, it was reserved for emergency vehicles or the maintenance staff. Where it widened into the pedestrian lane there appeared to be just enough room for a couple of tables. Frances turned to Perry.
‘We’re going to set up there,’ she said, indicating the area.
‘You’re not allowed to,’ he told her.
‘Let me worry about that.’
By the time they had the tables up and half their produce on display Debbie from the office was hurrying toward them across the market square.
‘Um,’ she began, ‘you know you can’t sell from there.’
Frances indicated the spot occupied by Parnelli Farms. ‘I intended to sell from there.’
‘I’m sorry about that,’ Debbie said. ‘But this area is for emergencies.’
‘As far as I’m concerned, this qualifies.’
Debbie stayed for a bit, shifting her weight from one foot to another, and then went back to the office, presumably to wake Gwen up again. Frances and Perry finished with the displays and began to sell. The spot, however, was just isolated enough from the rest of the market that business was not great. The place had a flow; people moved down one side and up the other, and most didn’t bother to wander over to the corner where Frances was. The Parnelli Farms stalls, in the market proper, were doing much better. It seemed to Frances that every time she looked over there Arnie was selling something, while taking time to smirk in her direction. The smirking bothered her more than the selling. She tried to put it out of her mind. It was one day and one day only.
Soon a few of her regulars stopped by and most of them commented on her new location.
‘I’ve always been an outsider,’ Frances took to telling them.
It was the best she could come up with. She didn’t feel up to explaining the situation to her customers. Neither could she explain to herself why, when the dilemma with the Parnelli bunch arose, she hadn’t called Martin. It would have seemed the natural thing to do, and she’d even thought of it while walking to the office. But she didn’t call Martin – partly because she knew Carl was on his way. Six months ago, she would have called Martin anyway. But today she hadn’t. They’d spoken a couple times since having dinner at the farm a week ago. He’d asked her to a play that evening, in fact, but she’d begged off, saying she had no idea what time she’d be back from market. In the past she would have brought clothes and stayed in the city, letting Perry drive the truck home. But not this time.
Carl arrived and parked beside the GMC. He was lifting his tool box from the back of his pickup as Frances walked over to tell him what had happened. When she was finished talking, Carl was staring over at Arnie and the skinny kid, at work on their sales.
‘Why don’t I ask them to move?’
‘Tarzan, no,’ Frances told him. ‘It’s not a big deal. Pisses me off though that they’re selling more than me. Most of it is shipped in from the south.’
She went back to her makeshift stall and Carl carried his tools to the GMC. After starting the engine and having it stall a couple of times he opened the hood, and came out from under it a few minutes later with a cracked fuel filter. He walked back to his own truck but before he got in he stood there for a moment, looking from the Parnelli Farms stalls to where Frances was set up. He got into his truck and drove off.
He was gone for the better part of an hour. When he returned he installed a new filter in the GMC and started the engine, revving it up before allowing it to idle for a few minutes, smooth as silk. Closing the hood, he walked over to his pickup and dropped the tailgate. In the back were two white placards, four feet square, and a package of stencils, along with a spray bomb of black paint. He went to work making up two signs, a little crude in design but serviceable. Then he parked his truck squarely in the expanse between Frances’s temporary stall, tucked away in the corner, and those of Parnelli Farms. He propped the signs up on his tailgate, side by side. One had an arrow pointing toward Frances:
GROWN LOCALLY
The other pointed toward Parnelli Farms:
IMPORTED
Even Frances was surprised at how quickly things changed. Within fifteen minutes she was selling as much as Parnelli Farms and in half an hour she was moving twice as much produce.
‘The power of the pen,’ she admitted to Carl.
‘Spray bomb,’ he told her.
At first Arnie laughed when he saw what Carl was doing. As he began to lose customers, his mood changed. Finally Frances saw him walk around his truck to open the passenger door. The gorilla with the tattooed head was sleeping there, sprawled across the seat. Frances had wondered where he had gone.
The man sat upright, rubbing his eyes, like a toddler. It seemed to take him a few moments to comprehend what Arnie was telling him but finally he looked over to take in the scene on the market floor. He was scowling as he climbed down from the van and started over. Arnie hung well back, watching.
Carl was by over by the GMC stake truck, putting his tools away. The gorilla walked past him without a glance and headed straight for Frances. Perry, standing behind the other display table, made a timid attempt to run interference. The big man straight-armed him in the chest, knocking him backwards several feet.
‘Get lost, scarecrow,’ he said before turning to Frances. ‘All right, lady. Move the pickup truck and the signs.’
Frances smiled. ‘Somebody woke up grumpy.’
The man’s eyes widened, as if he wasn’t sure what she’d said. ‘You hear me, bitch? Move the fucking truck.’
‘It’s my truck,’ Carl said. He wandered over, hands in his pockets.
The big man turned on him. ‘Then you move it, asshole.’
Reaching the table,
Carl casually picked up a butternut squash and examined it, like a customer might do. ‘I don’t think I will,’ he said. ‘Now you run along. And do some work on your people skills, will you?’
The gorilla was clearly aggravated at being awakened from his nap and maybe that was what caused him to overreact. Or maybe it was just his nature. He swung at Carl with a roundhouse right. Carl easily slipped the punch and with the butternut squash hit the big man flush in the face with such force that the squash exploded in his hand. The big man took two staggering steps backwards before crashing on to the adjacent display table, snapping the wooden legs like twigs. Falling to the pavement among the ruins of pumpkins and peppers and tomatoes, he groaned slightly and lay still.
Arnie, in full and sudden retreat into his own stall, was dialing somebody on his cell phone. Frances stepped around the fallen gorilla and headed toward him. ‘Calling the cops, Arnie? Good idea. I’d like a word with them myself.’
Arnie turned away from her and listened to the phone ring before shutting it down and tossing it on the table. No answer, so he hadn’t been calling the cops, Frances thought. He pushed by her and went over to where the big man lay on the pavement. The skinny kid was already there; he’d decided that splashing water in the man’s face might bring him around, and it did seem to be working. The man’s legs were moving as if he was trying to walk, even though he was still flat on his back.
Keeping watch on them, Frances picked up Arnie’s phone from the table and pressed re-dial. She noted the number before putting the phone back. Walking over to her own display, she wrote the number down on a paper bag and slipped it into her pocket.
After the gorilla made his way unsteadily back to the stake truck, the crew from Parnelli Farms vacated not just Frances’s stall but their own as well. Apparently they’d had enough of market life for the day. When they were gone, Frances moved into her usual spot. She had a pretty good Saturday in the end. It was a glorious fall day, with temperatures above normal, weather that attracted market shoppers. She sold all seventy-two gallons of the cider, and could have sold half that amount again. Gwen showed up at ten o’clock and apologized for the cancellation. She didn’t mention Frances setting up in the restricted zone, although she surely would have heard about it from Debbie. She had no idea who phoned in to cancel Frances’s booking, although she did recall that it was a man’s voice.