Squashed

by Joan Bauer

  “Like the Six-Day War,” Richard offered, pleased with himself until I kicked him in the shin. “May I take that back, sir?” he asked, rubbing his leg.

  “You may take this animal back.”

  “I can’t do that, Uncle Mitchell.”

  Dad gave him a look that said this better be good. It was.

  “Because, sir, Mr. Anker needs total quiet and bed rest and Mrs. Anker is pretty strung out, not to mention that Mrs. Anker’s son broke his leg last month and can’t get around too well, and anyway, I promised.” Dad waited as Richard went for the big finish. “And, sir, not that this would matter to you, but Mrs. Anker’s brother is head of Loward’s Department Store, and she said she’s never been in a place where the salespeople needed more motivating. And I’m sure that Mrs. Anker would mention this good deed you and Ellie are doing for old Spider here to her brother, who would maybe be interested in all that motivational stuff you do for companies.”

  Richard watched Dad and waited. He knew Dad had been gunning for Loward’s Department Store (the biggest in the five-town area) as a client for two years and had hit nothing but a brick wall.

  Dad harrumphed.

  Spider caught a fly with his tongue. Deadly.

  “If,” Dad said, “you keep him outside, Ellie, then—”

  “I will, Dad. I promise.”

  “And,” Dad continued as Spider watched, sensing doom, “this constant racket must stop. You must discipline him, Ellie, to behave that way only to—”

  “Pumpkin thieves,” I said.

  “Precisely,” Dad agreed, glaring at Spider, who glared back. “He is only a dog, Ellie, and you are an intelligent, educated, enlightened person. Take control.”

  “I’ll try, Dad.”

  Dad walked out the back door and turned to Richard. “Say hello to Mrs. Anker for me, will you?”

  “I will do that, Uncle Mitchell, yes.” A car horn beeped in the distance and Spider went nuts, growling and shaking at the hated sound. Dad, an intelligent, educated, enlightened person, threw a biscuit at Richard who caught it like a line drive and grounded it straight into Spider’s mouth. Dad crawled out the door, not looking back.

  Dennis was late to Miss Moritz’s class, looking like he’d slept in his truck, which he probably had, typical of a crummy pumpkin thief. He came in during our re-enactment of Patton’s march into Palermo and got to his seat just as Sicily (portrayed by the Bomgarten twins) fell noisily across three desks and crashed on the floor in defeat. Miss Moritz, her forehead perspiring with enthusiasm, asked how this major battle made us feel. I said it made me feel glad I wasn’t in Italy, which a large portion of the class agreed with, including Joey Bongrioriano and Gina Carlucci. Dennis yawned and blew his nose on his sleeve.

  Miss Moritz wasn’t happy with my answer or my grades. She did not understand the importance of champion squash training and its effect on lesser life issues such as homework. Miss Moritz wrote a note to Dad with the worst news possible: I was not working up to my full potential. That’s all he needed.

  “Ellie!” he boomed. “What is this?”

  I looked at the stationery in his hand and took a wild guess. “A note, Dad?”

  “An edict, young woman!”

  Good study habits, he barked, were the road to success in life, not growing pumpkins. Consistency brought rewards, not kneeling in the dirt watering an oversized gourd. World history was a pathway to truth, justice, and the American way.

  “You will study,” Dad informed me. “You will think clearly and resonantly. You will concentrate on your schoolwork first. Then and only then may you concentrate on that”—he struggled to form the word—“vegetable.”

  Between Spider’s barking and Dad’s edict, poor Max was surely shrinking inside. Richard had almost measured Cyril’s pumpkin on the sly, but Cyril ran from his toolshed waving a lead pipe, and Richard took off. He said he couldn’t tell how big it was, but that I should probably be nervous.

  “I’m not nervous,” I lied.

  “Good,” said Richard. “Be positive against the odds. Makes it easier to get out there on the mound.”

  I left Spider in the yard to guard Max and went to see for myself. Cyril’s cousin, Herman, was guarding Big Daddy with a rifle. Herman looked like a squash with small, buggy eyes. Big Daddy looked like he belonged on a recruitment poster for growers. I was dead. Herman grinned and spat, never much for conversation.

  I stared at the soon-to-be winning entry of this year’s Rock River Pumpkin Weigh-In and Harvest Fair, my heart sinking to the earth’s roots. “Well, Missy,” cackled Cyril, coming up behind me, “whatcha gonna do with all that second-place money?”

  This was Cyril’s first stab at irony. Second-place money was fifty dollars and whatever you could get if you sold your seeds, which could be a lot, but I was never one for passing secrets outside the family.

  The Weigh-In winner got it all: fame, respect, a dollar a pound, and his picture in the Rock River Clarion. The loser got left behind in the dust. “Don’t spend it all in one place, now,” Cyril continued, winking at Herman, who thought this was so hysterical he dropped his rifle on his toe.

  “Say, Cyril,” I shouted, trying to get even, “that thing—Big Daddy. Is he solid or full of rot like people say?”

  “Ain’t gonna work, Missy,” Cyril shot back. I looked at gargantuan Big Daddy and knew he was right.

  I walked off because school was starting soon—head down, hope gone—past Big Daddy, down Backfarb Road, across Bud DeWitt Memorial Drive, right into Rock River High, and smack into Wes and his clarinet case.

  “Hi,” Wes said.

  “Oh,” I said, feeling dumb. “Hi.”

  “You look strange.”

  I hadn’t seen Wes for four days because he’d been sick and had hoped for a more thrill-packed moment. I looked at him. “Ellie,” he continued, “are you okay?”

  Cyril was going to stick it to me again and I was going to have to grin like a trained monkey at the fair and be a good sport and pretend that the most important thing to me didn’t matter.

  “Ellie,” Wes repeated, “are you okay?”

  Dennis was stealing squashes, and nobody knew it except me. He’d probably dupe Spider with biscuits and snatch Max and my life would be over. I looked at Wes and his gray eyes, framed by the harvest festival decorations in the school hall. He was wearing a denim work shirt and jeans that made him look taller. He was probably still in love with The Other One in Gaithersville and not even man-eating potholes could keep him from driving to her this weekend.

  Was I okay?

  “Ellie,” he started again. At least he remembered my name.

  “No,” I said, flopping against the wall. “I’m not.”

  Wes was good about listening, having heard, of course, about the pumpkin thieves and their dirty, rotten ways. He said Spider was a good idea and to stay positive. Dennis sauntered by as another boy I didn’t know ran into school and shoved a slip of paper into his hand. He checked it quickly, then stuffed it in his pocket.

  “Okay?” the boy asked Dennis.

  “Yeah,” Dennis said. “Okay.”

  Mr. Soboleski, the baseball coach, walked down the hall, and Dennis scooped up an imaginary line drive and threw it hard over his head, causing Mr. Soboleski to slam him on the shoulder shouting, “Dennis, my man!” and the paper to slip silently from Dennis’s pocket, which nobody noticed except me. I scooped it up.

  “Notes,” I explained to Wes. The bell rang, the hall emptied. Wes ran to band, I ran to study hall.

  I could do without first-period study hall because it was stupid to take all that trouble to get to school and then do nothing. I covered the paper with my hand and read the short message: “Pool’s. Backfarb. 11 P.M.”

  It did not take a mental giant to figure this out because Cyril Pool lived on Backfarb Road. Cyril and Big Daddy. I felt a wave of excitement. Big Daddy was on the hit list. Dennis was the pumpkin thief!

  For a few moments I was
thrilled. If Big Daddy was stolen, Max would win. Cyril didn’t deserve to win because Cyril was despicable and deeply hated among growers. Pilfering Big Daddy would be the last laugh on a man who had turned the Weigh-In into his own dirty game. By 11:00 P.M. my problems would be over. It was beautifully easy, except for the guilt.

  Richard was waiting for me by the giant Thunderbird sculpture Miss Moritz’s freshman class had made in honor of the Native American. Richard said it looked like a diseased turkey and Native Americans everywhere should be insulted. A banana peel was thrown over its beak (yesterday there had been an athletic supporter), giving the bird “a rakish appeal,” according to Mr. Greenpeace. I clenched the note as Richard and I walked home.

  “Well,” I said smugly, “you were wrong.”

  “I doubt it,” he said.

  “You don’t even know what I was going to say.”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “It matters,” I insisted, extending the paper. “Read it and weep.”

  He read it. “So?”

  “It was in Dennis’s pocket.”

  “You picked Dennis’s pocket?”

  “He dropped it,” I explained as Richard’s face darkened. “He’s going to hit Cyril’s tonight.” Richard took this in, examining the note. “It doesn’t matter that he bats .340,” I said. “He’s a lousy thief.”

  Richard nodded, shocked and angry. “Have you called the police?”

  “I’m sort of thinking about it.”

  Actually, I was thinking about calling them after 11:00 P.M. After Dennis got Big Daddy. After Cyril got what he deserved. After my problems were over.

  “You should call them now,” said Richard.

  “I’m thinking about that, too,” I said. Which was partially true. Nana had raised me in the Presbyterian Church with enough guilt to make even petty crime uncomfortable. Nana always said that God sees when others don’t and sends the gift of guilt to keep us on the way.

  “If you don’t,” Richard continued, swinging to connect with a speed ball, “it’s like being an accessory or worse. It’s like”—his face grew menacing—“throwing the game.”

  “Do you have to bring baseball into everything?”

  “Baseball is everything,” Richard said, taking his ball and glove from his bookbag.

  “Look,” I shouted, “Dennis is the bad guy here, not me! You’ve been defending him! You’ve been—”

  “I gave him,” Richard interrupted, “the benefit of the doubt.”

  “You were wrong!”

  “That was then,” Richard said slowly. “Now I think he should be arrested.”

  But what, I screamed inside, about Cyril? He wouldn’t call the police if my name were on that paper. Cyril wouldn’t bring a cup of water to a dying gourd that wasn’t from his patch. Cyril was going to win and make everyone feel rotten about it and stick it to me for another whole year.

  “Winning isn’t worth it, Ellie.” Richard, God’s bringer of guilt, threw his ball dead center into the hole of an oak tree.

  “Maybe they could maim his squash a little, just enough to—”

  Richard glared at me and retrieved his ball. I knew he was right. He knew he was right and had the backing of the Presbyterian Church. We walked the long way to Cyril’s. I saw the sign first: POOL’S PUMPKIN PATCH, HOME OF THE WHOPPER.

  “I can’t do it,” I said to Richard who pushed me forward.

  Herman, loyal pumpkin guard, was snoozing by Big Daddy, holding his gun like a teddy bear. Big Daddy gleamed beside him and grew a few more inches just to show he was champ. Richard kicked dirt in Herman’s direction who woke up fidgeting, then adjusted his rifle like he was back from a coffee break.

  “Where’s Cyril?” Richard asked. Herman spat in the direction of the house, a faded yellow frame. We approached the screen door. Cyril’s greasy face appeared and broke into a slimy grin.

  “Keep comin’ back for more, Missy? Somethun’ ’bout this place you like, or what?”

  During times of trial when character is tested to the limit, I always wanted to be like Nana. Nana could look the biggest lout right in the face and not even shudder. She could tell off a person with such love that person would light a candle for her at church the same day. When the Urices’ dog trampled her prize daffodil bed, Nana gave him a cookie, patted him on the head, and told Phil Urice that dogs will be dogs. Phil told the whole town that Nana was next to a saint, which was true, but Nana wasn’t here now. I was.

  “Cyril,” I spat, “you are a conniving, lying, lousy creep, and you don’t deserve this act of kindness. I think I can speak for every grower in this area when I—”

  Richard was not impressed with my opening, placed his hand on my shoulder, and tugged hard. “I’m only here out of Christian charity,” I snarled.

  “Which,” said Richard, glaring at me, “will start anytime now.”

  Cyril was used to being insulted and responded by picking his teeth. I sucked in my breath: “All right, Cyril, here it is. We learned that the pumpkin thieves might be coming here tonight. Not that you deserve a warning, but I thought you’d want to know.”

  Christian charity touched Cyril so deeply that he started laughing—cackling, really—whooping it up like a hyena. “You think, Missy,” he gasped, “I’m gonna fall for that?”

  I was getting hot now. I had just delivered the toughest line in growing history, ruined my chances of snagging the great Weigh-In blue ribbon, given up regional fame and adulation, and Cyril Pool was laughing at me!

  “Maybe”—he sneered, stepping out on the porch—“jus’ maybe you’re the thief, huh? Whatcha say to that?”

  “What do I say to that?”

  “Cat got yur tongue?”

  There are times when words aren’t enough. A full watering can was at my feet. I dumped it on Cyril’s head. Cyril started blubbering and spitting, which sure made me feel a little better.

  “Have a nice day, Cyril,” I said.

  “Get,” he shrieked, “off my land!”

  “I think he wants us to go,” said Richard.

  “Yes, indeed.”

  I stormed off the porch with Richard into the sunset.

  The sheriff thanked us for the information and said he’d be there personally when Dennis and his team arrived at Cyril’s. Pumpkin thieves were an embarrassment to the sheriff who never knew what to do about them. Maybe Dennis and his band would be hanged at dawn.

  Mannie Plummer, who’d lost her two-hundred-pounder, was picketing the station with her seventy-two-year-old sister, waving signs that read: THEY DON’T CARE. THEY REALLY DON’T. The sheriff told Mannie that he cared, he really did, but Mannie started crying and held her sign higher, and what, asked the sheriff, could you do about that? Richard said we were glad to help. Very glad, I added, dying inside, wondering if Cyril could at least be arrested for bad taste.

  The night was still. Spider stood guard near the toolshed, hugging a slipper. Max was showing splotchy patches, clear signs of squash stress. Tonight was warmer, but I had my blankets and heater ready to fight off frost. If it wasn’t pumpkin thieves, it was something else. You could count on it. The clock moved to midnight and my ears strained for the sound of sirens.

  Mrs. Lemming ran from door to door with the news the next morning. She was waving her arms all excited because her boy, Spears, the sheriffs deputy, had phoned her at 1:00 A.M. so she could be the first to know.

  Actually, Dennis and his rotten cousin were the first to know, being arrested and all, right in the middle of Cyril’s patch just before they could chop Big Daddy off his vine at exactly 11:23 P.M. Dennis had put up quite a fight, kicking Spears as he put the handcuffs on and screaming for a lawyer, but Spears was used to foul behavior, being in the service of the law. The sheriff let Spears do most of the work, since the sheriff had a bad back and wasn’t too keen on tackling nineteen-year-old thugs. There were three of them, Mrs. Lemming said—Dennis, his cousin, Bart, and a nasty boy from Circleville with tattoos—vici
ous criminals all of them, with shifty eyes and coal black hearts.

  Mrs. Lemming’s eyes were wet when she said it was over now—Spears had captured the thieves. Growers could relax and go about their business—Spears was on patrol.

  Dennis denied the whole thing. Said he wasn’t the pumpkin thief, that he was just passing by Cyril’s with a big knife and a pickup at 11:00 P.M., and that the Rock River Sheriffs Department was going to be sorry. Mrs. Lemming called Mannie Plummer and her sister and they went down to glare at Dennis and his band and bring the sheriff and Spears some cranberry strudel, which was Mannie’s specialty and which she only doled out at funerals and other special occasions.

  I fed Spider some Alpo with a biscuit crumbled on top and wondered why the arrest had to happen before they could cut Big Daddy off the vine. After the fact would have made for a better case, and that’s what the law wanted, didn’t they?

  The sun was warming Max, who stretched to reach the heat. It was good to feel safe again, even though I’d given Cyril the break of his life. I took down my BACK OFF, CREEPS, YOU’RE BEING WATCHED sign and jangled the bells around Max’s plot in solemn victory as Spider howled. Ding, dong, the witch is dead. I watered Max, explaining gently that the pumpkin thieves’ reign of terror was over. Max’s sprinkler system needed adjusting. I set the timer on medium spray for another thirty minutes.

  Nana was eating cinnamon buns when I came by, which weren’t exactly on my diet, but I didn’t want to be rude. I’d gained back a pound since Grace’s party and was frustrated with my diet and my life.

  “With that glorious news,” Nana said, “I thought you’d come sailing in here.” I told her I was glad Dennis got caught. “I hear,” Nana said, “those boys are in deep trouble.”

  Yes, I nodded, that was probably true. They deserved it. “And tell me,” she said. “How are you?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “You’re not either.”

  “I’m okay then.”

  Nana nodded and waited. I fidgeted. She said, “It’s not over yet, honey. There’s ten more days.”