The Late Bloomers' Club

by Louise Miller

  I looked at the men and women who were shuffling out of the room, all of them as pale as the top of Hunger Mountain in February. This pocket of Vermont wasn’t known for its large Hindu population. “But aren’t they probably mostly Christian?”

  “We could be singing God, God, God. It’s all the same,” Max said. He picked up Kit from behind and spun her around in a circle. “Kirtan always makes me feel like dancing.”

  Kit shrieked until Max put her back down on the ground. I slipped the cymbals from my fingers, immediately missing the weight of them, and wished I had chimed them one last time, but I handed them back to Kit.

  “So what are you doing here?” Kit asked as she walked over to where her little red video camera was set up and pressed a button to turn it off.

  “I was going to ask you the same thing.”

  “Max and I came by to drop off some library books for Elsie. I’ve been bringing her books I remember her recommending to me as a kid. They seem to give her a little spark.”

  “While we were checking in, we heard that the chair yoga teacher bailed for today, so we offered to fill in,” Max said, as if this were the obvious choice. Apparently they traveled with an extensive collection of percussion instruments. “What about you?”

  “Oh,” I said, not wanting to talk about the money. “I was just dropping off some paperwork. What does that song mean, anyway?”

  Max threw his hands up in the air. “Shiva, you beautiful destroyer, come on down and wipe away all of my illusions so that I may see the truth.”

  “Be careful what you wish for,” I heard Kit mutter, but Max had danced his way to the other side of the room, out of earshot. “You should go peek in on Elsie. Say hello. We had a good chat earlier today. She started telling me something about living in New York, but we were interrupted by a nurse and she lost the thread. Did you know she lived in New York?”

  “No.” I didn’t know anything about Elsie, other than that Peggy cared enough for her to pay for her health.

  Kit slung the velvet bag over her shoulder. “Grab those cushions, Max. I bet we can get all the lights set up tonight and be ready to start filming tomorrow after the tug-of-war.”

  “Ready to roll,” Max said, balancing the cushion on his head. He played a few beats on the bongo. “And armed for action.”

  * * *

  After helping one of the aides put the dayroom back in order, I walked down the hallway to room 117. Elsie was in bed, snoring quietly, a cotton blanket pulled up to her chin despite the warmth of the room. I sat beside her bed and tentatively reached over and took her hand. It felt delicate, like a newborn rabbit. “Hey there, Elsie,” I said in a whisper. “How are you today?”

  Elsie opened her eyes briefly. The hand I wasn’t holding moved under her blanket. After a few moments, she seemed to find what she was looking for. She pulled her hand back out. In it was a stuffed fox doll. She let it rest on her belly, and closed her eyes again.

  “Did you want to show this to me?” I asked, reaching for the fox.

  It was fashioned out of scraps of sweaters—Fair Isle sweaters, judging from the zigzags and diamonds in the patterns. The body was sewn and felted, then stuffed with something soft, like cotton. His eyes, nose, and mouth had been embroidered on. His expression looked like he had just raided a henhouse. It was the perfect gift for Elsie—sturdy enough, with no sharp edges. But I could tell by the mark making, the pointed shape of the ears, the curl of the tail, that it was made by the same hand as the sculptures in the woods. It was a thoughtful gift, made with love and attention, every stitch placed with precision, as if someone would notice. I rubbed the little fox’s snout.

  I tucked the fox back under one of Elsie’s hands so she would find it right away when she woke up and wondered where she was. I hoped the fox would make her feel like she was home.

  * * *

  At ten o’clock the morning of the Corn and Tomato Festival I walked from my apartment to the village green and made a beeline for the corn tent, easy to spot from a distance thanks to the steam billowing up from under the flap. It was never too early for corn. A couple of teenage boys, long hair flowing from under baseball caps, poked at the fire underneath two large kettles of boiling salt water while their mother, one of the farmers from the east side of town, dropped in husked ears of white and yellow corn by the armful. Her daughter was fishing the ears out with tongs and placing them into red-and-white-checkered cardboard boats she had lined up on the table. They disappeared as quickly as she put them out. I grabbed two ears, brushed them down with melted butter, and sprinkled them with a heavy dose of sea salt, and made my way over to the Miss Guthrie table, where Charlie and Fern were setting up the coffee urns and cider donuts for after the tug-of-war contest.

  Charlie’s pal Alfred was over by the table, holding two paper plates piled with tomato slices. The plates were soaking up the juice and threatened to collapse at any moment.

  “You can’t be serious,” Charlie said, popping a slice of purplish red tomato in his mouth. “The Mortgage Lifter has good flavor, but it has nothing on the Brandywine.”

  Alfred held up a dark pink wedge and shoved it toward Charlie. “Try it again. It’s sweet. It’s complex. You can roast it. Have you ever tried roasting a Brandywine?”

  I handed Fern an ear of corn. “How long have they been at it?”

  Fern checked her watch. “Only about fifteen minutes. I’m sure we have at least another half hour of debate to look forward to.”

  “Hope you like the consistency of a canned, stewed tomato,” said Alfred. “That’s all I’m saying.”

  I sat down on one of the white plastic chairs behind the table and bit into my ear of corn. Warm butter greased my lips as the salty-sweet kernels burst in my mouth. “Damn,” I said, leaning back. “It’s been a good year for corn.”

  “Right?” Fern handed me a napkin, then took a seat next to me. “I’ve already had three ears, but I want to go back for more.”

  “Let’s take turns,” I offered. “That way we won’t look too greedy.”

  We waved hello at a pair of volunteer firemen as they dragged the heavy black hose over to where the tug-of-war took place every year, by the soccer field. When they reached the spot, they signaled to the men on the truck to turn on the water. Water sprayed fast and heavy onto the grass, flooding a small section. Even though it took all spring for the grass to grow back, this was the tradition. They say the first tug-of-war happened during a nor’easter. Now if it’s been dry, the town makes a muddy patch for the losers to slip into.

  “I might take a walk through the festival before we get too busy,” I said to Fern. “Want to come with me?”

  Fern gazed over at the firemen and sighed in appreciation. “No, I think I’d better stay here and hold down the fort.”

  I followed Fern’s gaze. Two of the firemen were stomping their booted feet in the wet grass to make sure the surface was sufficiently muddy. I chuckled, wondering which one of them would wind up in the back of Fern’s car tonight. “I’ll bring you more corn on my way back.”

  The festival tents were set up on the two sidewalks that ran the length of the green, with the lawn and the gazebo in the center. On the grass, children were lining up for the potato sack race.

  “Hey, Nora,” a voice called out from under one of the tents. I ducked inside and found Maude Finley, the head librarian, sitting behind a card table guarding a cashbox.

  I looked over at the tables stacked high with hardcovers and paperbacks. “Looks like you have a great selection this year.”

  She tilted her sharp chin once. “Used-book store over in Barton just closed. They donated their stock for our sale. Here.” Maude bent down, disappearing underneath the tablecloth. She brought up a tall stack of books. “Thought you might enjoy these,” she said, patting the covers. One was a book about diner history, one a collection of Rothko paintings. Th
ere were a couple of copies of Modern Farmer magazine, both of which featured dairy goats on the cover, a biography of Frank O’Hara, and a copy of the famous Hitchcock-Truffaut interviews. Maude had been paying attention to my library habits over the years.

  “You’re so thoughtful,” I said, taking out my wallet. “I’ll take them all.”

  Maude waved her hand at me. “Let’s trade for a hot breakfast.” She looked over both shoulders before slipping a book on top of the pile. It was the latest steamy bestseller, the one that had been banned in four countries. “Take this one, too,” she said, leaning over the table. “I read it in one sitting.”

  Maude put the books in a discreet brown grocery bag from White’s, and offered to keep the bag under the table until after the festival.

  I made my way past the face-painting tent, where Sarah was turning a young boy into a sunflower, cut through the cornhusk-doll-making station, and managed to avoid getting covered in tomato pulp when I sprinted by the bull’s-eye game, where kids tried to hit the center of the target with an overripe tomato. Finally, I reached the tasting tents. Tables were set up along the length of four tents and covered in vinyl tablecloths. On them sat paper plate after paper plate, hundreds of them, each piled high with wedges of heirloom tomatoes, their names written on the plates in Sharpie. A young woman handed me a sheet of paper that listed all the varieties. “So you can keep track of what you liked,” she said proudly. I bet it was her idea.

  “Good to see you out from behind that counter,” a voice rumbled. I turned to see the worn face of Sheriff Granby.

  “Nice to see you out of your uniform,” I said, smiling. “They actually give you a day off?”

  Granby chuckled and cuffed my shoulder. “You’re one to talk. Besides, they have to give me the day off.” Granby held up his arms, Rocky-style. “If I were on the job, I couldn’t help take back the golden rope.”

  I laughed, handing him a toothpick and a paper plate. “Careful of your back, now. You don’t want a repeat of last year.” I gazed down at the rows of tomatoes, bright reds, glowing orange, dark purple, and every shade of yellow imaginable.

  “Are you looking for something in particular?” a smooth voice asked. When I turned, I found Elliot Danforth right behind me, a speared piece of red-and-green-striped tomato in his hand. He offered it to me without explanation.

  I popped it into my mouth and chewed. “It’s so sweet. What is it?”

  Elliot leaned over to read the plate. “It’s called Chocolate Stripe.” He pierced another sample with a fresh toothpick. “I don’t really get the chocolate,” he said thoughtfully, “but its sweetness is earthy.”

  “Like beets,” I offered, feeling a wave of shyness creep in. The last time I saw Elliot had been at the sugarhouse. The sensation of our arms banded together flooded my thoughts, and I felt my cheeks flush.

  “Exactly,” he said, and smiled at me with such warmth that I had to look away.

  “Attention, everyone.” A friendly voice crackled over the loudspeaker that was attached to the edge of the tent. I squinted at the gazebo. It looked like Jonathan Doyle, one of the town doctors, had taken on the role of emcee for the festival this year. “Some of you have been asking about the goat parade. It was scheduled for noon.” He scanned the festival grounds from end to end. “But I’m not seeing any goats lined up. All goats, please report to the gazebo.”

  “A goat parade?” Elliot asked.

  “The 4-H kids have it every year, to show off the animals they’ve raised.”

  “We can’t miss that,” he said. “Shall we head over and grab a good spot to watch?”

  I tossed my plate and toothpick into a nearby trash can. “I’d be happy to.”

  When we reached the gazebo, we found Livvy and Martin McCracken tuning up their banjo and fiddle. Livvy’s hair was the color of the Pink Bumblebee tomatoes that Tom Carrigan grew in his garden just for this event. The McCrackens’ youngest crawled around the stage at their feet, while their four-year-old daughter, Maggie, chased their Irish wolfhound, Salty, around the pavilion.

  “No goats,” I said, waving my hand around.

  “No goats. But it looks like there may be some music.”

  Martin McCracken leaned into the mic. “Dr. Doyle asked us to start playing while he tries to locate the goat parade.” He pressed his fiddle to his chest and counted to three, and the pair launched into one of the waltzes that were usually reserved for the end of the contra dances. Several of the older couples got up from their lawn chairs and picnic tables and started to dance.

  “Have you seen Freckles lately?” I asked as we watched.

  “I have.” Elliot pulled out his phone. “I managed to get a couple of shots of him the other evening before it grew too dark.” He leaned close to me, so close that our shoulders were touching, and swiped through a couple of images of trees before he reached the ones of Freckles. “There he is.”

  Freckles stood in the yard in front of the sugarhouse, his tail high, staring into the maple trees.

  “He looks happy,” I said.

  “He does.”

  A text message from HG flashed across the screen. Elliot turned the phone off and slipped it back into his pocket. He glanced over at the couples waltzing on the lawn. “Some people are dancing.”

  “They are,” I said, feeling a little self-conscious.

  “Do you like dancing?”

  “I haven’t danced in a long time.” Twenty-two years long, since my wedding night.

  “Ms. Huckleberry, would you like to dance? With me?”

  I felt my eyes widen a fraction. We were in the middle of the town green, in the center of the Corn and Tomato Festival, where everyone in Guthrie was currently eating corn or tomatoes or both. “I’m not very good,” I stammered.

  “Neither am I,” he said and offered me his arm.

  I looped my hand through and rested it on his forearm. Elliot led me a few steps forward, where the other couples had made a makeshift dance floor. He placed his right hand on my back, his left hand in my right. I rested my free hand on his shoulder. We took a few awkward steps, fumbling like middle-school kids at their first formal.

  “It’s easier if we’re a little closer,” he said quietly, and gently circled my waist, pulling me to him. I let my arm move from his shoulder to his back. Our cheeks touched briefly, and I felt his shoulders relax. “That’s it,” he said into my ear, as we waltzed on the grass.

  Frank and Bonnie Fraser waltzed by. Bonnie met my eye and gave me a thumbs-up. I grinned shyly and felt relieved when Elliot turned me in a different direction.

  “All right folks, we’re really ready now.” Jonathan Doyle’s voice broke in over the music. “Just a change of route. The goat parade is going to start over by the corn tent and walk by the gazebo. Here they come now!”

  Elliot and I stopped waltzing, but his arm lingered around my waist for a moment. We both turned to face the gazebo just in time to see seven dairy goats with bells attached to their collars and ribbons woven into their tails run by, herded by seven children dressed all in white. I looked down the field, but there were no more goats to be found.

  “Well, it was a short goat parade.”

  A few of the dancers laughed.

  “If the parents of the 4-H club could help remove the goats from the tomato tent, it would be most appreciated. Tug-of-war starts in thirty minutes. Get those hands chalked up. And remember, the folks at the Black Bear Tavern tent are offering free pints to anyone with rope burn. See Mrs. Doyle in First Aid before you start drinking. Go Guthrie!”

  A cheer rose from across the green.

  “I should head back. Fern might need help finishing with the setup.”

  “I’ll walk with you, if you don’t mind.”

  I led him straight to the steaming tent. “I hope you’ve had some corn,” I said, grabbing ears for me a
nd Fern.

  “I’m afraid my hands will get too slippery and I’ll cause the team to lose.”

  “You’re tugging?”

  It was then that I noticed Elliot wasn’t wearing his usual business casual. He was dressed in faded jeans and a worn gray Red Sox sweatshirt that made him look younger. He even had sneakers on.

  Elliot nodded. “We used to play tug-of-war as a training tool when I rowed crew in college. That was a long time ago,” he added. “But I’m excited to give it a try.”

  * * *

  “If we lose, it won’t be your fault,” I said, licking butter off the side of my hand. Kit and Max were at the Miss Guthrie table when we arrived, both wearing skinny black jeans and long-sleeve black T-shirts that read “KILL ROWAN” in sparkly silver puff paint.

  “Don’t you think the sparkles kind of soften the message?” I asked Kit.

  Kit bit into an ear of sweet corn. Butter dripped down her chin. We were related after all.

  “I can’t think of a single occasion where a little sparkle didn’t improve things,” Kit said and took another bite.

  “Are you both joining in?” I asked, tying the pom-pommed apron around my waist. Weak ankles kept me out of the competition. If I couldn’t stand, I couldn’t work.

  “I am, absolutely.” Max rubbed his hands together. “I love the primal aggression of the whole thing.” He took a big bite of corn, as if he were tearing flesh off a mutton leg, and tossed the cob into the rosebushes behind him.

  Kit held up her red video camera. “And I’m going to capture it all on film, so we can all replay Max getting dragged into a mud puddle over and over again.”

  Fern came over and placed a yellow pom-pommed tiara on my head, and another one on her own. The pom-poms came to a point on the top. Kit held up her camera to my face and took a fast series of shots. I glanced over at Elliot, who laughed out loud.

  “You’ve outdone yourself,” Charlie said to Fern, who beamed with pride.