Mrs. Swensen had on great big mustard-colored culottes, a long-sleeved Kelly green silk blouse, brown Red Cross oxfords with medium heels and the big green straw garden hat. I said, “Isn’t this a lovely day?”
She said, “It has been a very disappointing day for the Hawkinses. Those early mists make picking so late.”
I said, “On the beach where we live the mist was almost gone at seven o’clock.”
“That’s impossible,” she said. “I could hardly see to drive at seven.”
“It was, though,” I said. “We are on the southeast side. Perhaps the wind blew it away.”
“It seems very unlikely that it would be foggy at Hawkins’ and clear at your place. That’s a green peach you just picked.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “What shall I do with it—throw it away?”
“Of course not,” she said. “It will pack, but be more careful in the future. You must work faster too. You’re way behind the others. Perhaps if you had on sensible shoes like these you could go up and down the ladders faster.”
“I could go barefoot,” I said eagerly.
“Mrs. Hawkins doesn’t approve of the women going barefoot,” she said. “It makes them look tough.”
I saw that the sun was directly overhead. “What time is it?” I asked.
“I don’t wear a watch,” she said. “I can tell the day is over when my work is finished.”
Just then there was a loud banging, like somebody pounding on a wash boiler with a hammer.
“There’s the lunch gong,” she said, still picking.
I kept picking, too, because I was afraid to stop. After ten minutes or so I heard Joan and Karen calling to me, “Betty, come on! Where are you?”
“Down here,” I answered. “Aren’t you going to eat lunch?” I asked Mrs. Swensen.
“I’m not hungry,” she said, drawing her lips into a small lavender rosette. “I’ve been having a little upset. Anyway I want to finish this tree.”
“I’ll help you,” I said weakly.
Then Joan and Karen came running down between the trees, carrying the lunch bags. “Come on, Mommy,” Joan said. “We only get a half hour and half of it’s gone already.”
“Well, I guess I’d better eat my lunch now,” I said to Mrs. Swensen.
“As you wish,” she said, not looking up.
Long before we were out of earshot, Karen said, “How come you were stuck with the old Crab Patch?”
“She was teaching me,” I said, adding sadly: “She said I’m slow and don’t pick right.”
“Oh, she tells that to everybody,” Karen said. “She thinks she’s the only person in the whole world that can pick those darn peaches. If they’d let her, she’d pick the whole crop all by herself.”
It was very hot and dusty between the rows of trees, but under each tree was a circle of cool dark green dappled shade. I suggested going under a tree to eat our lunch but Karen said no, because of the yellow jackets swarming over the peaches on the ground. We finally ate on the porch of the packing shed along with the other pickers. The sun had swung around and was shining directly on the heap of jackets and lunch and our sandwiches and milk were warm. After we had gulped down our food I said I wanted a drink of water. Karen said we had to drink out of the faucet in the yard. The water was warm and tasted like it had been standing in a tin can.
As I stood up and wiped off my lips, Joanie said, “Gosh you look hot, Mommy! Your face is as red as a beet.”
“I am hot,” I said, “I wish I’d worn a thin blouse.”
“Karen and I are going to take off our sweatshirts,” Joan said. “We’ve got halter tops on underneath. I wish I’d worn my short jeans.”
“Let’s cut ‘em off,” Karen said. “Here, I’ve got a pocket knife.” She jabbed the blade of the knife through the material of her jeans at the inside seam, gave a yank and ripped off one leg. Then she cut off the other. Joan asked her to cut off hers. When they went back to work a few minutes later they had shed their sweatshirts and in their bare feet, halters and very short jeans, appeared as cool and carefree as pearl divers. I clumped hotly along behind them through the orchard.
About two o’clock my wooden shoes felt like they were made of iron and my throat was so dry it crackled. The tractor, hauling a sled that picked up the peaches and left empty boxes, went roaring by leaving a cloud of chokey tan dust. I climbed down from my tree and went in search of water. Ten or twelve trees away I found Karen and Joan. I asked Karen if there was any water nearer than the packing house. She said, “Ask the Crab Patch, she’s supposed to have it hauled down to the orchard.” I finally found Mrs. Swensen whispering to one of her lady friends behind the packing shed.
“Could we please have some water in the orchard?” I asked her.
She said, “Didn’t you get a drink at noon?”
I said, “Of course I did, but it’s awfully hot and the dust from the tractor is terrible.”
She said, “Well, I’ll take it up with Mrs. Hawkins.” She looked very disapproving of the whole idea.
I went defiantly over to the faucet in the yard, took a long lukewarm drink, washed out and filled Joan’s and my milk bottles and started back to work. Once I looked back and saw Mrs. Swensen pointing me out to Mrs. Hawkins. Joan and Karen were grateful for the water but instead of drinking it, poured it on their heads.
“Makes you cooler,” Karen said and I wished I had wet my hair when I was up at the faucet.
About four o’clock the tractor hauled down a ten-gallon can of water and a tin dipper to a place about in the middle of the pickers. The word went through the orchard with a whoosh. “Water!” the pickers called from tree to tree and we all hurried up to the sled. Mrs. Swensen was disbursing it as if it were vintage champagne.
“Don’t waste it,” she kept warning us. “Don’t crowd—don’t loiter—don’t be piggish—don’t push—be careful!” When my turn came I deliberately poured two dippersful over my head, then drank one.
Mrs. Swensen watched me with horror, then said, “I think we should all be very grateful to the Hawkinses for this nice water, Mrs. MacDonald. Mr. Hawkins filled the can and hauled it himself. I don’t think we should waste it. Mr. Hawkins is a very busy man.”
My hair was apparently thick with dust because the rivulets that ran down my face and neck were muddy. Joan and Karen giggled and said comfortingly, “Golly, you should see yourself, you look awful!” I didn’t care. I wanted to look awful. I was tired and hot and my legs ached and I had bleeding blisters on both heels and I hated peach picking more than anything in the whole world.
About five o’clock Mrs. Swensen announced that we would pick until dark, which was not until about ten as we were on double daylight saving at that time. I told her that I would have to call home and she said, “Well, I don’t know. Mrs. Hawkins doesn’t like the pickers to use the phone.”
“I don’t care what Mrs. Hawkins likes,” I shouted. “My husband won’t know where I am and unless you want the sheriff coming down here I’d better telephone.”
“Well, all right,” she said. “But I think arrangements should be made before you come to work.”
“How, by ouija board?” I said. “When I telephoned yesterday nobody told me that we were going to work until dark. I naturally assumed that we would quit at five or five-thirty. Where is the telephone?”
“I’ll show you,” she said.
“And tattle on you to Mrs. Hawkins,” Karen said to Joan audibly.
“You watch yourself, young lady,” said Mrs. Swensen turning around to Karen.
“Yes, ma’am,” said Karen, hurrying up her ladder.
The telephone was in the packing shed where about twenty women were sorting and packing peaches and screaming pleasantries to each other. It sounded like a hen house invaded by a weasel. I couldn’t even hear by own voice when I gave the number to the operator. I thought I heard Anne say that she and Don were going to my sister Alison’s for dinner but I wasn’t sure. Anyway
, I was quite certain she understood that Joan and I would be late.
Mrs. Hawkins, a small sturdy brown woman with bright blue eyes, stopped her packing and came over to me. “How you getting along?” she asked.
“Fine,” I said, “but I’m awfully hot. I wish I could wear shorts.”
“Why don’t you?” she asked.
“I thought the women weren’t allowed to,” I said.
“Nonsense,” she said. “Wear your bathing suit if you want. We don’t care. Just so you don’t mark the peaches.”
I looked at Mrs. Swensen and she had her lips drawn into the lavender rosette.
We stopped for supper at six. Mrs. Swensen brought the sandwiches and Cokes to us. The sandwiches were egg and peanut butter and there were only two halves apiece. I could have eaten twenty and judging by Joan’s forlorn expression, she could have eaten sixty. Mrs. Swensen didn’t eat any. She said she was still upset and she didn’t like peanut butter anyway.
“Can I have yours, then?” Joan and Karen asked together.
“I suppose so,” said Mrs. Swensen ungraciously.
The long shadows of evening, with the soft bird sounds and a breeze from the Sound, gave us all a second wind. I was barefoot and even the earth between the trees, which had been as hot as a griddle during the afternoon, felt cool and cushiony to my tired feet. As we straggled finally up to the packing house I worried about Joanie. She was only thirteen, and seemed so small and slight to be doing such hard work. I asked her how she felt and she said, “Keen! I earned seven dollars and eighty cents at the very least and if they pay me eighty-five cents an hour like they are supposed to if you work the whole season but Karen says they never do because Mrs. Swensen chooses the ones that get eight-five cents, I earned ten dollars and twenty cents. Isn’t that keen, Mommy? You earned that much too,” she added generously.
I didn’t answer and she tucked her arm in mine and said, “It won’t be so hard tomorrow, Mommy. Karen says the first day is always hard.”
I had absolutely no intention of seeing what the second day was going to be like but didn’t want to bring it up at this time.
I sat down rather dispiritedly on the edge of the packing house porch and watched other packers, even two very old ladies, bustle gaily, untiredly around gathering up shawls and jackets and lunch buckets. I decided that if I did have to work the next day I would bring a big thermos of coffee—I also realized I hadn’t had a single cigarette all day. I took one out and lit it and immediately Mrs. Swensen materialized in the darkness beside me and said, “Mrs. Hawkins doesn’t allow smoking on the premises.”
“Okay, then I’ll let her tell me to stop smoking,” I said.
Mrs. Swensen flounced away. Joan and Karen giggled but Joan said, “Please don’t smoke, Mommy. None of the ladies here do and it makes you look funny.”
“You mean tough,” I said, “like wearing shorts or going barefoot?”
“Oh, Mommy,” Joan said. “You know what I mean.”
“I do, sweetheart,” I said, “but I’m so tired I don’t care. I need a cigarette right now and I’d like a martini.”
“Shush,” Joan said. “Don’t talk like that. Somebody might hear you.”
“I could sure go for a can of cold beer,” a pleasantly loud voice said behind me.
“Make it two,” another answered.
“What about them?” I asked Joan.
“Yes, but they’re not mothers,” Joan said.
Wearily I stamped out my cigarette and accepted half of Joan’s lukewarm Coke in its place. Mr. Hawkins didn’t finish cleaning up and locking the packing shed until after eleven. It was eleven-thirty when he slowed up the truck just a little and Joan and I tumbled out at the top of the Sanders’ road. My blisters were so painful I couldn’t wear my shoes, so I carried them and walked in my sock feet. The road had recently been graded and covered with crushed rock, which was like walking over broken glass. It was also very dark as the road followed a wooded ravine sheltered from the moonlight by the steep hills, and we couldn’t see the larger rocks until we either stepped on them or banged them with our toes. We were stumbling along complaining about how tired we were when we saw the lights of Don’s car at the top of the hill back of us.
Joan said, “Mommy, don’t let’s tell Anne how awful it was. Let’s tell her it was fun and all we did was sit under the trees and eat peaches for eighty-five cents an hour.”
It seemed a reasonable request, so when Don slowed up and we climbed in, I tried to leap a little and appear sprightly.
“How was it?” Anne asked immediately.
“The most fun I ever had,” Joan said. “The peaches are enormous and delicious and you can eat all you want and all Karen and I did was sit under the trees and eat peaches and giggle and I earned ten dollars and twenty cents.”
“Ten dollars and twenty cents!” Anne said. “My gosh, I only got fifteen dollars for a whole week on my job.”
“Well, come on and pick peaches,” Joan said. “They need more pickers.”
“Do they really?” Anne asked.
“Yes, they do,” I said. “You know I had to promise Mrs. Hawkins we’d have four or she wouldn’t have come down for us.”
“Well, I’m going tomorrow,” Anne said. “Ten dollars and twenty cents! I could get new saddle shoes and loafers.”
The great advantage of having Anne along was that she became friends with the Hawkinses’ daughter and learned that we could have as much water as we wanted and as many sandwiches as we could eat for supper. The tiny portions had been Mrs. Swensen’s idea. Also Anne stayed loyally behind with me and let Karen and Joan scamper ahead and be champions. I wore shorts and tennis shoes and a thin blouse the next day and was much less tired. Mrs. Swensen sniffed when she saw me and hovered around my trees like a yellow jacket but didn’t say anything.
We didn’t work late every night and after a while I wasn’t so terribly tired when I got home. We were all paid off at eighty-five cents, a pleasant surprise. We went to town the Saturday before Labor Day and had a rich, well-earned spree. The girls spent all their money for clothes and records and charms for their bracelets, but I got a new typewriter ribbon, some new pots and pans, and a large white Lotus camellia bush.
Don was very proud of all of us and Joan said that next year maybe he’d like to pick.
Anne said, “Oh, no, Mrs. Swensen doesn’t like men pickers. She says men smoke and use dirty language.”
“Description fits me like a glove,” Don said. “Guess I’ll have to dig clams.”
CHAPTER XII
TRIPLE THAT RECIPE
IT WAS a baby shower for a neighbor and we were all invited. Don, who does not approve of women’s clubs or women’s luncheons or women’s bridge parties, or sororities or even two women talking together on the phone, elected to stay home alone with Tudor and Mrs. Miniver. When Anne and Joan and I came downstairs in our ironed dresses and perfume, carrying our presents and our good shoes, he was sitting by the radio, looking sad.
“How do we look?” I asked him.
“I thought you told me you didn’t like women’s clubs,” he said, his voice dripping disappointment.
“This isn’t a women’s club,” I said. “It’s a baby shower for Elspeth Carlyle. All the other husbands are coming.”
“Do the men bring baby presents?” Joan asked.
“Of course not,” I said. “They just stay in the den and drink and play poker, the lucky dogs.”
“Come on, Don,” Anne said. “You’ll have a good time and it’s scary walking the trail in the dark.”
“If you want me to, I’ll walk you down,” Don said. “But I won’t go in. A baby shower!” He spoke with great resentment. “Who ever thought that up?”
“I think it’s very nice,” I said. “And I think it was very considerate of Mrs. Adams to ask the husbands and Anne and Joan.”
“Say, it’s almost eight o’clock,” Anne said. “We’d better get started.”
“A
re you coming?” I asked Don.
“No,” he said. “But I will walk the trail with you.”
“You don’t have to,” I said. “We’ve each got a flashlight. Just keep up the fire.” I gestured with contempt at the four pieces of bark about the size and thickness of slices of meat-loaf, the burning of which would leave the copper boiler we use as a wood box, entirely empty. “You don’t expect that to last all evening, do you?”
“You tend to your women’s clubs and I’ll tend to my wood,” Don said, turning the bad news on the radio up louder. “What time will you be home?”
“About eleven, I expect,” I said.
“Do you think you’d like a sandwich?” he asked.
“Oh, no,” Anne said. “This is a party. We’ll probably have tons to eat.”
Hopefully Joan asked, “Do they have weenies and buns at baby showers?”
“Oh, heavens, no,” Anne who had never to my certain knowledge been to one, answered confidently. “They have things like chicken salad and hot rolls and ice cream and cake, don’t they, Mommy?”
“I hope so,” I said, adding to Don, “But if you’re planning on any kind of an extra-good sandwich, like peanut butter on dry bread, save me one.”
When the guest of honor had picked up the last package, admired the stork paper and the rattle tied to the bow, squealed, for the twenty-third time that evening, “What a darling card!” and as she undid the wrappings, “Just what I needed!”, handed the box to the woman on her left who said, “Oh, how darling! Just what you needed!”, passed the box to the woman on her left ditto, until the box had gone all the way around the room, the hostess appeared and said, “And now, ladies, if you will follow me.”
We all got quickly to our feet, no mean accomplishment for those of us in the stranglehold of African camp chairs, lounging in which always brings back vivid unpleasant memories of waiting for the obstetrician, and, like all women following their hostess into the dining room, afraid to appear either too eager or too reluctant, we began backing and filling and lurching ahead very much like freight cars trying to follow an engine onto a siding.
The refreshments, laid out on the dining room table buffet style around the pink candles, stork centerpiece and little pink and blue candy baskets in the shape of folded didies, consisted of a large lumpy salad in lettuce cups, homemade banana bread, black olives and lukewarm very weak coffee. After we had helped ourselves, moving left to right around the table and ending up with the sugar and cream, and I had made Joan put back six olives and told Anne for the eighth time she could not have coffee, we carried our plates and cups and saucers back to the living room. I hurried just enough to avoid getting stuck in one of the African camp chairs again, but not enough to spill the coffee.
Onions in the Stew Page 17