Small as an Elephant - Jennifer Richard Jacobson [22]
He just nodded, having no idea whether the kids in Maine were back today or not.
“You ate from the pantry row,” she said.
“Pantry row?”
“Don’t you garden?”
Jack shook his head.
“Well, then, you wouldn’t know. We’re encouraged to plant one row of vegetables for the food pantry. That way, those in need can have fresh vegetables. Not just Hamburger Helper.”
“Sorry,” he said again as the woman sized him up.
“Tell you what,” she said. “I can’t drive any longer. Stubborn son took my car. So I have no way to get these vegetables into town. If you’ll pick this row and take ’em up to the pantry, I’ll let you bring some home for your family. That way, I’ll get my vegetables harvested before the frost, and you’ll get more training: heavy lifting,” she said, trying not to smile.
No way! Jack thought. He didn’t need to be gardening and running errands for some old lady he didn’t even know. He had a mother to find. He glanced off into the woods, considered bolting. But his stuff — it was still up in the loft. And what would she do if he ran? Would she know he was lying about living nearby? About school? Would she be suspicious enough to call the police?
He looked down at the garden. There were green beans dangling right next to the ripe tomatoes. The woman did say she’d give him food. . . .
And while he was back in town, he could go back to the library, get online. It was Tuesday; the library would surely be open today.
“It’s a deal,” he said.
She gave him instructions on how to pick the last of the summer vegetables — green beans, red peppers, cucumbers, tomatoes, zucchini, basil, carrots, and potatoes — and then she went back to hanging clothes. Jack was tempted to eat as he picked, especially the carrots, which didn’t look like the ones his mother bought from the store but were palm-size and curled a little, like wiggly goldfish pulled from the ground. He used his fingers to wipe away the dirt on one and glanced at the old woman, who had now moved on to watering her flowers.
She was looking right up at him, as if his guiltiness had called her. Jack went back to picking.
The next time he looked up, the woman was walking toward him. She placed most of the vegetables into a large, netted bag. “Bring these to the pantry,” she said, tying the top. “Tell them they’re from Mrs. Olson. And tell them I need a box of dried milk — they can spare one.”
Jack nodded.
“When you get back, you can take this home with you,” she said, tossing the rest of the vegetables into a paper bag, which she set by the front porch. “Ask your mom to make you a harvest stew. Maybe it’ll inspire you to plant some tomatoes next year.”
With permission, he filled up his water bottle at the hose and took off.
It wasn’t until he had walked for about ten minutes that he realized a tomato wasn’t exactly the most filling of breakfasts and that, well, he could just hide this food in the woods and tell the woman he’d delivered it. Or not tell her anything at all — just sneak back and get his stuff from the loft and the bag of vegetables from the front porch.
But what about the dried milk? asked a voice inside his head.
He remembered the woman’s half smile. I was just what-iffing, he answered. He wasn’t going to take these vegetables. He didn’t have to steal this time. She was giving him food. No, he was working for food.
But boy, was he hungry. Really hungry. Suddenly, something new occurred to him. This food he was carrying? It was for people who couldn’t afford to buy food. He couldn’t buy food. It was for people like him.
He thought about the homeless people that he recognized in Jamaica Plain: the woman who sat outside the Laundromat and sometimes asked passersby to brush her hair, and the man who was dressed in a suit — a ratty suit, but still, he always wore a tie — and offered to write a poem for a dollar. Once, Jack had paid him, and the man had written this:
We all wear bifocals
Some invisible
When looking down, remember to look up
the view might be clearer
And