Squashed by Joan Bauer
Spider stood by the door watching the patch, his head cocked in disbelief. I looked outside and saw a true miracle. I moved to the porch to get a better look and still couldn’t believe it. There knelt Old Abe in the dirt, tape recorder in hand, next to Max.
“Max,” Dad began, “I’m about to play you one of the greatest inspirational pieces of music ever written, filled with triumph and greatness. I want you to rise up when you hear it. Rise up and achieve your full potential! Is that clear?”
A wind blew Max’s leaves, and Dad stood triumphantly. Music! I’d never thought of that! He pressed his tape recorder, and the sounds of Handel’s Messiah filled the patch.
“Yes!” Dad shouted, turning the volume louder. The sopranos were going at it, hitting all the high notes. Spider was howling with the altos. The basses were doing whatever basses do against the melody. “And he shall reign forever and ever!” they sang. It was just like a movie. I half expected Moses to come down from a mountain and part the Rock River, but given its size that wouldn’t have been much of a trick. Max filled with splendor as the million choir voices rang “Hallelujah!”
“Reach for it!” Dad cried.
“Yes!” I shouted.
“Reach for it!” Dad cried again.
I reached for it, tripped over Spider, who was yelping at my feet, and landed facedown in a mound of pearlite.
I slept badly—a total of two hours and seventeen minutes, typical for Harvest Eve. A small shaft of light had hit the sky and was trying to break through to dawn. It was quiet and still, like a church on Monday morning. I listened for the October wind stirring in the patch and felt an old sadness. I picked up my thickbladed cleaver and walked outside to wait for Nana and Richard and something else I didn’t want to think about.
It was time to cut Max off the vine.
Ordinarily, this was a big moment for a grower. Gloria Shack said it was like cutting a baby’s umbilical cord and watching it start life on its own. Ha! A baby’s got years ahead of it. A squash cut off the vine won’t last more than eight weeks and starts losing weight the same day. It was the beginning of the end, that’s all.
I sat in the patch trying to imagine what it would be like without Max. He was so much a part of me. My friend. My vegetable. You can’t just turn that off. Max’s stem was fat and dry and beginning to wither: He was perfectly ripe. I hid my cleaver behind my back as a sparrow sang a funeral march in a nearby elm.
Nana and Richard pulled up, and the procession began. Dad came out in his bathrobe, Richard carried his mitt out of respect. Nana held something in a Ziploc bag close to her chest. They walked solemnly toward Max. I produced the knife.
“This is going to sting a little.”
Richard gasped. The sparrow gave me a dirty look. I lifted it high—Ellie the Ripper—and hacked through his stem with three smooth swipes, leaving four inches intact. Max’s vine flopped on the ground. I rubbed his cut and bowed my head at the injustice of agricultural death.
Phil Urice, dressed in his pumpkin suit, and his three-hundred-pound brother, Bomber, backed a pickup covered with orange flags and flapping harvest streamers into the patch.
“Gonna give Cyril a run for his money with this one,” Phil said, fixing a rubber pad the size of a blanket under Max. The four men grabbed a corner. Bomber pushed, his muscles bulged, Dad shoved, Richard pulled, Phil sweated. “Here she goes!” hollered Phil, and with a grunt, Max was lifted onto the truck—a liberated squash. I climbed in beside him and tucked a blanket around his base. It was a great honor to ride to the fair with the official Rock River Dancing Pumpkin, and I figured Phil’s clout could only help my chances. Nana threw the Ziploc bag in my lap.
“A present,” she announced. The bag had a clump of moist soil inside. Nana crossed her arms and looked at me hard. “Four generations of Morgans worked that soil to get it how it is, sweating themselves silly in the field, and I don’t want you messing things up by thinking that winning today is more important than that.”
I gulped and nodded.
“You grew your first pumpkin in it and your father tilled it when he was a boy even though he hated every minute. It’s going to be here long after all of us are gone, and if you think one Weigh-In makes a whale of a difference to who you are, then you’d better think again, that’s all. Any questions?”
This was not the supportive farewell I had expected. And as for questions, I had plenty. Beginning with how you turn off winning when you want it so bad and how come nobody seemed to have an answer for that? I stared at the bag. “No questions,” I said.
“Well, then, off you go.”
Phil backed out of the patch real easy. Nana’d calmed down and was grinning like a true blue-ribbon champion, Richard and Dad waved good-bye as the truck rolled down the driveway. I didn’t have the heart to tell Max that a pumpkin was not forever, tucked the Ziploc bag under his blanket, and settled in for the ride to town.
Cyril Pool had not arrived at the fairgrounds despite the fact that all growers had to be in their places by 9:00 A.M. sharp or be subject to extreme penance and deep anguish. Mrs. McKenna glared down Marion Avenue for any sign of his truck, swallowed three Extra-Strength Excedrins, and folded her arms like an evil genie. Cyril was dead meat. Ha-ha.
It wasn’t like Cyril to miss an opportunity to be a degenerate. He always came early to stick it to other growers about how big his pumpkin was and how measly theirs were. Maybe God had taken pity on me and Big Daddy’s rot had gotten the best of him. Maybe God had sent plague and destruction Cyril’s way. Maybe Mrs. McKenna had disqualified Cyril for bad taste and nastiness. I hoped God had chosen plague and destruction, since they tend to have long-range effects.
A baseball flopped inside Phil’s truck. Richard followed. “Cyril’s been delayed,” he said. “Had a little problem getting Big Daddy on the trailer.”
I leaned forward: “What little problem?”
“He doesn’t have enough men to lift Big Daddy on the truck. Not too popular.”
This was not exactly plague and destruction, but it was still decent news. All pumpkin entries must be in by 10:00 A.M. or be disqualified. It was nine thirty-five already.
Maybe…
Richard jumped out as Gordon Mott’s head peered over the side: “Kid, you have to give it more pizzazz. Trust me on this.”
“I’m feeling the pressure, Mr. Mott, and—”
“Do you have any clue who’s here today, kid?”
I didn’t.
“A reporter from the Chicago Tribune. Flown direct from O’Hare Airport at great expense to cover your story. Why, you might ask yourself, is she here?”
“Because you invited her.”
“I didn’t invite her, kid. All I did was tell her the story line.” He stared off into the blue sky and lifted his hands to the clouds: “Teenager risks all to gain pumpkin glory.” He relaxed his face and watched me long and hard. “You’ve got to have heart today. You’ve got to be sharp, savvy.”
“I’ll try—”
Gordon Mott leaned forward and gave me the wisdom of the publishing world. “Everybody wants a hero. Somebody honest, hardworking, looking toward a nobler purpose. Somebody they can put their hopes and dreams in who won’t let them down. Like Shirley Temple—a great kid, great orphan roles—everybody loves an overcomer. Astronauts did what everybody wanted to and looked good coming out of the cone in the water. Barbie dolls had style, didn’t mouth off, and they were cheaper than a new bike, at least in the beginning. Now you and the vegetable have that same role model quality. Are you following me?”
“I’m not sure.”
“I’ve seen them come,” Gordon Mott said, “and I’ve seen them go. The great ones have a simple appeal. I think you and the vegetable have it. Relax, kid. Life’s tough enough.” I tensed.
“What,” I asked, “if I don’t win?”
“Network news wouldn’t touch it. You’d get a couple of paragraphs in some local dailies, maybe a side panel in one of the farm rags
I tried to digest what Gordon Mott was saying. A toddler ran by with a sign clipped to his wind-breaker: BILL SUDD’S GRANDCHILD. PLEASE RETURN. Reunited families dressed in orange strolled arm in arm.
“You want me,” I said, “to be the next Barbie doll?”
He looked at me and, of course, I didn’t qualify. I tossed back my hair, sucked in my stomach, and shoved out my chest.
“Not technically, kid,” he said. “You can only go with what you’ve got.”
“You think I could be a role model?”
A bug flew into my mouth and I spat it out. Disgusting.
Gordon Mott regarded my spit on the ground. “With a little work,” he said, and walked toward the pumpkin fudge table.
Suddenly, a truck horn blasted loud and off-key. My heart sank to my shoes because without looking I knew. I turned, and here he came in all his glory—Cyril Pool—four-time blue-ribbon winner standing in his open-back trailer with all his ribbons pinned to his chest. Herman was at the wheel, spitting and grinning. Cyril was waving a big American flag like an Olympic athlete ready to grab the gold medal. He’d even bathed. Next to him was Big Daddy, wrapped in padding and blankets for the trip, but enough of him showed to make the crowd go, “Ahhhhhhh.” I told Max not to look.
“Guess he fixed the problem.” It was Richard.
Mrs. McKenna did not like being upstaged. She raised her bullhorn and blasted him: “This is deplorable, Mr. Pool! I hope you’re good and ashamed of yourself for being tardy, because we certainly are ashamed of you!”
Cyril dropped his flag and said, “Well, Missy, I’m here now, ain’t I?”
She eyed him with contempt. “In place, Pool!”
Mannie Plummer was in charge of check-in. She came to Cyril. “Take the blankets off, please.”
“Not jus’ yet,” Cyril snarled.
“People would like to see the pumpkin. That’s why we have a festival.”
“When I’m good and ready.”
Mannie wrote “Present, but ornery” by Cyril’s number and moved forward to Gloria Shack.
“Something’s up,” I said to Richard. “Cyril’s acting weird.”
Cyril was picking his teeth and slobbering a bit on his ribbons. Acting weird was within the range of normal for him. “He’s a strange man, Ellie.”
“Not that. Something’s up with Big Daddy. Look how he’s got him covered.”
“Five minutes to fair time, people!” Mrs. McKenna blared. “Let’s put on our happy Harvest faces.”
Sharrell clicked into gear at this, beaming and waving. Not to be outdone, the other Sweet Corn Coquettes grinned and squealed. Cyril Pool did not have a happy Harvest face—his was darkening by the minute. He pulled the padding around Big Daddy and stuffed mounds of hay under his base. He was nervous and quiet, not the old Cyril Pool Rock River loved to hate.
“Hey, Cyril!” cried a man in the crowd. “Let’s see what kind of pumpkin you got there!” But Cyril shook his head and pulled the covering tighter.
I was beginning to get a good idea what kind of pumpkin he had there. A questionable one, that’s what. Deep, spreading rot on a pumpkin is not a pretty sight. Still, Cyril had gotten Big Daddy on the trailer. That meant the pumpkin was in one piece. That meant it was weighable. And that meant I was probably dead.
“It’s no use,” I said miserably.
Richard threw down his glove: “Look at you! You’re not even at the scale yet, and you’ve already lost!”
“Big Daddy is bigger, Richard! There’s nothing I can do about—”
The muscles in Richard’s neck were sticking out like they did whenever Mr. Soboleski replaced him in the outfield. “Give yourself a break, Ellie!” He sat down. He stood up. “People come from behind and win! It happens!”
“Max isn’t going to get any bigger, Richard!”
Richard glared at me: “It’s not over till it’s over!” He stamped his foot: “It ain’t over till the fat lady sings!” He was snarling now: “Win one for the Gipper!”
“Squash ’em!” Dad’s voice rang out. He was standing by the truck, towering above the masses. “Squash ’em!” Old Abe shouted it again, smiled at the crowd, and zapped them with motivation.
“Squash ’em!” a boy yelled.
“Squash ’em!” Grace shouted. “Beat his pants off, Ellie, you can do it!” Max seemed to rise in greatness. I was standing straight now as the cry rang like a chorus of hope.
Click. Gordon Mott stepped from the shouting mob very pleased indeed. Click. At his side was a photographer in a Chicago Tribune sweatshirt clicking his camera like he couldn’t get enough. Click. I gave him my right side. Click. Max did a little jig. Click. The woman next to Gordon Mott and the photographer was smiling and nodding and writing furiously on a pad as the cheer of “Squash ’em!” echoed across Main Street, bounced off the Bud DeWitt Memorial White Hen and right into Big Daddy’s dirty, rotten core. Click. Gordon Mott smiled at me with headlines in his eyes. Click.
“Silence, people, please!”
Mrs. McKenna held her pruning shears high and waited until we obeyed. Parents hushed children. Feet moved into respectful position. She cut the great orange ribbon in front of the Bud DeWitt Memorial White Hen and threw up her arms. “Let the festival begin!” she cried, and almost got trampled as the crowds ran to the food tables up and down Marion Avenue.
I was standing by the 31 Flavors Harvest Turkey absolutely dripping with heart and pizzazz when Grace slapped a sealed envelope in my hand that read “Deliver to Ellie/Personal and Confidential.”
“From Wes,” she said. “He’s my cousin and I have a right to know what’s inside.”
This was debatable. “Personal and Confidential” pretty much meant that, and if Wes had dragged himself from his sickbed to contact me, it had to be important. I yawned like I got envelopes every day and backed off fast, smack into Frieda Johnson’s cinnamon syrup bun table, almost knocking her tub of handcranked maple butter to its death. Frieda glared at me like I was an alien, so I snuck between the pumpkin sloppy joe stand and the pumpkin doughnut table and ripped The Letter open. It started with “Dear Ellie,” which meant he cared:
“I bet you weren’t expecting to hear from me today. Well, I wasn’t expecting to write you either, but I guess this flu’s got me for a while longer, although I hate to admit that, not ever being sickly.”
Grace was moving in for heavy spying. I spun around past the pumpkin and sausage stew line and read fast: “I’ve been thinking about you and Max and how you probably need a pep talk right now. I want to say that I’m proud to know both of you because it takes guts to come this far. And, Ellie, you’ve got more guts than any girl I’ve ever known.”
My heart was clicking because I knew for certain that The Other One in Gaithersville had fewer guts and was definitely dead and buried. Ha-ha. Grace was tiptoeing up from behind—I dashed behind the Amana Colonies’ sauerbraten and spaetzle corner and kept reading: “Now, I want you to put aside everything you know about growing for a minute. I want you to stop thinking about Cyril Pool and where you are and how you feel because the best piece of advice I can give you from competing at fairs myself is don’t look at the competition, just concentrate on yourself. If you look at Cyril you’ll just get mad, and that makes everything worse. If you listen to your nerves, they’ll take over. So just remember who you are. Once that starts flowing there’s no telling what can happen. And stop thinking about winning as beating Cyril, because there’s a lot more to growing giant pumpkins than that.
“I guess I’ll let you go and let you get concentrating. I miss you and believe in you.”
He had underlined his name, and I got all quiet inside, like I’d found a secret place in a forest nobody knew about. I held the greatest inspirational message of the twentieth century over my heart, filled with deep truth and courage from the past president of the Gaithersville Ag Club, and faced the giant scale. I stared at it until it was energ
Cyril, sensing my new power, was hissing at people to keep away from his trailer. I turned away because Wes had said not to look and concentrated on not being nervous. This is hard to do when your heart is beating in your kidneys. Richard said eating was the key to peace and there was enough food at the fair to keep anybody mellow. Dad said going on a ride would take my mind off things, but I thought puking from the side of the Mad Screaming Bomber could make me lose my competitive edge.
I found a pay phone to call Wes to tell him how much I appreciated The Letter and how I was concentrating my brains out, which was the least I could do for the cause of agriculture and teenagers in America. No one answered. This got me worried, because he could have taken a turn for the worse and be at this moment rushing to a hospital for who knows what. He could also be sleeping. Grace said Wes slept like a brick.
Miss Moritz walked by holding hands with a man who looked like General Patton (which meant she was part human) when Gordon Mott slipped beside me.
“You’re looking good, kid. Looking strong.”
He was eating a fat bratwurst covered with grilled red onions on an onion roll. He smiled at the Chicago Tribune reporter several yards away, who nodded. “She’s just going to watch you for a while, kid. That’s her style. Think bigger than life.”
“This really isn’t me, Mr. Mott, I—”
But he was gone—in a flash of bratwurst and onions. Who was that masked man?
It was 1:45 P.M. I had made three calls to Wes and gotten no answer. I had eaten three of Frieda Johnson’s cinnamon syrup buns, two bowls of pumpkin sausage stew, a slice of pumpkin pie, and gotten heartburn. The seams of my khaki slacks were close to exploding. I sat in the truck with Max, polishing him with a soft cloth, holding Nana’s Ziploc bag, remembering the agricultural blood that flowed through my veins. All growers had to be in their trucks by now and check in with Mannie Plummer, who let everyone know that she would have been sitting in her truck with her pumpkin if Ralphie or Dennis hadn’t shaken hands with the devil and ruined her life. I was about to let loose a great flow of winning concentration that would have made Wes proud when it happened.