Squashed (19 page)

It was 1:45
P.M.
I had made three calls to Wes and gotten no answer. I had eaten three of Frieda Johnson’s cinnamon syrup buns, two bowls of pumpkin sausage stew, a slice of pumpkin pie, and gotten heartburn. The seams of my khaki slacks were close to exploding. I sat in the truck with Max, polishing him with a soft cloth, holding Nana’s Ziploc bag, remembering the agricultural blood that flowed through my veins. All growers had to be in their trucks by now and check in with Mannie Plummer, who let everyone know that she would have been sitting in her truck with her pumpkin if Ralphie or Dennis hadn’t shaken hands with the devil and ruined her life. I was about to let loose a great flow of winning concentration that would have made Wes proud when it happened.

I looked.

Not at Cyril. At Big Daddy. I looked at Big Daddy in his extreme hugeness, and all that agricultural heritage that was holding me together went splat. I tried to recover, but Big Daddy’s leer was carved in my memory, and it was no use.

He was bigger.

I slumped over Max like a runner who’d looked over her shoulder and lost the race.

Max couldn’t win.

Big Daddy was the biggest pumpkin I’d ever seen and it was no use kidding myself anymore. I buried Nana’s Ziploc bag under Max’s blanket and sat in second-place straw.

Mannie approached Cyril’s trailer.

“Okay, Mr. Pool,” Mannie began, reaching for the blanket that covered Big Daddy. “No more excuses. Uncover your squash, please.”

Cyril snorted and Herman blew a wad out his mouth. “Well now, Missy,” he said. “What’n if I ain’t ready?”

“Then, Mr. Pool,” said Mannie, eyeing Cyril like an Orkin man looks at a rat, “you will be disqualified.”

“Says who?”

Mannie pointed to her extremely official name tag with the gold lettering that said OFFICIAL PUMPKIN WEIGH-IN COORDINATOR. She leaned toward Cyril, her eyes on fire: “In this line I’m the law, mister!”

The smaller pumpkins under a hundred pounds were being weighed—the Small Sugars, Sweet Spookies, and Lady Godivas. The crowd applauded politely as each entry slid onto the scale. Hugh Ferguson backed his truck up to the starting gate. I was number 96.

Mannie was steaming. “The blanket comes off now,” she spat, “or you’re out!”

A small crowd was gathering around Cyril’s trailer. The sheriff moved to Mannie’s side and put his hand on his gun. “Well,” Cyril complained, “ain’t you all makin’ a big fuss over a little question?”

“Got to obey the rules, Cyril,” said the sheriff, “if you’re going to play in the game.”

Mannie nodded. Richard thumped his mitt. “I’m gonna play,” Cyril said, lifting the blanket slowly to reveal a perfectly shaped pumpkin with a three-foot dark area along its side and top. “I’m gonna win!”

Big Daddy glared at the crowd, which was hushed by his greatness. Max seemed to wither beside me. Mannie took off her glasses and pointed to the dark area.

“Bruise,” explained Cyril.

“That’s a mighty big bruise,” Mannie observed, reaching to touch it. “Looks more like—”

Cyril pushed her hand away. “No touchin’,” he said.

Suddenly a hacking voice rang out: “That pumpkin’s not in any shape to compete, ma’am!”

Heads turned toward the voice who stepped from behind the giant scale. Mannie lowered her clipboard. The sheriff pushed back his hat. Cyril’s face froze as Wes walked forward, red-nosed, a wad of tissues in his hand. He glanced at me quickly and let Cyril have it.

“You’ve got a squash full of rot there, Mr. Pool! In Gaithersville they’d never let you put that thing on the scale. No, sir!”

Mannie dropped the number 94 she was going to slap on Cyril’s trailer. Wes blew his nose. Nothing like this had ever happened in Rock River. Not ever. It was wonderful. Wes was wonderful.

Cyril rose, his nostrils spitting fire. “Jus’ who you think you are?”

“President of the Gaithersville Agricultural Club, remember, Mr. Pool? I know pumpkins, and I say yours is a goner. Nothing personal.”

“You’re a dirty liar, boy!” But Cyril was sweating good. Mannie and Mrs. McKenna started whispering. Four burly men slid Hugh Ferguson’s lopsided pumpkin onto a blanket and onto the great scale: 288 pounds. Hugh grinned. The crowd applauded. The giant Weigh-In had begun.

Mayor Clint joined the people gathered around Mannie. Wes stood his ground, looking gorgeous, coughing with style. Cyril snarled at Wes and covered Big Daddy with a blanket. Helen Bjork’s squash hit
222, a disappointing showing. Nine heads were in a huddle. Justin Julee appeared. “Ellie,” he whispered, “do you have a comment on all this?”

I glanced at Wes, who was wonderful and brave and exciting even when he sneezed, which was a real test of a person’s charisma. “No comment,” I said.

Justin climbed over Max into the truck. “Come on, Ellie. Do you think Cyril Pool should be disqualified?”

This was an excellent question, one I’d been considering for years. Justin was champing at the bit, so I said, “I think any grower should be disqualified who tries to compete with a squash filled with rot and disease.”

Justin wrote this furiously. “Do you think,” he began, but was silenced as Mrs. McKenna and Mannie stepped forward. “We feel the young man has a point, Mr. Pool,” Mannie began.

“He’s got nuthin’!” Cyril snarled.

“This,” continued Mannie, “is a fair assembly, sir, and you’d better listen up.” Cyril sniffed hard and kicked the trailer. “We want to be fair, since you have been this festival’s winner four years running, but we must also consider the other contestants.”

Wes moved closer to Max, grinning like a man with a wonderful secret: “Max, you’re the greatest pumpkin in the world and I want you to start acting like it. Don’t you look at Big Daddy and get one bit nervous. Don’t look at him at all, Max. You just concentrate on that scale and breaking it when they roll you on. You’re two hundred pounds bigger than a tiger, Max, and there’s no vegetable in the entire vegetable kingdom that can make that claim because a pumpkin is king and always was. The biggest cabbage was only a hundred twenty-one pounds; the biggest gourd was only a hundred
ninety-six. I saw a two-hundred-sixty-pound watermelon once, and it wasn’t much. A seven-pound tomato, a thirty-six-pound zucchini, these vegetables don’t get me excited. Ellie gave you everything she’s got—that’s why you’re here. She’s why I’m here, too. You’re a scale-buster, Max. I’m proud to know you.”

Wes nodded his head because he was through, and if I hadn’t been a girl with deep guts and extreme courage I would have fainted right there. I grabbed hold of Max’s stem as Wes sneezed like a world-class champion.

“Holding up okay?” he asked.

I nodded because I figured a nod was less of a lie.

“The committee,” Mannie announced, “will examine your squash, Mr. Pool, and decide if it is fit for competition.”

Cyril narrowed his beady eyes: “You ain’t got no right—”

Mrs. McKenna was on him like an angry bee. “One more outburst, Pool, and you’re out. For good! Take it or leave it!”

Gloria Shack’s pumpkin slid onto the scale and hit 428 even. The crowd cheered. Cyril fingered each blue ribbon on his shirt. “I’ll take it,” he snarled. “But you ain’t gonna find nuthin’.”

“We’ll see,” said Mannie. She rolled up her sleeves and led the committee of nine to the trailer and Big Daddy.

A
cloud had fallen
on Rock River and divided the town. The nice folks were on my side, the cranky ones went with Cyril. Founders’ Square was thick with grumbling people, and the committee was making things worse. There were no bylaws about rotting entries, no rules on deep treachery and deceit. Grown-ups sure could muck things up. Mannie was hollering at the mayor, who was hollering at the sheriff, who hollered that Spears could just shoot Big Daddy and that would be the end of it. Grace shouted that teenagers everywhere should unite against the tyranny of adult oppression. Dad cornered the entire committee and loudly objected to everything. Mrs. McKenna’s voice rose above the giant scale: “We will not make any decisions like this, people!”

Wes spoke right back to her in extreme wonderfulness: “Seems to me, Aunt Adelaide, there’s only one decision to make. No disrespect intended.” We waited, hushed by his courage. Mrs. McKenna let him live.

The Weigh-In continued as the giant pumpkins rolled on the scale. Number 22. Number 23. Flat, skinny, some downright ugly, but you’d never know it by watching the growers’ faces.

Wes held my hand in front of Dad, who played it real easy, like I had boys around all the time. JoAnn said I was lucky, and she should know. Her father specialized in fear, being a life insurance salesman, and could bring a boy to his knees.

“May I have your attention, please?”

It was Oral Perkins, of Oral Perkins Chevrolet, a big-time festival supporter who donated three Chevy Cavaliers to be raffled off every year and who had an extremely big “in” with Mrs. McKenna. He stood on the oratory contest podium—a mean man with a mission.

“I think,” his voice declared, “we’re wasting time. This is an
adult
Weigh-In!” He glared at me because he only connected with car buyers. “Pool’s got a pumpkin. We’ve got the scale. Let’s get on with it!”

He backed away to tense applause as Wes tore up the podium steps and stood tall and proud like a true candidate of the little people: “Ellie Morgan,” he shouted, “has been accepted into this
adult
division fair and square! Ellie Morgan kept control of her pumpkin and fought off rot to bring him to this Weigh-In as a clean competitor. She’s grown a pumpkin bigger than most of us will ever see, and to let a rotting pumpkin beat her, even one grown by a four-time blue-ribbon winner—well, sir, that’s just not fair!”

My heart thunked in deep, cosmic love as Rock River High rose cheering, stomping, and belching in a great show of unity and disgust for authority. I
thought I heard a familiar voice, and I looked. There stood Miss Moritz
on the podium
! No! About to tell the entire town that I hadn’t turned in my midterm paper. I grabbed my throat, hoping my scream for mercy would carry in time. Miss Moritz aimed. I couldn’t watch.

“History,” she cried, “teaches us many lessons.” Miss Moritz paused here for total effect, like she did in class. “
What
lessons, you might ask?”

I wasn’t going to ask. I didn’t want to know, although I had a pretty good idea.

“History is our friend. We can trust its message. We must,” she was shouting now, “listen to its message!” The crowd was listening but not getting it, which also happened to Miss Moritz’s students when she spoke. “The history of this Weigh-In is its commitment to excellence, is it not?” No one answered her. “You can’t all be sleeping!”

Hugh Ferguson raised his hand and said, yes, the history of the Weigh-In was its commitment to excellence.

She pointed to the great sign: HERE LIE THE GREATEST PUMPKINS IN THE WORLD. “Does Mr. Pool’s squash belong under that sign?” The crowd turned to the sign and shivered. “Does a partially rotting pumpkin winner continue this Weigh-In’s great tradition of excellence?”

“No!” shouted a woman.

“Not at this festival!” cried another.

“I rest my case,” said Miss Moritz. She walked off the stage and into the waiting arms of the winner of the General Patton look-alike contest. I searched for a pad and paper to start work on my midterm but came up dry.

“You know that woman?” It was the
Tribune
reporter.

“She’s one of my teachers.”

“You like her?”

Wes was at my side: “She does now.”

Oral Perkins was frowning and whispered something to Mrs. McKenna, who nodded and stormed the podium.

“I have an announcement from the committee!”

A crying baby was rushed away by its parents. A good thing, since Mrs. McKenna would have probably had it shot. Rock River held its breath.

“It is,” she declared, “the decision of the committee that Cyril Pool’s pumpkin is perfectly fit for competition.”

I slumped against Max, who lost five pounds right there. Anger and applause ripped through the crowd. Dad threw down his hat and demanded a retrial. Gordon Mott threw down his Hunan pumpkin with minced pork. Wes grabbed my hand. Cyril whooped and tossed hay in the air.

“That,” Mrs. McKenna directed, “is final. We will continue the weighing.”

With that, Adelaide McKenna, the Meanest Woman in America, walked off the podium and through the crowd, who parted for her in silence—except for Mannie Plummer, who stood her ground. Mannie said this never would have happened if Bud DeWitt was still alive. It was a dark, dark day in Rock River, Iowa.

It was night. The spotlights made a yellow blur as Louise Carothers stood by her pumpkin screaming
that if anyone dropped it there’d be trouble. The scale read 471 pounds, and the weigher cried out the number like he was sick of the whole thing. A mime juggled oranges and dropped two on a little girl’s foot. Mayor Clint gave a short speech about Bud DeWitt, which was usually good for a standing ovation, but only a few people clapped, and those who did didn’t mean it.

The magic was gone.

“I’m Number One! I’m Number One!”