When Boomers Go Bad

by Joan Boswell

  The hippie family didn’t look like they were going to make jam. It looked like maybe they were going to sell their fruit at a roadside stand next to the trailer park. They had dozens of baskets, and the kids had that underfed, overly-serious look that you get from knowing you’re never going to have a videogame player of your own. The man had a cigarette hanging out of the corner of his mouth, and his long hair was tied in a salt-and-pepper pony tail. The woman was huge, and I wondered how she would cope with all the bending down.

  The kids aged in range from the mid-teens to a little fellow of about eight. As we passed them, the little guy was complaining already about the bugs.

  “They’re biting me,” he shouted, like it was his mom’s fault. The mosquitoes in June around here are fierce, no question. Joy and I were both slathered in Muskol, and I knew Joy had a bottle of it in her fanny-pack. I was going to suggest she lend the family a squirt, but she was already way ahead, scuttling along the path like a big strawberry beetle on a mission.

  “The bugs ain’t gonna kill you,” the hippie Mom said to her child as I overtook them. “You won’t notice ’em once you start picking, Dylan.”

  I hurried to catch up to Joy, who was standing with her baskets at the head of a row marked with a yellow flag. The marshal beside her was pointing to it, and it looked like she was giving him some grief already.

  “Are you sure this hasn’t been picked over already?” she was saying, like the marshal was trying to sell her a used Ford. “I don’t see a lot of fruit.” Which was nonsense, of course. Strawberry plants don’t put their fruit out at the top like the flame on a candle—the best berries, the heavy ones, are near the ground, hiding under the leaves. Joy knew this as well as I did—she was just being ornery.

  “It’s a virgin row, guaranteed,” the marshal said, trying to make her laugh. She didn’t. She huffed at him, shot me a “hurry-up” look and got down to picking. I was assigned the row next to hers, and the hippie family, coming along right behind us, got the next couple of rows beside me.

  Everything was fine at first. It was a glorious day—one of the kind they always use in Kuskawa tourism brochures. The sky was robin’s egg blue, the early morning sun pouring over the fields like warm lemon sauce. I looked out along the rows at the pickers—colourful T-shirts and straw hats, the people nestled in the leafy greenery like berries themselves, or like multicoloured rabbits, hopping from plant to plant.

  Joy and I worked in silence. Some people chatter while they pick, some laugh—it’s a good time, out in the sun, no muzak, no traffic-noise, just the whisper of breeze from the lake in the distance, the occasional shriek of laughter drifting over the fields like the call of a blue jay. Joy’s a fierce picker, two hands at once, like a machine, head down, utterly absorbed in the task. She never eats the berries—she has a self-control I’ve never been able to match. How could you not bite into a fresh-picked strawberry, plump and sun-warmed like a live thing, its scent making you dizzy? I bit into one and felt the juice dribbling down my chin, looked at the crimson flesh, the pale secret heart of it, and felt for a moment utterly happy. Next thing I knew, the family in the row next to me boiled over like a pot on the stove.

  “Ma—Dylan’s smushing them,” one of the older girls called out.

  “Quit it, Dylan. Goddamn it!” the woman shouted.

  “I ain’t doin’ nothin’!” the boy yelled back. I risked a glance over. His mouth was smeared with strawberry juice, like he’d gone nuts with a lipstick.

  “You better be doin’ more than nothing,” the man barked. He was still smoking, his eyes squinting to keep the smoke out of his eyes. “You fill that friggin’ basket and stop eating every second one, boy, or I’ll give a lickin’ you’ll never forget.”

  Joy looked over, too and made a little tssk sound. A few minutes later, the boy started row-hopping.

  It wasn’t as if each row didn’t have more berries per foot than you could ever hope to harvest in one shot. The thing is, that not all of them are perfect. Some are small or have touched the ground and gone all soft, and some aren’t ripe yet. You leave the unripe ones alone. Some people leave the small ones, too. But each plant, at least at Plunkett’s, has at least three beauties—great big berries, perfectly ripe and succulent. I knew that Joy separated the beauties out when she got home—and it was the beauties that she used in her famous, prize-winning jam.

  The boy Dylan was probably bored, or perhaps he had figured out that the beauties were the ones that filled up a basket the fastest. Anyway, he hopped over into my row and started poaching the big ones. I didn’t mind all that much, to tell you the truth. My theory is, there’s enough for everybody, and I felt a little sorry for the kid. Picking strawberries is fun, sure, but it’s hard work, too. Joy didn’t notice—she was still in combine-harvester-mode. Then Dylan hopped a row again and started poaching hers. I kept my head down, willing her not to look up. She didn’t for a while, until she got to where he’d been.

  I saw her stop and paw the leaves of the plants a bit, like she’d lost something. She made the tssk sound again and looked up. She honed in at once on Dylan, who was picking and eating his way through the beauties a little ahead of her in the next row over.

  “Little boy, what are you doing?” she said, her voice like a bucket of ice-water down the back. He looked up, clearly startled by her tone.

  “Nothin’,” he said.

  “You were picking in my row, weren’t you?”

  Dylan’s parents looked up. There was an undercurrent of over-the-edge rage in Joy’s voice, like a volcano rumbling before it blows.

  “So?”

  “So—that’s not allowed. You’re supposed to stick to the row you were given,” she said.

  “Fuck you,” the little boy said, and gave her the finger. It sounded just awful coming out of such a little guy.

  “How dare you speak to me like that?” Joy hissed and stood up.

  “Dylan, come back here,” the man said. It was clear that he had been eating a fair number of berries, too. His beard was stained red.

  “I wasn’t doing nothing,” Dylan said, swearing again.

  “You have some of my strawberries in your basket,” Joy said.

  “Excuse me?” Dylan’s mom said. “Your strawberries?” She had a blob of strawberry juice on her chin.

  “That’s right, lady,” Joy said. “Your brat has just poached the best fruit from my row.”

  “Oh, puhleeze,” the woman said. “They’re only strawberries, for God’s sake. And don’t you dare call my boy a brat.” For Dylan’s sake, I was glad she was defending him. But she wouldn’t be any match for Joy in righteous-anger-mode.

  “Make him give them back,” Joy said and took a menacing step forward.

  “Joy...” I said. She was acting like an eight-year-old herself. What had gotten into her?

  “Give them back? You’re crazy, lady.”

  “There’s better ways to feed your family than letting them graze like cows and poach berries in a public strawberry patch,” Joy said, viciously. That’s when the hippie lady went for her, and it was pandemonium for a few minutes. By the end of it, both women were wearing most of what was in their baskets. They’d smushed strawberries in each other’s hair and eyes, and both were breathing heavily, like they’d been mud-wrestling. The man and I had pulled them apart, so we got some on us, too. The kids just stood there with their mouths open, as if a circus act had erupted in the middle of a math class. The marshal came over.

  “Just what the hell is going on here?” he said.

  “Little disagreement,” I said. “Turf war.”

  “I think you better leave,” he said, meaning all of us. “We don’t want trouble here at Plunkett’s. We got a reputation to keep up. Come back when you’ve cooled down some.” Joy was speechless with outrage. And she looked like she’d been pecked by a flock of killer chickens—strawberry blood all over her nice white shirt. Everyone from all over the field was staring. I could see Selena Par
rish a couple of rows away, grinning like a maniac. “And you’ll have to pay for the berries you, er, spoiled, as well,” the marshal added.

  The hippie family packed up and left quickly without argument. The look the big woman gave Joy before they left would have turned any normal person to stone. The man just looked sad, though the grip he had on Dylan’s arm as he hauled the boy out of the field was hardly gentle. Joy was less acquiescent.

  “They started it,” Joy said. “I could press charges. I was assaulted.” She spoke loudly enough for all the watchers to hear.

  “Don’t matter,” the marshal said. “Just take your baskets and get out of here. We’re open tomorrow. Come back then.”

  So we left, too. Joy paid for the three baskets she’d filled, plus the half-basket she’d wasted mashing into the hippie lady’s face, and tossed the two unused baskets at Shirley, just daring her to say something. She didn’t—wisely. Joy was getting strange looks from a couple of people lining up for baskets, but she stared them down. They looked away, hurriedly. Then she marched to her car, loaded the baskets up and glared at me.

  “Tomorrow,” she barked. “Same time, same place.” And off she went.

  I don’t know if she made jam that night or not. She was certainly in a better mood on Tuesday morning, and we were closer to the front of the line, too, which was a blessing. Joy never bothered to look behind her to see the line forming—she just stood there, head held high, freshly laundered white shirt dazzling the eye, gazing at the fields as if every strawberry in there had her name on it. Her straw hat with the big sunflowers on it made her look like one of those fancy ladies at that English tennis thing. No—not the ladies—the Queen. She was back in top form, you might say. I was glad she didn’t look behind her at the lineup, because about ten people back was the hippie family.

  Things went okay for the first while, like the day before. The hippie family was far enough away that Joy didn’t notice them, and they seemed to be working with purpose, no fighting, just picking hard. I wasn’t staring or anything, but I did happen to notice that they were all eating just about as many as they picked. They’d all be coming down with a family case of the trots later in the day, I figured. But about forty minutes into it, that little Dylan started row-hopping again. His parents didn’t seem to notice or care, and he was heading our way. Maybe he wanted to see another strawberry fight.

  “Joy, how are you doing?” I asked, trying not to let panic show in my voice. “You want to take a break? Go get some lemonade?” She raised an eyebrow at me.

  “Feeling your age this morning, are you?” she said. “We’ve hardly started. I’ve got three baskets filled already—how many do you have?”

  “Just the one,” I replied, humbly. I’d eaten a good few. Dylan picked that moment to hop into my row, about ten feet down from where I was picking. Joy caught the movement out of the corner of her eye and reacted like a pitbull who sees a chipmunk.

  “Oh, for Chrissakes—get the hell out, you little bastard!” she yelled. He froze, then scampered back to his parents as if the devil himself was in pursuit. But it wasn’t the devil, it was Joy, which was probably worse. She marched right on over there.

  “Excuse me,” she said in a loud voice. “Can you please keep your child under control? What kind of parents are you? If you keep on letting him break the rules, he’s going to grow up into a little monster.” The man stood up from where he was crouched over his basket.

  “Lady,” he said. “I can see you got some kinda mental problem, and that’s too bad, but can you please keep yourself under control?”

  You could see an internal struggle going on in Joy’s mind. People were staring again, and there were a fair number who had been there the day before. The marshal was beginning to drift over, as well. She won her battle, I guess, because she just turned her back on the man and came back to where she’d left her baskets.

  “I meant what I said, you know,” she muttered to me through clenched teeth. “Kids like that turn into criminals. If that foul-mouthed brat comes near my row again, I’m going to murder him.”

  We picked for another hour or so, but Joy never really calmed down. She was shaking like a leaf—I could see her hands tremble, and she kept dropping berries, or squishing them by accident. Once, she gripped a berry so hard, it made an audible popping sound, splurting pulp and juice all over her pants. Even then, she didn’t lick her fingers off. I wonder sometimes if she likes strawberries at all. Every once in a while, she said something under her breath, and I could see her darting sly glances in the direction of the family. Finally, she called it quits.

  “It is hot,” she said, standing and stretching her back. “I think that’s enough for today, dear. Why don’t we do the rest tomorrow?”

  She had filled three baskets on Monday, before the fight, and on Tuesday she picked another five, so she still had nine to go to fill her personal quota. I had two from Monday and two from Tuesday. I freeze mine—I’m not a jam-person. I could never get it to set properly, and anyway, Joy usually gives me a jar or two of hers, so there’s not much point. So, we agreed to meet on Wednesday—one more day of picking. Which brings me to where we started. Like the day before, we were up at the front of the line-up, and the hippie family had returned as well.

  This time, Joy had brought a small cooler with her. I asked her about it, and she smiled sweetly, like she had a secret.

  “Oh, just some treats, dear,” she said. She left the cooler at the head of her row, and everything went on as before. She was quite calm and pleasant and even chattered a bit as we picked.

  “I notice you’re not eating as many today,” she said.

  “Well, you know how it is. They do kind of have an effect on you, eh?” I said. I confess I’d had some serious internal movement from all the berries I’d eaten while picking, but you probably don’t want to know about that.

  An hour or so later, Joy excused herself and went off to use the Johnny-on-the-spot. I’d just filled a basket and went back up to the top of the row to drop it off, and there was her cooler, unattended. I don’t know what got into me, because I’m not normally a nosy person, but I couldn’t help taking a peek inside. I was getting a little peckish, as I hadn’t had any breakfast on account of my attack of berry-belly the night before. Joy is a fantastic cook, as you’ve probably already gathered, and when she says she’s made treats, it usually means something spectacular. So, okay, I opened the lid.

  There, nestled inside, were more than a dozen of the most beautiful strawberry tarts I’ve ever seen. Each one was perfect—a little bigger than bite-sized, made with Joy’s patented butter-almond pastry—the kind that tastes like shortbread. Each tart had a single beauty-strawberry on top, and beneath was what I was sure was her creme patissiere, the kind of stuff that makes the best custard taste like library paste. Each tart was glazed and gorgeous, and when I lifted the lid, the smell of them wafted up and smacked me in the face so that I was powerless, I swear. There were, after all, plenty of them. And Joy wouldn’t miss one little tart. I took a sneaky peek over at the Johnny, and she was still inside. She was wearing her button-up dungarees, which always gave her trouble, so I knew she’d be a while. Nobody seemed to be watching, and anyway, nobody but me knew that the cooler was Joy’s and not mine.

  I confess that I ate the tart sort of fast, feeling guilty. But sometimes, guilty pleasures are the very best. Just because I stuffed it into my mouth all at once doesn’t mean it wasn’t the most delicious thing I’d eaten in ages. I picked up an empty berry basket and floated back down the row, chewing. I wiped my mouth on my sleeve, in case there were any crumbs there, and went back to picking. Joy returned a moment or so later, and I knew she hadn’t seen.

  I had filled my new basket about halfway before I started to feel a bit funny.

  “Joy,” I said. “I have to disappear for a few minutes.” I knew by the way my insides were working that I only had a small window of opportunity to get to the Johnny before I disgraced myse
lf. She looked up, her eyes twinkling.

  “All those berries from yesterday catching up to you?” she said. I nodded and ran for it.

  I don’t remember much of what happened after I got inside the latrine, except that what was inside my body made a rapid escape via whatever exits were available. I do remember lying on the floor at one point and finding that I could see outside, through a crack in the plastic wall. I was too weak to call for help, but I was still hoping that whatever had hit me—whatever kind of stomach flu-thing it was, would pass, and I’d be able to walk out of there. I had a perfect view of the field, and I could see the dazzling white of Joy’s shirt, the sunflowers on her straw hat, and tried to send a kind of psychic message to her—come get me and take me home. She stood up, and I thought she’d actually received the message, but instead, she picked up the cooler, and started walking down the rows towards the hippie family. What was she doing? Surely she wasn’t going to start another fight, was she?

  I blacked out then, and woke up in Craddock General. I was there for a while, and it wasn’t until a week or so later that I heard what had happened. Six people had died from pesticide poisoning, so the story went—a whole family, wiped out. They were found in their home at the Happy Hills Trailer Park, just north of town. Pretty gruesome, the reports said. They’d been picking strawberries at Plunkett’s Pick-yer-own, so the pesticide was traced back to there, and the authorities figured that somehow, a few rows got some kind of lethal dose of the stuff. The hippie family had been eating as much as they were picking. They ended up shutting down the whole field for the rest of the season, and they put announcements in the Craddock Chronicle, warning pickers to wash their fruit in detergent, or better, just to throw the berries away.

  After I recovered enough for visitors, Joy came to see me.

  “I feel awfully guilty about what happened to you,” she said.

  “The doctors said I must have got a bad row, like those other people,” I said, testing her.