Genuine Sweet (23 page)

“It's different.”

I nodded. “If you go, maybe I'll come visit you someday.”

He set the book down on the swing, got up, and took my hand. “I'd like that.”

 

In the kitchen, Miz Tromp managed a turkey, a big ol' smoked salmon, the baking of a pie, the icing of a cake, and the candying of at least twenty yams, and she did it all with the easy flair of a dancer.

“Hey, Miz Tromp,” I greeted her. “Need any help?”

She dipped her finger in the gravy and tasted it. “I don't think so. Unless you two want to set the table.”

We said we'd be glad to. Travis and I went to the cupboard, and he handed me off enough plates for five.

“You and me. Your ma. Tom. Who else is coming?” I asked him.

“My father,” he replied. “He wanted to talk some stuff out with Ma.”

Making plans for the big move, I reckoned.

I swallowed hard. “That's . . . um.”

Travis spun on me and crossed his arms over his chest.

“That all you got to say about it? ‘Um'?”

I couldn't tell if he was funnin' me or not.

Even if he was, I decided I didn't feel much like joking. “No. That's not all I have to say.”

“Well, then?”

I stepped up and set my hands on my hips. “I don't want you to go. I don't think it's right. First, because I'm selfish, and I like having you around. But second, because I don't trust your pa. He left you all alone! And now, out of the blue, he turns up and wants to be your daddy? If you ask me, there's something rotten up that creek!”

“Who's your outspoken friend, Travis?” came a man's voice from behind me.

“This here's Genuine,” Travis said. “Genuine, this is Kip. My father.”

He was a beefy type, well-muscled and fit. His hair was cut short, and I could see where Travis got his big ears from.

“Something rotten up the creek, huh?” He reached out a hand to shake.

“Surely even you will admit the stench is a mite fishy, sir,” I replied, though my voice shook a little.

He lowered his hand. “Fishy, because a man wants to know his boy?”

I stood my ground. “Fishy because he doesn't care whether he uproots his boy from a life he and his ma worked hard to build—without any help from that man, I'll add, when help was surely owed!” Warming to my subject, I pulled out my preaching finger. “Do you know they have a family business here? People rely on them for wedding cakes and skin smears and whatnot! They've got friends who care about them!”

“I can see that,” Travis's pa replied.

But I wasn't done. “It's not fair what you're doing here, sir. And it's selfish. And if you're really trying to convince folks that you've changed, it's precisely this sort of selfishness you might want to take a gander at!”

“Is that so?” Kip asked.

“Yes, sir. It is.” But my engine was running down. I was hearing my own words and thinking Kip
might
not be the only feckless father I was mad at. I dropped my arms to my sides and said a little more softly, “Now, I apologize if I've been rude, but sometimes a body's got to call it like they see it.”

“Can't argue with that,” he agreed. He raised an eyebrow in Travis's direction, then walked out.

Suddenly embarrassed, I set myself to folding Miz Tromp's dainty cloth napkins. When I finally looked up, Travis stared like he was seeing me for the first time.

“Sorry if I was outside my rights,” I whispered.

He shook his head. “You wasn't.”

“There's a tiny chance some of that upscuddle wasn't actually about you and your pa.”

“Probably. But I'm still glad you said it.”

 

As I set out Miz Tromp's good silver forks, I couldn't help noticing how fine they were, real ornate and heavy in the hand. Like the kind I imagined my great-great-gram might have had.

It had been a while since I'd thought about her. All at once, I couldn't help wondering if she and Gram, and Gram's ma and my ma, too, were all together somewhere. What would they be doing? What did dead wish fetchers do for fun?

Maybe,
I thought,
they disguise themselves as stars and grant wishes.

 

We sat down to eat around four. Things were a little uneasy to start, with Tom and Kip at the table, and at cross purposes. Miz Tromp was a fine hostess, though, and soon everyone was, well, politely unclenched. Plus, it turned out Kip was a jokester—his tales were real ripsnorters! All at once, it was plain where Travis got his hidden comedy streak. It was also plain why Travis might want to go to California.

And considering the way Miz Tromp looked at Tom while they talked herbal medicines and alternative treatment retreats, it was pretty easy to see why she was in so much agony over Travis's dilemma.

As for me, I knew I had to content myself with enjoying Travis's company now, for however long it lasted. Twice, while we ate, I poked Travis in the arm, just for the sake of feeling his warm skin under my fingertip. Both times, he didn't look up at me but caught my finger in the crook of his own and gave me a tug.

“I'd forgotten how small Sass was,” Kip said at one point. “How many people in town?”

I was the only one who knew offhand. “Five hundred twenty-three last week. MaryLou Haines had twins.”

“Do you know everyone by name?” he asked me.

“Just about,” I replied. “A few folks like to keep to themselves.”

“I've been wondering about those off-gridders, how they fared out there, with all the weather,” said Miz Tromp.

All the weather
was the name the town had unofficially agreed on for our overly wet fall and the recent unlikely pairing of snow and flood.

“They get radio, don't they?” Tom asked.

I nodded. “I think so.”

“And TV, of course,” said Kip.

Travis, Miz Tromp, and me laughed all at once.

“What did I say?” Kip asked, smiling good-naturedly.

“Nobody has TV,” Travis said.

“Well, folks who have computers can get some of it,” I clarified. “And we do have two channels, kind of. The cooking channel and the static news channel.”

“The
static
news channel?” Kip echoed.

“Today in Washington—ssssssst,” Travis mimicked, “a large pair of pants—ssssssst. In weather—ssssssst. A bear! Hahaha!”

“You're kidding.” Kip was plainly horrified.

“If you want to learn to braise turnips, though, you're in the right place,” I told him.

Kip shook his head as if our tale of woe had wounded his heart. It turned out he was some sort of media “seeding” guy. Which, if I understood it correctly, had something to do with planting big metal towers on pristine and scenic hills.

 

We ate until our buttons popped and then some. Before long, it was late enough to start heading to Ham's for the Cider Toast.

“So, the whole town gets together to drink cider?” Tom asked as we walked toward Main.

I shook my head. “Not just that. It's a Thanksgiving thing. You'll see.”

Ham's doors were flung open, and the front walk was lined with tables. In great kegs, there was apple cider and peach cider and a new thing that year, blueberry. There was sugared cider—very, very sweet—and Granny Smith cider for the folks who preferred theirs sour. There was even spike cider, as they called it, though the grown folk were keeping a close eye on that table, so Travis and I didn't get a taste.

By the time the crowd finished gathering, it was dark and getting chilly. I wrapped my hands around my paper cup and breathed in the spiced steam as deep as I could.

“Let's get started!” Handyman Joe called. “There's a turkey sandwich calling my name.”

“You can't possibly be hungry!” his wife replied.

“I'll go first,” said Ham, clearing his throat. He held up his cup. “A toast! To the people of Sass. Neither snows nor floods shall keep us from the completion of our appointed, uh, turkey dinners.”

A few folks groaned, but nearly everyone cheered before they drank.

When I saw Tom toss back his cider in a single throw, I warned him, “Best take that in sips, or you'll be up peein' all night.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Ah.”

“A toast!” shouted Dilly Barker. “To Starla MacIntyre Woods. She will be missed.”

“Hear, hear,” came several voices in reply.

“To Gram,” I whispered. “And to Ma.”

Travis heard, and clinked cups with me before he took an especially large swig.

Scree Hopkins waited the span of a whole two breaths before she cried, “A toast! To me and Micky Forks! We just got promised to be engaged!” She held up her hand and waved it wildly. I guess she must have had a ring on, but I couldn't see it.

An argument promptly started over in the Forkses' corner of things.

Sheriff Thrasher stepped up. “A toast! To a
peaceful
night. Right, folks?”

There was some shuffling and some elbow nudging, and the Forkses calmed right down.

“A toast! To our new crop of wish fetchers!” called Missus Fuller. “And to Genuine, who taught 'em!”

“To Genuine,” a voice said softly in my ear. I turned to find Penny Walton standing there.

“Happy Thanksgiving, Miz Walton,” I said. “How are you feeling?”

“Happy. Free.” She took a deep breath of our country air. “Grateful to spend a holiday doing something besides worrying that it might be our last one together.” She nodded in Edie's direction.

“I'm real glad for you,” I said, and I meant it with all my heart.

She gripped my hand and squeezed it. “I'm sorry about your granny.”

I gave her the brightest smile I could muster, hugged her, and watched as she drifted back to her kin.

Several swigs later, Kip asked me, “So, what's a wish fetcher?”

I started to tell him it weren't nothin' (I had learned my lesson about keeping certain things private, after all), but JoBeth Haines—pretty as a picture in a green and gold party dress—stepped into the circle and said, “A toast!” She pointed her cup in Kip's direction. “To new friends.” Then she blushed. Furiously.

Kip's eyes got wide at the sight of the librarian/dispatcher, and I was surprised to see his cheeks flare red, too. A few seconds passed before he managed to smile, lift his cup, and return, “To new friends.”

After that, Kip didn't care what a wish fetcher was. He and JoBeth floated together like magnetized motes of dust. Next thing I saw, they'd made their way to a nearby bench and—once the toasting was done—there we left them.

 

My house was empty when I got home. I wasn't surprised. Still, I left a plate of Miz Tromp's goodies beside Pa's bed before I went into Gram's room and shut the door behind me.

It was time, I'd decided earlier that day, to let some of her things go. There were all sorts of warm clothes in her closet, not to mention a whole chest of quilts that someone could make use of. I'd ask Jura to post them on the SUBA site.

Slowly, carefully, I took everything from its place and set it on the bed. I cried a little as I boxed up Gram's powders and such. I bawled like a baby when I folded her robe. In the end, I only kept three things. Gram's wish cup. A stack of letters—most of them from folks who'd contacted my ma for wishes, back when. And a framed photo of Gram and Ma and me, taken when I was nothing more than a bump in Ma's belly.

I moved back into Gram's room, my old room, that night.

The place seemed awful empty.

 

I dreamed of letters and notes, packages and papers. So many of them! Cascading down from the sky, flooding in through the windows. Some of it was my ma's old mail, but there were other things, too. I picked an envelope off the floor. It was addressed to me.

My eyes snapped open.

A note from Gram! Pa said something about a note from Gram!

In a flash, I was on my feet and tearing the house apart. I moved furniture and flung piles of Pa's dirty laundry. I spilled out drawers and even checked to see if a letter got stuck somehow to their undersides.

I went through every closet, every chest, every keepsake box. I even looked in the pockets of Gram's winter coat. Nothing. Heartsick, I flung myself onto the couch.

Something crunched beneath me.

Cushions flew. And there it was, wedged between the pillows! A carefully folded slip of paper with my name on it.

In Gram's wobbly but beautiful cursive, she had written this:

 

My Genuine Beauty Sweet,

 

How proud I was when I got your call tonight! This thing you're doing for Penny Walton
—
how gracefully you are coming into your own! You're a true MacIntyre woman and the sort of wish fetcher I always dreamed you would become.

 

Thank the stars, while I was busy being cautious and tight-lipped, you blossomed into a real courageous girl. One who does what's right, no matter what her fretful old granny says. I reckon, in the end, you set a better example for me than I did for you. I'm so pleased for your mettle. You've taught me how to face providence more bravely.

 

Now, if for some reason you don't see me as soon as you might expect, don't you worry. Everything's taken care of here, and I mean that. I AM ALL RIGHT. Your only business is to be your beautiful self and, as I told you once before, to find your own way. All shall be well.

 

I love you, Gen. So much.

 

I'll see you when I see you,