Nobody was at their table. The square was full of people, and all of them were six feet to the left. Pam had her hands flat on the white sheet. The cash box was shut. Dennis stood by the tailgate with his hands in his back pockets, the way he used to stand when Dad was about to explain something to him about the hay.
Pam came around the end of her table. She had a jar in her hand, a quart of peaches, and with her thumbnail she had peeled her own white label halfway up. She held it so I could see the lid underneath.
Peaches, August. In my hand.
“This is your writing,” she said. Her voice was very small. “I’ve been sticking labels over your writing for two weeks. Three hundred of them, at my kitchen table, and I never once let myself read what was underneath.”
“It’s a lid, Pam.”
“It’s not.” She shook her head hard. “I’ve been in this family thirty-four years, and I never went down that cellar in August. Not once. She asked me, the early years. I always had the store, or the kids, or I said I did.” She looked at the jars in the grass. “I told you to make more. I heard myself say it, and I thought it was a kind thing to say.”
“I know you did.”
“I told myself she’d want it eaten. And she would. I never told myself she’d want it sold, because I knew better, and I just didn’t look at that part.” She was crying now, plainly, not making a show of it and not hiding it. “I’m sorry, Judy. I’m sorry for the cellar and I’m sorry for the labels, and I’m sorry I said that to you with her not two weeks gone.”
There were forty people on that lawn, and every one of them had found something to look at in the sky.
I had not expected to feel sorry for her, and I did. She was fifty-seven years old with a scar under her ribs and a hospital letter in her kitchen drawer, and she had done a small-hearted thing for a reason anybody on that square would understand.
“Pam,” I said. “Next August you come down cellar.”
She stared at me.
“I can’t lift a full kettle by myself much longer either,” I said. “Somebody’s going to have to learn to pack.”
She laughed, the wet kind, and put the back of her wrist against her mouth. I took the jar out of her hand and set it on my table with the others.
Mrs. Albrecht had come down the row.
I don’t know how long she had been standing there. She did not come to my table. She stopped at space thirteen, in front of the pyramids, and she picked up a quart of dilly beans and turned the lid to the sun and read the date as if she were checking a hall pass.
“Dennis,” she said.
My brother took his hands out of his pockets. He is fifty-eight years old, and he stood up straight for her.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I let this table go last week because I thought your family had decided on it together. I was wrong, and that’s my own lookout.” She looked at him over the jars. “I’m going to ask you one thing, and I’d like a plain answer. Did your mother ever once take money for one of these?”
The whole row had gone quiet. The honey man had stopped with a jar halfway into a sack.
Dennis looked at the cash box. Then he looked at me.
Sophia Rivers is an experienced News Content Editor with a sharp eye for detail and a passion for delivering accurate and engaging news stories. At TheArchivists, she specializes in curating, editing, and presenting news content that informs and resonates with a global audience.
Sophia holds a degree in Journalism from the University of Toronto, where she developed her skills in news reporting, media ethics, and digital journalism. Her expertise lies in identifying key stories, crafting compelling narratives, and ensuring journalistic integrity in every piece she edits.
Known for her precision and dedication to the truth, Sophia thrives in the fast-paced world of news editing. At TheArchivists, she focuses on producing high-quality news content that keeps readers informed while maintaining a balanced and insightful perspective.
With a commitment to delivering impactful journalism, Sophia is passionate about bringing clarity to complex issues and amplifying voices that matter. Her work reflects her belief in the power of news to shape conversations and inspire change.