2
The Taste of a California Plum
I make the last of my rounds in daddy’s old Chevy, checking the fences as I creep along. Coming down the drive towards the old shed housing Papaw’s rusty Ford, I slow down and stare at long brown hair and a green skirt flapping in the breeze.
Tightening my grip on the steering wheel, I shift in my seat and mumble to myself. “Who the hell is that?” Creeping closer, I squint, focusing on the person.
As I get closer, a woman moves away from the shed holding a huge camera. I stop the truck dead in the gravel drive, just staring as she points and talks, crouching every few seconds.
She doesn’t give off the idea that she sees me as she snaps picture after picture.
Getting out of the truck, I let my door slam shut, and make my way to her.
She stands up with her back to me, dropping the camera. It hangs around her neck as she turns her head.
We lock eyes.
Raising my hand, I clear my throat. “Excuse me!” She turns her whole body to me. “What’re you doin’ on my property?” Still walking, I cross my arms and watch her point to the shed.
The breeze carries away her voice, but I think she said, ‘that’s enough for today.’
Enough of what?
Getting closer to the side of the shed, I watch three people exit, stopping on the other side of the woman. I stop at the shed’s edge, peeking in on Papaw’s truck, and turning back, hold my eyes on the woman.
The woman extends her hand to me. “I’m sorry, I was under the impression this was abandoned.” She squints, keeping her hand out.
I chuckle, not taking her hand. “That not tell you someone owns it?” I point to the iron sign arched over the drive reading ‘Bowing Farm’.
The woman looks behind her and to her left, shrugging, and looks back at me. “The shed and the truck didn’t look to be on this land since there is no fence around them.” She lets her hand drop to her side and looks at the family waiting several feet away. “I’ve got all I need, and it’s getting dark anyway.” Then she looks back at me. “Sorry to be a bother.” She crosses her arms, still squinting.
I glance at the family behind her.
Mr. and Mrs. Bland and their daughter Mandy. Mr. Bland has a hand on his wife and Mandy’s outside shoulders. Mandy’s all dolled up. No doubt taking senior pictures. I think her brother Joe graduated three years after me, maybe? Anyway…
Sighing, I nod. “Mr. Bland.”
Mr. Bland nods back. “Denson.” He smiles, rubbing Mandy’s shoulder.
Mandy hasn’t stopped staring at me since I stopped walking. She and her mother offer quick smiles before Mr. Bland turns them, and they leave. Once their car pulls off, I look back at the woman.
We meet eyes, and I shake my head. “Well?... Why’re you still here?” I cross my arms and glare at her.
The woman grins. “I apologize for overstepping, but I am willing to make a contract for use of your land. A five percent cut of my earnings.” She flits a business card my way, stepping up to me, and puts it in my shirt pocket with a light pat.
I watch her step back smirking at me, and she puts her hands behind her back.
Digging in my shirt pocket, I pull out her card and all but throw it at her. “I don’t want your business. Just get off my land.” I wag the card at her, clenching my jaw.
The woman shrugs her lips, and without another word, she turns on her heels and walks to her car at the end of the drive.
Huffing, I walk back to the truck, taking a minute before putting it in gear. Sighing, I give her card a once over.
Plum Dahling, Photographer.
Plum? Who names their kid Plum?
Rolling my eyes, I put the card in my jeans pocket. After my minute, I put the truck in gear and turn around, looking at the fencing as I creep my way back up the drive.
Good.
Nothing has broken the barbed wire or pushed over a post today. The cows and horses graze along the fence. Janice, our oldest cow, walks along the fence trying to keep up with me.
About five more minutes of creeping later, I park the truck at the barn and walk to the house.
Opening the back door into the kitchen, the smell of homemade cornbread hits me.
Mama’s cooking tonight.
I pull off my boots, leaving them just outside the door, and walk over to the stove. Cream corn, greens, honey glazed ham, and English peas. A homemade peach cobbler sits on potholders just a foot down the counter. I reach over to swipe a fingertip of peach off the side, and a hand slaps mine. Turning around, I grin.
Mama swats me with a hand towel. “Don’t even try it Denson.” She smirks at me, opening the oven, and reaches in with the towel, pulling out the iron skillet filled with fresh cornbread.
I chuckle to myself, giving my hand an over exaggerated rub and cradle. “Ouch mama, that hurt.” I laugh, walking over to the table.
Mama rolls her eyes. “Oh, ha, ha. Want me to break the other to take your mind off it?” She grins at my wide eyes. “How’re the fences? Anything get out today?” She stirs the corn and peas.
Sighing, I take a seat and slouch. “Naw, nothin’ got out…” I cross my arms.
Mama cuts her eyes at me. “But?” She leans on the counter with her fist on her hip.
I raise my eyebrows. “Somethin’ got in.” I shrug, shaking my head. “Maybe I should say someone.” I lean forward. “Some woman, photographer, was takin’ pictures of the Bland girl out in Papaw’s shed with his Ford.” I lean back, re-crossing my arms. “I set her straight and ran her off. We don’t need that kind of mess here anyway.” I huff, looking at the table.
Mama walks up to me with the pot of corn. “Hhmm. Did she give you her name?” She sets the pot down on a potholder in the middle of the dinnerware.
I shake my head. “Just gave me her card. Don’t matter anyway. I told her not to come here again.” I look up at mama glaring back at me.
Mama nods, shrugging her lips. “Well how ’bout you help me set the table before your sisters and the kids get down here.” She cuts her eyes at me, grinning. “Or else Ima tell you not to come here again.” She giggles, tossing her thumb to the stove.
I chuckle, putting my hands up. “Alright, alright.” I grab the greens. “But seriously, mama. The woman had no business bein’ on our land.” I set the pot on the table. “Not to mention, the Blands should’ve asked permission, too.” I turn back to the stove, but stop short.
Mama has the other pots in hand, already carrying them to the table where she sets the pots in the middle with the others. “Oh, I meant to tell you ’bout that.” She glances up at me. “Jane asked if Mandy could take a few senior pictures in the old shed out front.” She shrugs, leaning on the edge of the dining table. “Of course, I said yes.” She grins, crossing her arms.
I know she’s lying to keep me from getting madder. I guess she’s right. Before I can say anything though, Desirea, Sarah Grace, Luella, and the kids tromp down the stairs.
Luella sits Lynnie in the highchair and makes Patrick and Hamilton’s plates.
I look at Hamilton and grin in anticipation of what might come out of her mouth. “So, Hammy, what’d you do at school today?” I smirk at her scowling glare.
Hamilton snarls at me. “Don’t. Call. Me. Hammy!” She crosses her arms, leaning back in her seat and snarls at me again.
Luella snaps her head at Hamilton. “Hamilton Grey Staples, don’t yell at the table.” She cuts her eyes at me. “No matter how annoyin’ your uncle’s bein’.” She sticks out her tongue at me before Hamilton sees.
Hamilton cuts her eyes at me and snarls again. “School was fine. We made May flowers to go with the April showers from the other month.” She gets a little quiet. “Bobby Freeman pulled my ponytail at recess again.” She pokes her fork in her greens.
Luella and mama both look at her, but I speak first. “You tell the teacher?” I wait, knowing full well she didn’t.
Hamilton smiles. “Nope. Punched him in the gut and ran away, just like you told me.” She beams with pride.
Mama and Luella glare at me.
It’s all I can do not to bust out laughing. I cover my mouth, looking down at my plate.
Desirea and Sarah Grace giggle to each other.
Desirea nudges my arm. “You’re gonna get it now.” She takes a bite of greens, still laughing.
Mama pops Desirea and looks at me. “Now I know you did not tell that child to hit.” She doesn’t take her eyes off me.
I nod, leaning back, and smile. “I sure did. If that boy keeps puttin’ hands on her in any way, I want her to know what to do.” I cross my arms and wink at Hamilton.
Mama’s shoulders drop. “Denson, they’re six.” She puts a hand out to Hamilton.
I shake my head. “Doesn’t matter. If he wants to dish it, then he oughta be prepared to take it, too.” I shrug. “Besides, if they were sixteen, seventeen years old, would you let this boy abuse her like that or worse?” I watch mama’s eyes drop to her plate, and the room goes quiet. “That’s what I thought. No matter how old, stuff like that must be stopped for it to stop. He learned his lesson.” I look at Hamilton. “Now what I told you only goes for self-defense. Don’t you go hittin’ unless someone lays hands on you first, ya hear? I’m not puttin’ up with bullies, and I’m sure ‘nough not gonna have you bein’ one. Got it?” I nod once.
Hamilton nods back. “Yes sir. I got it. Oh, and by the way, he didn’t mess with me for the rest of the day.” She smirks, glancing around the table, and lands on her mama’s glare.
Luella leans down and whispers in her ear. “We’ll talk about this later.” She turns back to her plate.
The room falls silent again.
To lighten the mood, I look at Patrick. “So, Pat-pat, what did you do at school today?” I watch a smile spread across his little freckled face.
Patrick bounces in his chair. “I got, to, finger paint!” His eyes widen, and he looks at his hands stained with the rainbow, and then he frowns. “But I spiwlled the paint all over the helper teacher’s shoes.” He looks at Luella. “I didn’t mean to mama! She said it would washut.” He looks at his mama like she might whoop him right there.
Luella shakes her head. “Baby it’s alright. She told me ’bout it before I came and got you. You’re not in trouble, baby. Just try to be more careful.” She smiles, and Patrick smiles back.
The rest of supper consists of chit chat about the farm, the animals, the church potluck this Sunday, and the kids fighting and poking fun at each other.
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