“How far north is that?” I say, and you start in laughing.
“You dumbass,” you say, “it ain’t north, it’s south of here, God, you’re one dumb hick.”
“Fuck you,” I say.
“Fuck you back,” you say back, and the light glows red on your dark lips.
Then, two days later, you leave.
At the fairgrounds of the county fair I wander the midway, wanting. The weather is so hot—burning hot and dry. The grass is shriveled, the creek beds are bare puddles. Fall is coming on. All the jocks have their heads shaved for football, standing at the food booths shirtless and hardheaded, slapping at their girls. I wish you hadn’t left, Gary Brewster, so you could be here to say, “God, will you look at all them dumbass hicks,” but hey, it’s just the guys from here and there, like always at the fair.
I keep passing the food tent and swinging around to get another look at what’s there. I’m not even hungry but I want to taste everything—the sweet cherry-red cotton candy, fresh-squeezed lemons dipped in sugar for lemonade, cool kraut and warm hot dogs with ketchup. I want to run my tongue over the hot dogs and lick out the ketchup. My little brothers won’t eat nothing, and they are scared to go on any of the good rides except the bumper cars and the carousel. I set them on the horses, and I stand and I stare.
Under the slim stifling moon somewhere, Gary Brewster, you fearing, fearful, afraid of nothing, you left me, threw me over, until I am so alone, until I dig into my cold chest, until my bare hands catch the crumbs of downy corners in the empty pockets of my jeans.
And I listen to the loud rock-and-roll guitars playing “Stairway to Heaven,” playing “Born to be Wild.” And I follow the shining rides with my eyes, how the lights on them all move forward and don’t stop, all except the giant Ferris wheel, a sissy ride, but one that goes up high and takes you back down, forward and then backward. And I want to ride them all, especially the ones that don’t turn back. The wooden roller coaster called the Cyclone, the roundhouse machine that spins in strung-out circles called the Scrambler, the Tilt-A-Whirl that sets you in a little cage and turns you upside down, head over heels. And I wonder which one would be best, then I know, the Cyclone, with its rails and wooden ties snaking over itself like a shiny sawmill, and its car of boards and splinters; and I want to get into the rickety little Cyclone car and ride up those clappety oak planks to the very top. And when it comes speeding down I will stand up and step out into the air and cry out your burning name, Gary Brewster Gary Brewster, until those words catch in the clacking racket of the ride and follow along, follow me up and then race me down, until the words burn and turn to tears and stream from my eyes, until the brakes squeal, and all of it comes crashing to a stop, and I will be lost, lost again, but this time, no one will find me.
ELEVEN
CANNING PEACHES (1985)
“DAMN, THAT show always gets me crying,” Dessie said. She was leaning against the doorway of her narrow kitchen, keeping one eye on Search for Tomorrow in the living room and the other on Billie at the stove.
“What are you sniffling about now? That little tramp got just what she deserved. How long did she think she could go on cheating like that, flaunting it in front of the whole world?” said Billie, smiling, shaking her head. “Shame, shame, shame, bad, bad nursie.”
“Oh, I know, I know. It’s not about her. That one’s trash. She’s on a fast train to the federal pen, and she ain’t a-comin’ back. Sometimes, well, it’s just too much, day in, day out. Somebody sick, blink your eyes, then they’re gone,” Dessie answered, her face flushed. Another tear trailed down her ruddy cheek. With a nearby washcloth she wiped it and drew off beads of sweat from her forehead and upper lip.
“I swear, you’ll tear up about almost anything. You always did.” Billie’s long black hair was tied back loosely over her neck, and she shook her bangs out of her eyes as she stirred the warm syrup in front of her. “Like the first time Dad got the gallstones. You thought we lost him, you remember? You were sobbing so hard on the phone I couldn’t tell what was going on. I took off running across the field, and by the time I got to the house, he was sitting at the table drinking his Nescafé like nothing happened.”
“Turn up that flame a little, would you?” Dessie said. “Don’t quit stirring when I add the sugar. Once the syrup starts boiling, if no one stirs it, it’ll scorch the pot.” She hiccupped and drew in her breath. That memory was hard to shake. She had dropped in with the mail a few weeks after Mom had passed away, and found Dad on the kitchen floor, moaning and grabbing at his chest. He might have been having a heart attack. Dr. Madison even said so. Instead, Dessie said, “Well, he had five good months after that, didn’t he?”
Billie nodded. “He sure enough did,” she said softly. Dessie wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and turned to the cluttered kitchen sink, still full of mason jars that had a faint scent of mildew from being stored in the spring house. They needed to be scrubbed with the hottest water possible, and then set into boiling water in the canner to sterilize.
These past few weeks, time had gotten away from Dessie. There was Dad’s funeral, with the suddenness of his death, all the nonstop details. His service seemed a repeat of Mom’s, but even more so, since the memory of Mom’s passing stabbed at her with each ritual and prayer. The whole family once again in the graveyard beside the First Apostolic, the turf still turned over and clumped up on her mom’s side of the plot. Aunts and cousins from Pennsylvania taking over the farmhouse, digging through closets and cupboards for clothes or keepsakes she wasn’t ready to part with, all of it overwhelming, until Lux told them that they had to go back home. Then, the rush of getting the kids ready for school, scraping together money to pay off layaways on school supplies and new clothes. All the while, the garden growing and producing, pole beans on wooden tripods getting less tender with each passing day, and all these ripening peaches. They had to be put by; it would dishonor her parents’ memory to let them go.
A second batch of quart-sized clean mason jars were lined up, wet from their last rinse. So far, so good. None of the glass jars from the first batch had burst when she set them into the boiling water to sterilize in the deep, cast-aluminum canner. Dessie glanced over at the TV in the living room. In an obviously staged commercial, a fussy baby boy in a wet and saggy plastic diaper pouted, then a happy baby boy cooed in a cozy and tight plastic diaper. It was hokey, but Dessie couldn’t help but smile. “Hey, mister, we made it through four kids, and never bought a single one of them plastic diapers!” she yelled through the doorway at the voice of the TV announcer. Then, turning to Billie, Dessie added, “Every day I praise the good Lord that I’m done with the diaper pail.” Billie laughed. “That same goes for me, too. The whole house filled up with the smell, and those fumes from the bleach,” she said, wrinkling up her nose, as if the smell of simmering peaches was driven right out of the air.
Dessie slid past Billie’s side of the stove, set the clean canning jars carefully to warm on the stovetop near the gas flame, and reached for the wooden spoon out of Billie’s hand, so she could take over stirring the syrup. It was the trickiest part, thickening the syrup, and she knew she’d better tend to that herself.
“Thanks. I didn’t figure it would heat up that fast,” Billie said. She used the back of her hand to brush dark wisps of ungathered hair off her face, then went to work on the remaining peaches at the kitchen table. A ceramic crock brimmed over with pale-fleshed peaches, already skinned, ready to be halved, pitted, and checked for bruises and rust spots. Dessie had given her the sharpest paring knife in the drawer.
Until this year, Billie was just as happy to let Rose and Dessie handle the peaches. Sharp knives had always made her nervous. Ever since she’d sliced into her tendon a few years back while helping Alan Ray to skin a deer, her left pinky finger stuck out straight and got in the way. Billie dug the traces of rust off the surface, then sliced each peach in half and placed the large pit into a separate bowl. Each peach was mo
re slippery than the next; juice dripped down her fingers and onto the surface of the kitchen table. Her hands were shaking, but it was too late to stop and get a dish towel. Dessie might be watching, glancing back over her shoulder, or was she looking at the TV? Her sister might have something to say if the peaches did not come out looking like they were on a magazine cover or headed for judging at the fair.
“When’s the kids coming home?” Billie asked over the sound of the television. “I can’t get used to them being back at school. I keep wanting to check to see what they have got themselves into.”
“Four, maybe, or later this year with the new bus route. When the bus comes around the corner those redbone pups will start in.” Dessie stared out the window, took a breath, and glanced at her sister. “Hey, Billie, what time’s Alan Ray coming home?”
Billie frowned. “Who’s asking? He never tells me,” she said. “Uh-oh! Stop right there! It’s time!” Billie said, smiling. She set the knife into the sink, rinsed off her hands, wiped them on her shorts, and turned to the living room. Dessie and Billie looked at each other. On cue both sang out, “Lights . . . Camera . . . Action!” Billie deepened her voice, drama building with each tick of the clock on the TV set, “‘Like sands through the hourglass, so are the days of our lives.’” Billie conducted the flourish of theme music with an imaginary baton. “Pap liked that show,” said Billie. “Mom got him hooked. He never wanted anyone to know, but after he retired, he worked out his day so he could be home to watch it.”
Dessie looked at her sister and nodded. She always saw Bertram’s brown eyes in Billie’s, lighting up when they laughed, almost hazel. Dessie turned away, searching for something that needed to be done next, wiped down the tabletop, inspecting Billie’s unfinished crock of peaches. Some were still whole; they held onto their stones like small white fists. “It’s time to add these,” she said. “I’ll get the rest of this batch.”
Billie leaned against the doorway. “I got into those scenes from last week, and I almost forgot what we were doing. Like Alan Ray says, seems like lately ‘All the lights are on, but nobody’s home.’” She fumbled with a cigarette pack in her pocket. “First we get that syrup boiling, right? Then put the peaches in? Do we bring it back up to a boil?”
Billie needs a break, Dessie thought. “Yes. Get off your feet. Holler at me if something happens on the show.” Dessie said. She wondered whether she should’ve mentioned Alan Ray. After their Dad died, Alan Ray’d gone on a two-week bender, missing work, closing the bars at night, sleeping it off during the day. He had Billie call in sick for him each morning. Today was his first day back on the job.
Dessie set the next batch of heated jars into the covered canner to sterilize, stirred the almost simmering syrup in the speckled blue enamel pot. She turned to the table, to Billie’s crock of peaches, finding the last of the brown spots, scraping them off, slicing the rest of them in halves. Every action recalled their mother’s attention to detail, it was reflected in her joy when she served the fruit to the family. If Rose was there, she would not approve of the state of the kitchen, Dessie thought. Her bare feet stuck to the linoleum; it got worse with each step. Juice from the peaches must’ve somehow dripped onto the floor, but there was no time to worry about that now.
Steam began to rise in great billows above the enamel pot. The syrup turned rosy as Dessie added spices her mom used, cinnamon, mace, and nutmeg. Billie glanced over to the kitchen as Dessie scooped the peach halves and syrup into the jars, cleaned and tightened the lids, and used canning tongs to set the first batch into the canner. “This heat has got me wore out,” Billie said, lighting up a cigarette and breathing out with a heavy sigh. It was only slightly cooler in the living room beside the rotary fan.
“Me too. Now that school’s started, I keep awake worrying about Ronnie,” Dessie said from the sink. “I’m afraid he’ll be home for good before the month’s out.” Dessie poured the remaining peach halves into the steaming syrup, adjusted the flame, and kept watch over the newest batch, wooden spoon in hand. She blinked back the steam; beads of sweat gathered on her temples and around the bridge of her nose and slid down into her eyes.
Billie looked over at Dessie. “Ron’ll drop out? Why?” she asked. Billie knew Ronnie did not want to start eleventh grade, but after the pipeline job had fallen through, Dessie had talked him into it.
“Ron told me he’d be better off at home looking for a job, that there’s no sense going since he has Miss Springer again. This time it’s for West Virginia history,” Dessie answered. “He’s sure she’ll flunk him.”
Billie paused. She wanted to catch the start of what she knew would become a love scene. “Well, Lissy got through Miss Springer last year. What’s Lux say?”
“Lux says Ronnie don’t stand up for himself. Lissy says Ron’s right, Springer only likes the town kids. Ron’s gonna have to hunt for a job, but he hasn’t any car.” Dessie waited for Billie to respond, but all she heard was the rising volume of violins set off against whispers of the lovers on the TV screen. Dessie glanced at the back of Billie’s head, then beyond, to the TV set. On the grainy screen, the camera, like a passionate suitor, moved closer toward a woman’s full ruby lips, moved to the string of pearls around her neck, then a hint of cleavage. Then, seamlessly, the camera angle rose up so the viewers could see what the woman was seeing: a man’s dark, almond-shaped eyes; his clean-shaven chin; a tailored collar; a hand with a huge gold ring reaching for her cheek; then, more violins.
From behind, Dessie heard the hiss of steam rising and escaping through the top vent of the canner. She placed the steam gauge onto the vent, lowered the flame, and set the egg timer for ten minutes. She knew she would have to wait for a commercial before the conversation with her sister could continue. Dessie stared out the kitchen window over the sink. On the front porch clothesline hung the clean jeans, colored tees, and flannel shirts for the boys’ back-to-school clothes.
Lissy was married last year at the end of eleventh grade, though she promised she would stay in school and graduate. She and Glenn lived in an apartment in town close enough to walk to the high school. Across the meadow, to the west, was Billie and Alan Ray’s yellow trailer and garden, mostly tilled under now. Alan Ray’s rusted red Ford pickup truck sat beside their trailer on cement blocks, both front tires off the rims. Back against the hillside beside the two peach trees were apple and pear trees, planted before she was born, heavy with autumn fruit. Her boys and Billie’s boys had picked peaches last night until sundown, filling two five-gallon buckets and filling their bellies. From her kitchen window, if she looked toward the east, Dessie could keep an eye on her mom and dad’s empty, white clapboard farmhouse and the large cornfield and family garden.
Thinking about her parents, Dessie’s eyes started welling up. Dad had just begun to adjust to living on his own, getting out and socializing with cronies at the AmVets, stopping in to her place or Billie’s for supper or to pass the afternoon watching the shows with Dessie, spending time playing catch or fishing with his grandchildren, no longer coaching, but helping umpire baseball all spring. He left Dessie’s after supper, settled into his La-Z-Boy on the porch, and passed away with the game on and a beer in his hand. Lux went down to check on Bertram when he saw the lights on after midnight and found him. It was too much, too soon for Dessie and for Billie too.
At the sink, Dessie frowned out the window at the empty driveway next to the farmhouse. Until this morning, her Dad’s dark green Lincoln had been parked there. Until Alan Ray took the car to work. To make matters worse, and Dessie knew no one wanted to face it, there were going to be some hard conversations: the farmhouse and barn, the fields, the car, all of it was in Dad’s name, and he hadn’t made up a will.
The sink was still full of water. Dessie looked around for the last few canning jars to soap and rinse. She and Billie had been down to the farmhouse and the springhouse the night before to retrieve the quart jars. Dessie had sorted the jars until she’d found the best, n
o nicks or scrapes on the rims, classic Atlas and Ball glass canning jars. Her mom had used clear quarts and pints to put up beans and pale blue quart jars for peaches, so light wouldn’t brown the pale fruit. It felt strange to rummage through her mother’s pantry for the spices, to bring all the canning supplies back to her place, but with Billie beside her she didn’t feel like she was taking anything behind her sister’s back. Dessie looked past the empty farmhouse driveway toward the creek and the old footbridge Dad had built, and then to the school bus stop at the paved road. Across the road, the green wooded hillside was beginning to show hints of autumn color. A red-tailed hawk circled just above the hazy skyline.
“Chicken hawk’s back,” Dessie called to Billie. And then, thinking about Ronnie again, she added, “What’s the use.”
Billie, in the living room, said, “Huh?”
The next batch of syrup boiled up in rhythmic eruptions. Dessie scooped out hot peach halves and sweet syrup and carefully filled the sterilized jars within a fingernail of the top. Mom used to say, “A babe’s kiss from the lid.” Where did that come from, she suddenly wondered. Why didn’t I ask her when I had the chance? Dessie wiped the rims and sealing lids, closed the rings, then used the wooden-handled tongs to carefully place each filled jar into the canner. She stepped back away from the heat and leaned against the doorway, waiting for the water to return to a boil.
“Cleve’s out of lids again. Lux bought the last batch. And the price of sugar’s up again,” she said. She exhaled, then took a breath. “It’s steamy in here.”
“What do you expect? It’s canning time,” Billie called back. “Come on in and set in front of this fan and watch the end of this scene with me. I’ll show you steamy!”
“I’m watching the pot, and anyways I can see perfectly well from here.” The whole kitchen smelled like sugary syrup and ripe fruit; water beaded up and dripped down the metal cabinets and the front of the fridge. The afternoon sun streamed into the screened-in window, and the temperature in the kitchen had gone from tolerably warm to too damn hot.
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