Squashed

by Joan Bauer

  A man was hammering a sign in place: “Here lie the greatest pumpkins in the world.” I was getting nauseated. Nana pushed past me and threw her purse on the scale.

  “Scale works,” she said.

  “I know it works, Nana.”

  “I figured you did. The hardest part is waiting.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  She sat down on an orange bench and motioned me over: “Know what’s wrong with our world, Ellie?”

  I fidgeted and sat. There was plenty wrong with it that I could see: war, famine, politics, Cyril.

  “What’s wrong with the world,” Nana explained, “is that people stopped listening to their hearts.”

  Phil Urice was doing a little twirl in his pumpkin suit in Founders’ Square. Frieda Johnson carried a brown and orange flowered wreath up the hill to the cemetery.

  “Not everybody stopped listening,” she continued, “but enough people did to make a difference. We’ve got so much in this life that all we know how to do is want more. So we concentrate on the wrong things—things we can see—as being the measure of a person. We think if we can win something big or buy something snazzy it’ll make us more than we are. Our hearts know that’s not true, but the eyes are powerful. It’s easier to fix on what we can see than listen to the still, small voice of a whispering heart.”

  Nana turned her eyes on me like a vet looking for fleas: “A heart will say amazing things if it’s given half a chance.” She leaned into me now. “How many pumpkins you figure you’ve grown over the years?” she asked.

  I considered this, counting back to my earliest squashes eight years ago. “Fifteen that I named,” I said.

  “Fifteen,” Nana repeated. “Which one of them defines you as a person?”

  I was about to say Max, of course, but stopped. I remembered working and learning in the fields as a kid, agonizing over each sprout that didn’t make it, fighting like a cat for the ones that did, managing finally to grow Polly, my first thirty-pounder. Those were the battles that prepared me for growing giants; the giants before prepared me for growing Max.

  “I guess they all define me, Nana.”

  “That’s the right answer.” Nana stood up. “Winning’s a fine thing, Ellie, but it’s all the months and years before and after that make you who you are.” Nana patted my hand. “Grab hold of what your heart wants to tell you, honey, and you’ll be one rich young woman.”

  We both got quiet. I pulled my coat tight and tried to listen to my heart. I heard something, all right: extreme pounding.

  “You’ll know when it’s right,” Nana said.

  This was doubtful. I didn’t know if I could even hang on till Thursday without melting my brain. I needed advice on that. “What’s your suggestion on waiting these things out?” I groaned. “What do I do not to go crazy?”

  Nana grabbed her purse off the scale and smiled that smile that made her look like God’s personal assistant. “You wait,” she said.

  I was hoping for something more concrete. “That’s it? Aren’t you going to tell me to get lost in a good book? Spend time with my friends to take my mind off the pressure? Pray? Something?”

  The sun gave up and set behind 31 Flavors. Nana took my arm and we headed up Marion Avenue. “You wait,” she said.

  I was waiting. Doing the things mature growers do to ease the stress of competition. I baked a batch of triple chocolate fudge bars and ate thirteen of them. I organized my baking pans. I had a one-hour phone call with Grace on the subject of when a woman starts going to pot. Grace said it was around thirty-five, when the lines started showing, but some, like her sister Ruth, could go much sooner. I pointed out that Aunt Peg was already forty-four, looked great, and in my opinion always would. Grace said that’s because Aunt Peg had terrific cheekbones, which held her skin up. I counted the tiles on our bathroom walls (321). I counted the tiles on Nana’s bathroom walls (266). I almost trained a pigeon to fetch a raisin and bring it back to me in its beak. I spent two hours writing a casual yet caring get-well note to Wes. I dusted off two books on General Patton, the closest I came to beginning my midterm paper. I asked Dad if I could be excused from homework. He told me not to push my luck.

  Mrs. McKenna was lukewarm about my fame. On the one hand, any press coverage for the festival was good press; on the other, I was only sixteen, only beginning my life as a grower, unlike her friends Gloria Shack and Louise Carothers, who had been limping toward pumpkin celebrity for years and who, in my opinion, would never make it big. They were cowards who cut their pumpkins off the vine before a storm. They didn’t have to listen to their hearts. They had Mrs. McKenna, who always took care of her friends, especially after the competition, when a decent-sized pumpkin could bring good money for its seeds. Growers knew that winning seeds spelled success. Gloria Shack and Louise Carothers sold their losing seeds at champion prices because Mrs. McKenna said their seeds had stood the test of time. I wouldn’t sell Max’s seeds for a million dollars because it would be like selling his children. Only a monster would do something like that.

  I was not dealing with the pressure well and had started crying in school to relieve the stress. Richard said this was not good for my career because champions need to be composed in public even though they were cowards in real life. Gordon Mott’s second article came out and made things worse. Justin made sure the whole school got a copy because Gordon Mott quoted two entire paragraphs from the Defender, and Justin was in journalistic heaven. I liked the first article better because it talked about squash tending and deep courage. The second article just talked about me, a subject I was getting pretty sick of. Justin grabbed me in the hall and said I must be very proud.

  “I guess.”

  “You guess?” His eyebrows arched.

  “It’s okay.”

  “This”—Justin held Gordon Mott’s article high—“is the best thing that has ever happened to Rock River, Ellie!”

  I told Justin I was glad he was excited and I hoped he would win a Nobel prize someday. Justin didn’t think journalists could win the Nobel prize.

  “It doesn’t matter,” I said, walking away.

  Justin said it did matter because winning the Nobel prize was a great honor. “I think,” he shouted after me, “we can win it if we write about peace or disease!”

  Two senior boys were drawing a mustache on the Thunderbird statue as I walked to my class. One of them put down his purple marker and shouted, “Way to go, Big Pumpkin Mama!” I sighed. My fans were everywhere.

  I walked to phys ed good and slow. Before Ralphie, I was invisible in these halls. Before Ralphie, I would have given anything to be noticed and adored. Now I was stopped every two feet by someone, and it felt strange. Crash Bartwald and three defensive backs said hello and how was it go-go-going? Sharrell wiggled at me in greeting. The school nurse said I was looking pale and did I feel all right?

  I didn’t feel all right, I felt rotten. What if I lost? Then what? Would all these people still be my friends? Would Miss Moritz call me “a creative thinker who always brought something to class discussion” even though it was a dark, black lie that God would punish her for deeply?

  I went to the school nurse’s office with a pounding headache. She gave me Tylenol and said her whole family was rooting for me.

  “I hope I won’t let you down,” I groaned.

  The school nurse called Dad at his office, and he came to take me home. She said I was going to be just fine and I owed it to all of Rock River to stay healthy.

  Dad was worried as we pulled onto Bud DeWitt Memorial Drive, which had already been decorated with Frieda Johnson’s orange and brown pumpkin road wreaths. We drove underneath the great sign: ROCK RIVER, IOWA, HOME OF AMERICA’S GREATEST PUMPKINS. Signs directing visitors to the festival grounds were everywhere, including one on the Backfarb Road turnoff that said: NO, NO…YOU’VE GONE TOO FAR. An orange line was painted down the drive. This was traditional and, as Nana said, really got folks in the mood for all the fun right
there on the highway.

  “I’m not sick,” I said.

  Dad looked at me. “You’re a little pale, honey. We’ll get you right home and—”

  “I don’t want to go home.”

  Dad pulled the car off the road. I looked down.

  “I want to go see Mom.”

  That knocked Dad hard because we had only gone to visit her grave twice together. I’d been with Nana a few times and once with Aunt Peg. Dad got pretty emotional both times we went. He couldn’t handle it, and neither could I.

  “You mean now?”

  “I want to get flowers first.” Dad stared ahead quietly. “I need to do this,” I said. “I need you to take me.”

  He nodded and started the engine. He seemed stooped and tired.

  “I don’t want to go to Frieda’s,” I said. “All she’s got are those wreaths and pumpkin things. That’s not right for—”

  “No,” Dad said. “I know the right place.”

  It was fifteen minutes to Circleville and Nielsen’s Flower Garden, a big, glass greenhouse filled with potted flowers and hanging plants—a grower’s place.

  “Nothing orange,” Dad said, making his way through the aisles with the young saleswoman. “Nothing phony.”

  We settled on a huge yellow mum plant in a basket. No bow. I held it on my lap as we drove past the Circleville bus stop where the commuter bus would run every two hours starting Thursday morning, delivering folks to the festival, since parking was impossible unless you were a friend of the mayor’s. We pulled into The Roses Cemetery and followed the road to a little pond packed with ducks and swans. The swans were there, Dad had told me when I was younger, because they mate for life and never remarry. Dad stopped the car.

  “Do you want me to go with you?” he asked.

  “I need to go by myself.”

  The mum plant seemed heavy as I carried it past the rows of headstones to Mother’s, which was by an oak tree with leaves just beginning to color. It was three o’clock. By this time tomorrow Harvest Eve would begin, the Christmas lights along Marion Avenue would light, spotlights would shine on lawn decorations, baking smells would pour from houses and shops.

  Mother had died in November eight years ago, three weeks after the festival when Nana had won the blue ribbon for her upside-down rhubarb cake and cinched the best-all-around baking entry. Nana wasn’t entering this year because she wanted to enjoy herself and not get crazy waiting for the judges to stop chewing and announce the winner. I put the basket down by Mother’s stone and sat in the grass as tears burned my eyes.

  “Well,” I finally said, “I’m having a pretty tough time.” I’d never talked out loud at Mother’s grave before, but this felt right.

  “I have some stuff I need to talk to you about.” I was crying heavy now and couldn’t talk. I hung on to her stone and let the flood come. Nana said I’d cried like this at the funeral. I didn’t remember. I was too busy shutting it out. I had screamed at the men who carried Mother’s coffin out of the church to bring her back. They didn’t.

  Memories washed over me. I could see Dad’s face when we came home that day—stony, cold, and gray—like he was dead, too. I remembered sleeping over at Jo Ann’s and watching her mother kiss her good night—I wanted her to kiss me, too—she was small and warm and smelled like flowers, but she patted my arm instead. I could see Nana pruning Mother’s rose bushes to keep them full, teaching me how to cut back each stem with her clippers. When Dad and I moved Nana said she’d replant the roses in our new backyard, but Dad said no. It was too hard to remember.

  A squirrel sniffed the mum. I was crying less now and tried again: “I know you were never much for competing, Mom, because Nana told me. I remember the roses you grew, though, I remember just about everything you grew, and I think if you’d tried to compete with them, you could have won.”

  The tears were coming again and I wiped them on my sleeve: “What I remember most about you, though, is how you loved the garden—how hard you worked to keep it beautiful. You always enjoyed it—whether it was a good year or an average one. I think I’ve lost the part about growing that I loved so much, Mother. The part I got from you and Nana. I’m so caught up in the winning, in being famous, that I’m not seeing too clear.”

  I said I was hurting and scared and didn’t want to let anybody down. Winning had become so important it was making me sick. I was crying hard when Dad walked up beside me. His face was still.

  “I decided,” said Dad, “that I wanted to be here with you. Is that all right?” He handed me a handkerchief and sat on the grass. We held each other for a long time. I did most of the crying, but Dad got in his share.

  “God, I miss her.”

  Dad whispered it and held me tight, and gradually we drew strength from each other, like Max pulled nourishment from the earth. It made me feel locked into Dad, like a little pumpkin growing from a big vine. I handed him back his handkerchief.

  “You have more of your mother in you than you know, Ellie,” he said finally. I shook my head. I couldn’t see it. “Yes, you do,” he insisted. “And it’s a wonderful thing she gave you.”

  I sniffed.

  “You can find quietness and beauty in difficult times. You have an amazing love and dedication to growing, although I know you think you’ve lost that. You haven’t, honey.”

  “Yes, I have.”

  “You’ve done something fine with Max, and you should be terribly proud. You can’t stop now. Your mother would tell you that because it was her favorite speech to me.” His face went soft, like he was remembering something precious.

  “I don’t feel I’m…worthy…you know? All the attention doesn’t seem—”

  “Justified?”

  “I feel all messed up, Dad.”

  Dad put his arm around me. “You are,” he said, “the toughest person I know. You have fire and life and courage. You and Max have captured the heart of this town with talent and raw determination. If anybody deserves to win, it’s you.”

  I wiped my eyes. “You think I deserve to win?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “You don’t think it’s wrong to want to win this bad? Or that I’m too young and should have suffered more?”

  Dad laughed. “I think you’ve suffered enough.” That was good to hear. I didn’t think I could take much more.

  “I just want to interject here, Dad, that I might not win. Cyril’s pumpkin is as big as Cleveland.”

  “And Max,” Dad said, “is as big as Cincinnati.”

  I smiled at this great truth as Mother’s yellow mum stretched to grow.

  “Stand up,” he ordered. “You inherited my stubbornness.”

  I stood, sensing Dad’s unmovable drive. I took the handkerchief back and blew my nose.

  “I reject all past negative programming,” Dad boomed.

  “I reject all past negative programming,” I said back.

  “I believe in myself,” we said together, but I stopped. This didn’t seem right.

  “I can’t, Dad. I don’t feel those words like you do.” He was quiet. “I’ve always tried to say them when you wanted me to, but—”

  “I’ve seen this work, Ellie—thousands of times….”

  “I need to find the courage myself.”

  The Circleville Bell Tower struck five and echoed through the quiet cemetery. I looked hard at Mother’s grave. Dad looked, too, and heaved a sigh so deep you’d think he’d dropped a piano.

  “All right,” he said finally. “I respect that.”

  There was something in those words that broke new ground, like a seed growing shoots and pushing through topsoil. A peace floated down and covered our hearts. We waited for a while, then Dad took my arm and we walked to the car together like a real family.

  Back home, Dad and I measured Max from stem to nose horizontally around his fattest part. He had pushed out 81⁄2 more inches in the past three days, which I estimated was good for another 35 pounds. This put him over 600 big ones, a champion
in anybody’s book. Nobody had even seen a pumpkin over 500 pounds before 1984, and here we were in the big time within spitting distance of colossal. Max could have snagged a hundred pumpkin contests if it hadn’t been for Big Daddy hiding in the shadows. Max had been gaining good weight, just like Wes told him. His skin was darker, too—a clear sign he was ripe and ready for cutting.

  I missed Wes. He was supposed to help me cut Max off the vine, and now I’d have to do it alone. He called, sniffling and coughing, to report his fever had finally broken, but Dr. Buntz said his sinuses still looked like Jell-O and pronounced the curse: He was stuck in bed till Friday. No Weigh-In. He’d miss it all. By Friday the world would know whether I was a winner or just a flash in the patch. Dr. Buntz had the soul of a turnip. Wes said he was thinking deep thoughts in Max’s direction, which, I told him, were absolutely working. He said he’d gotten my note. He said he missed me and sneezed twice. I told him I missed him, too, and hung up shaking.

  He missed me. That meant I was missable. Like the lady in the perfume commercial whose smell sticks in the guy’s head as he pictures her running along the beach barefoot. I wondered how Wes thought about me. We hadn’t been to the beach yet and wouldn’t be going until I lost ten more pounds. The last time I ran on a beach barefoot I stepped on a broken beer bottle and had to get seven stitches. Probably he remembered me patting compost around Max’s belly. Not exactly commercial material, but for a grower, it would do.

  Spider came up and licked my hand. Richard was returning him to the Ankers tomorrow, a new dog, if I did say so myself. He’d stopped barking at absolutely everything and only shrieked when the noise had it coming, like when the raccoon that drove Mrs. Lemming crazy was out behind her garbage can making a racket. In less than two weeks Spider had become a sophisticated dog of the world. We had taught him to sit, sort of, we had introduced him to gourmet food and classical music. We hadn’t killed him.