Prodigal Summer - Barbara Kingsolver [51]
“Are you doing preserves, honey, or pie filling?”
“Preserves, I guess, if I don’t run out of sugar. I already made eighteen pints.”
“Of preserves?”
Lusa felt foolish. “It’s a lot, I know. When I was up the ladder out there in the tree I was proud of myself for filling up buckets. But now I’m stuck with them.”
“Oh no, you’ll be glad to have that jam. They’re the sweet cherries, aren’t they, off that double-trunked tree above the apple orchard? Boy, those are the best cherries. Daddy must have planted that tree before him and Mommy married. It was already big when we were kids.”
“Really?” Lusa took in her gut the familiar pang of guilt for owning this tree that Jewel had grown up loving.
“Yeah. They always said it got hit by lightning the winter Cole was born. That’s how it got split in two that way—lightning.”
A lightning strike and a jackknifed truck, two unexpected events circumscribing a life—Lusa knew how far down that road her mind could go, so she made herself stop. She wondered instead how old Jewel had been that winter of his birth, whether she’d grown up as Cole’s playmate or his keeper. She’d never asked him these things about each of his sisters. She’d expected to have years to untangle those threads.
Jewel must have sensed her gloom, because she spoke up brightly. “Eighteen pints is enough preserves. Let’s can the rest for pie filling.”
“I can’t see myself making pies anymore, for just me. Since nobody seems to want to come here for dinner.”
“Mary Edna was a stinker to you over that. There wasn’t any reason for her to get so high and mighty. Emaline thinks so, too; she told me. We both wish we still could have Thanksgiving up here at the house.”
Lusa’s head swam with this news. She’d never suspected she had allies at all, much less the support of a faction. How had she gotten here, stranded in this family without rhyme or reason? Suddenly she felt so exhausted by grief that she had to sink into a chair and put her head down on the table. Jewel let her be. Lusa could hear the jars clinking gently together, settling into the boiling water bath. Finally Jewel whispered, “I think you’ve got about six quarts to go, no more.”
“That’s still a lot of preserves.”
“Let’s make pie cherries, then. And if there’s any left over we’ll make some pies today. You make the best pie crust of anybody. Better than Mommy’s, I hate to say it.”
“God, don’t say it out loud. Your mother haunts this kitchen. She used to stand in here stirring up fights between Cole and me.”
Jewel gasped in mock dismay. “Now why would Mommy do that?”
“The usual thing. Territorial jealousy.”
The boys banged in through the screen door, preceded by their empty bowl like a pair of cooperative beggars. The minute Lusa re-filled it, though, want ceded to possession, and they started to slap and fight. “Ow, Chris won’t share!” Lowell howled.
“Goodness, we’ve got no shortage of cherries in this kitchen. Here, I’ll get you your own bowl.” Lusa was careful to find another one the same size and to fill them both equally. When they retreated again to the back porch she felt a flush of pride at having satisfied them, however briefly. Children were not Lusa’s element. That was how she’d always put it to Cole, that babies made her nervous. Since moving here, though, she’d had glimpses of how the indulgence of adult despair could yield to children’s needs.
“Five and a half quarts, like I was saying.” Jewel laughed. “Excuse me for having pigs instead of children.”
“I think I can bear the loss.” Lusa sat down at the table again, facing the army of jars she’d already put up this day, little glass soldiers stuffed with their bright-red organs. Who would eat all this? When she left, would she take her preserves back to Lexington in a U-Haul? “What am I doing this for?” she asked suddenly in a dull,