|
The
Peach Farmer's Predicament (or How Stellar Got his Grove Back)
MARCUS
STELLAR NEVER CLAIMED to be much good at
interpersonal relations. His friends, if he had any, would label him as
socially awkward. However, the salesman who currently found himself at the
receiving end of Stellar's double-barreled shotgun would probably choose a
different word: peculiar; eccentric; psychopath, perhaps.
“Didn’t you see the sign?” said Stellar,
watching a bead
of sweat meander down the trespasser’s cheek.
“I did,” said the man. “I thought you’d
make an
exception on account that I-”
“On account that you can’t read? Sign clearly
says
‘trespassers will be shot,’ and that goes double for salesmen. Triple for
salesmen trying to sell peaches to a peach farmer. Honestly, I think Id be
doing you a favor.”
“As I said, sir, these aren’t ordinary peaches.
They’re
pitless peaches. Genetically enhanced to produce sweeter, more disease
resistant fruit, and bigger harvests.” The man pulled a peach from a satchel
slung over his shoulder and presented it to Stellar. “Have a taste. See for
yourself.”
“There’s no way in hell I’m planting those
mutant trees
on my property.”
“They’re perfectly safe, I can assure you. If
you don’t
like them, I’ll buy them back. I’ll even dig them up myself.”
Stellar lifted an eyebrow, snatched the peach from the
salesman’s hand, and ran it under his nose. Smelled sweet, but the devil’s
temptations came in many forms. Stellar launched the peach into the air, and
quick as a tick, cocked his shotgun and blew that piece of frankenfruit to
smithereens.
The salesman cowered, hands clamped over his ears.
“That’s what I think of your peach, and if you
want to
know what I think of you, why don’t you stick around for another minute or
two.”
Stellar was just about to cock his gun again when he
heard the rumble of Missy Mae's Dodge Ram, kicking up a cloud of dust on the
road that separated their properties. His forty acres of peach orchard served
as a buffer between him and the rest of the world — a buffer Missy Mae was
constantly overstepping.
“Marcus!” she called, the top half of her nearly
hanging
out of the truck’s cab. “Marcus, you put that gun down right now, and show this
man a little courtesy.”
Stellar grumbled, and obliging, lowered his aim from the
salesman’s face to his kneecaps.
Missy Mae hopped out of her truck and sashayed up
Stellar's front porch, clutching her bonnet to her head, and hiking her
sundress up to reveal sculpted calves. As prissy as she carried herself,
Stellar knew Missy Mae wasn’t foreign to a hard days work.
“You’ll have to excuse Mr. Stellar, here,”
she said to
the salesman, shaking her head slowly. “His mamma never taught him any manners.
I’m Missy Mae Reynolds. I own the vineyard across the way. And you are ... ?”
“None of your business,” said Stellar, grimacing
at his
uninvited guests. “He was just leaving.”
The salesman, taking his cue, stumbled down the porch
stairs on rubbery legs and ran for the safety of his van.
“Woman, you can’t be coming over here unannounced
like
this,” said Stellar, leaning his gun against the house and crossing his arms
over his chest.
“I’ve been putting up with having you as a neighbor
going on seventeen years now, and I think that entitles me a free pass to come
over here any time I damned please.” She shifted her weight and propped her
hand on her hip, daring him to talk back. Missy Mae's tongue was as sharp as a
snake, and Stellar doubted he could take her, even with a loaded shotgun.
“You want something, or did you come over here to
harass
me?”
“As a matter of fact, I came to see if you were busy
tonight. I noticed you’d finished bringing in your harvest the other day, and I
thought you might finally have some free time on your hands. I could make you
dinner.”
“Sorry, but I just threw some steaks on the grill,”
Stellar said, stretching for a believable excuse. Ever since her husband had
passed, Missy Mae had been steadily after him to come over to her place. He
knew it was hard for her, adjusting to life alone, but she’d get used to it.
Just as he had.
“Steaks? Great! I’ll bring some wine and cheese,”
she
said, a hint of feminine wiles in her eyes. Marcus Stellar didn’t like it one
bit. “Does six o’clock sound okay?”
“No, I’ve got plans already.” He needed
a better lie,
and there happened to be one parked in his own driveway — that salesman,
fumbling to get his keys in the ignition. The only thing that scared Stellar
more than mutant trees was the thought of him and Missy Mae alone together.
Especially if there was wine involved.
Stellar swallowed the lump in his throat, carefully slid
past Missy Mae, then ambled after the salesman, waving the van down as it
pulled back out onto the road. “I’ve got a row of trees that need planting,” he
called back to Missy Mae. “And I’ve got to do it tonight.”
“In the dark?”
“I’ve got a flashlight.”
Missy Mae bit her lip, both hands on her hips now. “If
I
didn’t know better, Marcus Stellar, I'd think you were trying to get rid of
me.”
That night, Stellar dragged his new trees out to the
northwest corner of his property, a flashlight and an old transistor radio his
only company. He could see Missy Mae's house from here. The aroma of lemon
herbed chicken lingered in the air, just like his late wife used to make. Missy
Mae's lights were still on. In a solitary moment of weakness, Stellar
considered going over there to apologize for how he’d acted earlier. But these
trees needed planting, and he hadn’t dropped an absurd fifty dollars per plant
just to have their roots dry out. He hoped these peaches were worth it, because
he didn’t know how much longer he’d be able to afford dodging Missy Mae's
advances.
Stellar turned up his radio, letting his bleeding-heart
love ballads numb his mind as he started to dig another hole.
b
There was something strange about those trees that
Stellar couldn’t quite put his finger on. In appearance, they were identical to
the rest of his grove — squat trunks and branches reaching out like gnarled
hands. But every time he walked past that solitary row, his arm hair prickled.
Sometimes he would think of the secrets lurking in the green veins of their
leaves, wondering what place Man had tinkering with Nature’s creations.
However, as the salesman had promised, the next year’s
harvest was a bountiful one, even from these young trees. The pitless peaches
were a hit at market, bringing in two and sometimes three times as much money
per pound. He needed more plants for next season, and when the salesman came
back to Stellar's peach grove, he greeted him with a smile instead of a gun.
“I think its time we talk real business,”
said Stellar,
rocking out on his porch, chewing a sprig of mint between his teeth. “I want to
convert half of my orchard over to pitless.”
“So I guess I won’t be needing my shovel
after all?” the
salesman asked.
Stellar threw back his head and laughed. “You
just try
to take those trees from me! Seriously, I could use a thousand more. Can you
manage that?”
“Of course," said the salesman, rubbing his
palms
together. “There’s just the matter of price. With my preferred customer
discount, I can get those to you for two hundred dollars a piece, two-fifty
installed.”
Stellar jumped out of his rocker, sending it crashing
behind him. The salesman didn’t flinch.
“What are you trying to pull on me? There’s
no way I’m
paying a quarter million dollars for those trees!”
“Suit yourself. But it’s only a matter
of time before
pit peaches are a thing of the past. Science is the future, and if you plan on
keeping your grove running more than another ten years, I’d suggest you rethink
your strategy.”
“Don’t try to scare me with that scientific
mumbo
jumbo.”
“Mr.
Stellar, did you know that every banana you’ve ever
eaten — I mean ever eaten — has been a
clone from the same tree? A tree that made a seedless, perfect fruit.”
“Get off my property!” said Stellar, inching
up to the
no-good swindler and drilling his index finger into his chest. “I'll figure a
way to breed those trees on my own. You’ll see.”
The salesman huffed, turned on his heels, and headed
back out to his van. Before he opened the door, he yelled over his shoulder,
“I'll be paying you another visit, Mr. Stellar. And when I do, you’ll be
begging to throw that quarter of a million dollars at me.”
b
For the next two months, Marcus Stellar spent nearly
every waking hour researching reproduction methods. He could usually collect a
few dozen pits to reseed the trees he’d lost to storms or disease, but this
pitless variety didn’t offer that option. He started grafting pitless branches
onto mature plants, but the grafts didn’t take the first time around. Then he
became more careful, testing soil pH every other day, keeping the grafted
joints moist and bandaged, and injecting growth stimulants directly into the
root system.
He’d always considered his trees as his extended
family.
He talked to them as he worked, even though the trees weren’t much good at
holding up their end of the conversation. When his jaw got tired, he’d play
music — Motown classics — to keep his spirits up. Secretly, he hoped that,
somehow, the rhythmic groove would work its way into these plants.
“Looking good,” he said, bent over one
of the new
grafts, inspecting the leaves for signs of cankers and roundworms. “Looking
really good.”
“Thank you,” said a voice. Stellar toppled
backwards and
thought himself to be going insane, but then he saw Missy Mae watching him from
across the road. She smiled and held up a bottle of wine. “You look like you
could use a break.”
Perhaps a little human companionship might be just
what
he needed, considering his mind had warped enough to think his peach trees were
talking back to him. Stellar nodded. “I'll be right over.”
b
Sitting on Missy Mae's flower print sofa, Stellar
couldn’t remember the last time he’d bothered to put on cologne. Missy Mae sat
next to him and, suspiciously, the cut of her blouse had gotten lower, and the
hem of her skirt higher.
“It’s the most peculiar thing,”
he said, pausing to sip
from his wine glass. “The trees put up blossoms, but the bees don’t go near
‘em.”
Missy Mae scooted closer, leaning in as he talked
about
the pitless peach trees. Naturally, he’d steered the conversation in this
direction. It’s all he thought about anymore.
“My, that is peculiar.” She gave him a
saucy grin,
gulped back a mouthful of wine, and then started twirling her finger around a
lock of hair.
“So now I’m trying this grafting technique
I read about.
If I can get that to work, I could turn my whole grove to pitless without
spending another dime.”
“Amazing,” she said, voice softer than
velvet. Then her
hand was on his thigh, inching up his Wranglers. “It’s sort of a shame though.
It seems so impersonal. Sometimes things are better the good old-fashioned way,
don’t you think?”
“Huh?” said Stellar, his voice cracking.
“Pollination, I mean.”
“Yes. Of course ...” He folded his hands
across his lap.
A moment of awkward silence passed, then Missy Mae leaned in, leading with
puckered lips. Stellar recoiled. “What are you doing?”
“I’m
trying to
kiss you. Someone’s got to make a move, and I think it’s obvious it isn’t going
to be you.”
“But Elliot-’’
“Elliot’s been gone three years. I miss
him every day of
my life, but he’s gone, and he’s not coming back. And for you it’s been, Lord,
eight years now?” Missy Mae placed her hand on Stellar's shoulder. “I think
she’d want you to move on.”
Stellar couldn’t take it. Missy Mae's touch
was
emotionally toxic, dredging up too many memories. “I think I should go.”
“Marcus Stellar, if you leave, you’ll
regret it!”
Maybe. Probably. But he couldn’t stay here with
her
stirring up things that had no business being stirred up. “I’m sorry, Missy
Mae. Thanks for the wine.” He grabbed a half-finished bottle and left her
there, alone. Stellar stumbled down the walk and over the dirt road that
separated his life from hers. He heard her following behind him, but he didn’t
turn around.
“Your heart’s just as sterile as those
trees of yours!”
she shouted, her voice carrying in the moistened air. He heard her sniffling,
crying, then the door slammed.
Stellar returned to the safety of his property and
the
solace of his crop, never judging, always willing to lend a branch to lean on.
“I think I really upset her this time,”
said Stellar,
collapsing to his knees in front of one of his pitless peach trees. His chest
heaved, throat so constricted that he could barely squeeze out his words. “But
she just doesn’t understand.”
Broad leaves fluttered in an almost non-existent breeze,
brushing the tears from Stellar's cheeks. He would have thought the action was
deliberate if he hadn’t known better.
His
eyelids grew heavy. Stellar took a final tug from
his bottle and let the rest of his wine spill upon the earth. It pooled in a
shallow trough, then spread in opposite directions before falling at the mercy
of thirsty roots. Stellar's face settled into the soil. He fumbled for the dial
on his little radio and twisted until it clicked. Marvin Gaye's voice eased out
Lets Get It On — a universal mating call
sent up to the heavens.
The fog of intoxication pressed over him like a thick
blanket, and in his cottony dreams, his trees reached out, branches coiling
around each other in a woody embrace. Leaves stroked leaves, as delicate as
kisses. Loving. Tender. Stellar thought it odd that he was dreaming with his
eyes open, so he let them drift closed and imagined himself in Missy Mae's bed.
b
The sun woke Stellar the next morning, scorching his
skin. Dirt caked his hair. He rolled over, nearly crushing the green sprout
growing from where he’d spilled his wine. Wait. He rubbed his eyes, sat up, and
looked again. He’d seen thousands of peach tree saplings in his time, but there
was something odd about this one. Maybe it was the way it held its supple
branches as if it were a model posing in the nude — motionless out of desire
and not necessity. It made Stellar's arm hairs prickle.
Still, his chest swelled with accomplishment. Stellar
raced up and down the rows of his peach grove, eager to tell the world of this
miracle. But alas, he had no one to tell. No friends. No family. No wife. He
wondered what good joy was when there was no one to share it with.
Stellar clasped his hands together and looked up into
the cloudless sky. In all this time, he’d never forgotten the richness of her
laugh and the kindness of her touch. They’d tended this land together. But,
it'd been eight years, long enough to mourn by anyone’s standards. The words
came from his lips in a whisper only she could hear. “Forgive me.”
b
Two and a half years passed before that salesman reared
his head again, striding up onto Stellar's porch with expensive leather boots
and a sideways grin. “You had a chance to think about it?” he asked.
“You were right,” said Stellar. “Pit
peaches are a thing
of the past.”
The salesman nodded. “I knew you’d come
around.”
“Yep.” Stellar stood up from his rocker,
dusting his
hands together as he looked out over the expanse of his forty acres. “That’s
why I converted my whole crop to pitless two seasons ago.”
The salesman’s eyes went wide then narrowed
with
suspicion. “I don’t believe you.”
“Come see for yourself.”
Stellar led the salesman out into the orchard and
pulled
a ripe peach from a tree. He sliced into it, revealing moist flesh through and
through.
“Impossible!” said the salesman, his face
ashen.
“You want to taste it?”
Marcus Stellar took pleasure in watching the confusion
on this weasel’s face as he bit into the peach, even sweeter than the
originals. A good peach farmer kept his secrets close to his heart. Not ten
feet away sat an outdoor speaker disguised as a rock, insignificant to prying
eyes. Once a week, Stellar spiked the irrigation system with a nice bottle of
Merlot. The trees never did anything in his presence, and he respected their
privacy too much to spy. But sometimes late at night and in between dreams, he
heard the faint rustling of leaves and rhythmic creaking of wood. A little wine
and sensual tunes never failed to set the mood, no matter what the species.
“Grafting?” the salesman asked, desperation
seeded in
his voice. “You got it to work?”
“Nope. Never lasted more than a week or two.”
Stellar
stroked his chin. His trees weren’t the type to kiss and tell, and neither was
he. “All I have to say is nature always finds a way.”
Missy Mae Stellar came out of the house, waddling
down
the porch stairs, a glass of peach flavored ice tea in each hand and her
pregnant belly leading the rest of her. “You boys thirsty?” she asked.
Modern science had been kind to old Stellar in more
ways
than one. He’d finally gotten to do a little pollinating of his own.
|
