Peaches
By A.M. Gwynn
The smell of frying bacon filled the house as the first hint of tangerine peeked from the horizon's edge. Today was picking day. They would haul out the baskets, load them on the pick-up ten baskets high, ten rows across. Emptying the orchard of its ripe, juicy peaches, the smell could make a person drunk high in the branches.
She filled her plate with scrambled eggs and bacon. Her brother disparaged her behind his hand, feigning amazement at her heaped plate. She shot scrambled eggs at him from her spoon.
"Y'all best mind your manners at the table." Her father bent down low through the doorway, strapped on his suspenders, and took his place at the table. "We're in the orchard in ten minutes, finish up your breakfast."
After stacking the dishes, they set out for the baskets. She felt light-headed as she loaded up the last row and paused to lay her head against the truck door.
"I 'ain't got all day for peach pickin', you need to c'mon." Her father wasn't one for patience on picking day. Time was money. The faster they picked, the sooner money was in the bank.
--
Her eyes watered and her back burned. Not even the heady aroma of peaches cut through the fog.
“Focus and pick!" Daddy shouted to no one in particular. “Time is money.”
She dropped her half-filled basket to the ground and steadied herself on the ladder. Her father came over and stood below her, wiping the sweat from his brow with a sleeve.
"What's wrong with you, girl? You aimin’ to bruise my crop?”
"No. I don't feel good, Daddy."
He squinted up at her. Tucking his hat through his belt, he climbed a few steps and pulled at her waist to guide her down. “Good Lord, you need to lay off the bread and bacon, girl.”
She emptied the rest of her breakfast under the tree.
"Darlene! Run your daughter back up to the house. For the love of ― "
Her mother came to see what the calamity was, and it was a calamity if anything interrupted peach picking.
"I'm alright, Daddy. I just need to rest a minute."
"Take her home. Get back quick as you can." He put his hat back on and walked away throwing another “Quick as you can!” over his shoulder.
Her mother put her in the pickup and they drove back to the house. She got out at the back porch. Limping up to her bed, she felt guilty as well as sick. Daddy had counted on every hand today. Peaches won't wait when they're ready. She put on her nightgown and climbed into bed, falling asleep as soon as she closed her eyes.
--
The pain drew her to the side of the bed. She stood, her nightgown clinging to her legs. Another pain made her cry out. The house was quiet with sleep and she covered her mouth until the pain subsided. She fled to the bathroom and lay down on the cold floor, her cheek pressed against the porcelain bowl.
She gripped the towel bar for support to stand. The pain dropped to the floor and she screamed behind her hand. She picked up the blue nubbin and held it close, listening to the sounds of the house. She returned to her room and laid the silence onto her pink and red flowered sheet. She wrapped and unwrapped it to be sure the blue was truly blue. It was. Light-headed and cold, she crept downstairs.
--
The orchard seemed as strange as the bundle in her arms. The trees, having lost their perfume now they were bare of fruit, were skeletons, thin and dark, reaching out to accuse her. She walked on, the pitiful mite threatening to slip away from her. She gripped it tighter. She was a fluttering of bird wings, the echo of an echo. No longer twelve.
The orchard smelled like creek water. She sat down her burden, that dark bruise, and dug the moist earth until her fingers were numb. When she was certain her secret would always be a secret, she stood on weak legs to go. She leaned shaking against the tree as it began to rain, softly at first, then the sky opened up.
“Peaches! Girl, where are you?” Her mother stood in the light from the kitchen, some fuzzy, far away flame.
THE END