The Year Money Grew on Trees - Aaron Hawkins [3]
I'd never learned to say no, however, and gotten suckered into the same thing dozens of times. The orchard sounded like an even bigger con job. I'd probably work every day for a year, make her a bunch of money, and then she'd hand me a dollar bill. "Not up to $5 standards," she'd say. "And I'm giving the orchard to someone else now that it's all cleaned up." I looked down at my feet and didn't say anything.
"What do you think? You willing to take over for my husband? Make those trees come alive again?" Mrs. Nelson asked insistently.
"I'll have to think about it," I replied slowly. That was the answer my dad gave to all salesmen. He said that was standard practice no matter how much you wanted something or how good the deal seemed. This deal didn't seem that good, and I really would have to think about it.
"Think about it?" asked Mrs. Nelson, acting very put out. "Well, don't think too long. Opportunities like this come along once in a lifetime. People don't just go around giving away land and orchards."
I thanked her for the cocoa and got up to leave. I remembered to tell her I was sorry to hear about the cancer and hoped she felt better. After a few sighs and dramatic sniffles, she walked me to the door. "I expect to hear back from you right away about the orchard," she called as I hurried around the corner of her house.
When I walked in my front door, my mom didn't seem to notice it had taken me an extra long time to return from the bus stop. I didn't dare mention the orchard proposition to her or to my dad when he got home. They had always seemed to avoid and distrust Mrs. Nelson. Somehow she had singled me out as the one person in our family she would talk to, but only if she caught me walking along the dirt road past her house. Since I knew her better than anyone and I'd be doing all the work, I felt like I could make a decision about the orchard on my own. The idea made me feel anxious but grown-up. By the time dinner rolled around, I had convinced myself that the smartest thing to do was to ignore Mrs. Nelson and let her plan fade away. It seemed like just a crazy impulse she'd had, anyway.
My family sat down to eat with my mom and dad at either end of the table and my two little sisters sitting across from me. Dad had on the usual worn-down expression he wore after work, and he was still wearing his denim work shirt. My mom pointed out two of his favorite dishes—scalloped potatoes and pot roast—and then began cheerfully filling up plates. Dad grunted his appreciation.
"I stopped by the scrap yard on the way home," Dad announced after taking a few bites. "Talked with ol' Slim Nickles. He says he gets really busy during the summer and needs extra help. Just manual labor kinds of things, no skills required. I told him I had a son who didn't have any skills but could probably haul things around. Slim said we could stop by and he'd look you over." Dad finished by pointing his fork at me.
I let my fork drop on my plate and my mouth hang open. The scrap yard was on the side of the highway Dad took to work, and he loved stopping in and searching through the mounds of metallic junk. He'd stop in on Saturdays, too, and drag me along. I couldn't stand the place. It was filthy and smelled like burning rubber. And Slim Nickles was the biggest jerk I'd ever met. He was usually covered in grease and had a wide red face and a huge gut. He yelled every word he said and loved to intimidate people. The one time he'd noticed me, he warned me to keep my hands in my pockets or he'd snap them off.
Before any sounds of protest could come from my mouth, Mom spoke up. "He's only thirteen. Are you sure he's old enough to have a job?"
"He'll be fourteen this summer. When I was fourteen, I was working as much as a grown man, maybe more," replied Dad, his voice getting louder.
Mom rolled her eyes. "Are you sure that's going to be a safe place for a boy to work?"
"It'll be safe enough. As long as he's not just