Fresh Tomatoes

As she opened the back door, the heat slapped the breath from her lungs like a hot towel slammed into her face. She paused, with eyes closed, and tried to take a deep breath. It was like trying to inhale a hot thick soup. “I should just use that damned inhaler,” she said to herself. She hated that inhaler. It gave her a sore throat and made her heart race.

Life had turned long and lonely as the years passed. Her children grown and gone. Her husband dead these past ten years. The only joy she knew was her garden and the weekly trips to the Farmer’s Market. She didn’t know if she could face another empty winter. The cold holidays where the house echoed with the ghosts of Christmas past. Sometimes, she felt she lived longer then she was meant to but with a painful sigh, she turned around and headed to her bedroom to use the dreaded inhaler.

Heart pounding and throat itching, she headed out once more. She could breathe easier now, even in this muggy mess. In boots, jeans, a worn-thin long sleeved shirt and a straw hat that a mule wouldn’t wear; she trudged to the garden, sweat already pouring down her face. The old bushel basket in her gloved hand felt heavy, though she’d yet to fill it. 

The smells came before she reached the garden. Peppers and tomatoes spiced the air. The pungent earth caught in a passionate dance with the sun. Unlike her overflowing house, the garden was tidy. Neat rows of vegetables and flowers in small hills. Not a weed or a bug would have dared to invade her kingdom.  The raised beds and the mulch kept pests at bay. Garlic, onions and lavender were rumored to help so she’d planted those sporadically throughout her paradise.

Talking and singing, in breathy gasps, swiping sweat from her eyes, she bent to her tasks. First, the lovely bell peppers and banana peppers. Then the lovely gooseneck squash with its bumpy, golden skin. Then her beautiful tomatoes…wait a minute. She squinted her eyes and brusquely shoved the plants about…someone had been in her garden and helped themselves to her produce.

She sat straight up. Her lips compressed in a hard line. She stood up and looked at the ground between rows. Footprints. 

 “Who, in the world, would come to my garden and steal my vegetables?!” She snatched the unfortunate hat from her head and slapped the dust from her jeans. Her short gray-streaked hair standing immediately up as though commanded to attention. “I’m going to call the sheriff. Not that they’ll do a dadgum thing but this is stealing! I’ve been robbed!”

Stalking towards the house, she came to an abrupt halt. There, sitting on her chair, at her table, beneath her pecan tree, sat the poorest specimen of a soul she’d ever seen. Asleep!  And in one of her baskets, he’d put her vegetables. 

Shock had stopped her stiff march to the house. Fear spurted briefly but was overcome by the rush of anger. Stomping towards this intruder with the full intention of beating him black and blue, she was once again shocked into stillness. 

The smell hit her first; having an almost bionic sense of smell is not always a gift. It was a dirty, sweaty smell. Not sweat from recent work but old sweat, sour and sickly. He hadn’t shaved since he bathed last, obviously, for his dewlapped face was wracked with bristles and wrinkles. His clothes were filthy and in such disrepair that they seemed as old he. And he snored. 

Who was this fool? What was she supposed to do now? Suddenly, he stretched and yawned, revealing few teeth in a similar shape as he was in himself. She jumped back as though a snake had appeared. Eyes wide, she stared and asked, “Who are you?”

“Pardon me, mam, name’s Jessie.” He held out a grubby hand.

Recoiling a bit, she asked, “What are you doing here? Why do you have my vegetables? Why are you sleeping at my table?”

He pulled his hand back, looked at it and, grinning; he wiped it on his pants. “I got off the train this morning and noticed your purty garden. I thought if I helped you out by picking some things for ya, you might let me have some of them tomatas.”

“Sir..”

“Jessie.”

“Jessie, you might have knocked on my door and asked if it was okay. I don’t like to be disturbed by strangers in my yard. Besides, I have a vegetable stand at the Farmer’s Market on Wednesdays and Saturdays, along with others. That’s where most people go who have a craving for fresh vegetables. Now I’m going to call the sheriff and…”

“Mam, mam, I’m sorry. Like I said I just got into town on the train. I’ll go. I can’t afford the Farmer’s Market even I’d known about it. I’m sorry I bothered ya.”

“What do you mean you just got into town on the train? There’s no train station here and there’s certainly not a depot by my property.”

Rising, Jessie looked tired and a bit embarrassed. He pointed off to the west and said, “The train stopped about a mile off that way. It wasn’t exactly a passenger train.” He bent slowly over and picked up a pack as scraggly as himself. “I’m sorry, mam, just thought a fresh tomato’d be so good. 

Didn’t think ya’d mind if I picked the vegetables for ya with the heat like it is. I’ll be on my way. I won’t bother you anymore.” He groaned without realizing it as he hefted his pack and turned to walk away.

For the fourth time that day, she’d been shocked silly. Her mouth gaped like a fish out of water as Jessie’s tale took shape in her mind. Fear once again spurted like acid in her belly as she looked to the west where he’d pointed but was overcome by a sudden rush of gratitude for the life she realized she loved. Turning back towards him she said, “Jessie, wait a minute. No harm done. You’re right. I don’t need to be in this heat. Oh, where are my manners? Can I get you some tea?” And she smiled, breathing easy for the first time in a long while.

 http://bluebellbooks.blogspot.com/2012/08/bluebell-books-twitter-club-thursday.html