The Peach Rebellion Read online

  Besides, so many things had changed since those summers with her. The war had started and ended, rations were over, Franklin Delano Roosevelt—who’d been president for as far back as I could remember—had died, and Harry Truman was now in charge.

  And the biggest change of all?

  Everyone seemed more hopeful.

  Also, if I’m being completely honest, instead of pinning my hopes on a friend who’d disappeared, I was putting them on Rodney St. Clair, a classmate who had already appeared at the fruit stand four times since school let out in June and had been especially friendly to me when I’d seen him at the Freedom Parade on the Fourth of July.

  So that was where my mind was—firmly and fondly focused on sweet thoughts of Rodney St. Clair.

  And then, suddenly, there she was.

  “Ginny Rose?” I gasped. She was standing in front of the fruit stand, blue-eyed and freckled, her strawberry-blond hair braided in one long tail, just the way I remembered.

  “Peggy!” she squealed. “That is you!”

  We threw our arms right over the stand, right over the peaches, right over the years that had divided us, and wrapped each other tight.

  I held on to her shoulders as we pulled apart. “Where have you been? Do you know how much I’ve missed you?”

  “Aw!” she said, her eyes going glassy. “Honest?”

  “What do you mean? Yes, of course! You were my best friend.”

  “Aw!” she said again, this time looking away as she blinked back tears.

  “So what happened?” I pressed. “Where have you been?”

  She shrugged noncommittally. “We moved around a lot. You know that.”

  “But…where? Mother said you might have gone back to Oklahoma.”

  Ginny Rose shook her head. “Papa lost everything there, so…no.”

  “But…are you still…are you still farmhands?”

  “No. Papa found other work during the war, but he still hopped from job to job. We never really put down roots anywhere.” She brightened. “But he’s got a permanent job at the Ferrybank switching yard now.”

  “At the rail station?”

  She nodded. “The job comes with housing and a little piece of land. We’re plannin’ to stay.”

  “That’s wonderful!”

  “All of us are tired of movin’ around, and the Littles love that trains roll by.”

  “The Littles?”

  “Oh!” she said, and her cheeks went rosy. “There’s two more Gilley girls now. Katie Bee—she’s six—and Bonnie Sue, who’s seven. And of course there’s Anna Mae, who’s ten. So that makes four, and I’m mighty glad for all of ’em.”

  I couldn’t help bouncing on my toes. “My mother had twins! They’re boys and the same age as your Littles!” I laughed. “Maybe we’ll get them to fall in love with each other someday!”

  The idea of it really tickled me, but Ginny Rose barely smiled and seemed quick to change the subject. “What about Bobby and Doris?”

  I grinned. “You mean Bossy and Dodo?”

  That did get a reaction out of her—we both giggled like we were kids again. Then I said, “Bobby graduated high school and is practically running the farm now. And Doris eloped with a man right after the war. He was wearing a uniform then, but he’s working the oil fields in Modesto now.” I rearranged a few jars of preserves. “She had a baby.”

  “Doris is a mama?”

  I nodded, then laughed. “It seems to have made her extra grouchy.”

  “It’s a wonder that’s even possible,” she said with a grin. Then she waved a hand across the stand and said, “This is a smart idea.”

  “Father built it when I turned twelve,” I said. But seeing it with new eyes now, I realized how weathered the raw sheet of plywood on four-by-four posts had become. “It’s not much to look at, but it does the job.”

  “Well, it’s in a great spot,” Ginny Rose offered. “Folks can just pull right off the road, then get right back on it.”

  “You sound like my father!” I said with a laugh.

  She laughed, too, then scuffed the dirt, her mood suddenly darker. “I wanted to write, Peggy, really I did. But…”

  “So why didn’t you? You have no idea how much I missed you!”

  She was silent for a moment, then heaved a sigh. “Mama said there was more dividin’ us than bindin’ us. She said I should give up the notion of us bein’ friends.”

  “What? Why?”

  She kept studying the ground. “You know. ’Cause we were pickers?” She sneaked a peek at me. “Okies?”

  “I never called you that!”

  “But we were. We are.” She gave another little shrug. “And Papa says to take it with pride when people say it. That it means we’re survivors.”

  “So then…why…?”

  “Well, other folks don’t see us as survivors. They still see us as trash.”

  Even though I could tell she was papering over painful memories, her voice held no sharp edges. It was the same as it had always been—cool and smooth and fast, like ice cream dripping quicker than you can lick it.

  And hearing it now sent me back to the sleepover we’d had one August—a concession I’d begged from my mother for my ninth birthday. I hadn’t understood Mother’s objections, and eventually she’d lost the will to argue with me and had relented. It had been a magical time, with just the two of us playing crazy eights and old maid and whispering late into the night.

  I was about to ask Ginny Rose where their house was when a car rolled up to the fruit stand. It was a sparkling new, deep red convertible with whitewall tires. And, as if tailor-made for each other, it was Rodney St. Clair sitting behind the wheel.

  My heart went for a tumble.

  “Hey, Peaches,” he called, giving me a devilish grin as he stepped out.

  I blushed.

  So did Ginny Rose.

  “You let him call you that?” she whispered.

  “It’s only the second time he’s done it,” I whispered back. “And what am I supposed to do about it?”

  “Her name’s Peggy,” Ginny Rose asserted.

  Rodney slipped his sunglasses down his nose as he approached. “And you are…?”

  I pulled Ginny Rose behind the fruit stand so she was standing beside me and said, “This is my friend Ginny Rose.”

  Rodney gave a little bow. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Rose.”

  “My last name’s Gilley,” she said. “I’m Ginny Rose Gilley.” She tilted her head a little. “And you are…?”

  “This is Rodney St. Clair,” I hurried to say, hoping to get things back on track. “His family owns Valley Motors, which is how he comes to be driving a brand-new…” I leaned around to admire his car and let him fill in the blank.

  “…Ford Super Deluxe.” His gaze shifted to an old bicycle propped against a tree near the road. “I could set you up,” he said with a grin in Ginny Rose’s direction. “My dad offers great financing.”

  I stared at the old bicycle with its worn, oversized front basket, wondering for a moment where it had come from. But then it dawned on me—Ginny Rose hadn’t just magically appeared. She’d ridden her bike.

  “Not interested in financing,” Ginny Rose said with a distinct huff.

  “Well, cash is always welcome,” Rodney said.

  The air was feeling strangely charged, but not in the way I would have liked. “So!” I said to Rodney. “Are you here for peaches? Preserves? Pie?”

  He flashed another grin. “Maybe all three?”

  My brain had gone numb wondering what he was actually after when a black Dodge sedan skidded to a stop alongside the fruit stand. “Lisette!” I called out with a wave.

  She emerged from the car, her skirt waist cinched impossibly tight, her smooth dark hair in a perfect victory rol
l. “Peggy!” she called as she hurried toward me, her saddle shoes flying. But when she realized that the boy with his back to her was Rodney St. Clair, her skirt came in for a landing and her voice took on an aloof tone. “Hello, Rodney,” she said, turning her nose up slightly.

  I’d kept my feelings about Rodney from Lisette because—not so very deep down—I knew they were foolish. I was a farm girl and he was…well, he was Rodney St. Clair.

  I also hadn’t told her because it felt disloyal to be head over heels for a boy she hated. She’d said time and again that he was annoyingly full of himself and not to be trusted. I’d never seen her give anyone the cold shoulder the way she turned it on Rodney.

  But here he was, and here she was, which left me feeling stuck between love and loyalty. So when she turned her attention to Ginny Rose, I broke out of my paralyzed state and hurried to make introductions: “Lisette, I’d like you to meet my dear friend from childhood, Ginny Rose Gilley. Ginny Rose, please meet Lisette Bovee, my dear friend since ninth grade.”

  Nonnie likes to say that proper introductions put the hand that’s attending to social encounters firmly on the tiller. And since I’d heard that expression my whole life, it was almost natural for me to put the notion to use. It seemed to be working, too, because as Ginny Rose and Lisette were saying their pleased-to-meet-yous, I could feel a calm settling over all of us.

  That is, until my bossy brother came clip-clopping up on our white mare, Blossom, his cowboy hat wedged on tight.

  “Bobby?” Ginny Rose gasped.

  I did a double take, because instead of making a crack about him still riding a high horse or some such, she was looking at him like he was Clark Gable.

  Unfortunately for her, Bobby only had eyes for Lisette—a relatively new development that made Lisette uneasy, to say the least.

  Before he could dismount, I cut in with “Bobby, you remember Ginny Rose? She worked the orchard with us when we were kids?”

  Bobby looked our way, but there was no light of recognition in his eyes, and before long he’d swung off Blossom and was talking to Lisette, stumbling through words, making no sense at all.

  Desperate to wrestle free from the embarrassment we were all feeling, Lisette said, “So sorry, Bobby, but I have to dash.” She locked eyes with me. “I’ve got things to tell you. Important things. Call me!”

  Then, in a roaring cloud of dust, she was gone.

  Bobby scared Rodney off, too, because the next thing I knew, he was back in his Super Deluxe, calling, “Great seeing you, Peaches!” which sent my heart into spasms and also made me want to hit my brother.

  Bobby sighed, then swung up onto Blossom and headed off without a word or even a nod in our direction.

  “Well,” Ginny Rose said after the dust had settled, “I should be on my way, too.”

  “Wait! I need your phone number. And address! We should make plans.”

  She hesitated.

  Looked away.

  Scuffed the dirt.

  “What’s the matter?” I asked.

  She shook her head and seemed ready to just leave, but then she snatched a pencil and a small paper bag from the stand and wrote down her information. “Here,” she said, handing me the bag and pencil as if she’d done something monumental.

  I looked it over. “Where’s Carriage Lane?”

  “Past the dairy, a little ways off River Road, just this side of the railroad crossing.”

  “Great! That’s really not too far!” I pressed a bag of peaches on her. “Here. Unless you’re tired of fuzzy-wuzzies?”

  She laughed at the memory of us in young-girl hysterics, baby talking peaches as we sorted them. Then she smiled her sweet, sunny smile—the one I’d been missing for so long. “Never in a million years will I be tired of fuzzy-wuzzies,” she said, and waved as she hurried back to her bike.

  I let out a happy sigh as I watched her go.

  Ginny Rose Gilley was back in town.

  2

  Ginny Rose

  ANSWERS

  Mama’s rollin’ out biscuit dough when I get home. The drop-leaf table she’s workin’ on takes up most of the small kitchen, but it’ll soon be folded up and tucked away, leavin’ room enough for all of us to gather for supper at the table that straddles the kitchen and the front room.

  “Well?” Mama asks. “How was it?”

  I know she’s wonderin’ about my applyin’ for a job at the cannery, not my encounter with Peggy Simmons. “I start tomorrow,” I tell her, pride slippin’ out with the words.

  “Oh my!” She turns her full attention to me and comes around to hold my cheeks, her firm hands powdered soft with flour. “That’s wonderful!” she says with a brightness I haven’t seen in ages.

  “What’s goin’ on?” Anna Mae asks from the hallway. Like curious kittens, Bonnie Sue and Katie Bee appear beside her.

  “Ginny Rose got a job at the cannery!” Mama exclaims. She turns back to me, struggles a bit to contain it, then lets the question fly. “Does it really pay forty cents an hour?”

  I nod, which sets her lookin’ skyward. “Thank you, Harry Truman!”

  Katie Bee, though, doesn’t give a hoot about my new job or the hourly wage. Her eyes are locked on the sack in my hand. “What’s in there?” she asks.

  “Peaches,” I say, gently pullin’ out one, two, three gloriously ripe, perfectly shaped peaches.

  “They gave you those?” Mama asks, her voice dancin’ with delight. But then, slowly, a furrow forms between her eyebrows. “Those are too pretty to be canning peaches.” She picks one up. “They’re freestones, not clings.”

  So I confess. “Simmons Farm was on the way.”

  “And?” Mama asks, strugglin’ to not say more.

  “They have a roadside stand now,” I reply. “Peggy was workin’ it, so I stopped to say hello, and she gave me these.”

  “And?” Mama asks again, the furrow between her eyebrows now deep enough to plant.

  “And Peggy was truly happy to see me.”

  “Was she now,” Mama says, levelin’ a stern look at me. “Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you.” She turns her back on me. “And don’t come cryin’ to me when things turn sour.”

  “Mama, I don’t understand,” I blurt out. “You always said all farms could take a lesson from the Simmons family—that they were generous and kind. Why’s it so hard to believe Peggy would want to be my friend?”

  She turns slowly to face me. “I’m just tryin’ to protect you, Ginny Rose.”

  “From what?”

  She fists her floured hands and puts them on her hips. “Ginny Rose, face facts. Folks are keen on associatin’ up, not down. You two are no longer children, and in any unbalanced friendship, the one at the bottom is sure to be dumped.”

  Mama’s voice has been steadily risin’, and Katie Bee retreats now, cowerin’ with Bonnie Sue behind the cover of Anna Mae. I try to hold firm, but I know from years of accidentally pickin’ at this wound that for all her thick skin, Mama’s got a few sore spots that just won’t heal. It makes me feel bad when I nettle this particular one, but I can’t seem to help it. It’s a sore spot with me now, too.

  “I’m tired of bein’ ‘just an Okie’!” I blurt out. “I’m tired of apologizin’ for it! I’m tired of survivin’ the dust, only to be looked at like dirt.”

  “Well, I’m tired of it, too,” Mama retorts. “But I’m more concerned with havin’ enough food to feed all of us, and keepin’ a roof over our heads.” She wrenches the biscuit cutter into the dough. “And if that means doin’ other folks’ laundry and pinchin’ pennies, well, I’m not too proud to do it.”

  “I’m not bein’ prideful, Mama! Papa says we’ve got to stop lettin’ the past cripple our future; that we need to pull ourselves up, dust ourselves off.” I can feel Mama goin’ dark, turnin’ inside herself. And I know I shoul
d stop, but I’ve never challenged her this way and I need to finish with the point of it all. “Mama, right now it’s you makin’ me feel small, not Peggy. And I’m not gonna apologize for thinkin’ I’m good enough to be friends with her.”

  The moment it’s out, I can see I’ve pushed too far. And I could kick myself, too, because I know—this will grow inside Mama like a dust storm, buildin’ up and gainin’ weight and power until it lands hard, smotherin’ us in darkness.

  But it’s too late. My words are hangin’ in the air and there’s no takin’ ’em back, and already I’m payin’ the price. Gone is the feel of her pride on my cheeks, gone is the glow of her rare smile, her joy at my wages. The dust is still with us.

  “Imagine,” Mama says softly, “bringin’ her here.”

  “What’s wrong with here?” I cry, wonderin’ what’s come over me, wonderin’ why I’m drivin’ us both straight for the storm. But again, I can’t seem to stop. “Here is so much better’n any place else we’ve been! We’ve got two bedrooms plus a back porch and enough land for chickens and a garden! We’ve got running water, cold and hot! An indoor latrine! Electricity! A telephone. Here is home, Mama. Or it will be once we settle in. And it’s a good home.”

  Mama casts a long, level look my way. “We should probably make a cobbler from those peaches. So there’s enough to go around.”

  I feel like screamin’. Her gratitude for the gift of peaches is to imply there’s not enough? But then I catch a glimpse of my sisters cowerin’ in the hallway, and from their faces I see that they’re more shocked by my outbursts than they are by Mama’s attitude, and that’s what finally makes me bite my tongue.

  Supper’s a quiet affair. Papa eats his beans and greens and biscuits with gusto. He’s worn out from his shift at the switching yard, content to simply bend over his plate and shovel. Mama eats, too, but slowly, silently, pausin’ from time to time to fix me with a look that shifts between worry and regret. I see her fightin’ against the dark cloud, but it’s wrapped tight around her now.

  All through supper, the girls give me cautious looks full of questions about things they don’t remember, never knew, or can’t understand. Later, I read to them from a worn storybook—one that was slipped to me by my teacher when we lived for a short time in Bakersfield. And after we’re bunked down for the night—Anna Mae in the bed above me and Katie Bee snuggled close to Bonnie Sue in the moonlit bottom bunk on their side of our small room—the questions start.